Shattered Nightingale

summary: due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.

a/n: I can't say enough how blown away I am that y'all loved the offer so much. it was just meant to be a slutty lil one off for kinktober, a way for me to play around with an idea that had been lingering in the back of my head for awhile, and a chance for me to try my hand at writing for dex. your excitement made me so excited, and i've been having so much fun with this. thank you thank you thank you again. 🖤

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»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

session one: the offer

session two: the rules

session three: the complication

session four: the final session

termination: the escape

The apartment was dark when you came back, and you knew before you even switched on the light that he was there.

The air told you before your eyes did—thick, heavy, edged with that nervous charge that only ever came with Dex. You shut the door quiet, leaned against it, and listened.

A breath. Ragged. Too quick. Somewhere near the couch.

“Dex,” you said softly, not a question, not a call—just a name dropped into the silence like bait.

There was a shuffle, a scrape against the floor. Then he was there, half-shadowed by the weak light of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look at anything. Just stood with his weight pressed awkwardly against the wall, his shirt darkened across the ribs, sticky where the fabric clung.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, stepping forward. The smell hit you next—iron, sharp and metallic, thick enough you could taste it on your tongue. “What the fuck happened?”

He twitched, like the sound of your voice cut through whatever haze he’d been drowning in. His eyes dragged up to yours, pale blue and fever-bright. His mouth worked, but nothing came. Then, finally, a rasp.

“Got… sloppy.”

You reached for him, but he flinched—jerked back, a wild animal backed into a corner. The motion nearly doubled him over, pain lancing sharp enough to draw a hiss from between his teeth.

“Dex,” you warned, low, steady. “You’re bleeding. Can’t fuck around like this.”

For a moment, it looked like he might fight you. Like he might slip back out that window and vanish into the night again. But then his knees buckled, and he didn’t have the strength to argue. You caught him before he hit the floor, lowering him onto the couch as gently as you could manage.

His shirt was soaked through. The wound was ugly—knife, maybe. Jagged cut along his ribs, deep enough that every breath made him wince. His hands were trembling, smeared with his own blood.

Your hands stayed on his shoulders for a while, assessing the damage. Then, you squeezed his shoulders and stood straight.

You walked into the bathroom, reaching for the first aid kit under the sink, your chest tight with something that wasn’t just anger, wasn’t just worry—it was that sick, gnawing thing he planted in you every time he came back like this. That reminder that one day, maybe, he wouldn’t come back at all.

You returned to the couch, holding the kit steadily as your eyes roamed over his figure. He was half-slumped on the cushions, pale and slick with sweat, but his eyes never left you. Like he was memorizing every movement, every line of you in the dim light, even through the haze of pain.

“Hold still,” you said, kneeling beside him. “This is gonna hurt.”

He huffed something between a laugh and a groan. “Everything… already does.”

You ignored him. Scissors slid under the hem of his shirt, slicing up through the soaked fabric. He flinched at every tug where the cotton stuck to his skin, breath catching sharp when you peeled it away from the wound. The shirt landed on the floor in a heavy, wet heap.

The cut was worse than you thought. A gash along his ribs, ugly and angry, the edges already swollen and raw. Blood welled sluggishly when he breathed.

“Fuck, Dex…” You reached for the antiseptic, pouring it onto gauze until it dripped. “This is gonna burn.”

Silence.

You pressed the pad to the wound. He sucked in a breath, every muscle in his torso jumping. His hand shot out, fingers clamping white-knuckled around your thigh like he needed something to anchor him. You didn’t stop. You pressed harder, dragging the sting out, scrubbing away the blood until the skin beneath was clean but screaming red.

“Fuck,” he gasped, jaw tight.

You swapped out for fresh gauze, wiped slower this time, tracing the line of the cut with grim precision. He shivered under the touch, not just from pain—you saw the way his lashes fluttered, the way his mouth parted like he was holding something back.

You paused for a moment, meeting his gaze for a second, before focusing back on the wound.

“Lookin’ at me like I made Heaven and Earth…” you scoffed, voice barely audible.

He didn’t answer, not at first. Just breathed raggedly, eyes locked to your face like he couldn’t decide if he was drowning or praying.

“Like what?” he questioned, as if he was daring you.

“Nothing.”

You didn’t bite. Just reached for the wrap, tugging it snug around his ribs. He hissed, back arching against the couch as the bandage tightened, pulling the edges of the wound together. His fingers dug deeper into your thigh, leaving bruises you’d feel tomorrow.

His breath hitched. His hand twitched, like he might grab your wrist, press your palm harder against his ribs. He didn’t. But you saw it. Felt it.

Your stomach twisted, equal parts heat and fury. But you ignored it.

“Almost…”

He didn’t reply. Just breathed and lolled his head to the side.

The silence after that was thick, broken only by his uneven breathing and the rip of gauze. You bandaged him tight, pulling the wrap firm enough to make him hiss, to make his back arch against the couch. His hands gripped the cushions, veins standing out, knuckles white.

“Hurts,” he gasped.

“Good,” you bit out, meeting his eyes finally. “Maybe it’ll remind you not to come crawling back to me half-dead next time.”

But the sound he made then—it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t protest. It was low, raw, almost a moan, and it sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

You froze. He didn’t. His chest heaved, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted like he couldn’t catch enough air. He was wrecked, trembling, bandaged and bloody and still looking at you like you hung the stars and the noose around his neck at the same time.

“Dex…” you warned, softer this time.

He didn’t answer, not with words. Just leaned forward, pain and all, catching your shirt in blood-stained fingers and dragging your mouth down to his.

The kiss was desperate, messy, tasting of copper and salt and smoke. He groaned into it, every sound torn out of him like it hurt, like he couldn’t tell the difference between agony and want anymore. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t care.

You should’ve stopped. He was injured, barely holding himself together. But you didn’t. Because you were just as fucked up as him, just as tangled in the web he spun. And when his trembling hand slid lower, clutching at your hip like he was begging without words, you gave in.

You shifted, straddling him carefully, mindful of the bandage even as his breath hitched, sharp and frantic. His head fell back against the couch, exposing the line of his throat, his chest heaving under you.

“Don’t,” he panted, voice breaking. “Don’t be gentle.”

The way he said it—raw, pleading—made your teeth sink into his jaw, hard enough to leave marks. His body arched, a choked whine escaping him, torn between pain and pleasure.

Your hand slid down, undoing his pants with rough, impatient movements. He was already hard, straining, his whole body shaking when you wrapped your hand around him.

“Fucking hell,” you muttered against his throat as his hips jerked helplessly.

The sound he made was wrecked, desperate—half-gasp, half-moan. His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth falling open around broken noises he couldn’t bite back. Every stroke made him shudder, his bandaged ribs rising and falling too fast, his head lolling back like he was coming apart in your hands.

“Look at you,” you murmured, low, taunting. “Bleeding all over my couch and still so desperate. What would they say if they saw you like this?”

His eyes shot open, wide, glassy, panic flickering under the haze of want. He shook his head fast, trembling harder.

“Shut up,” he rasped, voice cracking.

“Make me,” you whispered, squeezing harder, dragging your thumb over the head.

He didn’t. Instead, he cried out—loud, broken—and his hips bucked up, wild and uncontrollable.

“Please,” he choked, the word ripped out of him like it cost him everything. “Please—don’t stop—”

That was it. You stroked him rougher, faster, until he was unraveling completely, every muscle taut, every sound spilling raw from his throat. He came hard, jerking, shaking under you, his head slamming back against the cushion as a hoarse sob broke out of him.

You held him through it, slow strokes until he collapsed, boneless, trembling and panting, sweat dripping down his temple. You smeared his cum down his softening cock.

He slumped against you, too weak to move, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You held him there, your hand in his sweat-damp hair, the scent of blood and salt clinging to both of you.

“You’re gonna kill yourself one of these nights,” you whispered, softer now, almost tender.

His laugh was hollow, broken, muffled against your skin. “Wouldn’t mind if it was you.”

You smacked his shoulder softly, like it was some kind of warning.

“You’re out of your mind,” you groaned.

“And you’re not?”

You didn't reply.

But you held him anyway.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse