dex, who, after years of military training and completed missions, is gradually losing his hearing. as time goes by, he finds himself preferring bladed weapons, or anything without gunpowder, because the noise has become like needles of pain piercing his eardrum right down to the bone. voices, little by little, have become a distant hum; the birds do not sing where he goes; you see the discman hidden in the rubbish; headphones for going for a run are too expensive, he tells you; when you speak to him from another room, he doesn’t even notice unless you come in and he can see your lips. 'you speak too softly', he replies repeatedly. when you realise what his problem is, you also realise there’s no way to help. for him, the world has lost its vibrancy—not his perception of it, because that would be to admit that, in a few years’ time, he’ll no longer be able to hear your voice. there are days when the tinnitus is so overwhelming that he’s completely engulfed by it, rendered speechless. but when he realises that you’ve realised, he feigns attempts at a smile when you look at him or initiates a conversation himself to keep a coherent thread going. some nights he’s fucked you in complete silence. on the nights that were still good, he allowed himself the luxury of telling you to scream louder so he could sense his name on your lips without having to follow them with his eyes. you, being aware to a certain extent, began to teach him sign language as you learnt it yourself in parallel so that you could ‘share a secret language in public’, and he gave in word by word without nodding in agreement because he refused to leave you submerged in that eternal noise surrounding his useless ears.

·

dex, who follows a strict regimen to stay on track (the only thing keeping him on track with you), has learnt to live with a certain detachment from his libido. on the long list of side effects—which plunged him into a dark spiral several times when he was younger—he was particularly sceptical about the terms ‘erectile dysfunction’ and ‘decreased sex drive’. firstly because he thought it was a feverish dream too far-fetched to imagine having a partner, and secondly because of the few things he doubted in life, his sexuality wasn't one of them. however, you have pointed out his indifferent attitude in various situations. you wouldn’t say he’s cold, and he has assured you that it’s not because you have to make an effort to arouse any feelings in him, but because it’s a side effect of his medication. “I’m sorry,” was what he’d said most often in bed, frowning and pinching the bridge of his nose. you rub his shoulder, hoping the warmth of your hand might relax him, whilst you lie in a tiny, silky nightdress on your side of the bed. “It’s all right. It’s late, and we’ve been drinking; we’ve got an early start tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter,” you say, tucking your legs under the sheets when all you wanted was to end the day on a high note, letting him fuck you in that clumsy, and clingy, and damp way once night had fallen. that feeling that he loved you so much and so deeply that he apologised within minutes for feeling like he was about to come by just looking at you—it already made the day’s worries fade away, you know? but when you turn around that night, and he looks at your face too late—out of cowardice—doesn’t manage to read your lips, so he doesn’t know if you’re angry or if you’ve just turned away without speaking to him. his heart races every night when he comes home from work, usually late, and finds you awake in bed. the bed has become a pit, so he starts to seriously consider the possibility of taking another medication to treat himself, like an old man. anything for you and to form a ‘us’

·

younger dex (fbi) thought about baby trapping you so badly. every time he caught a glimpse of you, chatting to people in public like the outgoing person you are, seeing you seem so far away like only a fantasy can be, all smiling lips with tender words... that you scared him. your charm shinning through in every gesture that came so naturally to you, just like a skilled summoner, but how do you manage to be so popular with so many people? why don’t you even need to know the other person’s name to make them laugh? why did people strike up a conversation with you in waiting rooms or shopping centres? and why didn’t you fucking complain about it? so, he knows is wrong, too twisted, but can't help it wondering about you being filled with him in all aspects of your life. just to make sure his charming girl never leaves his side even though all eyes are on her as if they were invitations from heaven. you're kinda permissive using withdrawal methods, because i wanna feel you whole, yeah? just the tip if you want... please. just don't cum inside. so he's halfway through it. dex would track your cycle easily checking the app you have on your phone, and when the good days were about to happen, he will ignore you an entire weekend to make you needy. oh, and when you finally land hands on him... he will throw you to the edge. get you so well fucked out with his tongue and fingers that before he even fucks you the only thing on your mind is foggy, babbling words. you feel like a cloud. and that makes him wet sighning into your mouth with his dark desires crowning his eyes while looking at the innocent frown on your pretty face. doe eyes with a charming heart, that way will be his daughter? stubborn but precious like you? "ffuck... baby, i'm gonna cum, i'm so sorry" he whines low, splitting you in half. a creamy noise cheering his every move as he thrust inside. "you'd like that, right?" he taunts and you laugh beneath his lips, legs locking subconsciously behind his waist. you nod fiercely, clinging onto his thick arms while you hold his gaze, as if he were crumbling at the thought that you’d let him fuck you like that, raw and warm. his pretty, sweet girl, longing to feel skin against skin, gliding in and out of her own moans with ease, waiting wide open. and what should he have done? by the end of the night, no one could remember such minute details. once you’d come back down to earth, all you wanted to do was curl up under the sheets and close your eyes, rushing headlong into tomorrow—clinging to his arm or letting him half-crush you as he held you from behind. yes... he would think, watching you sleep. keeping you by his side: hat’s his bullseye

he’s not an easy person to be around. dex was diagnosed but still ain't right, and you were willing to land your hands onto a psychiatrist.

some days he’d come home from work upset about something he wouldn’t tell you, and no film would be good enough to sit and watch for two hours; all the parks in the city were either too far away or too crowded to go for a walk; the house was far too messy; the light was too bright – turn it off; not a word came out of his mouth, though he kept shaking his head in disapproval; his clothes felt uncomfortable, even itchy, just like his behaviour

‘you're overwhelmed and you're really starting to get on my nerves. for our own good, go have a cold shower and get into bed.’ you quickly learnt that, on bad days, dex needed to be told what to do, what he needed and how to sort it out

‘i can't,’ he replied, trembling slightly as he tried to keep still when you forced him to sit down on the couch, staring at the floor

‘i've got some pills in my bag, pretty boy. you know, for emergencies.’ you ran your hand through his dirty-blonde hair, moving up towards the crown of his head till the tip of your fingers spread across the tickling spots. ‘is it an emergency?’

dex swallowed his reproaches and complaints hard, letting the bitter aftertaste fill his mouth before muttering, ‘yeah. i think so.’ because he didn’t want you to just ‘tolerate’ him, but to love him pouring your heart out, bleeding and warm, and hold it into your bare hands: he wanted you to love him, and he wasn’t going to let anyone take you away from him, not even himself. let alone himself.

the next move he didin't even noticed was lifting his chin up to you. politely waiting for the pill you put in his mouth, without fleching when he felt the tip of your fingers brushing against his tongue.

‘there you go’ you said, patting him and letting out a soft sigh as you gazed at him absently. dex seemed more peaceful and human when he was tired. the smell of the midnight rain clinging onto his skin. the scars were fading, or blending in more and more with his face every day, except for the one that ran across the top of his cheek

you leaned against his shoulder and traced the line with your finger ‘does it hurt?’

‘no’ he answered, taking a deep breath looking at the tv, having foretold it. not even once he admitted it

‘the skin is red; it always happens to you. it’s as if you glow when you’re annoyed.’ you ran your hand over the prominent scar, letting your fingertip dance along the edge of the pale skin that had been tasked with rebuilding the missing part

you tilt your head as if your thoughts were weighing you down, bringing your lips close to his pain and planting a kiss there. one after another, each one deep, gently holding him in place with the hand you had in his hair. you traced the path marked by the scar with your warm tongue, leading to his lips, and began to kiss him before dex could even consider what you intended to do whilst he was lost in thought, watching him being beautifully tortured

you slipped a leg between his as you sat beside him on the couch, running the palm of one hand down the neck of his t-shirt, across his chest (or palming his tits, whichever sounded best), catching every heartbeat that pounded against his ribs. you kissed him filling his mouth with cinnamon sticks; he returned the kiss with the tart taste of the pill melting on both your tongues, searching blindly to cup one of your breasts through the clothes.

all touchy hands, barely air between damp kisses, the smell of sweat accumulated throughout the day and the rain-soaked earth drifting in through the window

dex feels like he’s losing his mind when you murmur ‘i got it, baby. make yourself comfortable and take it. yeah?’. everytime you ride him, taking effortlessly what you wanted from him. lowering him to a passive role—simply accepting whatever you decided with a nod of his head and half-closed eyelids, keeping his hands busy being buried in the soft flesh of your hips beneath your nightdress.

because, how could he possibly deprive you of that?

‘yeah’ he grunted, smiling as he nodded

you licked your lips hungrily as you looked at him, rubbing yourself against his thighs without actually realising it. ‘you're doing it so good, baby.’ the praise came out naturally to your mouth for him, unbuckling his belt. dex didn't usually have to guide himself in to get in smoothly; for you, it was just a wet push. he never missed it.

so when you ask him like this? all soft and velvety, taking advantage of him when the pills started to loosen him up and his bad attitude; do you like what i do to you, baby? overwhelmingly intoxicating— c'mon, tell me how you feel

dex groans at ease, a moaning sweaty mess, and buries his hands in the curves of your thighs and waist because, ‘oh, ffuck...’ replies, something between tired and tortured when you slowed down, closing his beautiful blonde lashes

his cock twitches, pulsing, and he has to bite down at the inside of his lip. it’s too soon, he knows, he's pathetic when it comes to you, but he can't help himself. it’s like your meek voice is a trigger for him

‘you feel so good, dove’, dex repeats to himself, his thick hands planted on the fat of your ass, squeezing greedily, before hoisting you up to feel the delicious press of your walls drag along his cock. it is such an enveloping warmth; all feverish and soft.

‘so tight, and warm, and wet, and pretty, and... and you deserve so much more’ dex cries, reaching his saturation, breathing heavily beneath you. him letting himself be swallowed up by the sofa, just as he wishes he could swallow up his own moans

‘what you saying baby?’ you gently stroke his face, wiping away his tears with tender brushes, kissing a few. his eyes get so glossy and light-blue when he cries you moan against his jaw

‘i bet you pity me because i'm crazy, and useless’ dex hiccup, breathy and hitching, thrusting himself so deep into you that it makes himself wince, the pace you drive is dizzying: drawing big slowy eights with your hips ‘please don't leave me, you don't need me, but i do need you, so much... christ! baby, please... let me cum inside’

he mumbles, moans words strung together, almost a nonsense whine to your ears between needy beggings. sometimes, you let dex say horrible things to himself, it was his own twisted way to cope with his issues

‘yes, you can, pretty thing. listen to me’ you were always letting him hit raw, and he knew that wouldn't change, yet he loved asking, knowing you’d say yes to him, dripping. it was filthy really for those who weren't the lovers, the creamy sound of his pelvis slapping against your ass drilling into his ears. probably makes him even more sensitive, whimpering.

dex might have been a grey, broad-shouldered man with a tight-lipped expression, but with you? with you, he was boisterous and soft-spoken

‘thre... two... and let it go, baby, do it. give it to me’ you craddle his head, arching your back as a needy cat

and he cums with his face dead between the soft spot of your breasts, thick sticky strings from his meaty cock, pulsing into your core as he gladly suffered. then you pout when the sobs start. neither none of you knows where one ends and the other begins ‘aw baby ssh... shh i know, you always do it so well.’

you take him by the neck so he looks at you.

then you let him fold over, the vein in his neck stands out as he tilts his head back, leaning against the back of the sofa while you rock your hips in a more sloppy rhythm as youself come to a stop. leaving him empty and numbed.

a quiet tear after the storm rolls down his temple and you laugh; you use it to half-tease him, half-praise him for how well he’s done.

you wipe the tear from his temple and bring it to dex's lips—already dry—, then stick your fingers into his mouth until he gags, getting your hands covered in his saliva before you slap him hard across the face, which he takes with a smile, like a good boy.

‘i do love you. you know that, right?’ you gasp from the effort

‘mhm...’ and dex is nodding along whatever you say with a puppy expression on his face. oh, yes, you looked after him so well; you knew what he wanted even before he needed it

bodyguard!dex who keeps it too professional, and your attitude isn't helping to defuse the akward situation

you hate how silent he is. he appears out of nowhere and nearly gives you a heart attack at least twice a day. standing there with a vacant stare and his hands clasped, as if he were waiting for you to engage with him or for the worst possible catastrophe—full of blood and screams—to unfold. you never know what he's thinking.

“stop following me.” you repeat every damn time. doesn't matter if you're in a public space or screaming it through your living room windows.

“mr. fisk told me to protect you.” and he simply replies, without looking at your face.

“i don’t need your protection.”

“that’s not your decision.”

those words made your skin crawl every time he repeated them, letting you go after trying to throw something at him that he’d catch with his left hand. maybe her father was right, she needed someone to protect her… and if dex put you in any danger, wilson fisk would be furious if he didn’t have his precious daughter under his wing to keep her in a gilded cage

bodyguard!dex who has to deal with a bratty lady if he wants to stay alive.

so, you start doing dumb things just to just to try and get him to leave, or to tease him:

taking random taxis without warning

disappearing into crowded clubs

flirting with dangerous men at parties

and dex always finds you within minutes

the terrifying part is how easy it is for him

he always catches you, giving you just enough breathing space to think you’ve won, but never enough time for something outside his radar to actually happen.

you will duck through subway crowds, change coats with strangers, cut through alleyways... and then:

“you’re not making this difficult.”

he’ll be standing right there, completely calm, not even out of breath.

“put effort to make it fun for yourself, at least.”

“motherfucker...” you pant.

that taxi? will have a flat tyre. the crowds? he can blend in with the people you leave behind, pushing them aside with the space his shoulders take up. he can follow your scent of an expensive girl from anywhere. the man you shouldn't be talking to? dex was already watching him before you even notice the danger yourself.

he catches the man’s posture, the angle of his hands, he assesses with his eyes just how exposed his neck is, the number of exits behind you... but he lets you play with it.

and if the stranger gets too comfortable—too close or too smiling—you’ll suddenly feel dex at your shoulder, knowing it's him without having to turn around.

quiet. massive. inhumanly still.

the man stops talking to you, so you look down at your drink on the bar.

“walk away,” he says flatly.

most men do. and the ones who don’t, dex doesn't give you the satisfaction of seeing him annoyed. he stays back.

three minutes later, when he would be smiling again: CRACK!

the man suddenly folds over clutching his face because somehow an olive pit launched from across the room hit him directly in the eye at mach 3.

nobody knows where it came from, dex is still standing beside you holding your drink untouched. when you wipe the drop of blood from your cheek and turn towards him, he already has your coat draped over his arm.

“you attract dangerous people” he murmurs, like he isn’t the worst one there. “we should get going”

—

another gets cocky in a charity gala. too public, plus the cameras. he smiles at dex and you let him put a hand on your lower back anyway.

you turned to look at dex, just to play along, and he simply ran his tongue over his teeth, turning his back to you. you couldn’t believe it; you were sweating. had you won that one?

barely seconds after, something wet touches you before the crack of the glass. the champagne in his hand fucking explodes into your dress, soaking your neckline.

the man stares at his shredded sleeve in confusion while dex calmly asks you:

“do you have a spare dress?”

—

one particularly persistent finance bro laughs after being warned, one that you didin't even try to play with.

“i’m not scared of your bodyguard.”

“you should” you surrender, sighing, taking a sip of a can. nothing that can be cracked.

dex says nothing. looks at you, you look at him.

one minute later the guy’s phone flies out of his hand and directly into a decorative fountain.

the man only manage to blink. “fucki—”

then:

an ice cube hits his forehead

a canapé lands in his suit pocket

a waiter trips and a fork embeds perfectly into the wall beside his ear

at this point the guy looks genuinely haunted.

meanwhile dex is beside you adjusting his cufflinks with the blankest expression imaginable.

try to chat someone up has become a bit of a joke between the two of you, and the funniest part is that dex never reacts afterward.

you’ll be trying not to laugh while the man searches the room for the invisible force attacking him, and dex just quietly leans down near your ear:

“he’s still looking at you.”

THWACK.

the poor bastard immediately gets hit in the throat with a macaron from forty feet away.

well... you have to find another way to get it more tense.

bodyguard!dex who holds his breath as he peer through the peephole at your flat’s window at two in the morning and don’t find you there

the noise is getting bigger than him at this point. he tries to keep it methodical: check the street - call the driver - scan exits - reconstruct timelines.

fisk told him your scape routes, but this time you just vanished and he comprehends that he shouldn't have had the drink you offered him before entering your home.

something ancient and ugly crawls up the back of his throat, scratching his skull: he failed.

dex unlocks the door in under three seconds, franatic. the apartment still smells faintly like your perfume, which somehow makes it worse. like prey warmth left behind after the body’s already gone.

his breathing changes immediately, shallow and shorter, so the kitchen is untouched, your bed cold with the window cracked open. a post-it sticks in the glass: a mark of your red lips

a fucking goodbye? that was it?

dex starts moving through the apartment too fast, throwing drawers open hard enough to crack wood, because now the thoughts are coming: did someone harm you whilst he hasn't been with you? you had a plan? did fisk knew before me?

that last one nearly makes him throw up regrets and bitterness.

the city unfolded beneath him like a living map as he descended. from the rooftop access he’d commandeered, new york stopped being buildings and streets, it became trails of you. the way crowds flowed and split because of the cadence of someone trying to disappear.

silly girl.

because, at this point, you taught dex the exact cadence of your panic without even trying. now he knows where you go when overwhelmed, what neighborhoods you avoid and, for sure, how long you can stay alone before looking over your shoulder.

in his own horror, he was already three steps ahead of your chaos.

dex cut through the streets like a scalpel, without having to run. running drew eyes. every sense sharpened to a lethal point to find you. a discarded wrapper from the exact energy bar you liked, a faint scent of your shampoo caught on a street vent...

there.

he spotted the flicker of your movement across the street, half-hidden waiting for the bus. forty-one minutes. right on schedule.

looking again at your frame, made his lips curled, something feral and almost tender twisting in his chest. the noise was definetly lowering.

you thought you could run from him.

dex stepped into the alley mouth ahead of your path, waiting. his heart was no longer panicking, it was singing.

as he expected, you rounded the corner at a hurried clip, with your hoodie pulled low and the breath visible in the cool night air. the second you registered him standing there your whole body jersked like you'd been electrocuted.

no, it couldn't be. he's there. he's there and you lost again!

for half a second, neither of you moved further than a faint crooked smile forming in his lips before his voice slid out, low and velvet-rough.

“hello, you”

you bolted. not away from him but past him, shouldering into the narrower gap of the alley like a rabbit flushing from cover.

he let you. he could’ve had your wrist in an iron grip before you even finished the first stride, but he didn’t. instead, he tilted his head, watching the way your legs pumped, the flash of panic and something darker in your eyes.

he liked this part too much.

“run,” he murmured, almost fondly. “i’ll even give you a head start.”

you didin't even look back to check if he was following, the rush of adrenaline burned your muscles, making your eyes tear up and your lips to smile tightly, exhaling a rythmic laugh as you round the corner abruptly, your foot slips on the wet pavement. you stumble and find yourself on your hands and knees, pushing yourself back up without even feeling the sting of the graze on your calf.

you darted through the back alleys of hell’s kitchen, leaping over trash bags, cutting across empty loading docks. he stayed just close enough for you to hear his footsteps. never sprinting nor frantic. how could him? you weren't able to arouse any feeling in him?

every time you glanced over your shoulder, he was there. closer... then a little farther, playing with the distance like a cat with a string.

you hated how much you wanted this. the sick thrill curling low in your stomach. the way your blood sang every time you heard him gaining ground. you’d never admit it, not even to yourself. not the good daughter of wilson fisk. but God, you wanted him to chase you down like a target. be something more than 'the daughter of'

you took a sharp left into an old service tunnel beneath an abandoned garment factory on 39th, following the map you traced many nights ago. the chain-link gate had been cut long ago. no cameras nor traffic this late. just dripping pipes, flickering emergency lights that barely worked, and miles of empty concrete corridors.

perfect.

you thought of hiding, really thought about getting in something dark and listen to him wander in anger. you could even savour it in your mind.

in the real world, dex’s voice echoed just behind you, a calm wave lapping against the walls.

“you’re slowing down. legs getting tired?”

you pushed harder, lungs burning, but a twisted smile tugged at your lips despite everything. you heard that smile in his voice. he was enjoying this. and worse—you were too.

he finally closed the distance in a short sprint, one arm snaked around your waist from behind, pulling you backwards, tearing away any air left in your diaphragm. you choked on your own saliva as you tried to scream, reaching out with your hands to grab something while being thrown to the dirty ground. a considerate hand holding the top of your head for as long as your reduction lasted.

a groan escaped your lips as he pressed half your head against something wet and slippery beneath you, feeling his weight suffocating you as he lay on top of you. your breathing quickened at the thought that you couldn’t escape. alredy knowing that he couldn’t hurt you, no matter how much you wanted him to, you... had lost again.

“got you,” he breathed against your ear, taking the opportunity to rest his forehead against your temple

‘you said you'd give me a head start’ you muffled, tasting something tart. probably mud

his other hand came up around your neck like he could touch your words, feeling the wild flutter of your pulse.

‘i got bored’

‘son of a...’

you struggled, twisting in his grip. he let you turn to face him, your back now pressed against the cold tiled wall of the deserted tunnel. the only light came from a dying bulb twenty feet away, just the distant hum of the city far above and the sound of both of you breathing hard.

dex’s eyes were bright looking down on you, almost feverish. that dangerous, boyish grin played on his mouth, aggravating the wound above his eyebrow.

“i should drag you back right now,” he said softly. “your father’s probably losing his mind.”

his thumb stroked along your jaw, also sensing your pulse there, and your lips parted in order to get some air.

“…but I think you want to run again.”

you stared up at him, chest heaving. you didn’t answer. you didn’t have to. the way your fingers curled into his wrist, breaking through the top layer of the skin, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer, said everything.

dex leaned in until his forehead almost touched yours.

“last chance for tonight, fisk. run.”

he loosened his grip just enough.

you held his gaze for one electric second, checking to see if he’d really stay put, on his knees while you slipped away to freedom. and he did.

you shoved him back and sprinted deeper into the abandoned tunnel, heart hammering with twisted, shameful excitement.

dex laughed under his breath seeing your back and your hair dancing with the wind.

he followed at a measured pace, his footsteps echoing in the damp tunnel like a metronome. the thrill was still there, humming under his skin, but now it was sharpening into something darker, fucking stupid and reckless because he had given you that opportunity while his mind was clouded by the high you had given him if you actually slipped away—if wilson fisk lost his daughter because he let this game go too far—fisk wouldn’t just fire him. he’d skin him alive. slowly but creatively. and Dex had no illusions about surviving that.

“dod damn it,” he growled under his breath, the words carrying down the corridor. “you’re going to get me killed!”

he could hear you ahead, following the slap of your sneakers on wet concrete. you were tiring, but still pushing, and yet some sick part of you needed him to prove he could catch you.

fine.

dex’s hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a small steel ball bearing he always carried. in one fluid motion he whipped it forward, a blur in the low light.

the bearing ricocheted off a pipe with a sharp ping, then slammed into an old metal grate leaning against the wall just ahead of you. the grate toppled with a loud metallic crash, right into your path.

you tried to dodge too late, getting your foot caught the edge and you stumbled hard, arms windmilling. before you could recover, you felt a wall behind you. something big and sturdy to hold on to

dex caught you mid-fall, one arm locking around your waist like a steel band, spinning you so your back slammed against the curved tunnel wall and then got you pressed against his chest. the impact knocked the air out of you. his other hand planted beside your head, caging you in a headlock to make sure you couldn't leave again

Hhs face was inches from yours now, really gasping this time like a real human being. partly out of fear and partly out of euphoria

“you think this is a fucking game?” he hissed, voice rough now, even as his body pressed closer from behind. “if you disappear, fisk doesn’t just kill me. he makes it last days. and i would deserve it because i let a brat run anyway”

you were panting, chest rising and falling against his. Your hands had instinctively grabbed his forearms over the jacket, fisting the fabric. but you couldn't push him away, although you already knew what was going to happen, didn't you?

your shallow breaths weren't enough; the bottom of your lungs were burning from all the running, and you could see little coloured lights flickering

gex’s forehead dropped against your temple, almost bruising. he tightened his grip when he saw that it had an effect on you, listening to you gasp

“i should cuff you right now. drag you back by the hair if i have to.” his arms loosened, making you cling to him so you wouldn’t feel dizzy when you could breathe deeply, opening your mouth, dirty with mud. “but you like this, don’t you? you like knowing you're not alone anymore, that i’ll always find you”

his voice burned against you ear. the tunnel was dead silent except for the drip of water somewhere deeper in

you felt the tremor in his muscles, the barely-leashed violence mixed with something hungrier. his fingers flexed on your neck like he was deciding whether to shove you to the ground or kiss you until you couldn’t breathe again

“say it,” he demanded, tired of good manners. “tell me you wanted me to chase you”

he tightened his grip around your neck after seeing you catch your breath, sensing his sweat under the cloths his patience wore. was a reminder of control. now he knew how really tired you were, all clumpsy and tender

“or you can run again,” he whispered, lowering his head to yours “see how fast i put you on your knees this time.”