pairing: benjamin "dex" poindexter x gender neutral reader
word count: 3.1k
content&warnings: seeing him shirtless for the first time + backstory. swearing, fast burn (??) strangers to lovers (like, immediately), making out, detailed (?) descriptions of shirtless dex (yum), descriptions of scars, suggestive i guess? benjamin poindexter is his own warning. set post ddba s2!
lmk if i missed anything! proofread (but it's 1am) & crossposted onto ao3. like and reblog to support your authors ♡ thank you for reading! dividers by @.aquazero, @.honeyluvsw
it's weird. in your eight months, twelve days, twenty-two hours and four minutes of dating benjamin poindexter, you've never seen him shirtless. okay, let's back up. there's more to it than that.
the two of you met rather… unconventionally. that is to say, the first time you saw him was when he was on a mission for the CIA—you'd been cornered by a bunch of thugs, and although you'd fought hard enough, there's only so much a civilian could do against armed robbers. his earpiece urged him to focus on his own tasks—and for some reason, he focused on you.
it'd be a lie if you said you weren't immediately attracted to your masked saviour at least a little as he took care of your attackers faster than you could've ever imagined. even more so when threw you an approving glance because you'd managed to hold your own, though it hadn't really been that long. his voice, when he told you to leave, was rough and beautiful and jagged 'round the edges, and so very much your type. but you were stranded in the middle of nowhere with no service and a broken-down car. and instead of shrugging and carrying on, he told you to wait.
wait, while he took care of his target, which he did even faster than usual, though he was so, so distracted. distracted by your voice, your face, the curve of your lips, the way you looked at him—like he didn't scare you, like it was natural for him to be killing, covered in blood. of course, to him, it was, but that didn't mean the general public quite agreed. why were you different?
if anything, the existence of you made him uncomfortable. for someone who'd spent so long detached from these emotions, convinced they weren't for him, it was simply unnerving, for lack of a better word, to be having such thoughts of you. he pushed them down, telling himself that he wouldn't ever see you again. wasting brain space on a one-time encounter—if it could even be called that—was just pointless.
but one thing led to another, and after he got you home, you lingered at the door. it was the dead of night, with no one else around, so he didn't have an issue standing out there in the open. he watched you enter, waited for it to close—for his own peace of mind, he told himself. like that'd ever mattered to him before. and then you turned around, impulse and adrenaline and flushed cheeks, and thanked him again—but this time, at the end, you asked him to come in. have a hot meal, as thanks for saving your life and getting you home.
"i really shouldn't," he said, taking a step back. he'd almost stuttered, and it was actually unsettling how he could feel the bullseye personality cracking open to reveal what was underneath.
but you insisted. and dex, though every fibre of his being screamed at him not to—dex was only human, after all.
you heated up yesterday's stir-fry on the stove while he sat at your kitchen table, so normal, so domestic. like you had vigilantes over for 2am dinners every other day. but it felt nice, having something homemade for once thag he hasn't made himself. you didn't see his face, of course, he'd just pulled up his mask enough to eat.
but when you asked him if he liked it and he said yes and smiled, you noticed the hazel of his eyes, the fine lines at its corners, the light-coloured brows above them. you couldn't help but absorb every little thing about him—the way he held himself, the movements of his shoulders, little inflections in his voice when he spoke.
and when he finished, you did the stupidest thing you'd done that night—worse than choosing to drive your shitbox of a car through the worst, most secluded parts of town, or attempting to fight five armed men instead of just giving them your belongings, or even inviting the guy you'd just watched ruthlessly kill those men into your home. you two stood so close, just in front of your door. he should've left. but your hand was hovering over his chest, barely grazing the fabric, and his heart hammered against his ribs, like it wanted to claw its way out of him, to fall into your palm. he lifted his hand, too, unthinking, fingers wrapping around your wrist easily. he felt it too, then, the rhythm of your heart, erratic, excited.
and you looked up at him through your lashes, and though you didn't say anything, he knew. and even worse, he wanted it too.
deep down, you didn't know what the hell you were doing, really. you'd never been good at any of this, at flirting or dropping hints or taking them, ever. you had no idea what'd gotten into you tonight to make you act like this. why was he so different?
dex very rarely let himself want anything more than what he'd decided he deserved. but right then, it hurt, all that want. sharp and unbridled, a craving he didn't know how to control. any and all experience he'd had before had been an attempt at fitting in, being ordinary, human. he'd never once seen any of jt as anything other than a duty or a box to check off. he'd never once looked at anyone the way he looked at you.
but he was from a completely different life than you. he killed people, worked for people who had even less morals than he did. and you were… you. normal person with a normal life and a normal job. if he indulged himself, even just for tonight, he'd see it as tainting you with the mess that his life was. holding you with the blood on his hands would leave you stained, too. (he didn't know, back then, that you never really minded the red.)
he moved your hand down like he was in a trance, then let his own drop to his side. one hand on the doorknob, he said, "stay safe."
quiet. anticlimatic. the tension in the room seemed to exhale, and he refused to look you in the eye. you knew, then, that he felt it too.
but he really, really didn't mean to see you again.
you met dex for the first time a few weeks later. there was no stalking, no elaborate pre-planned setup. no practiced lines waiting to be used. you bumped into his shoulder outside a grocery store, spilled your lukewarm coffee all over that grey sweater he'd worn, the one that looked brand new. yelping, you looked up at him to apologise, and your eyes met. and you knew. and he knew you did, too.
the breath you sucked in sliced right through the air between you like a knife; he said nothing. even without hearing his voice, you were so sure. nights and nights of seeing his shadow in your dreams, the broadness of his shoulders, the taut fabric across his chest had you convinced. you couldn't see him and not recognise him.
"i'm sorry," you blurted out at last, and he smiled and shook his head, and looked the exact same—just with a few more features that the mask. you were kind of mad, really, that he looked so good. a little older than you'd expected, but still better than you'd imagined on some of the more boring nights you spent alo e. he looked down to inspect the sweater he'd pulled off before the liquid soaked through; you took a moment to soak in the dirty blonde hair, the light stubble on his jaw, the scar that drags across his cheek, the—
"it's okay," he said, low, a little nervous. his voice didn't have the edge it did as bullseye, but to you, it was clear as day. and you saw an opportunity, and you took it.
"it's not," you insisted. "why don't you give me your sweater, and i'll wash it and return it to you?"
he was going to say no, you could tell. but you weren't going to let this slip out of your hands a second time. your life was boring, and you were lonely—but no one caught your attention, either. not until him, anyway. and you knew it was dangerous, you really knew. but you just could not care enough.
"you should come with me," you added, hoping you didn't sound as desperate as you felt, and he faltered. you watched his internal battle, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, not feeling an inkling of remorse. then he shrugged.
"sure, why not?"
amazing. he didn't know he'd just signed his own death sentence. metaphorically, of course.
you introduced yourself; so did he. for a moment, he wondered if he should use his real name or not. but you already knew who he was, at his core. there wasn't much to hide, when he shook your hand and told you to call him dex. and it fit him remarkably well.
"i know you're bullseye," you'd told him as you shut the door behind you. he'd turned around, sweater slung over one arm and your grocery bags in the other—he'd insisted. you had expected him to react negatively, maybe like a cornered wild animal, maybe he'd try to laugh it off—
what you didn't expect, however, was to be pushed up against that same door, bags abandoned on the floor, with him kissing you like his life depended on it. you didn't mind, of course, returning the favour with the same enthusiasm, if not more.
"you don't know what you're getting into," he'd panted into your mouth between kisses that got increasingly messier, but it only spurred you on.
"i do," you shot back, fingers of one hand curling tighter into his hair. he seemed to like that, groaning appreciatively. but when your other hand tugged at the hem of his black compression shirt, it was as if he'd been hit with a sudden burst of clarity. he took an awkward half-step back, eyes widening as he slipped his hand into yours.
"baby," he whispered, and your heart skipped a beat. you could tell he wanted to do more, the same as you, but for whatever reason had decided to control himself. you squeezed his hand, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck; your other hand scratched the shorter hairs at the back of his head and he all but purred into your skin.
"dex," you murmured. "i really want to get to know you better."
you felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. "yeah?"
it's been a little over eight months since then, and you still haven't been able to get that damn shirt off him—or any other one, for that matter. after that first day, as you got to know him, it was like he was terrified of scaring you off. he treated you gently, like you might break, and was adamant on taking things slow.
and as it happens, his definition of slow is, well, slow as hell. that's not to say you don't do couple-y things—of course you do, whether it's cuddling, or going out on dates, or giving him a key to your place, or making out. although he has refused to move past that last one. you think he's maybe a little too into you to be normal about having you in bed with him like that, or even, like, partially clothed. (it's true.)
he's also very honest with you about his job; he never says too much, never tells you anything that'll put you in danger—or in more danger than you already are—but you're aware of what he does, who he does it for. and he likes how you don't really seem to care, because you like him so. the one thing he never mentions, though, is getting injured. you're the first person he's been close to in so, so long, so he can't imagine the thought of you leaving, especially because of something as stupid as you being stressed over him getting hurt. it does happen, of course, and you know that, but you're not aware of the severity most of the time—but he knows he won't be dying anytime soon. not when he has you to come home to.
this, however, also has a side effect he hadn't thought about—explaining all the scars littered across his body, old and new. and you haven't quite gotten around to sleeping over yet. so, all things considered, no one's shirts end up places they shouldn't be. aka not on the people wearing them.
it's cruel, though, how many sneak peeks you've gotten by accident—when his sweats are too low on his hips and his shirt rides up a little, you get to see the defined grooves of his v-line before it disappears beneath the clothing, or when he comes over to yours straight after working out, sweat making his tee stick to his abs. oh, how you'd pay to see those. but somehow after everything you've done, every line you've crossed, this is where you get a little shy.
and then you find out that dex doesn't know just how attractive he is—or that he is, at all. because one evening, when you come home and he's already there, you greet him as usual—only this time, there's a pet name at the end that you've tacked on without thinking.
"hey," you grin as his strong arms wrap around you. "missed you, pretty boy."
he flushes, freezes. "what?"
you're confused at first. "what what?"
he gestures vaguely, oddly embarrassed. "whatever you called me."
"pretty boy?" you ask, and he blushes harder, if that's even possible. your stoic dex, the masked vigilante, bullseye, almost never acts like this. and okay, maybe you shouldn't be calling him a pretty boy when he's, like, forty, but who cares? once you're past 25, time kind of becomes a social construct anyway.
"you think i'm," he clears his throat, "pretty?"
you blink. "yes?"
"oh," he says. you think nothing of it, running your hand across his belly and feeling his breathing constrict with glee that you don't really try to hide, before he forces himself to inhale, exhale, inhale in a steadier rhythm. he says he's not fond of people complimenting him, but you think he likes it, as long as it's from you.
and now, two-thirds of a year into this thing, you're finally at the next milestone—he's staying over at yours. you don't know how he sleeps, but you sure do hope it's without a shirt on. and god help you, your prayers are answered.
dex doesn't think much of it, tugging his t-shirt off in a single, fluid movement. the light's dim enough that you don't see the full extent of his scarring just yet, but what you can see is his sculpted physique, an artist's strokes cut into the finest marble. you swallow, afraid that you'll genuinely start salivating over his torso.
he doesn't notice at first, staring out the window thoughtfully with his shirt still in his hands. but after maybe a full five minutes of silence, he fully turns towards you, only to realise your eyes are glued to his body. you're still, like you've forgotten how to move—which is kind of accurate, actually, considering he's absolutely blown your breath away. you've always known that he's built, obviously, but holy shit.
"something wrong?" he asks; you shake your head, eyes still not moving up to his as you beckon him over, calling him baby in the most awed, breathless voice. he nears your bed; you don't move the covers away, but pat the space on top of them.
"lie down," you whisper, physically restraining yourself from jumping him. he obeys quietly; it leaves you feeling a little lightheaded. then:
"can i touch you?" you ask, soft, quiet. but your hand's already halfway there when he nods.
he's not sure just what he'd expected, but it's not for you to start tracing the contours of his muscles, painstakingly slow, delicate but meticulous, missing absolutely nothing. when your hand grazes a bullet wound scar on his lower abdomen, you pause for a second before moving on. you don't ask questions. your hand moves up, past those washboard abs, skimming over his ribs, over his firm chest. you reach his neck, and he's barely breathing, pupils blown, almost swallowing the colour of his irises.
"shit," he lets out without meaning to, a half-groan half-whine. you bend down towards his lips, then, one hand still around his neck and he lifts his head, eager to meet you halfway. but to his disappointment, you don't kiss him just yet—
"we're going to sleep now, okay?"
he nods, a little too fast, a little too desperate, and his body quite literally relaxes when he finds your lips on his and pulls you on top of him.
"babe, you're so fucking hot," you grumble as he pulls away to breathe, licking his lips clean of your spit.
he blinks, startled. "this again?"
"no, seriously." your breathing's calming down a little, but all you want to do is kiss him again. he opens his mouth to disagree; you reach between you to run your nails up his abdomen, and he chokes before he can get a word out. "you're so… built, and all these scars, god. y'know what i wanna do right now?"
"what?" he breathes, barely trusting himself to speak.
you smile, flopping down on his chest with an oomph. it's so comfortable here.
"i just want to eat you right up." you stick your tongue out, and he jolts when he feels it on his skin. he's so receptive to everything you do, has been from the start, when just kissing you against your front door had left him wrecked. "but we're going to sleep now."
"fuck you," he huffs, even as his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, the other one rubbing circles lazily into the exposed skin that your shirt no longer covers. he lifts his head up a little, presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"love you too," you respond happily.
but you're already plotting. thinking about the long scar that snakes down the length of his spine, the one he's mentioned a few times, that you've snuck glances of when he's bent down or stretching with his back to you. you've decided it's next.
my a level exam is in 12 hours but i wrote this instead !! #eviecooked wish me luck yall <3 exams are over after so expect more writing hehe :p this was supposed to be a blurb about him taking his shirt off only idk what happened
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You work for Mr. Charles assisting Dex’s assigned tasks. Things get tricky when he realizes he feels things for his second in command handler after months of working together, and your apartment is too tempting not to break into
Warnings: stalking like y’all know who this fic is about! He’s kind of a creep wow, Raw sex, A little dark!Dex, he breaks in and jerks off in your room, teeny Voyeurism kink, handjob and choking and dirty talk and sweetness, he fucks you in his lap, this should be the poster child for Dex switch agenda omg
Dex couldn’t help it. His hands had worked faster than his mind, and it started off as such an ordinary thought. This is where you sleep, I wonder what it feels like to have your heat so close. Mundane and domestic and the sick fantasy of all that would never be true just became too much for him.
And maybe that’s what ruined him, what made his manhood swell and leak in his briefs because it felt so unreachable until he came here. Until he knew what type of soap you used and where you keep your cutlery and how many pajama sets you have.
You’re at work, likely going through paperwork that makes you look like you’d do something illegal for a full eight hours of sleep. It’s also most likely affiliated with him, recent assignments closed and there are plenty of deposits to be made.
His included.
You’re good at your job. It was one of the many first things he noticed about you, and it made his ears perk up whenever you spoke and the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention.
Like whatever words rolled off your tongue was something he’d want to know, something he needed to know because missing it felt detrimental.
Whatever world you were brought into, clearly far too young, has shaped you into a person who completely understood objective. The cold hard truth of it in the unconventional, and more importantly how necessary it is.
And yet somehow, after he’d come back from something terrible and wretched in nature yet as easy as breathing, disgustingly normal for him with blood still splattered on his suit - you’d have a soft smile. Gentle, like reality held no meaning and the diner is going to close in an hour and you still have to be up for three hours so come with me Dex!
You’d drag him by his jacket like he’s a puppy who can’t be let off the leash too long or he’ll do something you don’t have enough money to pay for.
And he’d follow like he didn’t just end someone’s life hours before, and yet somehow he still deserved to have your hand on him and your late night grin beaming towards him in the midnight streets of New York.
Your energy is like a vortex of something that wants to peel away at him, pick at his brain and settle yourself between matter. He doesn’t get it. In a lot of ways it frustrates him, makes his skin itch a little because people aren’t just like that.
They don’t ask you how you’re feeling when you’ve still got fresh blood on your hands, or steal sips of your coffee and pretend they don’t see you subtly lick the edge of the cup where their mouth just was.
And yet, he felt the buzz in his brain start.
It started as a hum in the back of his skull, and yeah of course it was nice to go out for for breakfast at three A.M with a beautiful woman and chat business that always turned into talking about what movie you’d watched recently and how it changed your life.
And then he’d start talking about a mixtape that meant everything to him when he was nine and had no one but the boys in the orphanage who thought he was a fucking freak to talk about it with.
All because you asked what his favorite song is since he’s always wearing those ancient headphones, and maybe it was the faux compartmentalized safety box that he’d put you in that made it so easy.
Second arm to his boss, to a job he needs because structure had become wonky and he couldn’t have that. Not now, not after everything.
The hum quickly became a horrible, gluttonous, deafening roar.
He had, and still has no rational explanation. He knows the basics, he’s a man, and you’re you and you’re in close proximities and it is literally your job to make sure he is alive and well and every cog in the machine is well oiled.
So at his big age he should be able to differentiate between your professional and personal relationship. You meant something to Charles that wasn’t quite like a daughter, but something close and too parental in nature for Dex to understand anyways. He didn’t know what that even meant.
But Dex has never had a crush.
The word feels so fucking juvenile in his head, something from a life he’s never had and never will have. He has never felt love. Real, true, honest to god love.
He only knows the intensity of something under his skin, something that festers and writhes and aches inside of him. It crawls through veins and tendons and muscle and the framework in his spine and it beckons him.
So it did not take long for you to fester within him. To spread to every thought that wasn’t about his next hit or organizing his weaponry. Even doing the dishes, he wondered what you were doing in that exact moment.
Brushing your hair, your teeth? Were you still asleep and wrapped in your covers that he envied because they get to be bunched between your arms and legs and against your stomach?
You even seeped into the mundane everyday parts of life like something divine and real. When he did his laundry he thought of what you wore to bed and what soap you used and how you smell.
When he made his bed he thought about what your weight would feel like against his mattress, how your frame would ruffle the duvet and he’d be okay with it. And how the springs might creak when he crawls on top of you and kisses your sternum and makes a mess out of the softness between your legs.
Fuck.
He could lie and say he tried to fight it, but he’s more than grown now. He can take accountability. He’s just exercising a little free will, and he’s not hurting anyone, really.
No, this is the most devotional, wholehearted and earnest thing that he’s done in a very long time.
Your room is filled with your scent and he’s bathed in the glow of it like a wash of fresh air. His hands started shaking as soon as he walked in and felt surrounded by you, his belly hot and he really didn’t know what to do with himself with such an opportune moment.
His head went fuzzy, and his thoughts didn’t make sense anymore.
He scoped everything like forgetting would mean death. Your shaggy rug at the foot of your bed, your desk and the half open books and messy papers scattered everywhere. Your laptop still open and your chair rolled away like you got up and never sat back down.
Your bed is softer than his, and fluffy blankets surround your bedposts and there is no creaking of the springs when he sits himself down. You don’t make it in the morning like he does because the covers are still thrown from your spot and crumpled, pillow still indented with the shape of your head.
His fingertips graze the pink fabric and it lights something dangerous and hot inside of him very very quickly.
First it’s his palm on the sheets cause he wants to know if he can feel even the ghost of your heat when you lied here, and then his knees are on the mattress and god you really do smell so sweet, and then his face is in your pillow and he’s inhaling like a mad man.
He lets out a guttural groan, the blood rushing to his head as fast as it is to his dick and in the haze of it all he feels his hips buck unconsciously. Like his subconscious felt your insides too just then.
He doesn’t think about it. He can’t, or he’ll dwell and convince himself that he’s better than this. And he doesn’t want to be.
He just flips himself around, thick fingers fumbling with his belt buckle with all the trembling, and when he’s unbuckled he doesn’t even pull his pants down all the way to his knees before reaching for his weeping cock from the fold in his briefs.
He lets out a sigh of relief when the cool air from your overhead fan hits it, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his thick thighs part a little further. His feet are touching the ground, heavy boots scrunching your rug underneath their rubber soles.
He’s so hard it hurts, the tip is pink and leaking dribbles of iridescent precum down the thick of his veiny shaft.
His hand is as hot as his manhood when he wraps his thick fingers around himself and tugs with a dirty smirk and a half chuckle of disbelief that he’s so pent up. He hasn’t cum in months, and now this is happening.
“Fuck.”
He breathes out, hamstrings tightening along with his abdomen when the callouses tucked inside his fingers graze his sensitive mushroom head.
It’s dirty, and he feels like a teenager all over again because he’s staring at all of your stuff and is envious of everything that’s ever gotten to see you in your most human version.
He’s blushing at the thought of laying on the same bed you do.
He writhes his hips into his hand, pants like a dog in heat. He’s started getting a bit too messy, precum soaking into his underwear at this base. He’s still in a lustful haze when he’s looking off to his right and sees a haphazard piece of clothing that’s barely hanging off of your bed.
He twists his torso and grabs it like it owes him money. It’s inside out but he sees flashes of the white lettering on the front of the green fabric and he moans out loud. It’s one of your favorite tee shirts, you wear it to work at least three times a week and you’ve worn it on your after hours restaurant runs too.
He shoves it to his face, and if he’d done it any harder he’d break his nose but he doesn’t care. The smell of you after a shower and a night of sleep fills his senses, clouds him like a rainstorm and he’s so lost, so deep in it now so quickly.
He whimpers into the fabric, rocks his hips and the sound of his own arousal leaking out of him and being used as lube while he touches himself fills the room. He’s dragging his hand from his tip all the way down, and his head is just images of what you might feel like pulsing around him.
What it would be like if you were here right now on top of him, spread open on his thick lap and taking him to the hilt. Insides all battered and soft and sensitive. Crying his name over and over again. Getting him wet and messy and sticky.
“Fuuuuuck, baby fuck.”
It’s incoherent with your shirt pressed to his nose and mouth, at least that’s what Dex would be thinking if he had any thoughts other than your cunt and the shape of your mouth and the feeling of your cervix.
You’re honestly astonished he hasn’t heard you yet. He’s one of the best you guys have, so perceptive it’s almost superhuman and his reflexes are some of the best you’ve ever seen.
You, however, are quieter. Clearly. And it’s endearing, to see him through the crack in the door and understand almost immediately that he is the human embodiment of starvation and desperation.
It makes you gasp, because he’s so big and dressed in all black in your frilly room and the juxtaposition makes your insides throb. Of course it’s also the sounds he’s making, they’re whiny and loud your his whole hand is wrapped across his mouth with your shirt directly underneath.
It’s seeing a version of him that you never even fathomed would come to life. You didn’t even know it was this serious for him despite the fact that you knew his gaze lingered on you longer than normal during interactions.
Your heart feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and onto the floor with a loud, squelchy thump.
You’re not disturbed, and that’s the most concerning part. But you’ve read up on his file over a hundred times now, of course. You know he’s not…conventional in his proclivities. You know he’s suffered, that it’s altered him permanently.
And you’ve spent time with him in the outside world, away from the murder and secrecy of your work life. You know what a real smile looks like when it spreads across his broad mouth, what a genuine satisfied hum sounds like when he takes a sip of his drink and it’s the right balance of milk and sugar.
And maybe you’ve always had a soft spot for the fucked up ones. For the ones that need to latch onto someone so badly they’d hang on until their fingers bleed. Because all you know how to do is help.
However, you can’t think too much about it right now when you’re distracted by how pretty his dick looks in his big hand and how neatly shaven he is or how his greying hair is getting long and you want to run your hands through it and tuck it behind his ears.
You just know you have to open your bedroom door all the way, so your hands find the cold knob and you’re pushing it open with a tepid step.
Dex stills, everything locking into place all at once. A series of thoughts run through his head very quickly, almost too fast for him to decide on one.
Ultimately, you didn’t break the door down. Or barge in with a gun aimed at his forehead although he’d kind of like that. In fact, you’re looking at him in a way that makes his balls tighten and his manhood twitch in his hold unconsciously. His body is just responding.
It’s not so much shock, or surprise or disgust. It’s like you’re curious, utterly transfixed by what’s taking place despite the fact that he’s staring dead at you and is slowly lowering your shirt to his lap over his erection and his cheeks and neck couldn’t be more beet red under any other circumstances.
“I have cameras, you know.”
Your voice hits him like a punch to the gut, he has to stop himself from doubling over a little because the taboo nature of the scenario is really fucking doing it for him and where someone normal would feel humiliation, Dex feels thrilled.
He’s been caught, and more so, he’s been surveilled while he thought he was being incognito and expertly smart about breaking and entering.
He looks like something scary and hungry right now, you can see his cock bobbing under your shirt where it’s covering him. He’s still panting, hair a little slick with sweat and you wanna lick the bead that trickles over his forehead and down the sharp bridge of his nose.
He looks like a person. Not a case file, not a weapon, not Bullseye. Just a man. And it makes you squeeze your thighs together when his eyes rake over you like he’s not ashamed of what he’s doing right now.
“You saw me come in?”
He asks, and his voice is rough like it has the permission to be when he’s pleasuring himself in your room. Completely wired and completely fucked. He licks his lips without thinking.
And now you’re advancing towards him, and you gently kick the door shut with the heel of your boot and he thinks he might spontaneously combust when it closes with a thud. He watches you like every step means something prophetic.
“I wanna know something,” You ignore his question, and he swallows so hard you hear it. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise when you’re finally so close he can map out details in your expression and feel your body heat in rivelets.
Your eyes are innocent and sparkling, head cocked a little.
You’re enjoying this.
Dex controls the cocky smirk threatening to spread on his face. He adjusts himself because he’s so sensitive and so unbelievably pent up and of course you’d have to be, well, like this.
Looking at him with saucers for eyes, breathing heavy.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
He asks, and now his heart is in his throat because you’re kneeling beside him on the bed, situating one foot under your bum and your weight dips him towards you a little and fuck. He’s ruining your shirt.
“You didn’t even go for my underwear drawer,”
You reach out and touch his face with your middle finger, grazing the scar on his cheek before tracing his jaw and chin. Then you’re pushing his hair back from his eyes and everything in his body starts vibrating.
He’s done something good. He must have, to earn this.
“you just saw a shirt I wear almost everyday and started touching yourself.”
Your hand doesn’t leave his face. It lingers and sears him, if he could see himself it’d be a sore sight. He’s molding himself to the curve of your palm and makes no effort to deny anything you’re saying.
“Thats kind of pathetic, Dex. Keep going.”
It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum from that alone. Nothing in his fantasies, nothing he’s fisted his cock to in the shower or humped his fucking mattress to could ever have conjured a sweeter vision than what’s in front of him.
He stutters when he speaks, trembling all over again with excitement and desire. Somewhere tucked away far and deep, he’s also nervous.
But you asked him nicely, and he can see your pulse thudding and feel how you’re starting to lean into him. He jumps a little when you reach out and pull your shirt off of the protrusion underneath it because it drags against him.
“You know I have cameras, Dex.”
Your breath is against the side of his face and he closes his eyes to savor it as he wraps his hand around the base of his shaft again. The goosebumps on his skin are tingling, and his blood is starting to swoosh inside his ears.
“You wanted me to watch. So move your hand, hmm?”
He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He gives himself a long stroke because doing anything else seems futile and useless and everything that could matter is happening right now.
His forearm is thick and strong and you watch how everything flexes and relaxes with each drag.
“Yes ma’am.” It’s said sarcastically, teasing at the end and yet his voice cracks a little when he says it.
He’s been caught, and you’re here beside him encouraging him with your voice and hands. What more could he reduce himself to?
He’s so beautiful it hurts. You’ll be angry at him later, maybe say some stuff that would humiliate and degrade a regular person and mean nothing to him. You just can’t get over how palpable your presence is to him, how intensely it’s influencing him.
All that strength, and brute and broadness and he’s nothing but this blushing, stuttering mess who’s jerking off with you whispering in his ear.
You grip his jaw with little to no force, and predictably he offers you his neck with his head lolling to the left a bit. The sound that leaves him is guttural and nasty and honest. His whole body jerks at the contact too, but you’re distracted by the taste of his skin.
You get caught up sooner than you expected yourself to. You’re mouthing at his throat, his jaw, his ear lobes. And you can hear the sounds coming from between his legs, sloppy and wet and it’s all him. Not to mention he is practically a lit wire under your touch.
You catch his thick wrist in your hand and the tendons flex harshly in your light grip. He looks over at you and now you’re low lidded gaze to barely restrained lust, noses brushing. You let the air between your mouths burn with the need to vanish.
You swat his hand away and he listens silently, fists your bedsheets instead and god, his pupils completely blow out when your grip replaces his.
“Fuck.”
You let him whimper it into your mouth, swallowing it with your lips against his and there are too many pleasurable sensations at once. His brain is completely empty, not capable of any other thoughts. He tries to use his free hand to touch you, but you shove it to the side and he knows he needs to behave.
He pouts and it’s earnest disappointment, but it doesn’t linger for long.
His tongue is explorative, finding yours immediately like he’s thought about kissing you over a thousand times.
Cause he has.
And he’s so reactive in your palm, you feel his pulse through the veins and he’s twitching with each pass of your teeth over his bottom lip and your nose brushing against his.
“Thought about this for so long.”
He confesses it like it hurts, and you finally move your hand and his pretty hazel eyes roll back. You already miss it, his overawe gaze, and so you grip his thick throat just enough to grab his attention and fuck it does.
“Did you? You’re unbelievable, look at you Dex.”
You’re toying with him now. With his emotions. It seems that anything you say will dial him up to ten and it’s riveting. Your grip on his throat tightens just a little, Adam’s apple bobbing underneath your palm and his pulse fluttering like a moth underneath his flesh.
He looks at you with watery eyes, like everything is burning hot where embarrassment should be. Where shame should be. You lick his open mouth, taunting him despite the slickness between your thighs and the blossoming heat in your gut.
“When did you think about doing this? Tell me the truth, I know you can do it.”
He scrunches his eyebrows together when you start palming the tip of his velvety cock, focusing on the sensitive underside while trying to draw out a response. You tangle your free hand in his hair now, tugging. He makes a pathetic sound through his nose.
“A w-week after I met you, fuck slow down.”
He’s genuinely overwhelmed. You can’t believe it. He’s more capable of submission than you thought, more attuned to your movements and your voice than what seems possible for not having an intimate connection until now.
His scar twists everytime his mouth quirks from your hand stroking him, crows feet crinkling by his eyes.
You tug his head back by his scalp, kiss his throat again and this time you let your teeth graze the surface. Just testing the waters, and his stomach convulses.
You remove your hand and he could really cry. But you can feel that perhaps that was going to do him in, and he’d spill all over his lap and make a mess of your sheets and you just don’t want it to be over yet and neither does he and you both know that.
Shouldn’t he know how much you’ve thought of this too? How many nights you’ve touched yourself to the thought of him? How you came home the moment you saw him on your cameras?
“Please, goddamit.”
He curses, clenches his jaw and he’s only confused for a second whenever you bring your cupped hand up to his mouth. He meets your eye and you nod, he spits at once, and then your palm is back over him with the hot saliva coating his length.
He smirks again because you let out a small gasp you didn’t think he’d notice, his lovesick eyes wondering how your lips could be so kiss bitten and swollen already, how you’re doing so good at trying not to act like this isn’t working you up so bad you’re leaking and aching just like he is.
“You’re so big, I always knew you were.”
His head starts throbbing, you’re getting dangerously sweet on him. Now you’re focused on his cock, switching to the sight between his legs and then his face because you don’t know which one you’d rather admire.
And your body has gotten so close you might as well be on his lap now, your tits against his bicep and your knees knocking his hips. He wants to lift your skirt and bury himself between your thighs, to know what your face looks like when you’re getting fucked by him.
“You’ve thought about it too.”
You just smile at his musing, and it’s sweet and familiar and it’s the version of you that he knows so well and he surges forward to kiss you again. You’re receptive, suckling the bottom and using your grip on the hair at his nape as leverage.
It’s sloppy, wet and loud and he groans down your throat. Your stroking has picked up its pace, focused on the tip where that hot stickiness leaks and lavishing his shaft ever so often. You’ve now thrown a leg over his thigh, pulling it towards you and effectively spreading them apart further.
“Of course I have, look at you. You might never know how much I’ve really thought about you.”
You breathe it out, and his heart feels like it’s grown three sizes, like it’s being mutated in real time. It might be at risk for swelling so badly it bursts from behind his ribs.
He’d chuckle in disbelief if he weren’t ruined, gutted from the inside out.
And now you’re kissing all over his face, his sharp nose, the creases in his forehead and neck. You’re hot to the touch, almost as hot as he is and your movements are full of tremble like you’re forgetting you initially started in a position of control.
He wants you to get lost like he is. He wants you to not be able to control yourself, to have no lingering thoughts about anything other than him and his body and his mouth and how heavy he is in your grasp.
He wants you to consume him, wholly and completely.
His eyes are closed so all he feels is you crawling on top of him and he bucks his hips instinctually, the heat between your legs just above his left knee as you straddle it firmly.
It’s thick, meaty and the rough material of these black cargos he’s wearing bumps right against your clit through the fabric of your panties.
He wants to feel your naked hips underneath where your skirt has risen up around your soft waist, and your breasts in his palm and how your nipples would feel rubbing against his skin.
He feels you right here on his thigh and yet he knows that he wouldn’t risk moving a muscle without your permission as to not end what’s happening.
When you start rutting yourself on the fabric, though, dragging yourself all the way up and then down over his knee, he has to grab your hand and stop you from pumping him for a second
“Just a second…please.” He asks, and you oblige him only because he looks so pretty. God.
“Using your manners, good job Dex.”
You say it like you’re genuinely proud and his eyes flutter shut as you fight his hand and start stroking him again. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter but he is surrendering in a way he’s never surrendered before.
And you’re not lost on it. No, you’re good at reading people too. You can see how the praise colors him in a blanket of warmth and lust and lightheadedness.
But now your clit is throbbing and you feel yourself leaking into your panties, the fabric is sticking to you and drags wet heat against your slit whenever you grind against his thigh.
The sight is just too much for you. Everything is clinging to him, every muscle and ridge and scar. And he is so pliable, so heavy on your fingertips that you don’t know what to do with the reality of it all.
Your hips surge forward again, and a sigh so soft leaves your mouth that he hopes he can hear that sound forever. It’s an immediate realization, a blinding sensation. He sees you with so much clarity.
“You’re so fucking pretty.”
It comes out dazed and it takes you by surprise because you didn’t expect to ever hear the word pretty come out of his mouth. And for everything he is, all the horror and all the hurt and all the misunderstanding, honesty slips out of him like loose teeth when he’s around you.
He’s pliant when you pull him to your mouth, and the kiss is raw now because you let him grab your face and his hands feel better against you than your thoughts previously cojurned in half asleep daydreams. They’re big and rough and his fingers are eager just to feel your soft cheeks, the curve of your nose.
His mouth is vicious and his tongue is greedy, and he’s making little plaintive cries in the back of his throat like your lips might be his immediate demise and he’s thankful for it, grateful for it.
“More, give me more.”
You say it like a demand but your voice is thin and weak and he just bucks his strong hips to readjust before using two hands under your ass to slide you over the shaft of his cock.
You’re planted with his length directly against your covered slit and it’s heavy and hot and twitches against you when your body recognizes what’s touching you. Who it belongs to. What situation you’ve gotten yourself into and you know you won’t refuse him. That he can’t refuse you.
Your thighs squeeze together, trapped by his broad waist in between them. You feel him everywhere already, the push and pull. Not to mention you’re sticky where he’s bobbing against you, and his chest couldn’t be more prominent through his shirt when he’s heaving like he is.
“Whatever you want. Take it from me. I’m yours, fuuuuuck f-fuck are you-“
He’s never felt anything like it, the softness of your slit and how you could be so syrupy and wet already, seeping and covering his pink tip in your essence. You’re so hot between your legs it’s making him lightheaded.
And he really is stunned in place. His body reacts for him, stomach tensing and torso attempting to grind up into you and the worst part is that you let him. That you’re allowing any of this.
Because now it’s made a home in him, not just the scrunch of your nose when something makes you laugh, genuinely laugh, or the skin by your fingers that you’ve chewed off, or your cunt rutting against him.
He’s already not the same, whatever infatuation he had is now dangerous and heady and sifting through his head like it’s trying to find ways to make it stop because he really needs this job.
Unfortunately, he needs you more.
Because now he’s gripping your hips and prying his arm underneath your ass to pull your panties to the side and you’re caged against him with the air knocked out of your lungs. He’s solid and strong and you’re clumsy when you reach between your bodies to grab his cock and shove it past your silken slit.
You lift yourself by the knees, and then lower yourself and he’s completely seated inside of you with one exhale and maybe if it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves you.
“Oh god, fuck.” You whimper it out, and he trembles. The stretch is severe.
You cling onto his shoulders and he’s so hyper aware of the pouting of your lips and the scrunch between your brows, your eyes closing like you’re savoring him. He’s should feel guilty for his thoughts, for how insatiable and miserable he’ll make you if you ever try to leave because you’re fluttering around his cock and he’s kissing your cervix.
“Take your time, not going anywhere.”
He encourages, and you don’t really know what to do with yourself because minutes ago you thought you had your head on straight, that you knew how to navigate all of this and all of, well, him.
But he’s big and throbbing against your gummy walls and you didn’t think you could ever feel so full of someone. It’s incredible how he can become Dex so quickly, not the new hire or the assassin or the anti hero or the mercenary.
He’s greying hair and scarred skin and rushing blood beneath you. And when your arms fasten themselves tighter around his freckled neck, he drags himself out slowly, savoring the syrupy glide before pushing himself back in to the hilt.
You melt against him further, body weakening with the intensity and he smiles to himself, satisfied and sanguine at your disarming. At how your hips couldn’t be more loose on top of him, with all that tension and tightness right where he’s disappearing inside of and your voice all gooey and soft now in his ear.
God, he couldn’t have dreamed it would go like this.
“You’re p-perverted for breaking in.”
You taunt him while he begins pistoning himself inside of you, hiccuping each syllable. The sound of your wetness is as loud as his jerking off was, a terribly gut wrenching sound that makes his possessiveness that much worse.
And your words, they shouldn’t make him shudder and convulse the way they do but you’re saying it while he’s fucking you and you just can’t really blame him.
Your fingers are holding onto the back of shirt so tight, your cheek planted against the nook of his jaw and shoulder. You’re putty in his arms, and they’re tighter by the minute in their hold on your middle.
His hips are so powerful, and you wish you could think about how bad of an idea this is. You wish you could break yourself out of your fucked out stupor, but you didn’t know he’d fuck you this good. You didn’t know that he’d be so deep inside you’re sure you’ll be able to feel him tomorrow.
“I know shhh, I know,”
he grunts it against your hair, starts searching for the skin of your neck. He just hovers there with parted lips and a red face and that hot wetness hugging him with each thrust.
“but l-look at us, you feel so goooood fuck, look how it turned out, yeah?”
He sounds dirty, menacingly nasty in what he’s saying and how he’s saying it and most of all how true it is. You love it, it’s terrible that you love it and yet you were buzzing with excitement when you checked your cameras and saw his big frame sauntering in.
The wet squelching sounds between your legs intensify, and somewhere between the grind of your hips and your teeth against his neck you’re crying his name.
“Dexxxx, ohhhh my g-god, baby.”
His hips genuinely stutter and his stomach starts fluttering, you feel him tense and relax three times over and his torso grinds into you a bit harsher than before.
He never thought he’d hear you call him that, and he’s glad you can’t see his face because his expression is so fucked.
That word is reserved for people who care about each other. For people in love. For people who can say soft things and not feel ridiculous and out of place or like they don’t deserve to hear it at all.
“Don’t stop, j-just don’t stop please.” You beg petulantly, hands rubbing his broad back, ignoring the way his pace has faltered and he’s softly panting in your ear.
He laughs, and it’s short lived and airy but you feel it in his chest. He grinds himself deep and unfairly into you, pushing you down on him while he’s fucking up into you. He feels the blunt ends of your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.
“W-why would I stop? I can’t, I can’t.”
It’s true, he can’t fathom it. The thought doesn’t even seem feasible right now. You’re so tight, squeezing around him and he can feel your heartbeat inside of you. Rocks you against him sturdy and hard.
It feels like forever, with him pounding himself into you and your insides being bullied. In reality it’s only about five minutes, and you’ve been sucking on the side of his neck and his earlobe and he’s balls deep - writhing his hips.
Your clit is being rubbed by his pubic mound and you feel so much intensely deep pressure from his thick cock inside you that you’re sure you’re gonna burst. You’ve started pulsing too, milking him for everything he’s got.
He really didn’t know that he could feel things this intensely that aren’t anger or despair.
It starts unraveling when you take yourself out of the crook of his neck and meet his face. He swears he sees a little drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, and you’re looking at him like he’s a completely new person.
Or maybe he’d just never noticed it before, because he was too wrapped up in noticing you. And the idea of you noticing him too felt unrealistic.
But no, no it’s real and happening and you’ve got both hands on his cheeks and your nose is against his, your hips swiveling on top of him and your pussy making a mess on his lap that he’d frame if it were practical to do so.
“It’s all mine now, right?”
You kiss his mouth when you say it, and then your hand is splayed against the broadness of his flexing chest and you’re shoving him back until he’s lying down on your mattress, staring at you with so much devotion it’s scary.
You readjust while he’s still inside of you, leaning over to kiss him again and he knows he’s going to finish in this position. He’s already hiked his feet up on the bed to fuck you good and hard and he hates that his boots are on your pretty covers but he’ll wash them for you.
“I’m yours. My dick is yours. Everything. Take it, just like tha-a-at.”
He’s whining and blotchy, and the strain in his throat makes you double over because you feel the white hot tension move in your stomach when his cock curves into the deepest parts of you.
You want it to be true, all of it, and the physical reality is too much for you to handle.
You shove your face in his neck because you don’t want him to see how completely ruined you look when you cum. No, everything is shaking and you’re trying to close your legs and the tingling and throbbing is working its way through you like a virus that’s got to fever you first.
“O-ohhh god, Dex m’cumming.”
You slur it and he thinks he might pass out because he can feel it happening. He squeezes you harder than he has the whole night, holds your wriggling body firm against his frame when he starts delivering his last round of thrusts into your cunt.
It’s trying to push him out, it’s contracting around his cock and kissing it and weeping for it. He’s never been so high off of anything he’s done to another human being. Not even the most rectified kills have felt like this.
“Oh f-fuck, gonna fill you all the way up, mmfuck, you’ll take all of it honey, yeah yeah yeah.”
He sounds delusional and dizzy, he’s past the point of trying to sound nice or sweet because his balls are tightening where they’re still tucked in his briefs and he has to practice restraint like he’s never known so that he doesn’t crush you in his arms accidentally.
You put your tongue in his mouth when you feel the staccato thrusts, the immediate heat that swells in the space between your walls as he pumps his seed into you. And he’s moaning like he’s hurt, mmm’s and ooohhhhh’s and his teeth on full display like a wild animal from the curling of his lip.
You let your mouth linger on his while he’s twitching and you’re still pulsing.
His hands find your face, and he sloppily makes out with you, almost casually if it weren’t for the tremors in his wrists or the scrunch of his brows or the way he’s keeping himself inside of you while his cock softens.
He’s happy. He realizes that’s the emotion he’s feeling when you look him in the eyes again, and your face still hasn’t changed from that soft and frowny pleasure contorted look quite yet.
You don’t want it to end either.
You’re sobering up, and the ache still isn’t going away. You’ve completely crossed a line that has sent you into a realm you won’t come back from - because now he won’t ever be the same to you.
You know what he tastes like, what he sounds in your ear when he feels good, what he’s truly capable of when he’s got your body in his hands.
“Stay.” You don’t ask, just state it plainly like it’s already decided.
It crushes him from the inside out. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s never gotten and if he didn’t work with you everyday he’d think you were being cruel, offering him such a sweet thing.
Don’t you know it’ll make it worse? That now he’ll be in here every waking moment he’s not working? That he will memorize every part of your life that you think others will never notice?
“Really?”
He asks, and you don’t expect him to sound so small after all of that. To look so pitiful and blushed crimson and spent now, with blonde hair sticking to his forehead.
You nod, kissing his nose and his hands are smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms and over your back. Explorative and greedy and you arch into them.
“You can help me put my window lock back in place, creep.”
His smile is completely and utterly Benjamin Poindexter this time.
Summary: You see an intriguing stranger in a cafe, almost immediately becoming obsessed. Too bad he’s not interested. Or is he?
Insp: In S3 when Dex meets with Julie. Also insp by The Drama oddly enough
Word Count: 8.6K
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, piv sex, stalking, swearing, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms. Also, I don’t condone irl stalking, just feel like that should be clarified given… current events.
7:30 am, medium flat white, corner seat.
The first time you noticed him was by happenstance; you had decided to pop into a random cafe on the way to work instead of your usual stop, not expecting to make a habit out of it.
You settled into a comfortable position, glad to find that even though it was a peak time for orders, the line was moving quickly enough that you wouldn’t have to rush through the rest of your morning to stay on time.
Your eyes slid lazily over the place. The interior was polished, yet comfortable. Exposed steel beams and wood gave that ‘hipstery’ vibe a lot of new establishments sought after but few pulled off. It was cute, but a little pricier than your usual hole in the wall you grabbed a coffee from. Unless the order you got today was particularly inspiring, you didn’t really plan on coming back.
Then you saw him.
Tall, with defined shoulders under a dark bomber jacket that shifted as he spoke to the barista. As he turned to the side slightly, you could see a flash of a sharp smile and crop of blond hair that caught alight with the glow of sunlight streaming through tall windows.
He was older than you by a few years, if the hint of grey at his temples was any tell. His style was a neatly comfortable look, distinctly separated from the other mix of impatient business folk and elders.
Normally your gaze would slide over people with a passing awareness, immediately washing away the memory of any faces, but something about him was… magnetic. More than just him being attractive (although that was a plus) everything else seemed to narrow as you found yourself immediately drawn to the man. Distinctly aware of how weird it was to stare at a stranger, especially when anyone could catch you doing so, you couldn’t stop.
It was impossible to hear his voice over the buzz of the cafe and radio pop music flowing through the speakers, but you watched on as he handed a few bills over the counter and stepped to the side for pickup.
His demeanor immediately shifted, polite smile quickly melting into a stony exterior like strings had been cut. His gaze slid from where his drink was being made to the rest of the store, sliding over the patrons languidly.
How interesting…
Even though it looked causal, you could tell that not much got past his perception. It was similar to army vets you’d seen straight off the field, checking exit and entryways before they relaxed in a space.
“Excuse me, ma’am were you looking to order?”
Your head snapped forward to the patiently waiting worker, embarrassment flooding through you. While you were distracted, they’d gone through the other two customers quickly, leaving a large gap in the line where you hadn’t moved.
“Ah, yes. Medium iced latte please.” You’d hoped no one noticed how intensely you were watching the other man, but from the slightly amused expression of the barista, that hope seemed useless.
“Anything else for you?” The woman behind the counter typed the order for you, smirk still ghosting her lips.
“Nope, thank you.” You ducked your head down, fumbling for a card to pay with. You couldn’t help but sneak another look at him after paying, startling as hazel eyes bored into you.
He was staring directly at you, unsmiling, with his head cocked slightly to the side.
Time seemed to stretch as you stood there frozen, the sounds seeming to fall away around you. You should’ve been more embarrassed by him catching you, but if anything were more thrilled by the attention.
“Flat white for Dex!” You almost jumped out of your skin at the barista yelling next to you, attention diverted as he placed a cup on the counter and the mystery stranger scooped it up.
He turned on his heel without a further glance at you, weaving through the crowd until he reached the front corner of the space and sat down.
Okay…he’s clearly not interested, stop being a creep.
You shook it off, walking towards the pickup and grabbing your latte once your name was called. Unfortunately, the coffee was only slightly above average. Not worth the extra time in the morning or the strain on your wallet.
It would make perfect sense to never come there again.
So of course you made a daily habit out of it.
The mystery man-Dex if you went by his order name, did as well. Same time, same order, same seat in the corner where he finished his drink and then went off to whatever job required him to wear a button down and jeans every day.
You were getting addicted, and you told yourself it wouldn’t be a problem. It’s not like you were staking him right? Public spaces are free to anyone.
Never mind the pictures you’d snuck of him while he was turned away.
Who would know if you were explicitly going out of your way to catch glances at a man you’d never even spoken to? Nobody.
Well, maybe him. He’d definitely noticed you were looking at him the first time, but past that, never looked your way again.
So, either he doesn’t care, or he’s filing a restraining order as we speak.
It wasn’t long until you’d mentioned something vague to your friend and she’d caught on, much to your displeasure.
“Okay, so you’re like,” She could barely get out the words without laughing, “vanilla stalking him?”
You sighed, adjusting the phone in the crook of your shoulder as you applied polish over your nails. Why applying tonail polish had to always be a contortionist act, only the powers above knew.
Heat flooded to your face from both her accusation and your bent position. “I am absolutely not stalking him. I just slightly adjust my morning so I can see him, that’s completely different.”
It was the same excuse you’d repeated to yourself since starting the habit, but it sounded weak, even to you.
She snorted, “You sound like an unsub.”
You started to interject with a disapproving noise, but she continued, “No really, that’s what they sound like. ‘No officer, I wasn’t following him, I just happened to take a walk around his house. Don’t worry detective, me writing their name over and over was just me practicing my penmanship.”
A pang of guilt shot within you. If that was just her opinion on what you’d told her so far, you could only imagine the shock and judgement she’d feel about the photos. You could not let her know anything else.
You had a habit of…investing in people. Not many caught your attention, leaving you very disinterested in the online dating scenes or random men who’d took their chance at bars. But when someone was intriguing, you tended to go all in on them.
Immediately.
Some past partners found that type of attention intimidating, others thought it was flattering. One thing for certain, you’d never received that type of devotion in return.
Ignoring your quickly beating heart, you let out a noise between a scoff and a laugh, “Well, considering I didn’t do either of those things, I think you’re proving my point.”
The sound of her clicking her tongue flooded over the line, “Only a matter of time Hannibal, only a matter of time.”
There was a pause before a few rustling noises, and you could imagine her getting into a more comfortable position as she playfully antagonized you.
“So, are you gonna speak to him? Ask him out? Tell him you want him to hit it from the bac-”
“Stop, please for the love of god.” You drug out the last word exasperatedly.
You did not want that image in your head the next time you’d see him, then you’d really prove your friend right. You hadn’t crossed the boundary of certain fantasies yet, it just seemed wrong. Well, wrong-er than what you’d been doing.
“But to answer your question, no.”
“What! Why not?”
You grimaced, swiping at a stray piece of polish that fell when she yelled in your ear. “Because that would actually be weird. He doesn’t seem to be very interested in me.”
“Does he have a ring on his finger?”
“No.”
“Flirt with anyone else there?”
You sighed, “No, but that doesn’t mean-”
“Well then it’s fair game. If he’s not interested or gay he’ll just decline, and then you can stop paying for nine dollar coffee.”
That’s the problem, you thought, if he does finally decline you won’t have any excuse to see him.
“You’re asking him out, you don’t have a choice. I won’t let you bitch-out.” Your friends voice was firm, and you knew she was serious. Unless you told her that you’d talked to Dex, she would bug you endlessly about it.
She’d already been pestering you about getting yourself ‘back out there’, and you gave it about two days before she made a Tinder account for you herself.
“Okay, fine.”
It was that decision that brought you to this moment, loitering around the condiment station as you tried to come up with an excuse to speak with him.
He sat in the same corner as usual, sunlight haloing over the silhouette of him from large windowpanes behind. Same uniform of button down and dark jeans, this time a grey top instead of the navy from the previous day. The only new addition was a book he was reading through casually. He didn’t seem to invested in it, and judging from the near-emptiness of the drink by his side, he’d be leaving soon.
It was now or never.
You took an encouraging drink of your latte, wishing it had a shot of something stronger than espresso inside, and walked over to him.
He tensed slightly with your presence, but didn’t look up until you cleared your throat. “It’s a good read. Ending was a bit confusing though.”
You were bullshitting faster than you could think. You had no clue what book he was even reading, much less the ending.
He tiled his head back, looking at you with a searching gaze before his lips flicked into a smirk. “Oh really? Well no spoilers for me, I just started.”
Oh, you didn’t think you’d get this far. Think, think.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Did you get to the, ah,” you look down at the pages where he still had it pried open with his hands. “really interesting part yet?”
He didn’t answer right away, raising a brow as he met your gaze with a faint amusement.
“If you’re referring to the part about entry and exit wounds of a .45 caliber, then yes.”
What?
His smirk only widened as you floundered in front of him, hands flipping the book closed so you could clearly see the title. FBI: Special Operations Weapons Guide, newest series.
You muttered a curse under your breath, this had gone even worse than expected. You were going to kill that girl for making you do this.
Well, might as well go for it since you were already at rock bottom.
“I’m-I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just,” you let out a shaky laugh, “I get coffee here a lot and I always see you, but I didn’t really know how to talk to you.”
“Well, now you are talking to me.” He didn’t mention seeing you everyday as well, you didn’t know if it was to save you from further mortification or if he just forgot. You were pretty certain it was the former.
“Right, so, would you maybe want to see each other outside of this cafe sometime?” You said it all in one breath, face burning.
“For what?” His face had slipped into a careful blankness, and there was a slightly suspicious note coloring his tone.
“To,” you paused, considering your words. Date sounded to heavy at the moment, you went for something a bit less high stakes. “get to know each other better.”
“I’m busy with work usually,” His blank expression was unchanged, but his fingers twitched where they rested against the tabletop.
The response was a rejection if you’d ever heard it, and even though it made a sick feeling in your stomach, you nodded in resignation. “Right, well- I won’t keep your time,”
This is why you should’ve kept things the way they were, now it was ruined. He’d probably stop coming here too-
“I didn’t say no.” He stood quickly from the table, chair sliding back with a screech. “I can take your number, let you know what times I’m free and we
can plan something.”
He looked down at you for a moment, forming a smile again like he’d suddenly remembered it was appropriate, then dug his phone out his back pocket. “Here, you can add the contact.”
You took the device, fingers tingling where they’d brushed against his. “Okay, sounds like a plan Dex.”
You realized your mistake, cringing internally, but he didn’t seem to notice the use of his name as he gathered his things to go.
“It’s a plan.” He agreed, giving you a nod of a goodbye before walking out the door.
Okay, maybe you weren’t going to murder your friend.
A week had passed since you spoke to him, you and Dex taking up a pattern of short conversations over the phone.
It started off pretty formal, just asking about each others day and musing about the shitty New York weather, but soon enough it got a bit more personal.
He told you basic things, like Dex was short for a much longer name: Benjamin Poindexter. He told you that he was in the military before becoming a FBI agent (that much you could guess with his ramrod straight posture), and that he didn’t do much with his spare time other than exercising and his morning coffee trips.
You told him about your upbringing, family and friends, even alluding to the ultimatum your friend made for you to speak to him.
He wasn’t as concerned as you thought he would be, just slightly amused that you had to be forced into approaching him.
Any specific questions about his past were usually skirted around, his making the excuse that it was ‘too boring’ or a ‘long story’.
You only knew he was an orphan because of an offhand comment he’d made one day about not having a conventional education. It seemed like the more you knew the man, the less you knew at all.
So, you sleuthed a bit.
A search of his name online brought up little to no results, no social media accounts to speak of. The only thing you didfind was an article outlining a drug bust he’d been a part of, but that was several years ago and only mentioned his name in passing with other agents.
You did the usual searches on inmate records, finding relief that didn’t show anything either.
Usually, you’d stop there. Just a preliminary search to make sure your potential date wasn’t a serial killer rapist or had a secret Facebook family, but that temptation inside you crawled up for more.
You deliberated a moment, cursor waiting over the spacebar of a different identity search website that showed…less than public information.
A twinge of guilt settled in your stomach. Watching him in the cafe was bad enough, were you really going to find his address?
Yes.
You pressed the button, watching the loading bar slowly crawl across the screen until the results popped up with a ding.
It was a modest place, one bedroom on the second floor of a small apartment building of the lower part of the city. Pulling it up on Google Maps showed the weathered but clean exterior, as well as all the surrounding shops.
You wondered if he’d ever gone to the bodega on the corner, or the bookstore down the street. You wondered how long it would take him to invite you back to his apartment.
It would be a lot easier, if you could even get to the first date.
Because of both of your busy schedules, you hadn’t tied down a night to go out together, much to your dismay.
You had picked out a few options for outfits, just in case he’d finally ask, but the opportunity hadn’t arose yet.
You sighed, picking up your phone to finally text your friend back with an update. You scrolled past the multitude of messages asking how it went and wrote a short paragraph relaying what had happened.
As expected, the phone lit up with an incoming call almost immediately. You hesitated, but swiped a finger to answer it after a moment.
“I’m not going to say I told you so, but you know I feel it.”
You sighed again, “Well hello to you too, and you know saying that is just the same as saying I told you so right?”
“Nope,” she retorted, a haughtiness in her words, “just like you following him around wasn’t stalking.”
She barely gave you time to scoff in response before continuing, “So, did you bone yet?”
God, I wish.
“Who says bone anymore, what are you? Eighty?”
Her laughter crackled over the line, “Answer the question. It better be yes.”
You flopped back on your bed, staring at the divots in plaster on your ceiling. “No, we’ve just been talking over the phone. I haven’t seen him in person since that day.”
If Dex noticed you’d promptly stopped showing up to the cafe, he never mentioned it.
“What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Our schedules don’t really align, every time I’m free he has- I don’t know, agent stuff to do. Based off what he said it sounds stressful, I couldn’t do it.”
Another laugh, this time mocking. “Yeah, you couldn’t do it because your aim would be a mile off if you tried to shoot a gun.”
“Shut up, like you could-” The buzz of your phone cut you off, screen glowing with another incoming call. This time, the contact being 'coffee man’ instead of your friends name.
Speak of the devil…
“Oh shit he’s calling.” You blurted, staring wide eyed at the screen.
“Answer it! You can talk to me later, go!” You saw your friends name disappear and slid on the answer button before losing your nerve.
“Hey, what’s up?” You frowned at the ceiling, wishing you could go back in time if only to pick a better greeting.
“Hi, nothing really. I just wanted to hear your voice, was afraid you’d be asleep right now.” His voice was low, the slight rasp of it filling your room.
Just wanted to hear your voice.
He hadn’t even said it in a flirty way, just that weird matter of fact tone that he had, but you were a goner at the words either way.
“No I don’t usually sleep this early, mild insomnia and all that.” You couldn’t keep the smile out of your tone.
He chuckled quietly, “Yeah, can’t say I do either.”
You slid out of bed, feet padding around the room absentmindedly as you spoke with him. “Slow day at work?”
“You can say that.” He took in a deep breath, “The asshole I have to watch hasn’t caused much trouble, still annoying to deal with.”
You hummed in agreement even though you had no clue who he was talking about. “Do you have to do that a lot? Be a bodyguard that is?”
A soft scratching noise filled the air, like he was shifting in his seat, “Less of a bodyguard, more of a babysitter. Waste of my time really, but it’s steady.”
You laughed, turning to a corner of your room where a dartboard had been set up, gift courtesy of a friend from college. It became a quirk of yours to throw darts while you were thinking or when talking on the phone.
You’d become pretty good at it, if you do say so yourself. It happened to be a good party trick to pull out and impress people.
“Hey, at least you’re getting paid, right?” Your wrist drew back, dart flying into the board with a soft thump. “Plus, it can’t be boring all the time.”
“It has been, recently at least. Everyone hates dealing with him. It’s like when you talk to him, a bit of his dirtiness rubs off on you.”
He was half talking to you, half musing to himself. “People like that should be dead, not kept in a penthouse.” There was a resolute anger in his words that made you believe he would do it himself given the chance.
It made you falter on your next throw, shot going wide. “I’m going to assume you’re not a believer in the judicial system then?” You kept your tone light and free from any judgement, so he wouldn’t change the subject.
“Not with this.” He let out a joyless laugh, “All the liars and murderers get locked up and set free again, that’s not fair.”
Another rustle of clothes, “If you choose the wrong path, you don’t deserve second chances, you deserve a bullet in your head.”
You threw another dart, missing the center again. “That is, uh…” You tried to keep your voice steady, even though the anger behind what he said had rattled you slightly.
“You don’t agree with me.” His voice turned icy, clipped at the ends.
Oh great, now he was mad at you.
“Well,” you began diplomatically, “I think it depends. If it’s like minor crimes or a one off thing they should go to jail. I can’t say I haven’t seen truly horrible people in the world though, people that were better off gone.”
And you weren’t lying, occasionally there’d be a case that you heard about that rattled the public. Homicides, trafficking… It was always something new in the city, but the horrible one’s stood out, you couldn’t say you’d be disappointed if the people responsible were taken care of. Permanently.
There was a lengthy pause before he continued, “This one is the worst. He’s responsible for more deaths than you could count, and even more ruined lives. The only reason he’s not rotting in a cell is because he’s useful to us.”
You fiddled with the sharp end of a dart, “Sounds like horrible babysitting duty.”
Thankfully, he let out a chuckle at your sad attempt of a joke, relieving some of the earlier tension.
You basked in the silence for a moment, mulling over his words. Even though you’d never heard him so angry, it wasn’t completely out of character for him to throw out ideas like that of fairness or what someone deserved.
You couldn’t help but notice he sounded less upset that the criminal did those acts and more focused on not being able to delve out the punishment himself.
You couldn’t really blame him, you’d probably be just as bitter if you had to spend most of your day with a murderer.
Another thunk rang out as your dart hit just shy of the middle.
“Have more fluidity in your wrist.”
You almost didn’t hear him at first. Almost.
“What?” You sounded as confused as you felt, staring down at your phone.
How did he know you were throwing darts?
He replied as if answering the unspoken question, “You muttered something about missing the target earlier, and in our texts you mentioned having a dart board.” He answered easily.
You stayed silent. You were pretty sure you had not said anything about missing the target, but the conversation was pretty distracting, so maybe you’d forgotten.
“I ah, have good ears as well. Figured I’d give you a tip.” The last part was added hastily, but still held conviction in his tone.
You released a nervous laugh, “Oh, right. Sorry if you could hear it this whole time, I was listening I promise.”
You silently chastised yourself, what did you think? That he was watching you somehow? That would be ridiculous.
“I did lie about something though,” His tone was still light, “I did have another reason for calling you. Are you free this Saturday?”
Yes, finally.
You hoped that your voice was controlled enough to hide the grin on your face, “I’ll have to check my schedule, let’s see.”
You hesitated, faking a search, “Yes, I think this Saturday is free. What should I be expecting?”
“I hope you like Italian.”
You smiled into the receiver, “I absolutely love Italian.”
“And what will we be starting with today?” The waiter stood to the side of your table, patiently waiting for the pair of you to order.
You’d spent the last five minutes struggling to read the cursive script of the velvety menu he provided, and most of the items being in a different language certainly didn’t help.
The grandeur was honestly pretty out of your comfort zone (and net worth), but when Dex asked you if you liked the place you didn’t have the heart to tell him no. He’d looked at you with such a weighted gaze for the answer, and practically deflated in relief when you said it was great.
“You know what? Whatever you suggest would be fine, preferably pasta adjacent.” You handed over the menu in defeat, looking across the table at Dex, who was still frowning down at the pamphlet in his hands.
He looked just as confused as you did a few moments ago, a line forming between his eyebrows where he had them scrunched together.
You let your eyes drift over the lavish restaurant as he gave his order, gaze drawn to the glittering chandeliers above patrons who were adorned just as sparkling. It made you feel incredibly underdressed in your wrapped blouse and skirt.
Dex hadn’t told you exactly where you were going, so you had no idea how fancy would be, but you still wanted a sense of comfort at dinner. Even though you still looked nice for all intents and purposes, you kind of regretted not going for a more glamorous look.
“You look amazing, sorry if I didn’t say it already.” Like he’d read your mind, the man across from you settled your doubts after giving a quick order to the waiter.
Were you that transparent?
You flushed, “Thank you, you don’t clean up bad yourself.” That was an understatement. You had to stop yourself from pouncing on the man as soon as he walked into the restaurant, all clean dark lines of a black suit over a crisp white shirt.
His hair was even more neatly styled than usual, the cut of it falling over his forehead slightly. His face was smooth with a clear shave, and although he didn’t wear cologne, you could smell a clean airy scent drifting off him.
To be frank, you were less interested in eating dinner and more interested in whatever came afterward. You tried not to be too expectant, Dex had been nothing but respectful, and with his personality he probably wouldn’t make a move on the first date. But there was still a spark of optimism that increased every time you caught his eyes lingering on a flash of your skin.
He shrugged off your compliment, “I don’t usually dress up for things. I wanted to, for you. I wanted to make this-”
He was cut off by the waiter suddenly reappearing, “And for the wine?” He looked between the two of you, noticing your confusion. “For your respective meals I’d suggest the house red and Riesling.”
You sputtered, “Oh, I don’t know,”
“But if you prefer to share a bottle, perhaps the Merlot would be better? Or a Malbec if you like a smoother mouthfeel?” The man rambled on, advertising different drinks with a pleasant attitude, completely oblivious to your disinterest.
Dex shot him a look of annoyance, mouth forming a hard line. “Perhaps,” He started, in a carefully flat tone, “you should come back later.”
The man didn’t seem too bothered by it, ducking away back to the other side of the restaurant with a nod.
You laughed even as the man across from you retained the hard expression on his face, “I didn’t know they had so many options for wine.”
He seemed to make a conscious decision to shake off his annoyance, lips tilting into a weak smile as he relaxed. “Neither did I. I just, ah-”
His eyes shifted to the side, bashful. “I looked up the highest rated restaurant and went with it.”
Despite how uncomfortable you felt before, the words made a flare of giddiness rise within you. “That’s nice, like reallynice. No guy has done that on a date before, I appreciate it.”
He seemed to inflate with your words, a self satisfied smile on his face. “Thank you, I don’t want to be anything like them.” There was an oddly serious note to his tone, and something akin to jealousy tittering at the ends. Like the mere mention of another man dating you had bothered him.
“So,” you took a quick sip of your water, looking at him over the rim, “tell me more about you Dex. Not just the surface stuff like before.”
He shifted in his seat, unsure. “What do you want to know?”
“You know, the really deep stuff.”
“Deep stuff?” His eyes were dark and guarded as he looked at you. Every part of his body language told you that any invasive questions you asked would be avoided.
You had gotten used to it at this point. Every time you asked about his life past the snippets he gave you, it was always met with guarded delight. Like he was simultaneously eager for your questions and too self deprecating to know why you would ask them at all.
You hoped that with time he would let you in more. But for now, you’d go easy on him.
“Yeah deep stuff. Like, what’s your favorite color?”
He chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I don’t have one.”
“I’m not going to let you off that easy, everyone has a favorite color. C’mon.”
His head tilted back, unfocused gaze on the ceiling as he let out a sigh. “I guess blue then, if I had to pick.”
You nodded contentedly, telling him yours.
He laughed again, causing you to raise a brow in silent question. What was so funny?
“No, it’s just that- it’s pretty obvious. I like that you’re so open. Your interests are just ingrained in who you are, even down to your favorite color. It’s in your shirts, your phone case, even your bedsheets. You’re just, you.” His eyes softened as he spoke, words colored with the most affection you’d heard from him since arriving to the restaurant.
Your breath caught, reeling from the fact that he’d been paying so much attention to you. You’d thought he was ignoring you at the cafe everyday, but if he wasn’t, what did that mean?
And there was another thing he said that stood out.
“How do you know what color bedsheets I have?” It was impossible to not let a touch of suspicion seep through, try as you might.
He hesitated for a few seconds. Ten seconds. Then fifteen. “You took a photo of something, they were in the background.”
Your heartbeat speed up, a mix of excitement and fear trickling through you. “No I didn’t Dex.”
Your memory wasn’t that bad, there was no photo you’d sent to him that showed your bedroom.
He let out a noise between a scoff and laugh, “No sorry, I meant your Instagram. I looked there and happened to see it.”
If you didn’t already see his slip up, you’d believe the words. There was a thrum of anxious adrenaline in you, and a strong need for some fresh air.
“No you didn’t.”
He let the mask slip, face slipping into a worried frown. “Please just, hear me out-”
“I have to use the bathroom.” You rose swiftly, only to be tugged back by a vice grip on your arm.
“You can’t leave.” His voice took on an authoritative tone, but there was still the note of desperation. Dark hazel eyes rounded as he stared up at you. “Please, don’t leave.”
You took a deep breath to steady yourself. “I won’t, I promise. Just need a few minutes.”
And you weren’t, you just needed a bit of time to sort out your feelings before deciding what you’d do next.
Even so, the hand on your arm didn’t loosen until you gave him an encouraging squeeze. “My purse is still on the seat, I’m not going anywhere.”
A calculating gaze raked over you and the purse still hanging off your chair before he gave a sharp nod and released his hold.
You didn’t waste time getting to the bathroom, not even bothering with a stall as you stood there staring at yourself in the mirror.
Your face was flushed, skin visibly clammy from the cyclone of emotions you felt inside.
What Dex knew about you could only insinuate one thing, and as wrong and invasive as it was, you…weren’t angry about it.
Surprise and anxiety yes, those were definitely present, but anger? Not even a little bit. Sorting through the tangle of emotions you had, you didn’t find that any of them were that deeply upset.
That’s a bit concerning.
But could you judge him? You were practically toeing that line, your friend had even called you out for it. Who’s to say that you would’ve been outside his apartment, chasing the boys and pieces of his life you could gather?
A while ago you would’ve found it reprehensible, criminal. But now you thought of the other angle. You’d never felt unsafe around Dex, despite his teetering mood swings and proximity to guns.
The idea of him lingering around your home with the need to be close to you- to want to know you, it spread a warmth of validation.
But you just didn’t know how deep this went. How far he’d gone, or how far he’d go now.
Only one way to find out.
You brushed your hair away from your face, straightening your top where it’d gone slightly off center.
“Hope I don’t fucking regret this.”
With one last sobering look at yourself in the mirror, you went back out to him.
You shifted in the seat of the taxi, stealing glances at the man next to you who stared steadily out the window, jaw set in a hard line.
The light of passing stores and traffic lit his face, casting the side closest to you in multicolored angular shadows. He hadn’t said much, if anything, after you left the restaurant.
Dinner itself went without incident, you’d tried to lighten the mood a few times but each attempt failed miserably. The tension even made the chipper waiter more subdued.
After waving off any attempt of you trying to split the bill, he paid quickly and you both stepped outside to the brisk air of the sidewalk. Realizing neither of you had driven, you had suggested a taxi. You had to practically tackle him to share the ride.
You didn’t know what you had to do for the man to calm the hell down.
You already came to terms with the fact that you didn’t care if he was a little (or more than a little) weird, you liked him. There was a pull you felt towards Dex, a likeness you had never experienced with someone before.
He had the air of someone who desperately needed another person to be there for him, but didn’t quite know how to accept it when they did.
So you weren’t playing it safe. You weren’t going to just let him slip through your fingers.
It was a bit difficult to share said feelings after he completely shut down.
“Alright, 44th and 8th.”
The taxi drivers voice knocked you out of your thoughts, and you scrambled to get some bills out of your purse was interrupted by another hand shooting past yours.
You turned towards Dex, mouth open to decline, but he beat you to that as well.
“It’s the least I can do. Considering.”
He didn’t look towards you as he shouldered the door open, stepping out of the cab to let you out behind him.
You followed, giving quiet thanks to the driver before scooting across the seats.
As soon as you were outside, Dex moved to get back in the cab. Your hand shot out, grabbing onto his jacket sleeve to halt him.
“Wait. I just want to-” You paused, gathering your words. “I’m not upset. So if that’s what your thinking to make you all moody, I’m not.”
He stopped moving, but still didn’t look at you. After realizing no one was getting back inside, the cab driver peeled off the curb and back into traffic.
“Im not upset, and I’m not scared. But right now I just want to know how you feel, because you’re giving me nothing to work with here.” Your voice took on a light chastising tone, but it was true that his silence had annoyed you a bit.
At last, he turned to you, a dark anguish in his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you right? I’m not like that, I’m- I’m not a stalker.”
You didn’t know if he was trying to convince you or himself, but you let him work through whatever he was struggling over without comment.
“When I saw you in the cafe, I wanted to speak with you then, but I didn’t think you’d be interested once you knew me.” He was biting out the words nervously, eyes roving over every inch of your face for any hint of rejection.
“There’s something… wrong with me. Always has been. That’s not going to change.”
You stared at him steadily, eyes widened, waiting for him to continue.
“I like you, a lot. I like your smile, the way you talk about your interests, I like the way you always get exactly two sugars in your coffee.”
He stepped closer, seemingly unconsciously as he got lost in your orbit. “I like the way you seem to care about me, reallycare. I like the way you sort your socks into neat little rows.”
“I can be whatever you want me to be. You want me to be normal-I can do that. Whatever you want.”
Your brows gathered in a frown. That was certainly not what you wanted. “Just be you. Like you already are, that’s all I need.”
It was definitely not what he expected you to say, if the astonishment across his face was anything to go by. “You’re not real. Can’t be.”
You reached up, holding the side of his face in your palm. “Real as you are.”
His face was inches from yours, you could smell the wine you’d both drunk on his breath, sweet and heady. All that was left was taking the dive. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t stop.” It was barely a thought as the words passed your lips.
“Tell me you never want to see me again.” He waited for the cut of the knife, the refusal. You weren’t giving it to him.
“I can’t.”
You don’t know who moved first, but the next thing you knew was firm lips on yours. A warm hand snaked into your hair, holding you in place as his other had wrapped around your waist.
He kissed you like it needed, as necessary as it was for him to breathe. Your mouths moved in harmony together, unabashedly in your own bubble even as the sights and sounds of the city bustled around you.
You felt the lap of his tongue against your mouth, opening up quickly to allow him access.
You ran out of air quicker than you’d liked, pulling back with a gasp as you sucked in sharp breaths.
His head followed as yours retreated, eyes lidded as his gaze flicked over your face. He was breathing heavily as well, inhaling your air while he remained as close as possible.
“Come inside?” It was little more than a whisper, but it was clear he’d heard you.
You were practically carried into the apartment with the amount of force he held your waist with.
Pretty soon, you were both walking along the hallway of your apartment building, only stopping so you could unlock your door with a shaky hand.
“Sorry it’s a bit messy-”
Lips crashed into yours again with a fierceness as you were backed up against the wall. He only leaned away to shrug off his suit jacket before stepping back into your space.
You let out a yelp of surprise as strong hands drug across the back of your legs, pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist. Once you were seated firmly there, his hands slid to your ass, holding you tight.
And it felt so good.
The slide of his tongue against yours, the warm hardness of his crotch where he’d started slow grinds against you, all of it made the blood rush to your head. It made the cycle of your thoughts turn into a repeat of more, more, more.
Your hands moved from where they’d been tangled in his hair, carving a path down his neck and onto the buttons of his shirt, tugging them open impatiently.
He pulled up the corner of your blouse with a similar ferality, supporting your body with his hips as you raised your arms to shake out of it.
Where the top went was unseen, you were much more focused on sliding his newly unbuttoned shirt off broad shoulders.
You could feel a wetness pool under your skirt at the sight of him. The muscle of his abdomen rose as he took in heaving breaths, eyeing you with just as much want as you gave him.
It was clear that you would need a bit more space for what came next, and he seemed to read your mind as he took your weight fully, carrying you through your apartment with ease.
He trailed open-mouthed kisses down your neck and across your chest as he walked, not stopping even as you felt yourself being lowered down to the couch.
You let out a shiver as your skin met the cold leather of the couch, sinking into its plushness while the hard weight of his body lowered over you.
“Tell me where you need me.” He murmured into your chest, slipping his fingers under the waistband of your skirt. “C’mon, tell me.”
Flames broke out over your face as you struggled to string together a coherent request. “Touch me,”
Your breath hitched as his fingers grazed across the dampness of your panties. “please.”
It was like the word had flipped a switch in him, a crazed light flickering in his eyes as he snatched off your skirt faster than you could blink. Your underwear were soon to follow, a loud rip sounding in the room where he’d tugged on the edge too hard.
You gasped as firm digits circled your entrance, swiping around the slick that had gathered there across your folds. Your head fell backward against the couch with a moan but a firm grip prevented you from fully lying back.
Dex’s fingertips dug into the back of your neck where he held you with a steel grip. “Look at me. You don’t stop looking at me, okay?” He sounded like he had run a marathon with how breathy he was, each puff of air brushing against your face as he stared you down.
You didn’t even have the chance to nod before two of the thick fingers previously circling your wetness delved inside, pumping against your walls with expert precision. You let out an embarrassingly loud keening noise every time the pads of his fingers brushed against that perfect spot that made you see stars.
You tried keeping his request, you really did, but with every pass it felt impossible to keep your eyes open.
There was no chastisement for it, just hazel eyes watching in rapt attention as you fell apart writhing on his hand. You couldn’t tell if it was your imagination or if he was actually moving faster every time you let out a longer moan or if you were just losing your mind.
Probably both.
Sorry neighbors.
Your eyes squeezed even tighter as you felt the tightening coil in you release abruptly, legs shaking with your release. Dex’s hand didn’t let up the pace even as your wetness flowed over his hand and trickled down to the couch.
He didn’t stop even as your entire body shook from the stimulation and your moans pitched into a shout.
“You can give me another. I know it,” He leaned forward, resting his sweat dampened forehead against yours, “You’re so good-perfect. You can do it.”
The sounds reverberating around your living room were positively obscene, something you were too lost in euphoria to feel conscious about. The sensitivity inside you transformed into a sharp heat and before you knew it you were coming again against his fingers.
The grin that overtook his face could only be described as devilish, but Dex’s hand finally slowed to a stop as you came down from your high. The pad of his finger rubbed a few consoling circles before removing from your heat entirely.
You released another keening moan at the movement, jerking a bit from overstimulation. “Think I’ve died.”
“Can’t have that, m’not done with you yet.” Even with the cocky words, Dex’s eyes practically lit up at your praise.
Huh.
The world went sideways as you were adjusted to lie down the length of the couch, Dex sliding in the space behind you and placing an iron hold on your waist.
The entire length of him pressed against your back, leaving no spaces. When he talked, his breath cascaded over your shoulder, leaving goosebumps in the wake.
“Do you know how much I wanted to do this?” There were the muffled sounds of a zipper and belt being undone as he spoke. “Every day, seeing you at that cafe. Seeing you see me like I see you.”
His hand trailed down your thigh, cupping under the juncture of your knee to adjust it over his leg. “I know about the photos, I know about all of you.”
You let out a broken gasp as he shifted forward, coating the flushed head of his cock through your wetness.
“That’s why we’re perfect for each other, you and me.” His voice hitched with the level of restraint he had, even though it was obvious with the jerk of his hips that he wanted no more than to bury himself entirely.
“And you-“ He cut off as the tip of his length caught your rim, “you’re so good, s-so good. You’re gonna take all of me.”
He was rambling now, half muttering to himself as he finally adjusted his leaking head with your opening and pushed inside.
His head tilted into the crook of your neck, the grumble of a lengthy moan lost in the flesh. Once inside, he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting faster and faster as he chased the drug of your heat, pressure, skin.
You were quickly rendered a babbling mess, only made worse as he reached up to tweak a sensitive nipple. Your head flew back against his neck when you felt the sharp pressure of teeth on your shoulder, the sting relieved by the lap of his warm tongue over the indents.
“Oh my god, so-so good.” It was a surprise that you could string together a coherent sentence at all at the speed he pounded into you.
You could feel the smile more than see it as he basked in your praise. “Yeah, I’m doing a good job? Making you feel good?”
You could feel a bit of deviousness rise within you. Since he liked the feedback so well, why not go all in? “Yes, you’re a good boy Dex. My good boy.”
His hips stuttered as he shivered against you, letting out a pained moan. He removed himself with your heat quickly despite your whimper and the way your walks squeezed around him.
The world shifted again when he pushed you face down on the couch, tilting your hips upwards slightly as he rested the pressure of his body against your back. You were going to question the change, but the words got sucked out of you as he thrusted back inside to the hilt.
You could somehow feel even more this way. Every throb of his length and vein brushing against you was magnified. That, mixed with the pressure of him pounding down into you, made spots dance behind your eyes.
“Fuck- say it again.” His teeth grazed your neck while he unabashedly let every grunt and whine feed into your ears.
You didn’t respond at first. You didn’t know if you could, but when he adjusted his speed to slowly withdraw before snapping in again, it’s like the words were punched out of you.
“G-good boy. Feels amazing.”
“I can feel you, you’re close. Is this what you wanted? I’m I doing a good job? Hm?” Each word was bitten out, emphasized with the slow grind of him pulling out before snapping his hips down to meet yours. The head of his cock was just grazing that sweet spot within you that made you see stars.
“Ye-yes. Oh my god-”
He sped up, loosing control as his words delved into mindless murmuring. “I’m the only one that can do this, only one that can-shit. Can make you
feel this good. The only one that can see you like this. Fuck, I can feel you coming-“
You were sure that your heart stuttered a beat, or maybe stopped all together. Your peak crashed over you relentlessly, casting wave after wave of bright white pleasure that made you jerk in his arms.
He wasn’t to far behind, the fluttering of your walls sending him over the edge as he choked out a moan against your neck. His thrusts continued through, and you could feel the heat of his spend as he rocked it into you, some trickling out to smear against your skin.
As the pleasure teetered into pain, he slowed to a stop, staying nestled inside.
Gasping breaths filled the room as you both struggled to catch your breath, (you more than him honestly, curse his trained agent stamina.) and you basked in the peaceful silence before an unbidden giggle rose in your throat.
“Hey-” There was a bitten of hiss behind you as a reminder that he could feel that movement from the inside.
“Sorry, sorry.”
A heavy pause, “What are you laughing about?” He rasped, slightly uncertain.
You didn’t have an exact answer, it was bits and pieces of things. Between the giddiness of how light you were and how nervous you both felt to get here, it just felt right to laugh. But you still wanted to assure Dex that the laughter wasn’t athim, since you could feel his hackles start to rise in defense.
“Nothing. Just happy.” You inducted as much warmth as you could into the statement, happy when you could feel him relax against you.
“I was thinking,” He started, barely a whisper, “we can try tonight again, somewhere you’ll pick this time? If that’s what you want?”
He struggled through the question, voice stilted like he wasn’t sure what the correct next step was. His hands had started roaming up and down your sides, rubbing over tender skin.
No worries, you were happy to oblige. “Of course. I think I’m done with fine dining though for now. How does pizza sound?” You had to stifle a yawn at the end, between his ministrations and your worn out body, sleep was approaching fast.
“Perfect.” He rasped out, lips grazing over your cheek. He didn’t adjust himself, perfectly content to stay joined with you.
“Just- not tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk.”
————————————————————————-
AN: worked on this way too long and I’m still not completely happy w it but whatevs
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When it came to having a man in your apartment, you probably envisioned a polite knock on the door, a perfectly aged bottle of wine, and a tour that probably ended at your bedroom. Some artistic type or a man of means who traveled. No boring lawyers or stuffy businessmen. Dex imagined you preferred someone who could keep up with your particular lifestyle and tastes. Someone interesting. Exciting. What you probably weren't expecting was a beat to shit masked vigilante breaking into your bedroom window and knocking over a vase of burning red tulips.
And yet...
Dex landed on the ground with a heavy thud, followed by the water from the vase and flowers that sat on a small table by the window he just broke open. The space was dark with only the light from the hallway illuminating the room. He heard the footsteps near the room and managed to rip his mask off moments before you came into view. You flipped open the bedroom light switch, turned on the tall lamp in the corner of the room above his head. You wore a silky robe and not much else that Dex could see, which was a far cry from him in his Bullseye outfit currently bleeding on your nice hardwood floor.
"You look nice," he huffed out, breath short, "Really nice."
"I'd return the compliment," you replied, "But it'd be a lie. You look awful right now, which is really saying something, because typically you look great. At least in that way stupidly handsome guys naturally look--"
"Focus."
"You try to focus when someone breaks into your place in the middle of the night and starts knocking things around," you said, a small sigh in your voice as you moved towards him, "I swear I had a dream start exactly like this once..."
You moved to his side and helped him onto his feet. He was careful as you deposited him at the end of your bed. It was then that you got a good look at the damage. There were numerous lacerations on his body. His gloved hands were stained with dried blood. His tactical gear slashed at his chest, arms, and legs. You delicately peer at the cuts, fingers peeled back the torn fabric to inspect.
"They look shallow," you told him. Your hands moved from his leg to his chest, from his chest to his face. "You're a mess and definitely lost more blood than I'd like, but you'll live."
Dex laid on his back at the end of your bed, long legs hung over the side. His scarred face was covered in sweat and grime as he stared up at your ceiling. You left him there for a moment, moved out of the room and out of sight. When you returned, Dex saw a towel in your hand. Instead of moving to his side, Dex watched you move towards the vase by the window.
"Are you--"
"Cleaning the mess you made of my floor?" you interjected, tossing the towel onto the wet spot, "Absolutely."
Dex began to sit up as you collected the fallen flowers, lips parting to reply back to you. However, all that came was a sharp pain and a grunt of frustration. You set the flowers back into the vase before you moved back to Dex's side. Towel on the ground forgotten, you moved to kneel on the bed beside him as he laid back down. Soft fingers reached out to ghost over his hip before it came to rest against the side of his face.
"You took a hard hit around rib seven or eight on your left side," you continued, "No fractures, but it's pretty bruised. So it'll suck to breathe or laugh or basically do any of those fun moving things for a couple weeks. Knowing you, you probably won't put yourself on bed rest. You hero types never do."
A slow smile spread across Dex's lips. Despite the pain, he still preened at being called a hero. He reached out and set a gloved hand against your hip, silently curing not being able to feel the silk of your robe on his fingertips.
"Were you a fake nurse once?" he laughed. The humor cost him as he felt the sting of pain as a result. "That how you know?"
"Yes," you immediately replied, before quickly adding, "Well, yes and no. Yes, I was a fake nurse once, but no that's not how I know. I can see how you got to that conclusion though. I've had a lot of fake jobs. I'm honestly living my best Barbie dream life. Only without the weird body standards that were placed--"
"I'm bleedin' out here, sweetheart."
"Shallow cuts at best. Don't be so dramatic."
You slipped from reach before Dex could take hold of your robe and moved to stand at the end of the bed. Your knee nudged his, waited for his legs to part before you stepped between them. You held your hands out for him to grasp, fingers wiggling impatiently until he took hold of them. Dex bit down the small wave of pain that came with moving, a low grunt escaping his lips as he painfully got onto his feet. He liked how you hovered and made sure he was steady before you escorted him to the bathroom down the hall.
Your bathroom, like you whole place, was slashed with color. Organized in a way Dex appreciated, but not without your touch left behind. Luxurious looking towels hung neatly, fresh flowers in the corner of the bathroom counter, and some sort of fancy decorative soap bowl. More importantly, it smelled like you. Some soft, sweet scent that Dex felt was familiar somehow. His eyes moved over the tiny bottles that were neatly arranged on the large bathroom counter, wondered which one of them held the scent.
"Take your clothes off."
Four words sent a jolt through his body. Pain be damned, he surged forward. His body crowded your space until you were backed up against the bathroom counter. It had been less than a week since you both returned to DC. Less than a week since the kiss. Neither of you mentioned it. Did you need to? Did you want him to? Fuck if Dex knew. He never did... whatever he was doing with anyone before. You had told him to take off his clothes though. Surely that meant you wouldn't mind if he--
"Easy there, handsome," you said, hand pressed to his chest before he could follow through on his thoughts, "Clothes off for injury maintenance. Not that I don't absolutely adore where that mind of your is. Don't get me wrong. Big fan of that particularly horny idea, but I try not to engage on flirtations with half-dead guys."
"Shallow cuts at best," he repeated your words from earlier, "Don't be dramatic."
He looked down at you with half-lidded eyes, a slow-growing smirk on his lips. You had to admit that it was a good look, even if he was bleeding from several places. He took the pause on your end as an invitation to try and claim your lips once more, huffing in a mix of disappointment and pain when you turned your head at the last second.
"Keep this up and it'll be me telling you to focus," you said, "We can't have that, babe. If you're not sailing the ship and I'm not flying the plane, then who is keeping the car straight on the road?"
"That makes no sense."
"See?" you smiled, "Total chaos already."
You duck under Dex's arm as you move out from between him and the bathroom counter. He watched as you stepped out of the bathroom, eyes following you as you moved back towards your bedroom.
"There should be some water resistant bandages and gauze under the sink," you call out to him from your room, "We'll patch you up and get you clean. Use warm water and a little soap to clean the wounds, but after that you can't get the wounds wet for at least forty-eight hours."
Dex began to disarm his tactical suit. His gun and holster, the many knives he had armed himself with. They all were placed neatly on the bathroom counter before Dex reached into the cabinet beneath the sink to grab the first-aid kit. He moved slower than usual, minding the pain that was shooting through his body with every movement. He set the kit onto the counter beside his weapons before he began to work on his clothes. He glanced in the direction of your room, as he reached down to unlace his boots.
"You still need to explain how you know this stuff," he called out to you, as he kicked off his shoes.
"And you still need to explain why you're bleeding in my bathroom," he heard you reply, "We can get to all of that after we take care of you."
You stepped into the hallway once more. The robe you wore was discarded and a loose pair of sweatpants and a tank top took its place. Your once bare feet had been shoved into a fuzzy pair of slippers. You moved towards the bathroom, leaned against the door frame once you neared. Dex watched as you eyed him for a moment, arms crossing over your chest.
"I think the guy down the hall has a similar build as you," you noted, gaze slowly moving from his feet to face, "Give or take a few inches."
"What's the plan here, sweetheart?"
"The plan is for you to continue taking your suit off and get cleaned up," you replied, hand digging into the pocket of your sweats. Dex watched as you pulled a small leather pouch out from your pocket. The glint of metal peeked out from the pouch. "I'm going to do a little shopping at the five-finger discount store."
Lock picks.
Dex looked from the object in your hands to you. More specifically, your eyes. They were lit with excitement. Pure, unfiltered elation at the mere thought of enacting your skills -- to commit a crime -- for him. The thought brought a slow smile to Dex's lips. He watched as you turned on your heels and moved towards the living room and out of sight. His smile remained as he worked to strip off his tactical clothes, tossing them into a pile on the bathroom floor.
Was this the unyielding loyalty that came with being a good guy? It must be. He wondered how often Matt had stumbled and bled only for Karen to break his fall. Did Murdock feel the same swell of pride that Dex felt in that moment? Daredevil had been a hero much longer. Surely he had gotten used to the feeling of support. Dex was still new to this hero business though. Still new to having someone like you, who was willing to perform some light breaking and entering for him. A crime, but one in service of the good guys, which made the act virtuous in his eyes. The scales remained balanced once more.
Dex tried his best to tend to the wounds. He worked in silence, tossed his gloves onto the same pile of dirty and blood-stained clothes on the floor. He used the fancy soap to wash his hands before he cleaned out the wounds with warm water and soap, made sure the bleeding had stopped before he applied the water resistant bandage. His leg and both arms were taken care of, only just starting on the cut at his chest when he heard you return.
"I hate bachelor pads," you announced, the sound of the lock pick case being tossed onto an end table filling the air. Dex watched as you came into view, pile of clothes tucked under your arm. "Just no personality. They always lack that little something extra, you know? Not an ounce of pizzazz! Bare walls, barely any furniture, no food in the fridge--"
"You looked in his fridge?"
"Of course I looked," you replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "You can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his kitchen. Anyway, he might skimp on general apartment aesthetics and basic food necessities, but he does keep a decent wardrobe. Got you some fun options."
You dropped the small pile of folded clothes atop his gun and knives. Having just finished cleaning the cut on his chest, Dex stood still as you turned to look over his work. You winced at the sight of the cut on his chest, moving to close the distance that was between you both.
"So... you gonna tell me what happened?" you asked, lightly checking to make sure the wound stopped bleeding. "Or am I going with the first idea that came to mind?"
"Which was...?"
"Army of cats. Obviously."
"Less exciting. Mr. Charles asked me to take out a target."
"And I wasn't looped in because...?"
"Seemed like a quick hit," Dex mused, blankly, "Didn't expect the guy to have guards armed with swords. Target was eliminated. Just took longer than expected."
"If only you had someone who could have made sure you weren't walking into danger or something," you pointed out, as you picked up the last bandage and applied it to the cut on his chest. "Someone who could handle that pesky intelligence gathering before you go in knives blazing. I wonder who could have--"
"I have killed before you," he pointed out, tried to ignore the way his pulse picked up at the feeling of your fingers at his chest. "Successfully."
"Which is super cool and all, but you're not alone now, are you?" you asked him, hands dropping to your hips as you looked up at him. "You got me now. That's kinda the deal. I'm supposed to help you."
"You're helping me now."
You rolled your eyes at the low, husky tone he spoke in. However, Dex caught the flicker of a grin on your lips before you spoke again.
"Hit the showers, hot shot. You'll feel better after."
You kissed him so quickly that you were halfway down the hall before he could register the act. It felt so casual. Easy, which was the exact opposite of what Dex felt in that moment. He closed the bathroom door, took a moment to gather himself before getting to work. His socks and underwear were tossed onto the pile of clothes on the floor beside his boots. He aimed to perform a standard military shower. Wet, lather, scrub, and rinse. Two minutes. Get the grime off, get the clean clothes on. That was the plan. So naturally the plan went out the window within the first five seconds.
The shower itself was massive, with the essentials lined neatly on the recessed shelves and a rainfall shower head on the ceiling. Like seemingly every room of your place, you had included some sort of plant life. Not flowers this time around, but some sort of bundle of herbs. A pop of color against the cool marble. It smelled minty and light. Probably calming for you. Absolutely overwhelming for him. Dex had never thought a shower could seem both intimate and intimidating at the same time, but fuck this one was. It was a far cry from the standard shower heads and cramped bathtubs he was used to back in New York. It shouldn't have surprised him that you would find a way to make a DC apartment luxurious.
He spends longer than intended under the spray of the shower head. It was partly because of the act of showering itself -- the smell of the herbs, the softness of the shampoo and soaps you owned -- but mostly it was because Dex wasn't sure what the directive was after the shower. Get dressed? Obviously. Leave? He wasn't sure. Dex had quite literally dropped in, completely unannounced. You helped him. There was really no other reason to linger any longer than he should.
Unless...
"Fuck," Dex cursed under his breath.
He killed the spray of the shower before he did something stupid. Like use up all your hot water or jerk off in your bathroom when you were just down the hall. Dex was not that guy. He wasn't reckless. There was always intention whenever he acted. There was restraint. At least there tried to be. He grabbed a towel, tried to shake off the jittery feeling that formed in the pit of his stomach as he dried off. The pair of sweats you had stolen were perfect when he put them on, if not a little looser than he'd usually wear them. He tidied the bathroom. The first aid kit made it's way back into the cabinet under the sink. He collected the pile from the floor and used a towel to wipe down any surface that he may have tracked blood or dirt. He didn't want to leave the mess. Didn't want to disturb you space. Once done, he carried the dirty towel and clothes with him as he found the in-unit washer and dryer just off from the bathroom, right before your room. He tossed the clothes into the wash, if only so he didn't leave it for you to pick up after him. Only then did he return to the bathroom to put on one of the handful of shirts you had pilfered.
He stared at his options.
Stared again.
A cartoon photo of a dog with the words 'PUGS NOT DRUGS'. A pickle wearing sunglasses and the words 'DILL WITH IT'. The words 'MOISTER THAN AN OYSTER' under a lazily drawn sketch of an oyster. Each shirt somehow worse than the other. Dex fisted the fabrics in his hand as he marched straight for your room.
You were waiting for him.
Sat in the middle of your bed, legs crisscrossed. Smug little smile on your lips. The picture of humor on your face. You were still wearing the tank top from earlier, but you had ditched the sweats, leaving you in a simple pair of panties that hugged your hips. Dex was not going to allow space for that particular distraction in his mind. Something told him your state of undress was strategic, especially considering the offending tees in his hands.
"Your selection of t-shirt options were... a choice," Dex finally said, carefully winding each shirt into a tight ball. "Did you rob an overgrown child?"
"I went with the shirts Mr. Two Doors Down would miss the least," you replied, eyes warily on the slowly forming ammunition in his hands, "In my defense... Well, actually, I have none."
"It's been a long night," he told you, slowly stepping along the side of the bed.
"You now have something to keep you warm."
He bounced the first shirt off your forehead. He reigned in the strength, kept it light, but accurate enough to make his point. Judging by the look of shock on your face, the point came across perfectly.
"Try again, sweetheart."
The command only made you bolder.
"What?" you asked him, the arch of your brow raising in challenge, "You got something against hilariously punny graphic tees?"
Another shirt was tossed. Another forehead hit. You don't even bother hiding your laughter at this point.
"It's like you enjoy getting under my skin."
"So much," you confirmed, all sweet smiles and temptation, "If you get under mine, I promise it'll feel just as good."
Dex felt his breath cut short at the words and the velvety smooth way you delivered them. His fingers flexed against the last shirt in his hands. Sweat formed at the crown of his head. Was he breathing normally? Probably not, if he were judging from the look you now gave him. A slow creeping realization, curious and mortifying all the same.
"Dex," you carefully prodded, "Did I say something wrong?"
Yes. No. Shit. His immediate lack of response had you shifting from where you sat, edging closer to the end of the bed.
"You're fine," he insisted.
"You just look--"
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" you checked again, as your eyes moved over him. Head to toe, then back to his face. "Your body's temperature kicked up, same as your heart rate. I think I freaked you out."
Fuck. How did you know?
"Have you never--"
"I have," Dex stopped you, "A couple times. I'm not a... I have."
He left out the fact it had happened in between tours when he was in the military nearly twenty years ago. There would be no mentions of how it had been one night stands with women whose faces he doesn't remember. No confessing that it had been awkward, more than a little uncomfortable, and not at all enjoyable. He had resorted to handling business on his own since then. It was simple, scientific even. When his body had a need, he took care of it. Like basic car maintenance. Keep the parts in good condition before things became a problem. It never occurred to him that handling things on his own might throw a wrench in things later down the line.
Dex watched as you sat up on your knees, hand outstretched. Fingers impatient. The familiar waggle of manicured nails as you waited for him. He slowly made his way to the side of the bed. The t-shirt in his hand was dropped into yours before he climbed onto the bed beside you.
"I want to make sure we're on the same page," you said, tossing the shirt onto the nightstand beside the bed, "And that intentions are clear, because we work together and we're professionals. Also friends... and now I guess we're people who kiss. There's nothing to be ashamed or nervous about."
"I'm not ashamed."
"But you are nervous," you pointed out, "And that means it's on me -- as your super awesome partner in not crime, but government approved activities -- to make you feel safe. So..."
You rolled off the side of the bed and padded into your walk-in closet. Dex watched as you seemed to dig deep into the space before you emerged with a small metal case. You returned to the bed. Your bare leg pressed against his sweats as you sat beside him. You set the box in front of Dex and left him to figure out the rest. He popped open the lid, lifting it up and away to reveal countless passports and photos. Picking up passport after passport, Dex looked at them closely. Different names, addresses, birthdays, and hair color. Yet each woman in the photo was still you. The passports themselves were different as well. Endless colors and passport types. Regular, diplomatic, service... It didn't matter the type. Dex had been aware of what you did. It hadn't been until he saw the sheer volume of passports that he realized just how many people you had embodied in your career.
"Delaney Monroe?" he read the name off one of the passports.
"That's Detective Delaney Monroe," you smiled, "NYPD. A bit of a hard-ass, but she got me out of a few pickles."
"Alina Sokolova?"
"Financier. Bratva. So professional, so fabulous. Winters in Russia were too cold for my liking though. Plus I'm a tequila girl at heart, not a vodka lady."
"Francesca Lucia Russo?"
"She was a contessa," you dreamily said, before a heavy sigh followed, "I had to burn that alias mid-job though. Couldn't use the ID."
"Why?"
"Ran into a private military firm about ten years back. Anvil. Some other Russo got the drop on me."
"How'd it end?"
"A sweaty mess," you replied, with a shrug of your shoulder, "I slept with him. Just once -- or, well, a few times over the course of a night. He was fun in the dangerous way, but there was a look in his eyes that I didn't trust. Like if I stayed long enough he'd find a way to steal everything of value and destroy my life. I disappeared after. Left this particular ID sitting in the bottom of the pile. I didn't like the idea of using it again and potentially getting back on his radar."
Dex tucked the contessa back at the bottom of the passport pile, placing the other passports back in the case.
"Is that what you like?" Dex found himself asking, as he closed the lid over the metal case, "Dangerous?"
You looked at him then, found that his eyes had already been watching you. He tried to keep his heart rate even, hoped his words came out more curious than desperate. If he failed, you showed mercy and didn't mention it. Instead, you reached over to take the case into your own hands.
"I like a lot of things," you replied, as you moved to return the case back to the closet, "I like dangerous. The thrill of high risk, high reward. Getting lost in it. You don't steal from people for a living and not have a bit of a danger kink. It's fun and exciting and more than a little hot, which are three things I enjoy in life."
Dex watched as you came back into view, moving out of the room to turn off the lights in the hallway and rest of the apartment outside of the bedroom.
"But I also like soft things too," your voice carried into the room, "It's the romantic in me. I can't help it. I like the butterflies and the warm feelings. It's a different kind of thrill. More dependable, to a degree, but just as compelling. There's a beauty in soft intimacy that I don't think you feel when you're riding that risky kind of high."
When you returned to the room, you didn't return to sit beside him on the bed. You leaned against the frame of your door, watched him for a beat before speaking again.
"But, most importantly, I like feeling safe," you confessed, "Because being able to trust another person with my body grants me the opportunity to be as free as possible with my desires and emotions and trust me there's nothing more attractive than being with someone who makes you feel secure."
You moved to the side of the bed and began to tug at the blankets. Dex had no choice but to shift off the bed and follow your movements, moving to stand on the other side as you turned down the covers. He felt his hands begin to sweat as he watched you slip back into bed. It had not been the first time he had laid in the same bed as you. While he was sure you'd like to forget the shoddy CIA safe house, he didn't. Dex remembered the bare walls, the singular bed. The awkwardness of sharing it for a night. It was different from how things were now, but his mind whispered at him. Told him that he should leave. Grab one of the embarrassingly hideous shirts you stole for him and go back to his place. He had taken up enough of your night. Even after everything that happened tonight, his mind found a way to fray the edges of the moment.
"You coming to bed?"
His mind was silenced in four words.
Dex looked up and met your eyes. You were shimmying mid-way down the bed, blankets over you. Your hand reached over and tugged at the blankets on his side, turning them down. Making space. Shifting onto your side, you tucked an arm under the pillow at your head. Your free hand moved to tap at the empty space beside you. The soft lips that Dex desperately wanted to learn the taste of smiled slowly as he moved to get into bed beside you.
"You didn't tell Mr. Charles about what you saw," you said, scooting in as Dex turned on the bed to face you, "You found out I'm a little different and you don't seem to really care. That's... weirdly refreshing. I really appreciate feeling like I don't have to hide that part of myself from you."
"You... You feel safer."
"I do," you nodded, "And I want you to feel safer too. It seems only fair, right? I'm not going to belittle your intelligence and mine by asking if you wanna kiss me. Because -- let's face it -- you do and I want you too, but you seem unfamiliar with intimacy."
Gently, you reached out to take one of his hands into yours. Dex felt his breathing shift, as you slowly brought his palm to the side of your face. His eyes were locked in on the sight of his fingers brushing against your skin, the soft feeling as they moved to comb through your hair. He continued the motion as you continued to speak.
"Heart palpitations," you softly noted, as your tapped a finger lightly to his chest, "Different than before. Less stressed out. More like a heart skip than nervous pounding."
Dex stared at you, his head tilted slightly to the side faintly. Like he was trying to figure out how you knew. He had asked before and wondered a handful of times that night, but it was that moment you answered him.
"I thought I was a witch when I was younger," you lightly laughed, your hand resting against his chest. "I could tell when other people were stressed or happy or hurt. I just... sensed something inside of them. My parents thought I was just really observant, which wasn't entirely wrong."
The hand in your hair moved to trail along your arm.
"It felt like I could see what was going on in people's bodies," you continued, "I could tune into it. Actually feel the chemicals that changed their emotions. That seemed to -- for lack of a better word -- mutate into something more over time. Until my parents couldn't chalk it up to being observant anymore. I wasn't just sensing emotions. I was... twisting the chemicals. The body itself was something I could feel myself tap into and shape to my liking."
Dex watched you, enthralled as you spoke.
"The teachers at Xavier's called it 'body manipulation'," you told him, "I could read bodies like an open book. I could manipulate the pages how I saw fit. The possibilities were endless. It wasn't just detecting how someone was feeling. It was understanding exactly where someone might be hurt. I could speed up or slow down a heartbeat or the amount of air a person could take in or create that extra boost of adrenaline. Anything the body could do, I could adjust. I could make 'em hurt, make 'em feel better, make 'em feel nothing at all. I was able to grasp control of a body and maneuver them at will. The things I could do to were... exhilarating and fascinating and absolutely horrifying all at once."
You felt Dex's hand dipped beneath the blankets that covered you. His fingertips traced a line down your side before his hand came to rest on your hip.
"That's how I took care of those two guys in France," you confessed, "I just delayed their breathing and movement a little... or a lot. It's how I was able to tell which ribs were bruised and how I could tell you were nervous when I made that joke earlier. You kept the fact that I was a mutant between us and that means something to me. So you should know what I could do and know that you can trust me not to hurt you. That's what I want you to take away from this moment, Dex. That you can feel safe around me. Safe enough with me to say or do whatever's in that head of yours."
You waited for him to speak.
To say anything.
There were words that could be said. You had offered clarity on your abilities and where you stood regarding him. You gave him space -- gave him the grace -- to act and speak freely. Not in the filtered way he had come to do in life. Not the special words and phrases he practiced until the felt correct on his tongue when he had to speak to people. You had given him permission to act on the thoughts and instincts that came more naturally to him. You wanted him to be that person and you wanted that person when he was with you. Dex couldn't form the words.
So he acted.
Dex's arm wrapped around your hip in an instant, dragged you forward until you were pressed close. He nudged you onto your back until he could cover your body with his. You felt him hot and hard above you, lips parting ever so slightly as your mind seemed to register the sheer size of him pressed against you. The corner of his lip curved at the sight of you beneath him and the smile that spread across your lips. He thought he could get used to this sight.
"I knew you'd be a fun one."
You barely get the last word out before Dex dropped his head down. The laugh in your throat died as he brought his mouth to your. There was no struggle. You moved in -- moved willingly -- and slotted your lips against his. There was no hesitation in your kiss. Your mouth on his burned with urgency and desire. Excitement. You kissed the way you moved through life. With unyielding confidence. A strained sound escaped Dex as he kissed you. Part need, part pain. He should have known you'd zero in on the pain part. No, no, no... A soft, pleading sound slipped from him as Dex felt you begin to push against him, tried to untangle your limbs from his. He didn't make it easy, hands reached even as you managed to maneuver him onto his side of the bed.
"Dex--"
"Please."
The single word of longing on his lips were replaced with your smile, as you leaned in and feathered your kiss over his mouth. You pulled back before Dex could claim your lips again. Nails raked through his hair, from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck. The feel of your hands sent a tingle through his body. He suppressed the shudder that threatened to run through him.
"You're freshly sliced up," you reminded him, "Army of sword-wielding cats, remember?"
You gave the hair under your hands a soft tug. The move drew a small moan from Dex and the way his light eyes seemed to darken only confirmed his obvious enjoyment from it.
"There's no rush," you added, "I'm not going anywhere. Plus you're injured. If I take you for a ride in your current state, you'll probably die and then I'll have to explain to Mr. Charles -- who cannot know about any of this -- what happened to his best and brightest and ohmygod do not make me explain my sex life to that man. There are at least three more horrifying things I'd rather put myself through."
Your fingers gave his hair another tug for good measure before you settled into a comfortable position in bed once more. Dex reached over your body, leaning towards your bedside drawer to pluck the lone hair tie from the surface. He settled into bed, on his side, facing you. His back was toward the door, where the light switch was. You watched as he seemed to aim the tie at an angle to the wall behind your head and shot it through the air. It bounced from wall to wall and turned off the light with a final flick of the switch.
Even in the dark, Dex knew you were smiling.
"Show off."
"Go to bed, sweetheart."
You scoffed in the darkness.
"This is my bed. You're a guest here."
Dex reached out in the dark, curled an arm around your waist once more. You bit down a giggle as he dragged your body closer.
"You're lucky you're cute," you admitted, as you snuggled in, "You're the only person who had ever broke into my apartment and was allowed to spend the night after."
"Get a lot of break ins?"
Dex felt you shake your head against his shoulder.
"A couple when I was at school, but those don't count. Those were mostly sketchy government types."
"Those don't count?"
You stifled back a yawn, body slowly gave in to tiredness.
"Nope," you replied, arm moving to drape over Dex's side, "The only other time was about seven or eight years ago. Back in New York. I was trying to make a career shift back then. Turn my life around or whatever. Had a nice apartment in Manhattan. Decent neighborhood."
"Dangerous city," Dex noted, chin resting on the top of your head as you hummed in agreement.
"Came home one night and found police hanging around. Cops said it was some criminal fleeing on foot who used the fire escape. That didn't explain the broken glass or why there were bullet holes in my walls and window."
Dex froze.
"Ever find out what happened?" he whispered in the darkness.
He heard back nothing. Dex held you a little tighter, hoped that you didn't register the way his heart was racing as you slept. The static in his mind sizzled in the far corners of his thoughts. He sat in the silence, as he felt your breathing change. Slow and steady. Dreaming. The peaceful kind of rest. Dex knew he wouldn't find the same solace that night. Not when your last words spun around in his mind, sent him tracing back thoughts from years ago.
Thoughts of his apartment back when he worked for the FBI.
The same apartment Ray and Matt had broken into, trying to dig up whatever they could about him.
The one with the large safe that once held his tapes and weapons.
The one with the window and the sniper scope he used to shoot into the previously unknown apartment above his own.
stop it because why is "If you're not sailing the ship and I'm not flying the plane, then who is keeping the car straight on the road?" giving that one pic from spongebobbbbbbb
He heard you voice tremble beneath the downpour from above. Dex wanted to attribute it solely to the rain. His mind was desperate to connect the hesitation in your tone to the weather. To anything other than what he witnessed. To what you realized he saw. Your eyes -- the ones he came to memorize in his mind -- were wide with concern. Fear. It was an expression he had yet to see on you. Confidence was the standard and a smile was your default, but fear? It changed your whole body. What once were animated hands now hung limply, fingers restless at your side. Your posture had sunk slightly, crestfallen in the wake of the revelation. Dex wanted to form a concrete thought, but his mind buzzed with activity. He could see your lips moving, but the sound of static was too overwhelming.
"... somewhere and talk about this?"
Dex pushed through the white noise, clearing the thick haze of his mind until he was present once more. The mission. The rain. You. It all came surging back. You had moved closer. Did he miss you closing the distance the same was he missed some of your words? Had his overstimulated mind lose that time? Or had he chosen to ignore you to preserve what last bit of sanity he had left?
"Dex," you implored, "Can we talk? Please?"
The pad of Dex's thumbs pressed against the handles of the blades he held before he moved to slip them into his belt. He took a step back, then another. Your hands wanted to reach out. To connect. Being unable to only seemed to distress you more. He hated that. The mission was still active. He hated that more. There would be no closing it until you were both safe and out of sight.
"Target's eliminated," he reported, turning towards the direction of the stakeout point, "I'll grab the gear. Go back to the car."
"Dex--"
You had moved to follow after him. It was a mistake. Your steps were swiftly halted when Dex spun around. He stared you down, eyes hardened and void of warmth. The sight had you more than just pause. Danger didn't just tease at the edges. It consumed and filled the space between you.
"The car. Now."
The words had you flinching, as if delivered with a sturdy blow. The order had snapped something in you. Dex watched a your lips parted to speak, but no words came as you seemed to decide against it. You reached up to wipe the rain -- or at least what he thought was rain -- from the corner of your eyes before you turned to leave. You passed the two bodies, only slowing to pick up one of the flashlights from the ground. Dex didn't wait for you to leave. The target was down. It was only a matter of time before police would be dispatched and search the woods. The white noise rose in the back of his mind as Dex walked back to the stakeout point. He broke down the sniper rifle, secured it in the case, and collected all traces of your presence onsite. He picked up the now muddy coat that he threw off in haste to get to you, slipped it on to conceal his tactical gear. He found your fallen hat as well, tucking it into the backpack.
It was around that time Dex saw the first man begin to stir. Dex glared up ahead at the men that laid on the ground. They were the reason. The disruption was their fault. He moved without thinking. The slip of a blade cut through the rain, embedding itself into the skull of the first man. The same fate met the second man soon after. He picked up the remaining flashlight without slowing down his stride, continued his trek back to the car.
You were waiting by the rental, leaning against the passenger's side door as Dex cleared the woods and stepped onto the dirt road. He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the car before he moved to store the bags in the trunk. By the time he slipped into the driver's seat, you had already seated yourself in the passenger's side seat and buckled yourself in. Dex yanked his Bullseye mask from his face and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. Between the rain and mud, the rental would be a mess. They'd have to pay extra fees for the carelessness. Something Dex knew would upset you... or rather upset you further. Dex risked a glance in your direction as he moved to buckle himself in. You were quiet, uncharacteristically so. Your arms were crossed over yourself, fingers curling into the soaked fleece you wore. Reddened eyes stared ahead, silently waiting for him to drive.
The drive back had only the sound of rain to fill the silence. The bed and breakfast had quieted down significantly by the time you both returned, granting the opportunity to grab the bags and make it to the rooms without anyone seeing the disheveled state you both were in. You both walked down the short corridor towards your separate rooms, keys quietly unlocking the doors across from one another. Dex's hand remained on the doorknob. Not yet pushing the door open to step inside. He listened for a pause, for the sound of you turning, for the possibly of even a word.
CLICK.
Dex looked over his shoulder as the door to your room ticked shut, followed by the flick of the lock. His jaw set as walked into his room. He let the door close behind him, dropping his case by his feet. Flipping the lock on the door, he stripped himself from his soaked coat. The fabric felt tougher, made it harder to peel off. Frustrated, Dex ripped the remainder of the coat from his arms. Hands clawed at the rest of his wet clothes until he was rid of them. He ran his hands over his face, raked through his hair as he forced himself to breathe. Steady breath in, hold, then slow breath out.
Just like you showed him once.
Fuck.
Dex dropped onto the bed, face down on the mattress. What the hell was he going to do now? Dex buried his face into the nearest pillow as the noise in his head turned up slowly. For once, he welcomed the static. He let the white noise in his head drown out the thought of you and what he saw, pushed the responsibility of figuring it all out until the next morning. He slept. Barely. Restless, he turned and twisted beneath the sheets. He fell in and out of consciousness, in-between the sleep he needed and the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach that prevented him from a moment of respite.
"I saw the news this morning, bud. We're very happy about this one. I'll reach out with your next mission once it comes in. Absolutely crushing it, you two."
The message came in early morning from Mr. Charles. Things didn't feel right, even with the stamp of approval from the higher ups. Dex threw on a pair of sweats and a tank before he padded across the hall to your door. His knuckle brushed against the door before he tapped two solid knocks against the wood. He waited, only earning silence in return.
"It's me," he finally said, knocking once more.
Nothing.
Dex contemplated grabbing a knife and breaking the door open, even going so far as to check the hall around him. Setting his hand on the doorknob, he expected the resistance that came with a locked room. Instead, the handle turned completely, clicking open softly. Dex wordlessly slipped inside. Maybe you were in the restroom, maybe you were ignoring him still. Either way, he needed to see you. Better to ask for forgiveness than an apology. Not that he'd actually ask for either. He closed the door behind him, turned towards the room. The empty room. No suitcase. No bed that was slept in. Not a single trace of you left behind.
You were gone.
And you stayed gone for days.
More accurately, you were gone for nine days, one hour, forty-five minutes, and twenty-three seconds.
The first day was wasted in France, where you seemingly turned off your phone and forced Dex to search nearly every five star hotel and restaurant within a respectable distance from the airport for you.
He took a flight back to Washington on day two, where he spooked your address out of the poor girl who sat outside of Mr. Charles's office. Once that was obtained, he searched your apartment, which he suspected was the address you must have supplied to Charles for CIA records. The minimalist space he broke into in no way aligned with your personal style. It was too clean and muted. Boring. It has absolutely none of your touch, your style, or your warmth.
Day three consisted of combing through the dummy apartment, the leasing apartment, and what he could find of your financials to extract your real apartment address in DC.
Days four was spent casing your actual place, waiting for you to reveal yourself.
He lost his patience by day five, inevitably breaking into the window of your living room to take a look around. The sight of your apartment made Dex dizzy. Compared to the bogus apartment the CIA had on file for you, this place felt loud and lived in. Comfortable, if not a little chaotic. Plush seating overflowed with soft blankets and decorative pillows, bookshelves littered with paperbacks and trinkets. Each room had a wall of a different, deeply rich color. There was always something on a wall as well. Artwork, a mirror, a shelves filled with bottles and vases, a plant. There was still no sign of you though. He moved through the space and stepped into your bedroom, where he found a very old, very worn green sweater with NEW YORK in big, bold letters thrown over the small chair in the corner of your room. Dex found himself brushing his thumb against the soft cotton sleeve, contemplating the potential insanity of his next move.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Getting into New York unseen proved difficult, but not impossible on day six. From there, Dex moved a little more comfortably. This was his city. The same city he almost died and was reborn in. The same city that granted him his new life. He resumes his search similar to his method in France. Only instead of a five star radius around the airport, Dex lined up the top ten most expensive hotels in the city. He knocked the more traditional ones from the list with ease. You weren't going to stay in historic hotels, as nice as they were. Your choice in living space would be as colorful and sleek as you were. That fact was exactly how he spotted you.
Shopping bags swung from your hands and bright red heels click, click, clicked against the marble of the Baccarat Hotel. He kept his head down and stayed a safe enough distance away, but his eyes found themselves locked onto you. You looked... good. More than good, if he were being honest. Dressed in far finer garbs than the last time he saw you. He left a wide space, watching as you walked into the nearby elevator. Once the elevator doors closed with you inside, Dex moved from his cover. He observed each numbered floor above the elevator doors light up. One by one, floor by floor, until it stopped at the top floor. He scouted out the most expensive suite. The only one that occupied the top floor of the hotel. Bedroom, separate living and dining area, kitchenette. An opulent waste to Dex, but to you? He had no doubts you'd book the expensive suite without a second glance.
Dex had initially planned on cutting your trip short. Make his presence known. Yet somehow he found himself on day seven, waiting for you to leave the hotel. It was nearly afternoon when you finally appeared, immediately hailing a cab. He trailed the cab on the motorcycle he borrowed off some guy the night before, following you across town. All the way to... a maximum security prison. Despite his desire to track, Dex kept his distance. He may be working for the CIA now, but he knew better than to tempt fate and follow as you went inside. You were in there for two hours. The visitation time. Though his memory was spotty during his incarceration before Vanessa Fisk broke him out, he remembered how some inmates would receive visitors. Dex waited those two hours, noted the way your lips were set in a firm line when you left. He wondered what -- or who -- in that prison had caused that expression on your face. He wondered if he'd get the chance to ask about it someday.
He succumbed to the agitating feeling in his stomach on day eight and booked two tickets back to DC for the next morning. He kept his distance for eight days. You left without a warning or a trace. Without an explanation. Instead, you chose to run away to New York. He didn't understand it, yet he still sought you out. Still found you. That was honorable in his mind. A politeness. Surely you would agree with his assessment of the situation, if he could just get you alone. A task that currently felt impossible when you planted yourself in the middle of a packed night club that evening.
You wore a winter blue dress that draped over your front and dropped at your back. The fabric looked like it was dusted with sparkles. You looked like stars rippling across dark ocean waters as you danced. The lights in the club reflected against the glitter in your hair. At least that was how it looked from where he leaned on the second floor railing. Dex wasn't a fan of night life. The odd hours of service, the loud and unfamiliar music, the cramped space... It was a sweaty, sensory overloaded mess. He had little interest in it. Although it was impossible not to have his curiosity piqued at the sight of you that night. He watched as you moved to the music in the sea of bodies. The way your hips dipped and swayed, the way your hands trailed along your body and the body in front of you.
Wait.
Dex's grip on the railing tightened at the sight of another dancing near you. Was this normal? Did people just touch one another in night clubs? He watched with a different kind of intensity in his eye as you continued to move. This time his eyes were burning holes into the guy's hands, which trailed a little too close to your lower back. He considered his options, fairly certain he'd tip his hand if that man suddenly dropped dead on the dance floor. So his eyes continued following your movements, his feet stepping to keep you in his line of sight.
You departed sometime in the early morning on day nine, sweat covered and hair mussed from the night. Dex followed you down the streets of Queens, down the city blocks until you made your way up the ramp of a diner. Dex stared up at the giant letters above the building.
BEL AIRE DINER.
The space was nearly empty and looked like repairs had been made since the last time Dex was there months ago. A new lobster tank in place, patched up walls where bullet holes used to be. You sat at a window booth, eyes moving over the plastic menu in your hands. The glow of the lights was softer in the evening. Music softly played in the air as Dex made his way across the room. Your eyes don't lift from the menu when Dex slid into the booth across from you.
"Took you long enough."
You raised your gaze to look at Dex over the top of the menu.
"Over a week," you noted, "I was starting to think you weren't as good as they say you are."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"You didn't. At least not about that."
You set the menu down on the table, manicured nails tapping the tabletop as you leaned back in your seat. Dex set his forearms on the table as he leaned forward. He watched you, waited for your smile. You had smiled during the days he followed you. At the staff in the hotel, at the taxi drivers when you left the hotel, in the stores you shopped in. Your smile had been as carefree as your dancing earlier that night, but now? Now your face had none of that. You were pleasant, not openly hostile. However, the warmth that came so naturally to you had cooled significantly. Your lips parted to speak, but quickly stopped when a waitress made her way over to the table. Thankfully, it was not the same older woman as the last time Dex had visited the diner. The odds of anyone recognizing him diminished greatly. He sat back as the older woman smiled warmly as she approached.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," the waitress said, "How long has it been, honey?"
"Too long," you replied, melting to the picture of ease.
"You're not getting your pancakes somewhere else, are you?"
"I wouldn't even dare to try and replace this place. However, if I were -- which I absolutely haven't at all -- they weren't half as good as here."
The older woman laughed, a hand resting on her hip. Dex watched as the waitress tipped her head in his direction, though she still addressed you when she spoke.
"And is this one the reason you haven't been around?" she asked, hint of a grin on her lips.
Dex raised an eyebrow faintly, interested in hearing your reply.
"Quite the opposite," you replied, "Benji here is the reason I'm back in town."
Benji? Dex made a face at the nickname, as you continued.
"Unfortunately, I got a job out of state," you explained further, "But I had some time and decided to take my friend here to my favorite place for breakfast."
"We'll get you the usual then. Same for your friend?"
The waitress looked at Dex, who nodded faintly.
"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, earning a kind smile from the woman in response.
"Handsome and polite?" she grinned, scribbling down the order on a pad she pulled from her apron. She sent an obvious wink in your direction. "You got good taste in friends, honey."
You smile as the waitress collected the menu and made her way off to drop the orders into the kitchen. The curve of your lips faded slightly as you found yourself alone with Dex once more. Fingers itching for motion, you found yourself picking up the paper napkin nearby. You twisted it, then unrolled it. Repeated the motion in silence.
"If you're here to kill me," you finally said, eyes focused on the napkin as you continued to twist. "I'd prefer for it to happen after pancakes. Ideally, not in front of the staff. I've been coming here for years. It's a nice place and she's a nice lady. She works as a waitress most nights so she can watch her grandkids in the afternoon while her daughter's at work. If it happens here, the diner will be down for at least a couple days for a police investigation. She'll be out a few days worth of a paycheck. Some people live check to check. It'd be... rude. I don't want my last moment on earth to be an inconvenience in a place I really like."
"I'm not here to kill you."
Your fingers paused.
Your eyes rose.
"You're not?"
His answer was simple.
"Why would I?"
"Why wouldn't you?" you immediately asked, fingers tearing the napkin into strips as you added, "Mr. Charles would have dispatched you the moment you told him I ran. It would be the correct protocol for the CIA. AWOL or whatever..."
"Mr. Charles doesn't know."
Your eyes were touched with confusion.
"You didn't tell him I ran?"
"I didn't tell him anything."
You looked at him for a beat more before you began to lower your gaze to the napkin in your hand. Dex reached out, a large hand coming to rest over both of yours. It lingered there before Dex slowly curled his fingers around the torn napkin. He drew the pieces from your hands, leaving it at the edge of the table and out of your restless fingers.
"You--" you stopped yourself for a moment as the waitress brought over a couple waters, continuing when you were once again alone. "You saw what I did and then you just... sent me back to the car. You didn't give me the chance to talk about it. You were cold--"
"I was direct," he told you, "You were... upset. I was not equipped to fix that. We were in the middle of a mission. The target was just eliminated. Police would have been called. We already had two intruders onsite. You may not have liked it, but what I did was necessary."
Dex took note of your restlessness. The way your hands flexed open and closed, the feeling of your leg bouncing beneath the table. Quietly, Dex reached out and slid his napkin in your direction. He waited for you to take it. It seemed to soften some of the tenseness when you began to tear it to pieces.
"Why are you here, Dex?"
"You left," he simply replied, "I'm here bring you back."
"It can't be that simple."
"Why not?"
There was a brief pause as the waitress arrived with food. Two plates stacked with pancakes, fresh strawberries, and whipped cream. A small dish for butter and a bottle of syrup was left, as well as a few extra napkins. Neither of them moved as the waitress left them alone once more.
"Don't you have questions?" you asked him.
"I do," Dex replied, "I'll ask them when we get back to DC."
"Why?"
Dex gave you a look. Isn't it obvious? He motioned to the plates that sat between you both. Your ridiculously requested sweet treat in the early morning hours.
"It's 2AM, sweetheart."
Dex saw it then. The way you tried to bite down an incoming smile. The attempt was futile. There you were. The smile that was so big it touched your eyes and made them shine. The laugh -- soft at first, then slightly louder -- that took up space in his mind more then he'd like to admit. Dex found himself grinning. His first real smile in days. You picked up a fork and tugged your plate closer.
"These are my favorite pancakes in all of New York," you beamed, reaching out to drizzle syrup over your already sugar sweet plate, "From age six to ten, my parents would take me here before every drop off and after very summer pick-up from boarding school. Didn't matter what time of day. Pancakes were always ordered. I've yet to find a place that makes them this good."
"Why six to ten?" Dex asked, as he picked up his own fork.
"I was six when they first sent me to school in New York," you explained, "And they passed in a car accident when I was ten so..."
There must've been something in Dex's face -- the tilt of his head or a blink in the eyes -- that conveyed sympathy, because you were quick to keep talking.
"It's okay though. Really. I mean, at the time it definitely sucked. No one enjoys being orphaned during their formative years, but I ended up with a decent trust at eighteen. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough not to be terrified of the future."
Dex sat with that information for a moment. He was orphaned around that age. He didn't know why that sat on his tongue or why he wanted to share that piece of himself with you.
"Were you sent to an orphanage too?" he asked you.
Maybe one like Lyndhurst, where he had ended up, but for girls. Dex watched as you bit into a pancake piece before you shook your head at his question.
"A few of the teachers were concerned about a kid with my... condition being placed in the system," you shrugged faintly, "So when most of the kids went home to their families for the summer, I stayed at school. It wasn't too bad. There were other kids who didn't have places to go to and most of the teachers were around. It made it less lonely."
Dex felt his fingers tense around the fork he held, forced himself to soften the hold. Your experience was so unlike his own. Did that environment craft the person you became? Did his own upbringing make him the way he was? Would it have changed anything? He wasn't sure it would have.
"Sounds like a good place to land in."
"It was," you smiled, admiration in your voice, "I kinda owe my life to Xavier's. I make donations as frequently as I can. For a school for gifted youngsters, you can only imagine the kind of maintenance they need to keep that place running."
"'Gifted youngster'," Dex repeated, as he stabbed a piece of pancake onto his fork, "Is that what you are?"
"What I am is a mutant," you replied, thoughtfully, "Human-presenting, which others can't say, but I guess it's easier to call us 'gifted' when we're younger. Makes us feel special instead of different."
"You are different," Dex explained, simply, "But you're special too. You're... You're both."
He noted the way your face tinted faintly, a blush touching your cheeks. Your lips pressed to suppress a particularly deep smile. It took you a moment before you spoke again.
"I guess I stayed in New York because of Xavier's," you said, "Well, that and this place. There were a few years that I wasn't around. I got caught up in something that went sideways. I was advised to cut my losses and skip town, which I did. I tried Boston. I hated it. Thankfully, I got a call a few months back. A favor for a friend. My first time back in a while. I missed the city. I tried to visit this place, but the diner was closed for renovations. Some drug bust with the NYPD--"
"AVTF," Dex corrected, immediately, "And it wasn't a drug bust. It was a vigilante call."
"Whatever," you began to say, eyes focused on your pancake. You paused for a beat, eyes flickered up to look at Dex. "Wait.... How exactly do you know all that that?"
Dex smiled a little too proudly.
"You know what?" you quickly added, "I don't wanna know."
"You sure you don't want to know?"
"Of course I wanna know," you quickly replied, "Tell me everything and leave out nothing."
Dex smiled as you scooted forward in the booth, leaning in as he started to tell his story. You'd both spend the rest of the early morning meal that way. Just two people exchanging words over pancakes without a care in the world. Dex embraced the opportunity to speak with you, to witness your smile once again. It felt like catching up on time lost. It's nearly 3AM when you stacked the now-empty plates and moved to pay at the register. Dex stopped you, suggested you hail the taxi while he covers the tab. You waved goodbye to the staff, whispering for Dex to remember to tip before you left. Dex watched as you made your way outside, through the double glass doors towards the sidewalk.
"Give the girl your jacket, honey."
Dex turned to spot the waitress, who was all smiles as he moved towards the register.
"It's cold out," the older woman advised, "Offering your jacket would be sweet. She seems like the type of girl that likes sweet."
Dex looked over his shoulder slightly, caught the sight of you -- still in your shimmering dress and heels, most likely hopped up on sugar pancakes, and soon to experience the crash that followed -- slowly twirling circles on the sidewalk outside of the diner and not at all thinking about hailing a cab.
"Yeah," he hummed out, under his breath, "She's a sweet one."
He pulled out eighty bucks, dropped it on a thirty buck tab. He murmured a faint 'keep the change' before he made his way out of the diner. You were mid-spin when you came to a stop, eyes landing on Dex... and his jacket. Held open for you. He got the pleasure of seeing the glimmer of surprise, followed by earnest recognition. You said nothing as you turned to slip your arms through the sleeves of the jacket. You're instantly engulfed with heat. You silently insisted to yourself that was the reason your cheeks get warm.
A taxi is hailed moments later, Dex rattling off your hotel to the driver as you both slip into the back seat. The ride to the hotel is spent in relative silence, with only the sound of the radio playing. Some unfamiliar pop star singing some enchanted song. He couldn't focus on the lyrics. Not when the side of your body leaned into his. Not when your head finds its way onto his shoulder. Dex spent the next twenty minutes sitting completely still, unable to move. Not wanting to move for fear of disturbing you.
When the taxi neared the front of the hotel, Dex rouses you with a hand on your knee. You insisted on paying the taxi this time and bid the driver a safe night before you moved to join Dex on the sidewalk outside the hotel.
"Keep it," Dex said, as you began to shrug out of the jacket, "You can give it back to me at the airport. LaGuardia. 11:30AM. Gate B13."
"You were that sure you'd find me by today?" you asked him.
"Got the ticket yesterday," Dex smirked, nodding towards the jacket, "Ticket's in the inner right pocket."
Your eyes narrow playfully as you pat a hand over the right side of the jacket, fingers dipping into the front before you drew out a flight ticket from the pocket. You blew out a small chuckle before placing it back into the pocket once more.
"Where are you staying?" you asked him.
"Got a hotel down the road," Dex replied, "Cheaper. Guy at the front desk doesn't look too closely at IDs. Takes cash."
"Sounds about right," you laughed, "Do you need to get another cab?"
"I can walk."
"You'll be cold without your jacket."
Dex smirked.
"I'll live."
You smiled in return.
"You better."
Dex watched as you shifted on your feet. Weight from one heel to the other as you hugged the jacket around yourself. You shift closer to him. One step followed another until you stood toe-to-toe. You looked up -- and up -- to meet Dex's eyes. Your face softened, grew more heartfelt. Dex felt a chill roll down his spine as you rose onto the tips of your toes, arms reaching to wrap around his neck and shoulders. His hands took a moment before he remembered to move them, placed them cautiously at your hips. You're holding him -- hugging him -- with your face buried slightly into the crook of his neck.
"Thank you for finding me," you murmured against his shoulder, a small laugh in your words as you added, "And for not killing me."
You raise your head just enough to press small kiss to his scarred cheek. He wills his pulse to slow at the contact. It refused to. Instead Dex felt the beating go into overdrive. It continued to beat as you lowered yourself back to your height. A relentless pounding forming two words when you began to pull away. Don't go. Dex's fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. He drew you closer before your arms could fall away completely from his shoulders.
His head dipped, swiftly closed what little distance there was between your face and his. Between your lips. Dex had never really been one to participate in gestures of romance. He had seen others perform the motions, yet so rarely engaged in it himself. But this moment? With you, in the early hours of the day, still beneath stars and moonlight and city lights? This he can do. So he kissed you. His lips were hesitant at first, unsure. A soft brush against softer lips. Testing. Slowly teasing. Then, when he was certain you wouldn't push him away, he tasted. He kissed deeper, hands slipped beneath the jacket you wore. Fingertips slid against your sides, gripped at your hips. Pulled you closer, kept you pressed against him. Your hands dropped from his shoulders and came to rest against his chest. His lips begged for entry and claimed your mouth completely once granted.
You'd both part slowly with shuddered, nearly desperate breaths. Dex dropped his forehead down, lightly rested it atop your head as you gathered your bearings. His thumbs brushed against your hips slightly before he withdrew his hands, taking the front of the jacket and drawing it closed. You said nothing as Dex brushed a hand along the length of your arm. A small touch. A quiet gesture. Your fingers grazed against his for a beat before breaking away completely. Neither of your spoke again. Dex simply nodded towards the hotel, a silent signal for you to head inside. You didn't question it. You moved on shaky legs towards the large entrance of the hotel doors, looked back slightly where Dex still remained. He waited until you were completely inside before moving from the sidewalk and down the long city block, towards his own hotel.
Something shifted in the air, changed the winds irrevocably, but Dex paid it no mind.
At this point in time, Dex simply existed with one simple fact.
It was overcast when the plane touched down in France, a faint drizzle in the air and the promise of heavier rain at night. You were both sent overseas to eliminate a foreign dignitary who was trying their hand at extortion for the first time. Not too much of an offense in Dex's eyes. Their only problem was that they tried to extort the wrong people. Someone high enough on the ladder to pull strings at the CIA.
You had booked a nice bed and breakfast by the countryside. Separate rooms across the hall from one another and complimentary breakfast. A nice enough change from having to share a near-empty studio space. You had insisted on arriving a day earlier and leaving the day after to avoid suspicion, but Dex was pretty sure you had ulterior motives. Like you were determined not to be holed up in anything less than five stars for the night. Dex didn't protest it. The CIA was paying them to get the job done. As long as he was doing his duty as a hero, he wasn't going to question what you did to get the missions set up.
The stage would be set during a fancy evening charity gala held in some chateau in the hills. The same hills just on the other side of the woods from the bed and breakfast. A short drive out on the dirt path, then a walk through trails to avoid drawing attention. Set up the sniping spot, wait it out. It sounded like a good plan.
Until about ten minutes into the dirt walk.
"This sucks," you huffed, side-stepping a particularly large tree branch that had fallen.
Dex had driven a rental as far into the forest as possible before you both were forced to walk. The first few minutes were spent on an easy enough hiking trail. It was when you both had to divert off the path and into the forest itself that the misery set in. Your misery anyway.
"We're almost there," Dex told you, ignoring the fact that he said the same thing to you a minute before.
"Stupid bureaucrats and their lavish parties," you grumbled, hands tugging your hat firmly in place as small sprinkles began to rain down on you, "In their dumb, beautiful, luxurious mansions. Next time Mr. Charles wants us to take out someone at a party, I'm going to demand enough time to craft a good enough alias to be invited to said party instead of creeping around in the mud."
"Not a nature person?" Dex found himself asking, knowing it would send you into a chatting session.
"I respect nature. I think nature is nice and has a purpose, but I like to admire nature from a very safe, very warm distance."
Dex looked over his shoulder, watching as you huffed up a particularly steep step. You wore a fuzzy, faux-fur trapper hat and a fleece jacket beneath a knit sweater, along with a pair of jeans and sneakers. Warm enough clothing, but time will tell regarding how well it will keep against rain. He wore a heavy coat over his tactical suit. His Bullseye mask tucked into the back pocket of his pants. Sniper rifle case slung over his shoulder and a backpack on yours, he nodded just up ahead.
"We should get a clear shot through here."
"Ohthankgod."
You pushed the last several feet, clearing a particularly annoying batch of bushes. Dex stopped by a fallen tree. In the distance was the glow from the chateau and the promise of a target waiting. You watched as Dex knelt by the tree, placing the case down beside him. He went to work, opening the case and assembling the sniper rifle. You dropped the backpack down beside the case, squatting down to his level as you watched him produce a knife and carve a notch into the tree for stability. He lined the sniper, head leaning forward to look through the scope of the gun. As expected, the guests had begun to make their way into the ballroom. Perfectly positioned, as planned. He scanned the faces, the guests in their gowns and tuxes, the staff that walked around with platters in hand.
"Better settle in," he told you, moving to get into a more comfortable position on his knee, "This'll take a bit."
Much more than a bit.
Dex continued to watch the party as you made yourself comfortable sitting beside him. You fished out a pair of binoculars from your bag, peering through in an attempt to aid in finding the target. Dex had never really understood people who lived lavishly. You seemed to enjoy every moment you could spend in that kind of environment. Living life in such bold extravagance. He assumed it was some innate human desire that didn't get absorbed into him upon creation. However, as the night went on -- after nearly an hour trudging through the forest and two additional hours squatting in the same sniper position -- Dex could see the appeal of a comfortable bed and a hot shower. Dex let out a slow exhale. The combination of wet ground and impatience had started to get to him, which could only mean you were in your own version of hell.
"Stop fidgeting," Dex huffed, eye trained on the scope of the sniper rifle.
"I think my sock is wet," you replied, shifting in your position on the ground beside Dex to look at your foot, "If true, this officially makes tonight the worst job yet."
"You should have worn something better than sneakers."
"Not all of us settle for wearing the same boots every day."
Dex pulled back from the rifle, rolling his shoulder slightly to try and ease the cramp that started to form there. You had long abandoned the binoculars by your feet to rummage in your backpack for snacks. He watched as you produced a bag of trail mix, shaking a handful into your palm. You organized the different pieces into small piles in your hand. He noticed you ate them in order of preference. Chocolate pieces and dried fruits first, then the undesirable nuts and seeds last.
"We lost the light," you pointed out, popping the last of the fruit in your hand into your mouth.
"I know," Dex replied, holding out his hand out towards yours.
Without thinking, you drop the remainder of the mix from your hand to his. Nothing but seeds and nuts. Dex popped them into his mouth before he moved back into position by the rifle.
"The party's bright. We won't have a problem seeing the target."
"We should have brought an umbrella," you noted, tossing the trail mix bag into your backpack.
"I know."
You picked up the binoculars before you settled beside him, leaning against the fallen tree Dex used to anchor his gun. The tap, tap, tap of your fingertip against the binoculars the only sound between you two, just barely heard above the sound of the rain. It wasn't until you felt Dex's hand reach out and settle on your hand that you stopped.
"Take your break," he instructed, taking the binoculars and setting them on the ground, "I got this."
"You've been getting it for the past hour."
"Because you have the patience of a hummingbird and I need to focus."
"I'm bored," you sighed, shifting to lean your back against the tree. You tilt your head forward to avoid having more rain on your face than there already was, arms crossing over your chest to keep from tapping once more. "I'm used to doing something. Get me in there, let me find the guy, anything. I've never been good at sitting still and waiting for things. I've got a terrible need for immediate gratification. It was a problem when I was younger. I couldn't sit still to save my life. My brain wanted everything all the time and I didn't know how to regulate those wants. I think it's half the reason my parents sent me to boarding school."
"I'm sorry," Dex automatically said, "That must've been really hard."
You looked in Dex's direction, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Do you do that often?"
"Do what?"
"Use that line."
Dex's eyes flickered from the scope to you, his face blank.
"That's not a line," he told you.
"That was definitely a line," you insisted, pointing in his direction, "And that was a lie."
You leaned forward to stare at Dex, who forced himself to ignore you. He took a moment to check the rifle, adjust the scope. Busy work. Anything to avoid your eyes. Eyes that were determined to lock onto his.
"I read people for a living," you reminded him, "I know when people say what they mean. You didn't mean it. How often do you say that line?"
Dex's lips flattened into a tight line as he focused his attention on trying to find the target.
"I don't mean anything rude by it," you continued, pushing the subject, "It's just interesting, y'know? How your brain works compared to mine. You simulate differently than I do. I pretend to be whoever I manage to be when I'm breaking the law, but you pretend at all hours of the day. That's... really not sustainable."
You scooted across the dirt, closer to where Dex knelt.
"You can't mask all the time. It's not healthy. You need a place where you can unmask and just be. Do you do that? Ever? Or have anyone you can relax around?"
Dex was steady in his decision to remain silence. Until he felt the warmth of your hand touch his knee. He struggled to keep his focus forward knowing what was waiting for him. Big, expressive eyes. A smile that could shine even in the darkness of the woods. Your touch, casual and given to him freely. The warmth seeped through the fabric of his pants. It felt like fire against the chill of the night and the ongoing rain.
"I relax," he replied, not all too convincingly as he scanned the gala attendants.
"You don't have to tell me where or when."
"You're dying to know."
"Of course I'm dying to know," you confessed, inching closer, "I'm rotting away waiting. That's how much I'm dying to know."
Your smile grew as you heard Dex lightly chuckle at your words. Though his focus was still on the sniper, he allowed his voice to ease slightly. A small splinter of sharing.
"I was taught the line," he told you, crosshair of the rifle searching for the dignitary, "When I was very young, someone... important taught it to me."
A beat, then you spoke.
"Someone taught you to be this bad at acting?"
Dex sent a firm glare in your direction, which had you holding your hands up slightly surrender. The look had the desired effect, but it also meant your hand was no longer on his knee. His want for this conversation to change clashed with the curious voice in his head that demanded your hand return to him.
"I didn't mean to offend," you told him, "At least not much. I just think you could use some help. That's part of our whole situation, right? Helping each other. You help me, I help you, and we help the CIA. Big, sparkly heroes."
"This is you trying to help me?"
"In a way," you nodded, before quickly adding, "Mostly just observing, because you don't share anything. Not really. You talk when spoken to, if you feel like it. You make comments. Sometimes you ask questions. Engage enough to feel personable, but not actually be personable--"
"How is that any different than what you do?"
"The difference is that I do it during cons for money and you do it 24/7 as a way to -- I don't know -- get by? That's not feasible long-term, babe."
Babe.
That was new, as was the way Dex's chest tightened upon hearing it.
"So what are you suggesting? Acting lessons to be more convincing to the general public?"
"God no," you laughed, "I'm a half-decent teacher and I promise I'm not saying you're a hopeless case. Lying is a skill that can be learned, no matter who it is learning it. You just have to buy into the lie. I actually think you could pull off a few lies on a con if we lean into your strengths--"
"My stre--"
"Not the killing people part," you added, excitement bubbling at the surface, "Not even the aiming thing. Now that I've seen what you can -- or, um, can't -- do, I can craft around the limitations. Really lean into your silent intensity, your build, your good looks--"
"My good--"
"What I'm saying is that you spent your life masking to the whole world," you sighed, reaching out to place your hand back on his knee once more, "I want you to know that you don't have to. At least not when you're with me, okay?"
That strange feeling in Dex's chest struck again.
"We're partners. That means I got your back. No judgement. Well, maybe a little judgement, but only because I believe you should be able to judge freely amongst friends."
Friends.
Partners.
Babe.
Dex felt the overwhelming weight of those words all at once. It made his gloved hands sweat and his pulse jump. He didn't know how to respond to the words spoken in that moment.
"The target," he finally said. Did his mouth always feel this dry? Dex cleared his throat slightly, shifting where he knelt. A reset. "We still need to--"
"Right," you let out a breath of a laugh. You gave his knee a small squeeze before pulling away, smiling at him as you did. "Go get our guy."
You started to situate yourself back in your sitting position nearby, stopping when you heard Dex's voice again.
"You wanna look through the scope?"
Dex felt his mouth curve into a smirk at the sight of your eyes widening. Your lips parted slightly in surprise before slowly turning into a smile.
"Really?" you asked, voice betraying the elation in your voice.
"You're not taking the shot," he warned, as you began to scoot closer once more.
"Wouldn't even if I could," you promised, as Dex shifted back to give you space behind the sniper, "I'm not really a gun person. My mouth tends to get me in and out of situations before they can resort to, you know..."
Dex watched as you held up finger guns, mimicking shooting them off. His hands hovered as you knelt behind the rifle, placing them over yours as he moved them into position.
"This is the butt pad," he said, moving his hand from yours to tap the end of the rifle. Your shoulders shook as you suppressed a laugh. He dropped his other hand to your side, knuckles tapping your hip as he shushed you. "Yes, that's the name."
"Use another word than butt pad."
"The other word is rear end."
Dex sighed against the top of your head as you laughed. Head tilted back, tapping his chest kind of laugh. He bit back the urge to smile at the sight, waited until you settled down before resuming.
"You're going to keep this pressed firm on your chest," he instructed, tapping the pad at before briefly tapping where he wanted the gun against your chest. "Aim straight ahead. If you angle the rifle, you won't get an accurate shot when you get the shot off."
"I'm not going to--"
"Focus."
"Fine."
He leaned over your body, chest at your back. He took your dominant hand, wrapping your fingers over the pistol grip. You let him take your other hand, resting it against the sniper for stability.
"Lean in, look through the eye of the scope," he told you. His body followed as you did, cheek brushing yours faintly. "Don't have to worry about adjustments. Just get used to the feeling."
He kept his hand over yours at the pistol grip, his other hand dropping to rest at your hip.
"Can you see them?" he murmured, voice low in your ear.
"Yeah," you breathed out, surprise in your voice.
You watched the party.
Dex watched you.
For a moment, the chill from the rain gave way to the warmth of your body against his. You watched the guests with interest, small gasps from your lips when you saw something particularly fun. Dex grinned at the sight, the hand at your side absentmindedly running along the curve of your hip.
"Having fun?"
Your back pressed flushed against Dex's as you straightened slightly. He remained close even as you turned your head to look at him, felt your smile brush against his jaw. Relishing the feeling only lasted a moment before Dex backed up an inch to give you room to speak.
"It's different looking from here than the binoculars," you told him, "It feels kinda personal, if that makes sense? Strangely... intimate. Deeply dangerous."
"That's the point, sweetheart," Dex chuckled, the rumble from his chest brushing against your back as he did. He nodded towards the rifle again. "Go find us our guy."
You grinned at him before turning back to the scope to resume your search. A few minutes passed in silence before Dex felt it. The way you tensed under his hand and how your breathing slowed, as if a slight movement would ruin it all.
"Dex," you whispered, despite being alone, "There he is..."
Dex quickly shifted, gave you room to scoot out of the way. Taking your place at the sniper, Dex settled into position, peering through the scope. There he was. Dex rolled his shoulders before he moved to line up the shot.
SNAP.
The sound of branches breaking in the distance at your backs. You both whipped your heads over your shoulders at the sound. The sight of flashlights blinking distantly around the mess of trees confirmed it. Others were nearby. You were scrambling onto your feet before Dex could realize it.
"Take the shot," you quietly instructed him, "I got this."
"Wait--"
"Take the shot, Dex," you insisted, nodding towards the chateau in the distance, "Finish the job. I'll be back."
Damnit.
You were already off towards the direction of the lights, disappearing past the trees. A growl of frustration rumbled in the back of Dex's throat as he tore his eyes from your direction. The sound of rain drowned out any sound he tried to listen for. He wanted to listen for any sign of a struggle, any signal that you might need him. That wasn't what you wanted him to do though. You wanted him to do the damn job. Dex quickly situated himself, body tense as he peered through the scope once more. It took him a few moments to find the foreign dignitary once more. Another beat to line up the shot. He didn't hesitate when he pulled the trigger. It happened in an instant. The flinch as the bullet found a new home in between the man's eyes. The chaos that erupted as the target dropped dead. That was confirmation enough for Dex.
One moment he was positioned behind the sniper rifle.
The next he was up and moving.
Dex shrugged out of his coat, letting the heavy material drop to the ground as he moved through the trees. He snatched his mask from his pocket, slipping it over his face as he weaved quietly. Light on his feet, ready for action. The sound of heavy rainfall covered his movements, but he wouldn't be able to hear you if you were losing a fight. That knowledge sent a jolt through him as he rushed forward. His eyes scanned the area, locking in as he spotted light breaking through the darkness. He reached for the blades he kept on his utility belt as he broke through the clearing.
He found you.
You stood across the clearing, drenched from the rain. Your hat was gone from your head. Most likely from a scuffle. You were here. You were safe. You were... holding out your arms? Dex slowed to a stop as he watched the event unfold before him. Two men. Armed security. Struggling to move. Struggling to breathe. Their arms struggled to reach for their throats, but were restrained by an unseen force. No. Not an unseen force. Restrained by you. By whatever it was you were doing to them. The two men slowly lost consciousness, their bodies dropping once you lowered your arms.
Dex watched as you flexed your hands, as if trying to get feeling back to your fingertips. Your face was calm against the storm as you moved over to them, bending down to check their pulses. Whatever you discovered seemed to satisfy you enough to straighten and step back towards the stakeout point. You froze at the sight of Dex, who remained where he stood. Neither of you made the effort to move or speak as the realization hit. Dex had seen everything. The rain continued to pour, though the chill that was sent through your bones was not from the cold.
It was from the sight of Dex's eyes -- the only thing visible from his mask -- narrowing.
He didn't need to speak. You could already anticipate the words.
A single, silent question that hung between you in the bitter, storming night.
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mmm getting needy while you and dex are sleeping in the middle of the night, shaking him back and forth until he wakes up with a grumble— and you just want him soo bad but dex is tired :(
but not wanting his sweet girl to go to sleep without feeling satisfied he rolls his black sleeping shirt up and lets you ride out that ache on his abs!! soaked panties making a mess all over his tummy and your little clit feels so good meshed between his skin and the fabric. your legs are locked on both sides of his waist with your hands on his chest to help you roll back an forth, sleepy whines leaving your lips when you slide your cunt on a specific muscle of his ab. your arousal sticking on his happy trail and it’s making the filthiest sounds,— you you want to get closer to your man so you look down to hook your panties to the side. soppy cunt saddled directly on his stomach and the contact making it feel all the more sensitive for you.
dex is not all the way awake so he’s watching you with lidded eyes, watching his drowsy girl get herself off. but it’s inevitable that he gets hard just from this little show!! now you guys are both up and have to solve this little problem in the middle of the night <3
Summary: When you’re lost in a sub drop spiral after being ghosted, Jack’s the one person who realizes what’s actually going on – and knows how to fix it.
Tags/Notes: hurt/comfort, getting together, sub drop, established friendship/maybesomethingship, dom!jack, sub!reader, light daddy kink, lots and lots of praise, body worship, inspection kink, fingering (f), oral (f), aftercare/sweetness, this is really just a very very soft bdsm fic establishing a dynamic it’s not anything wild and is very tame, also langdon is mean in this sorry
Content Warnings: the sub drop depicted here is very self-hatred/self-punishment focused. there is also a scene where reader and langdon are handling a complicated high stress emergency birth, jack to the rescue, but if that’s a potential trigger the scene can easily be skipped past. also a major grey’s anatomy season 11/12 spoiler? in case?
Author's Note: this won the weekly “(finish your) wip wednesday” poll by a whopping .8% so just know your vote matters more here than in your national elections!
Word Count: 16.5k
Stupid.
That’s the only word you’ve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.
So stupid it hurts.
You’re gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. It’s a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. You’re being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. You’re trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like it’s been since Friday night.
Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didn’t do your laundry this weekend. Couldn’t. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If you’re being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless – and in med school. Good work, Lefty.
Turtleneck it is.
The whole bus ride over – you miss the first one, of course – you’re just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if he’s messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence that’s had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.
Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurse’s station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say as you check in with Dana. “I missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-”
“Save it, kid, we need you working ASAP.”
She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, “Right. Of course. Thank you.”
You turn around – and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.
“There’s my favorite fourth year,” he sighs sharply. “Late and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.”
“Sorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-”
“Can it. We’ve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.”
You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you can’t breathe all of a sudden. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“From you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t.”
It cuts you deep. Frank’s been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like you’re stupid.
Because you are.
And everyone knows it.
The universe apparently can’t even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into – shoulders bumping too hard – is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Oh god. You can’t look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, “All good. Don’t worry.”
I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, “It’s good to see you, ace. Didn’t see your check-in on the shift board earlier.”
Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldn’t be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. “Fuck, I know, I’m sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds and…”
As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, “And?”
He’s the first person so far who hasn’t interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what would’ve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. “Nothing. Just a hard weekend. But, y’know, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so I’m getting back on the horse.”
He shakes his head. “Hand those off to Javadi; we’ve got an MVC coming in.”
You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. “Dr. Abbot, I, um, I think I’d like to keep Dr. Langdon’s patients instead. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. “Are you sure? I’m guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.”
“No, I- I don’t mind.” Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, “I’m, um, I’m kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.”
Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll page Javadi.”
Relief floods you.
The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.
Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You can’t act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-
“I can see you overthinking something from here.” Jack’s hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, “You know you can talk to me, right?”
You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, “Of course. Thank you.”
But he doesn’t move his hand. And he doesn’t drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and it’s too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, “I mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.”
His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isn’t an off day. This isn’t a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, “I’m fine.”
“You don’t always have to be,” he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You don’t catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, “Find me if you need me, okay?”
With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. “Okay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.”
And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.
For once, you’re thankful that Langdon was being a dick. He’s pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. She’s healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but there’s something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist that’s been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.
Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.
As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jack’s scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. He’s done two full laps before deciding concretely that you aren’t with any patients and you aren’t handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.
Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. “Whitaker forget his leftovers in there again? You’re mean-mugging the shelves.”
Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, “I thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didn’t.”
He doesn’t miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that you’re trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.
That’s when Jack realizes.
The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way you’re speaking.
You’re dropping.
Well, more accurately, you’ve dropped. You’re in the middle of it now.
Jack’s been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, he’s always putting out fires that someone else started. When he’s with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someone’s universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he would’ve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.
He’d had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how you’re always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily – but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you can’t find, the details are slotting into place.
With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly, “Sit with me. Have half my sandwich and we’ll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.”
You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. “That’s okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- It’s alright. I’ll order something to the hospital.”
“You won’t,” he counters. Soft. Certain. You’re lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you won’t be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, “Sit.”
It’s uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.
Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jack’s decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.
So you sit.
He sits with you.
You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, “Where’s your water bottle?”
Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich – Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmer’s market fillings – with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, “I left it in my locker. I’ll go and grab it in a minute.”
He shakes his head and stands. “I’ll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?”
The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, “I forgot to put it on this morning.”
Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your personal life – if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake – but he knows a good partner wouldn’t leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just ‘one of those days.’ Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You can’t push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.
Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, “Just eat. I’ll be right back.”
Jack swears he’s never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he can’t outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you haven’t touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you haven’t had a full meal since…whenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. “Here. Drink some.”
You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.
Jack doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs you’re creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows you’re putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You don’t want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesn’t push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.
Before you know it, you’ve actually finished eating. You hadn’t felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.
Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. “Good job. I’m proud of you.”
The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know it’s silly. Proud of you for…eating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But that’s not what your brain’s saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, “Thank you.”
Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. He’s not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong – makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid – then you’re never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. You’ll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesn’t handle your drop correctly.
While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. That’s what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal he’s kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, he’ll inherently help more than if he didn’t dedicate time to it.
He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And he’ll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and don’t push yourself too hard. That’s what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If he’s careful, you won’t even notice the role he’s going to step into until you’re sure on your feet again.
He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. That this isn’t an admission of the feelings for you that he’s been shoving deep down for – if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by – years. You’re older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way it’s made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.
So helping you through this certainly isn’t about his feelings. It’s for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.
Really.
After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, you’re more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least you’re on time today, so there aren’t any jabs about your arrival – which is good, considering you’re ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now they’re just pissing you off. You’re fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.
While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You don’t bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. You’d made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best you’ve done on your own since Friday.
But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. “Morning, ace.”
“Evening, Dr. Abbot,” you reply without looking up.
“Just wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-” which Jack had personally asked her to do “-and you got tens across the board.”
That perks you up slightly. “Really?”
He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You don’t notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, “‘When I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. It’s the most validated I’ve felt by a medical professional in a long time.’” Jack’s smile is affectionate. Proud. Like he’s really seeing you for who you are. “Great work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.”
Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didn’t screw everything up yesterday.”
Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, “You didn’t screw up anything.”
“But I didn’t help with that car crash and-”
He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it – maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that he’s slowing down your inner monologue – makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, “Being a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. It’s the beginning of your career; I’d say that’s damn good.”
After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. “You’re being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.”
“I’m always nice,” he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, “What’s your go-to?”
Grimacing, you reply, “I usually get a bear claw, actually.”
“I’m glad I remembered correctly.” Jack takes the smaller box he’d set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. “Got one for you special.”
Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, it’s with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like it’s an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, “You remembered my favorite pastry?”
He chuckles, “The gray adds ten years; my mind’s not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming I’m ancient.”
You giggle, “No, the gray is sexy.”
You only realize you’re saying it when it’s already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jack’s cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, you’re so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word that’s been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, “Sorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- I’m sorry. I’m still, um, waking up.”
Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you don’t care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. They’re smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When he’s satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, “Don’t apologize. Eat.”
There’s no way out of eating the hearty pastry – it’s not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him – so, even though your brain is still screaming that you don’t deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesn’t move and you can tell it’s a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you don’t notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.
After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, “Good job. We can get going now. You’re shadowing me today.” Nodding in another direction, he informs you, “We’re starting off rounds in trauma four.”
He didn’t offer you any other options, so you can’t go searching for them. The thousand directions your day could’ve gone in fizzle away into one path: You’re shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind.
You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.
Things make more sense when you’re under Jack’s direct supervision instead of Langdon’s or even Dana’s. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know there’s a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesn’t melt you; it builds you. He’s scaffolding.
You’re just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. You’re taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdon’s voice a few rooms down.”
“Lefty, get in here!” He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. He’s tying on your gown before you’ve even gotten a look at the patient. “You’ve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?”
Gloving up, you nod and confirm, “A handful – supervised.”
He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. There’s a lot of blood around her head and neck; you can’t tell what’s wrong. But Langdon focuses you: “OB’s on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. She’s nearly crowning; we’ve gotta get the baby out.”
Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones you’ve both observed and assisted. “How far apart are contractions? Where’s she at?”
“Two and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.” He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. “Should be simple.”
“Got it.” You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, she’s able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdon’s gruff grunting, “Head is out. You’re doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and we’ll be done and you’ll both be on the road to recovery.”
She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard she’s fighting it, you can tell she’s tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.
You watch the next contraction wash over her – and the baby’s head doesn’t move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, “Doctor, I think I’m seeing shoulder dystocia.”
Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, “You’re going to need to deliver the posterior arm.”
The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you aren’t even sure which one that is. You haven’t done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, “Should I go and get-”
The patient slips out of consciousness before the question’s out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, “Just pull!”
“No, that’s-”
He’s not listening to you.
He’s not listening to you and the baby can’t take a breath yet.
I know that’s not the right thing to do. That’s not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?
You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just can’t do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. “Dr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-”
Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, “Shut up and let me focus.”
You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The baby’s face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know there’s time. But that time is ticking by fast.
You know it’s more dangerous for you to try something you’ve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the baby’s straining face and whisper, “It’s okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbot’s gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.”
After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, “Dr. Langdon, I don’t know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I can’t move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-”
Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. “You don’t need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!”
The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. “What the hell is going on that I’m getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?”
Langdon’s hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, “Seriously, Lefty? You paged our-”
You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, “Baby’s presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I can’t do this. I don’t know how.”
Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdon’s doing procedures you could’ve handled while other help came, he barks, “Langdon, why the hell haven’t you switched with her?”
“Because I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-”
“She’s a fucking student, Frank!” Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, “You can let go, ace. I’ve got him now in plenty of time.” You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heart’s pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, “Go get some air. You did the right thing. I’ll find you after.”
It’s another half hour before Jack’s able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he would’ve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.
He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so you’re completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesn’t startle you. He’s met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. “Dr. Abbot?”
Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. You’re sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You haven’t stopped crying since you left the delivery; he’s sure of it. “Hey, ace.”
“You shouldn’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.” Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, “How are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?”
“Baby’s up to the NICU for monitoring, mom’s in surgery.” Jack sighs – heavier than you’ve ever heard – and tells you, “Langdon shouldn’t have put you in a position like that knowing full well you’re a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick could’ve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. I’m filing a report.”
You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. “I should’ve-”
“Should’ve what? Ripped a baby’s arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that you’ll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, “You did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to listen, you called for help. Langdon’s gonna take it poorly because he’s an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.” He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, “Makes me even more certain you’re going to be a great doctor.”
You can’t even say thank you. Your throat’s too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything you’ve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jack’s eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.
Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: “Can I hug you?”
It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.
Then you nod. It’s tiny, meek, hesitant.
But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. You’re weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jack’s shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.
With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, “Match your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.”
You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.
As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, “Good. That’s good.”
“Jesus, this is so stupid.” You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like they’re parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. He’d never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, “Sorry for being so – I don’t know– ridiculous the last few days. This isn’t- I promise I’ll be better. This is- It’s a temporary thing. I promise.”
Jack takes your face between two hands. They’re calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, “I’m here for you – even if it isn’t.”
You’re silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Jack almost scoffs. “Because you deserve it.”
The response is so immediate you have to believe it: “I don’t.”
Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, “Who made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?”
You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but you’re spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. “I- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how I’ve been acting but-”
“It doesn’t sound crazy.” He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. He’s treating you like gossamer. “I understand.”
Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, “You don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”
Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so you’re pressed against the wall.
Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.
In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. It’s not frightening and you can tell he’s not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and you’ve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years – protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash – you’ve seen a flash of how he’s looking at you right now.
But you never realized what it is.
Then he repeats, “I understand.”
And it’s clear as day after a long night shift.
“I’m here for you, ace, because I understand completely.” He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, “Until you’re through this, I’m here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?”
The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isn’t your dom, he still sees the truth of what’s happening. That’s enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath – no shaking – and give a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“Jack,” he corrects gently. “I want you to call me Jack from now on.”
Dr. Abbot – Jack – wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.
As you’re collecting your backpack from the locker room – you haven’t been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body – Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frank’s shadow eclipses your light.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. Quickly. Like it’s a shameful secret. “I was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. I’m gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, y’know, first steps. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, doctor,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “I understand.”
“Alright, good. We’re cool, then. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow, Lefty.”
You sigh and force a smile. “Bye, Dr. Langdon.”
As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, “Why do they call you that anyway? You’re right-handed, yeah? Must’ve started on day shift; I never heard the story.”
The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you can’t shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, “Langdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I don’t think it’s funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I don’t think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.” You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, “Lefty. Because I can’t do anything right.”
Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.
Rage shreds his ribs apart.
He doesn’t exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon – having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his ‘no groveling to Robby’ rule – but he knows one thing for certain: Nobody’s calling you that in his ED again. Nobody’s going to make you feel small. Not while he’s dedicating himself to building you back up.
Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, “Come on, let’s go to the skills lab. I’ll get us food after. I’m gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.”
You don’t freeze because you’re in Jack’s orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, “What? Why?”
Jack doesn’t even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, “Because you’re not fucking stupid.”
By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? You’re doing it because you know that Jack’s going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.
Jack’s waiting at your bus stop.
You hop into his field of vision and laugh. “What are you doing here, Jack?”
“Thought you could use some company for your walk,” he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. “Weather’s gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.”
You can’t contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, “Anything in particular we need to check in about?”
He starts simple: “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.”
Jack nods, making a mental note. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Eggs on toast,” you tell him. The way it feels like you’re reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, “And I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.”
“Good job. Really good job.” He gives you a smile that’s nothing short of hunky. “I know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?”
You shake your head meekly. “I was way too tired. I didn’t shower before my shift, either.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yeah, and flossed.”
“That’s enough for today,” he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, “Have any plans for your week off besides R&R?”
“I think I should probably take it easy,” you admit with a sad little sigh. “I want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.”
“That sounds like a plan. I’m off, too; we can call when you need accountability.”
You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he can’t see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. “Perfect. Thank you.”
He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. “It’s no trouble, ace.”
The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesn’t mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. He’s too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurse’s station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.
Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday who’s still admitted. At the same time, Langdon’s approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. “Evening, Lefty, ready to-”
Jack’s bark – from more than ten feet away at the nurse’s station – interrupts him: “Langdon, c’mere a second.” Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurse’s station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdon’s close, Jack says, short and direct, “I don’t want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Job’s hard enough as it is.”
Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jack’s shit list when he’s already deep in it. “Aw, but Lefty doesn’t mind, do you?”
Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, “If I hear you call her that one more time, we’re going to have a serious problem.”
You try to squeak out, “It’s okay.”
When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. There’s nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. “It’s not. It’s really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.” After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frank’s never seen his eyes so dark. “Don’t say it again. Or you’re gonna be ‘Righty.’”
Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. “And what’s that mean, gramps?”
“You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.” Jack lets go of Langdon’s shirt and shoves the center of his chest. “Better yet? Stay away from her. Until HR’s reviewed your case from yesterday, I don’t want you within six feet of her.”
“I think that’s a little bit of an overreaction to-”
“You don’t want to see me overreacting,” Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. “Do your job. That’s it.”
The shift is a killer. The kind you’ve been dreading all week. It’s non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.
But, every step of the way, there’s Jack. He’s a whirlwind, but he’s always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when he’s not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. You’ve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jack’s been the scaffolding, but you’re still the structure he’s been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jack’s healing, you’ve remembered that you’re worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that can’t truly be taken from you.
You’re so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, you’re practically glowing because you’re so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isn’t in any of the usual spots. Because it’s become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(
His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.
You’re in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.
Jack’s right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. “Good morning, ace.”
You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. “Morning, Jack.”
His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, “You’re smiling again.”
“I’m happy,” you hum in return. “I did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.”
Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. He’s been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. “I’m sure you were. That’s my girl.”
Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if you’re at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, “It’s been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.”
Eyes linked with yours, he assures, “The feeling’s mutual.”
You want to ask if that’s the only feeling that’s mutual.
But you can’t bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you can’t imagine blowing it and losing the foundation you’ve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, “You really don’t think it’s kind of, I don’t know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?”
Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. “Pathetic?” He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, “When you open yourself up like that to a partner, it’s sacred. It means everything. You’re saying, ‘hey, here’s all of me,’ even if it’s new. For someone – anyone – to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back up…” He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Honestly, that makes me fucking sick. You’re not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.”
You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. “Sounds like I might need to raise my standards.”
“If the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, I’d definitely agree.” He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, “Where do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?”
“FetLife.”
“Figures.” Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like it’s a beer. “He block you on everything right after?”
You cringe and confirm, “Mhmm.”
“What a dirtbag.”
“Mostly I’m just mad at myself,” you admit sheepishly. “I was being-” at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording “-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasn’t as thorough as I’ve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-”
You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesn’t need to know how that sentence was going to end.
Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how he’d give it to you. But this isn’t the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, “We’ve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.”
You giggle at the idea. “You’ve made some reckless kinky decisions?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he laughs. “Last one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.”
Your eyes widen. Jack’s being playful with you. It’s…everything. “Seriously?”
“Ended up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.” He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. “I had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.”
Your brain’s positively tingling. “You’re a switch?”
“No,” he confirms, saying it like the idea’s ridiculous, “but I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I don’t screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.”
Fuck, that’s hot.
You want to drop to your knees.
He can taste it in the air.
Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, “So stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; that’s all you can do.” Then he opens up his arms and offers, “C’mere.”
It’s impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jack’s warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.
“You’ve done such a good job this week. It’s so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,” he murmurs against your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, “Thank you, daddy.”
The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like you’ve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. “Oh god- Oh god I- I’m so sorry. That wasn’t- I don’t know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck I’m so-”
“Don’t you dare,” he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything that’s ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. “Don’t you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress you’ve made this week.”
Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like you’d feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating now. You can’t bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize he’s not shutting you down but letting you in.
When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, “My sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that you’ve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.” Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, “Would you let me take care of you?”
Your heart’s fast-beating in your throat.
The sun’s risen now and the sky is blue.
The sky is blue.
Jack’s pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesn’t move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, “I need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?”
“I think-” You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. “I think I’d like that, Jack.”
He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like he’s breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. “Wait by my car at the end of your shift.”
It’s actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jack’s gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, “You still okay with this?”
“Completely and totally,” you confirm – but your voice shakes a bit. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you don’t even have words for.
Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m nervous,” you admit, biting your lip for a moment.
Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. “We need to work on that habit.”
Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. “We?”
He gives you a cute, sly smirk. “I have a funny feeling that I’m going to be holding you accountable very soon.” Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passenger’s side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, “Tell me what you’re nervous about.”
It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jack’s arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy it’s hard to think straight. When you’ve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, “I just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, y’know, something big. Something good and important and- and real.”
His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. “And that makes you nervous.”
“Yeah.” You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. “Really nervous.”
His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. “I’m sure I can fix that in no time.”
Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. “Touching my thigh certainly isn’t helping with the nerves.”
“Your nerves aren’t a bad thing,” he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. “That just means you care about how this goes. You’ll feel better the more comfortable you get and you’ll get more comfortable when you realize I’m not going anywhere.” Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, “I’m nervous too, if that helps.”
You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. “What could you possibly be nervous about? You’re the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. I’ve seen enough Grey’s to know where that gets you.”
He eyes you and chuckles. “Brain dead due to a delayed CT scan?”
“I meant more ‘able to fuck any med student you want,’ but I’m absolutely thrilled to know you’ve seen the show.”
As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house you’ve ever seen, he replies modestly, “Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck a student before.”
Giggling so that you don’t have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, “I don’t believe you for a second.”
Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. “Cross my heart.”
He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When you’re on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. You’d pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.
Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, “Don’t be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.”
“It’s nice,” you say, really only speaking so that you don’t retreat back into your nerves.
He nods toward the nearby couch – plush boucle like a cloud – and says, “Sit down; I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.”
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
He sets both your bags on the floor and says, “I’ll grab you something of mine to wear.”
Once you’re sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where he’s abandoned his. Your heart stutters. He’s so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, “Just relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. You’re going to find out what Jack Abbot’s bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. That’s obvious from, well, everything about him.
Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. “Not the sexiest meal I could’ve offered, but I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”
“Leftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,” you assure him, digging in right away. After you’re satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, “Didn’t think we’d be doing it tonight or didn’t think we’d be doing it at all?”
“Tonight,” he replies. Blunt. Immediate. “I didn’t want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasn’t going to let you go home thinking you’d made a mistake by calling me-”
“Don’t say it,” you blurt out. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“I’m not allowed to say it?” Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when he’s being torturously cutesy, “Daddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.”
You shriek, hands flying over your face. “Jack, please!”
“Oooh, I love that one,” he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if you’re way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, “Please, daddy, stop it, daddy, I’m so embarrassed, daddy, it’s too much, daddy.”
Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jack’s lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. “Fine, fine! It’s not embarrassing, you win!”
Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, “I liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasn’t for the last time.”
And then you’re kissing him.
You physically can’t stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. You’ll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, “It definitely wasn’t the last time.”
He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Good girl.”
And you know you’re done for. You’re soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. He’s got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.
Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.
The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but they’re hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You don’t dread; you want.
After clearing your plates – he insists that you don’t need to do anything – Jack offers you his hand and says, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”
You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack’s hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.
It’s perfectly neat, which you’d expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. It’s his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, there’s a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.
Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, “Have a shower. I’ll use one of the guest bathrooms.” He throws a wink at you and adds, “Figured you’d like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.”
You scrunch up your face. “Okay, you’re not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Don’t make things harder for yourself for me.”
“You’re so considerate,” he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, “You’re so fucking special; you have no idea.” After another beat, he goes on, “All the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too – lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I don’t have to strain, voice-activated lights so I don’t have to move. New construction perks.”
“That’s awesome,” you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, “I’ll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.”
He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say ‘just stay here with me whenever you want,’ he’s grateful for your thoughtfulness. You’ll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, he’d tease you unrelentingly for how you’re ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought you’re having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, “Shower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. There’s supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out – an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising – next to a pill case that’s clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.
Showering with Jack’s products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. You’re wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a lover’s touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. It’s built for showering together. God, you’ve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isn’t even in the room.
After your shower, it’s time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring – how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? – but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. There’s so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. He’s also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he must’ve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.
Once you’re dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs you’ve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.
Your whole body’s tingling with anticipation.
Suddenly Jack’s voice behind you snaps you back into reality. “Snoop to your heart’s content?”
You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, “I absolutely did.”
He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. “Find anything you like?”
“Mhmm.”
“Want to share with the class?”
You shake your head and giggle, “Uh-uh.”
“Keeping your cards close to your chest I see.” He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one you’re wearing, and praises, “You look good in my clothes.”
“You look good. Period.” Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like he’s holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”
“And you’re exceptionally sweet,” he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, “How are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?”
You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, “Horny.”
As he chuckles – you’re getting addicted to his low raspy laugh – you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.
You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.
Then Jack’s hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, “Not today, baby.”
Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, “You don’t want me?”
Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, “I want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.” Touch as soft as if he were handling a Fabergé egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, “But I’m not going to fuck you today. Right now, you don’t need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.”
Hope and gratitude pools inside you. “From now on?”
He smiles at you, so warm it’s like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. “This week I’ve realized I can’t go on pretending I don’t want you to be mine – and only mine.”
You repeat gently, “Yours.”
“Mine.” His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. “If you’ll have me.”
You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, “I need you. I want you.”
“Then I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when – because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.”
As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, “If you’re not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?”
Jack’s lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, “I’m going to worship you.”
“Jack, I-” You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything,” he replies easily. You can tell he’s being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, “Let me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?”
Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, “I’ll try.”
“That’ll do for now,” he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, “I’m going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?”
“Very okay,” you confirm breathily. The word ‘toy’ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. “And you don’t have to ask permission.”
“I do,” he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. “Until we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, I’m always going to ask when I start something new. You’re in charge here.”
Even though you nod, you definitely don’t feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture he’s thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. It’s borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. That’s what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.
In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,“Be good.”
God, he’s reading your mind.
Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isn’t going to be an issue for Jack.
And he’s noticed.
Of course he has.
On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, “Widen your stance.”
Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks you’ve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, “You’re already being so good for me, baby. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
Breathily, you moan, “Jack, if you’re not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.”
His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to get you off.”
You whimper. Literally whimper.
Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time he’s talking. Unrelenting touch. “Look, baby, sometime soon – very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it – we’re going to sit down and have a good long talk. I’m going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. You’re going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. You’ll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want – no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And I’m going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom you’ve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.”
With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow that’s way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know he’s craving. His self control is honey.
Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, “Until then – until I know everything I need to know – you have to be good and take what I’ll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. You’re still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; I’m not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And I’m always intense when I’m fucking.” His eyes own yours and he goes on, “I’m just gonna get you off enough times to know you’ll sleep well in your new daddy’s bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?”
You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.
Jack tuts, the sort of sound you’d make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, “You have to use your words with me. You’re gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but I’m big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.”
You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. You’re so desperate for him that you’re stupid all of a sudden – stupid in the best way. Not the ‘stupid’ you’ve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. It’s anticipation and toes curling and trust. You’ve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.
Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, “I’ll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.”
You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, they’re so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: “Touch me, daddy.”
Pure want blows Jack’s pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.
“There’s my good girl,” he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. “On the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable – don’t try to pose yourself for me. I promise you’re always going to look sexiest when you’re not overthinking it. Understood?”
With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bed’s silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, “Understood.”
He gives you an approving nod – so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until you’re fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, “Jesus, your body is…fucking perfect. No other way to say it. I’ve imagined this so many times I can’t believe you’re even more gorgeous than I pictured.”
“You’ve pictured me naked?”
Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, “Absolutely. I’ve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.”
Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.
“And your hips,” he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you can’t help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.”
Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. He’s looking at your body like you’re a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, “These may be the prettiest nipples I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.”
You let out a self-conscious laugh. “That’s your medical opinion?”
“Purely objective, I assure you,” he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. He’s positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you would’ve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, “Yup, the best. Objectively the best.”
Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, “Only thing better is this pretty face of yours.” His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. “I’m going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.”
You believe him.
You believe him.
In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely it’ll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, “Fuck, you’re gonna take care of me, too, aren’t you?”
You nod, all mischievous and coy. “I’m gonna be your new favorite hobby.”
“I don’t have a single doubt about it,” he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more – your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair – he orders, “Now look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.”
He knows you’re fucking soaked, so there’s no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jack’s brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. “I said look at me.”
Your doe eyes lock onto his.
He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, “Thank you, daddy.”
Jack smiles in earnest. “You’re welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.”
You half-giggle/half-moan, “Yes, sir.”
Jack snickers. “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl.”
Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jack’s rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.
You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. It’s slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide you’re ready to cum – you’re grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas – it’s champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jack’s greedy hand and wrist.
The whole time, there’s his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, that’s it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.
When you’ve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesn’t. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. Not until he’s satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. It’s an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.
With you falling – no, leaping – into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. He’s finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high of you.
He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows you’re close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. You’re relaxing into him now – no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongue’s attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when he’s pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jack’s hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jack’s ears.
You cum again and think that has to be it – you’ve never even been together before, for Christ’s sake – but Jack doesn’t let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but you’re the exact opposite – bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, “Too much, Jack. I- I can’t-”
Because it’s new and you’re at where you’re at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, “Think you can do one more for me, baby girl?”
Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, “I- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.”
He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, “The good kind of ‘dunno anything’ or the bad kind?”
“Good kind,” you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. “Feel really good, Jackie.”
“Jackie,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Been a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.”
You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. “Is that okay?”
He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, “Honey, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as you’re mine. You’re too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.”
You give him a silly grin. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.” He turns you both onto your sides and asks, “Now, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?”
You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, and murmur, “You pick.”
“Uh-uh,” he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, “Not this time. We’re not skipping any steps here; I can’t learn what you need when you need it if you don’t know and tell me first.”
You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. “I think I’m ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?”
Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. “You are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where I’m making all the decisions and you’re just my dumb little slut following orders, you’re safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.”
You poke him in the chest and giggle again, “You’re whipped already, Dr. Abbot.”
“Yeah, I am,” he admits freely. “All I want is to be yours.”
Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like it’s no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong.
He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” You do so without question and get met with another lovely ‘good girl’ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that you’re coming down. Jack’s brow furrows in concentration like he’s performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth he’s cleaning.
Once he’s satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, “Swish and spit.”
Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jack’s guidance is so natural for you. It’s easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, that’s worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, “You don’t have to do all that.”
“I’m going to,” he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, “I take care of what’s mine. When you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.” He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. “I always tend to my pet.”
bf!dex who looks way too pleased with himself when you get angry enough to hit him.
you two make a very disfunctional couple, that much could be said. you patch him up from knife and bullet wounds more often than you go out on dates, and you're constantly arguing about dex's obsessive, infuriating need to keep everything in your life under his control.
on particularly bad fights, you make him grovel for days.
dex will mostly spend them chasing you around your apartment while you pretend not to notice the hulking mass of a man stalking you around every room, an inevitable presence you couldn't get rid of even if you tried. he says i'm sorry and please talk to me and i'll do anything while you try your best to remain unphased, even if the undeniable lack of remorse in his voice only fills you with even more rage.
one day you turn on your heels and slap him across the face.
it's a sudden, sharp crack that echoes around the room like a gunshot. his head turns to the side and stays there, because you struck him hard enough for dex to freeze like that for a moment before he blinks once in surprise, tongue moving inside his mouth to poke the inside of his cheek.
you can see it in him, the change that happens when dex registers the sting and the heat that starts spreading across the side of his face, the shape of your fingertips painting his skin a crimson red. his mouth curls then, lips tugging into a smile as his eyes flutter closed to savor the impact.
you make a disgusted sound, and because you're still pissed, even more mad now than before you realized you can't even hurt him without his deranged brain turning it into this, you snarl: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"
dex only laughs in response, seemingly pulled out of his trance by the sound of your voice. it's the first time you've spoken to him in hours, and something inside him hums in satisfaction at finally earning back your attention, even if you're still scowling at him with an intensity that would make a lesser man feel the urge to bolt.
to dex, though, the only thing worth registering is that he has your eyes back on him once more, your touch back where it belongs—on his skin, burning across his cheek as physical proof.
he reaches out to grab your hand, fingers enclosing around your wrist and lifting your arm with enough gentleness to make you hesitate upon the thought of pulling it right back, then guides your palm to lay flat against the other side of his face.
"i'll let you take it out on me all you want, we both know i deserve it," he says, soft eyes fixed on yours despite the haze of rage still clouding your vision. "but if you really want to hurt me, then you'll have to hit me harder, sweetheart."
STOPPPP there was someone in the 'x reader' tag that rlly wanted a fic like this I hope theyre having an amazing day (just like me nowwwww HEYOOOO 🤪🤪🤪)
Stroking fbi era dex until he’s hard and squirming send tweet 😵💫
FUCK. fbi!dex whos never been touched like that before, giving him gentle purposeful slow strokes so he doesnt float away too quickly, him whimpering high and needy straight into your mouth “you’re so good at that, fuck! its so good-”, hips lifting up pathetically to seek the friction of your hand, he keeps one hand wrapped around your wrist like maybe he intends to make you stop, but he never does, he just sighs a little broken "please” every time you reach the tip, you keep doing it until hes so hard hes leaking out, thrashing with every stroke, tossing his head back like he cant bare the obscene sight of your hand wrapped around him and smeared with the heavy flow of what he’s about to shoot out
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A/n: Bell is alive AU / established relationship. Bell and Wood's share a sibling relationship.
Fem!Bell , Russian Bell , Short! Bell.
The storm rolled in slow, it wasn't dramatic...at first nor was it loud.
Just thick clouds crawling over the horizon while heat clung to the safehouse walls like wet fabric. The air outside had gone strangely still hours ago, the kind of heavy silence that made the trees stop moving and the birds disappear.
You hated it immediately. "This country is disgusting in summer.”
Woods snorted from the couch without looking up from his beer. “Says the Russian.”
“Yes,” you deadpanned. “Because my homeland does not feel like Satan’s sweaty asscrack.”
Mason immediately folded over laughing clutching a water bottle while Hudson pinched the bridge of his nose.
Adler, sitting at the kitchen table cleaning his pistol with the patience of a saint, didn’t even glance up.
“You’ve complained about the weather for six straight hours.”
“Because it is attacking me personally.”
“You said that about the sun yesterday too.”
“The sun knows what it did.”
Woods barked out another laugh. “You two are basically married.”
“We are basically armed,” Adler answered flatly.
You pointed dramatically at him. “See? Romance.”
Another rumble of thunder rolled somewhere far off.
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then the entire safehouse dropped into darkness.Silence rang out through the safe house as Hudson let out an audible sigh. “Goddammit,” he muttered.
Woods groaned loudly from the couch. “Aw hell no.”
Rain suddenly slammed against the roof in violent sheets.
Not gentle rain.
Not peaceful rain.
Absolute apocalypse rain.
The kind that sounded like the sky was actively trying to fistfight the earth.
Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, illuminating the living room in sharp white for half a second before darkness swallowed everything again as the loud sound of thunder rang out.
“Well,” Mason sighed. “That’s probably not good.”
The air conditioning dying made everything instantly worse.
Within minutes the house felt sticky and unbearable.
Woods abandoned the couch dramatically. “I’m gonna die.”
“You’re 39,” Hudson replied. “Not eighty.”
“Same thing in this heat.”
You were already sprawled face-first across the kitchen table. “I cannot breathe.”
Adler finally looked up at you. “You’re being dramatic.”
“You love me because I am dramatic.."
“That’s not why.”
You lifted your head slightly. “Then why?”
Adler stared at you for exactly one second too long before returning to cleaning his weapon. “That remains classified.”
Woods made gagging noises. “Jesus Christ.”
Another crack of thunder shook the windows.
The storm intensified fast after that.
Rain hammered the house so hard it almost drowned out the constant arguing inside. Water streaked down the windows in sheets while lightning flashed every few minutes, briefly illuminating the safehouse in pale silver.
The boys eventually migrated toward the kitchen where the candles were.
Mostly because it was slightly cooler.
Mostly because everyone was bored.
You sat backwards on one of the chairs, chin resting against your folded arms while sweat clung to the back of your neck.
Your tank top had started sticking to your skin almost an hour ago. “This is psychological warfare,” you muttered.
Mason pointed at you with a flashlight. “You’ve said that about six things today.”
“Because America keeps inventing new suffering.”
Woods opened another beer. “You almost got taken out by a lawn sprinkler earlier.”
“It moved unexpectedly.”
“It rotates.”
“Like I said.”
Adler finally stood from the table, holstering his pistol before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
The cold air escaped for only a second before the refrigerator shut again.
You watched him approach from beneath half-lidded eyes.
Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt slightly, his sleeves were rolled up showing off his biceps just enough as the storm outside briefly lit the sharp line of his jaw.
Annoyingly handsome.
You hated that for yourself.
Adler handed you the water bottle. “You’re overheating.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re five foot nothing. You’d survive a nuclear event out of spite.”
“That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Woods gagged again. “Can you freaks stop flirting for ten minutes?”
“No,” you and Adler answered simultaneously.
Mason nearly choked laughing.
Another hour passed before Hudson finally disappeared upstairs to sleep.
Woods followed after complaining dramatically about “swamp ass.”
Mason lasted another fifteen minutes before abandoning ship too.
Eventually the safehouse grew quiet except for the storm.
Rain.
Thunder.
The occasional creak of old wood.
And you.
Still suffering.
You sat on the kitchen counter now, legs swinging slightly while Adler leaned against the opposite side of the island nursing black coffee despite the heat.
“You know,” you said quietly, “in movies summer storms are romantic.”
Adler raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yes. In reality I am damp everywhere and angry.”
“That sounds about right.”
Lightning flashed again.For a brief second the kitchen glowed silver-blue.
Adler looked unfairly attractive in low light.
You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously as you puffed out your cheeks. “This is your fault somehow.”
“My fault?”
“You brought me to America.”
“You came willingly.”
“You smiled at me once and ruined my judgment.”
That finally earned a laugh from him, a real one too, the one that was low and rough.
Not loud, but genuine enough to make warmth bloom in your chest despite the miserable heat.
You slid off the counter and wandered toward him barefoot.
The hardwood floors were cool beneath your feet.
Adler watched you approach with the familiar look he always got around you nowadays , equal parts exhausted and helplessly fond.
You stopped between his knees where he leaned against the counter.
Then dramatically collapsed against his chest.“I am melting...I am not built for heat.”
“You’re fine.”
“No. Hold me while I perish.”
“You’re not perishing.”
You wrapped your arms around his waist anyway.
Adler sighed softly, though one hand immediately settled against your back out of instinct.
Warm.
Steady.
Safe.
Thunder rolled outside again.
You pressed your cheek against his shirt. “…Still hate summer.”
His fingers slid slowly through your hair. “You complain a lot for someone currently using me as a body pillow.”
“You are large and cold. Like expensive refrigerator.”
Adler snorted quietly. “You compare all your loved ones to appliances?”
“Only the useful ones.”
The rain continued hammering the roof and for a while neither of you spoke.
You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Slow.
Calm.
Grounding.
Steady.
Your eyes started drifting shut before another violent crack of thunder startled you awake as you jumped slightly then scowled.
Adler’s hand immediately tightened against your waist. “You scared?”
“No.”
Another lightning strike hit somewhere nearby. The thunder that followed rattled the damn windows.
You buried your face deeper into his chest instantly grabbing a fist full of his shirt. “…Maybe little bit.”
Adler looked down at you knowingly. “You nearly fought Woods with a sparkler last week.”
“He deserved it.”
“But thunder scares you?”
“It is loud and judgmental.”
He laughed again quietly. Then, without a word, Adler shifted, guiding you with him toward the old couch in the living room.
You practically melted the second he sat down and pulled you against him. Your legs tangled with his automatically, head against his shoulder.
His arm draped around your waist as outside , the storm raged harder and inside, the room stayed dim and warm and safe.
You traced lazy circles against his chest.“…You know,” you mumbled sleepily, “when I first met you, I thought you were terrifying.”
“I was.”
“You still are.”
“Good.”
“But now you are also shaped like a pillow.”
Adler looked down at you. “You flirt weird.”
“You like it.”
“…Yeah.”
Your lips twitched softly.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows now instead of pounding.The storm was finally starting to calm.
Your breathing slowed gradually against him.
Adler kept one hand running slowly along your spine.Protective.Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore.
Half asleep, you mumbled against his chest. “If power does not come back tomorrow…I vote we invade Canada.”
“Why Canada?”
“They seem less sweaty.”
Adler pressed a kiss against the top of your head.
“You’re impossible.”
“Mhm.”
Then quieter. “But you love me anyway.”
His arm tightened slightly around you. Outside, thunder rumbled one last time across the horizon.
Inside, Adler rested his chin lightly against your hair and closed his eyes.
author's note: sorry for the quick ending. this was sitting in my drafts for a week and idk how to end it so i just ended it.
masterlist.
word count: 1,275
plot: you get a traumatic brain injury but your fiancé is hard at work helping you remember your life.
warnings: reader has amnesia. i LOVE PATHETIC FBI MANIPULATOR DEX. manipulation. implied and slightly described stalking. potentially dead dove in a way. minors DNI. reader and dex are not really together if you couldn't tell.
you were kneeling with a box of your things in his apartment. you didn't recognise a lot of it and looking at it was making the wound on your head throb like crazy.
it made you feel so off-put, you didn't know why. your stomach would twist and your mind would scream and it all went straight to stabbing you in the eyeballs.
"baby?" dex's voice came from the other room. the door opened and there he was. he looked worried, ready to chastise you again for forgetting the rule about doors. "why's the door closed?"
you turned, head on the bandage on your head in mind-numbing contemplation. "i forgot," you tried your best at looking apologetic.
closed doors weren't allowed when you were injured, apparently. sure, fine, that made sense. you had been getting dizzy really easily and sometimes vomiting, all side effects of whatever pills you were on and a traumatic brain injury.
yesterday, you had fallen on carpet. you were convinced he was going to chain you to the bed.
he didn't say any more about it, his gaze catching the box. "any luck?" he asked. his hand twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you, comfort you in your confusion. then, he did, still standing above you, his hand moved to press your head to his thigh as he rubbed your head, to comfort you. certainly, this action was for himself, obviously.
his fingers found your scalp, threaded through your hair. he began to rub firm circles, the kind of pressure that usually made you melt. you would assume. you wondered how different you were since the accident.
"nah," you sighed. you let it happen, you didn't hate it. you didn't know what you liked either. "i still don't recognize anything, it's all just... stuff."
"that's the amnesia," he said. "things don't feel familiar. it's disorienting. it's supposed to feel wrong."
you didn't respond, moving your head off his thigh to pick up a scarf that you grimaced at.
his hand didn't leave your head, he just moved with you. his thumb brushed the shell of your ear, tender and what you imagine to be loving. "brains are weird and you're still healing. give it time."
you went for jogs most days. if you didn't jog on a given day, you would still walk.
he liked going with you, even if you didn't know it. and didn't know him.
you didn't know him yet, not really.
you'd only crossed paths a few times, he was in FBI SWAT and you were a whole other team. most recently, you smiled at him once, when you were on his floor to meet with someone else. but that's not where it started, it was training. you were at quantico together.
he told himself he was just working up the nerve to speak to you, it had just been a few months of this. watching your routines.
he watched from just slightly down the street as you left your building. you always looked both ways before you started down the street. he would wait ten seconds before following you, at most, he was thirty yards behind you.
you turned onto 11th avenue. the light was red, you looked both ways, like you always did. but that delivery truck came out of nowhere.
he didn't even hear you scream, didn't hear a sound. he didn't know if that was just his body's reaction to seeing you hurt, or if it was the reality of what happened. silence.
blood pooling from the back of your skull, your hand twitched like it wanted to reach for it, but your eyes were fluttering shut. he didn't evne remember running towards you, shouting about calling 911. he almost was ready to pick you up and carry you himself, preparing to run you to the nearest hospital.
the emt almost didn't let him come with you. he thought of you, alone in the hospital. so he said he was your fiancé.
he didn't know why he said it. why didn't he say boyfriend? why not husband?
when you had been unconscious in the hospital, he had went to get a ring. he didn't know why. he didn't know you'd wake with amnesia. maybe he thought he would propose later, take this as a meet-cute opportunity more than anything else.
until they told him you didn't remember him, the man who brought you in, who everyone believed was your fiancé, then another plan formed in his mind.
when you woke up days later, he said he found it where the accident happened and slid it right onto your finger.
"dex... maybe i could sleep in your room tonight?" you had been sleeping in the guest room. for your comfort. you sounded so shy, unsure.
his thumb paused against your scalp and you felt it immediately. but then he started rubbing those slow circles again, steadier this time, grounding himself more than you.
“you wanna sleep in our room?” he repeated.
he was also correcting you about what he wanted to believe. or maybe it was more about what he wanted you to believe. and he was your only tether to the truth of your reality; you had forgotten everything else, and the only things that you knew about your life, your personality, your likes and dislikes, came from his lips.
his room? no. it was our room.
"we could just try it tonight, maybe? see how it goes?" your expression almost turned embarrassed as you looked up at him. "i keep waking up not knowing where i am. maybe i would just feel better if you were... beside me, i don't know."
he stared at you. he imagined you in his bed so many times it made him sick. so many scenarios ran through his head from before the accident, most of them making him stiff in his pants.
when he would watch you through your webcam through the laptop you forgot to close when you passed out, or through your bedroom window. he wondered what the weight of you against him would feel like, what the sound of your voice sounded like at 3 a.m., he wanted to know if you would curl up against his warmth, or turn away from it.
it wasn't crazy for him to think about this. he already knew your coffee order, your jogging routine, among the many other routines in your life he used to mould his around just to catch a glimpse of you.
"yeah," he breathed, a bit too fast. "yeah, of course."
that night, he tries to be perfect. he keeps his distance, careful not to overwhelm you like he hadn't been petting your head like a dog earlier.
the mattress is firmer than the guest room's. the pillows smell like his laundry detergent, like him. you wonder why, if this is your shared room, it doesn't smell you?
he lies down on his side, keeping space between you. "all good?"
you nod, staring at the ceiling, you try to relax, but you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. the same feeling you get when you're being watched in an empty room.
in the middle of the night, you wake up. you feel him, right behind you, his front pressed to your back, one arm draped heavily over your waist. he's breathing slow against your hair, but just a little off. is he pretending to sleep?
his arm feels less like an anchor and more like a lock. when you shift, his arm tightens out of some reflex. his body automatically locks up in panic when you pull away from him. just as quick as his grip tightened, he's relaxing again.
"shh," he whispers, voice thick with false sleep. "go back to sleep, baby."
