#daredevil fandom

To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.

There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.

He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.

Then came Julie.

Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.

The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.

That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.

The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.

By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.

So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.

Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.

His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.

And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.

Until he walked into your boutique.

The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.

He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.

You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.

When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.

"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.

Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.

Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.

The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….

"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.

Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.

By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?

Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.

Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.

And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.

Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.

As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.

Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.

And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.

You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.

So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.

"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.

Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.

"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.

Dex’s cold eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.

"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.

"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.

You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.

Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.

"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.

"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.

It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's face, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.

"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.

Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.

"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.

He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.

Dex froze.

He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.

His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.

It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.

Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.

An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.

"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.

Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.

Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.

"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.

“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.

“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.

And you do.

This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–

Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.

His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, irises watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.

But his mouth would be.

Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.

His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.

“D-Dex.”

The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.

“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.

“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.

The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.

With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.

Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.

“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.

“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.

“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.

At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.

Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead his gaze darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.

Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.

He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.

God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…

Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.

So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.

Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.

Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.

The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.

"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.

You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”

You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.

It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.

The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.

"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.

The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.

He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.

A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.

You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.

Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.

He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.

He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.

Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.

He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.

He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.

And he decided then, he loved intimacy.

note: this fic took me a while to write it and also stressed me out. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Dex looks back at the months before he ever knew you existed, and he can’t believe how everything changed. He used to maintain his schedule, but now his entire life revolves around what you do. He didn’t plan to follow your path home or learn your daily habits when he first saw you. It started out as a random coincidence on a Tuesday night, yet it turned into a fixation he couldn’t stop. Now he spends his evenings watching your windows from the shadows across the street, and he remembers every single detail of the moment his small little world got disrupted. It happened late at night at the local supermarket while you stood in the brightly lit produce section. You were inspecting the fruit display when you already had two large pineapples resting in your basket.

Dex stepped up right beside you to check the pile for himself because he needed something to do with his hands. He watched your face as you turned another pineapple around to check the surface, and he wanted to speak up before he could hold himself back. He wanted to see how you would react to being interrupted. You moved your hair out of your way, but you didn’t look up until he initiated the conversation. He picked up a fruit of his own and turned it in his hand before he spoke. “That’s plenty of pineapples for a girl like you,” Dex said as he rolled the rough texture under his palm. You stopped what you’re doing while heat flooded your face because you knew what people thought about that specific fruit.

Your shoulders tensed up while you clutched the handle of your basket tightly to hide your sudden discomfort. Dex sensed the immediate change in your posture, and he realized what his words implied. “Oh, god. No, no,” Dex muttered while he held his hands up to show he wasn’t trying to be crude. “That’s not what I mean at all,” he added before you could walk away from the display. “I have a big family,” you lied as you tossed the third pineapple into your basket and tried to look confident. He could see right through the deception because your nervous blinking gave everything away. “Sure, pineapple girl,” Dex replied with a chuckle before he turned on his heel and left you alone with the fruits.

You thought the strange encounter was over, but he waited outside the glass doors until you finished paying for your groceries. He kept his distance on the dark sidewalk as you walked towards your apartment building, which was only a short distance from the store. He trailed behind you on the dark streets, and he carefully watched how you walked. You reached the front entrance and unlocked the door before you stepped inside without checking behind you. He watched from across the road until a single light flipped on in a third-floor window, and he confirmed his initial suspicion. There was no big family waiting inside that apartment because you lived by yourself. Living alone without checking your surroundings isn’t safe at all.

What if a different person found you instead of him? Someone else might easily have bad intentions if they followed you to your door. Dex wouldn’t do anything actually to hurt you, though. He constantly tells himself he only wants to watch over you. He believes he’s doing you a massive favor by making sure nobody else can get close. You’re unaware of how vulnerable you are every single night. Dex cared about you enough to learn every detail of your life. He knows you have an old laptop you only ever use for writing. He didn’t know who you were writing about at first, but he looked it up later. He learned that you write stories about characters in movies or on television.

The internet showed him that whatever you do in your free time is called fanfiction. Dex only found out about your hobby because he cared enough to pick the lock of your apartment while you were out. He found the same key for your door online, so he could come back whenever he wanted. He also cared enough to install multiple cameras from different angles inside your apartment. You won’t ever find them because they’re well hidden in places you barely ever look at or touch. The only place lacking a camera right now is your bathroom. He knows he’s a huge hypocrite for putting a camera in your bedroom without putting one in the shower too. He prefers to draw a weird line right there so he doesn’t feel like a creep.

He wants to watch you sleep or type on your bed rather than cross that one boundary. It makes him feel like a protector instead of a bad guy. Dex rarely follows you around the streets when you actually leave your home. He does it sometimes, but doing it in person is a lot more tiring. Trailing behind you in public has way too much risk compared to breaking in. He much prefers watching over the camera screens when he relaxes comfortably at his own place. He finally started reading some of the stories you wrote by opening your laptop while he stood right inside your bedroom. Dex already figured out the fanfiction part earlier, yet he didn’t realize you were writing pure smut until he actually clicked on the specific documents.

He never expected a girl like you to write something so dirty and he couldn’t even imagine doing half the things he read, but you somehow brought them into reality. What only drove him to jerk off in the first place was when he found out your hidden drafts on that old laptop. Finding those files made him start digging your dirty panties out of your laundry basket whenever he visits your empty apartment. He uses the unwashed fabric to jerk off to the scenes you wrote while he takes a spot on the edge of your bed. He imagined it was you and him doing it while he read a draft where the characters were fucking over a table.

He easily pictured bending you over your own table to make you read your own words out loud while his cock thrusts inside your cunt. Dex swears he always brings the garments right back to their spot in the hamper so you never notice they went missing. He was never sloppy when he did those kinds of things in your apartment. He never actually took your clothes home because he made sure they were strictly for one-time use. He would find a pair of dirty panties, and he always put them right back in the same spot after he finished. He never left any evidence behind that could prove he was inside your bedroom while you were gone. He knew your schedule well, so he knew how much time he had to finish his business before you came back.

He never let himself get distracted enough to make a careless mistake. Dex likes to think he’s a good guy at the end of the day. He might admit he’s a little perverted, but he’s just a normal guy. What else was he supposed to do when he read those things on your screen? His cock got hard as soon as he pictured you doing those acts so that he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t just take care of it right then and there. He convinced himself it was natural for a man to react that way to such graphic writing. He didn’t feel guilty because he believed anyone else in his position would do the same thing. He even went into your bathroom to clean himself up whenever he had extra time. He memorized how everything originally looked before he ever touched your things, so he remembered where every item belonged.

Dex’s condition actually helped his case during these visits because he couldn’t physically rest until everything in the room looked the way he’d left it. He would adjust the laundry basket or wipe down the sink until the apartment was spotless again. He made sure the entire place looked untouched so you would never suspect a single thing. He left your home as he found it every time. What he doesn’t know is that you aren’t stupid or clueless at all. You felt it for weeks, and maybe even months. You get a strange feeling that someone has been inside your apartment while you were gone. You always feel like someone is watching you, but proving it is hard. Trying to confirm your suspicions never works out because every single item is where you left it.

Sometimes the whole apartment smells different when you walk through the front door. There are times you smell a trace of an unknown laundry detergent on your bedsheets, or you notice a different cologne in the bedroom. The place smells like a man when you come back home. You start taking photos of your rooms before you leave. Your camera roll fills up with pictures of your bookshelf, desk, and kitchen counter. Then you compare them on your phone once you get back home, but every object matches the photos, so it only makes you feel crazier. You didn’t tell your friends about the situation since nobody would ever take you seriously. They would blame it on your stress or point out how burnt out you are.

Your obsession with horror movies and documentaries would become their excuse for your fear if you ever told them, so you prefer to hide the truth. It bothers you too much that you wonder if you are mentally unwell, especially those nights when you wake up from interrupted sleep because you feel somebody is standing right beside your bed, yet the room is always empty when you look around. Your paranoia led you to change little things on purpose to test your sanity. Leaving your laptop directly on the bed instead of your desk is your first attempt at setting a trap, but nothing happened. You try turning a random book upside down on the shelf. Sometimes you even leave a cabinet door slightly open in the kitchen before walking out of the place.

Everything is the way you usually leave it every time you return home. It scares you more than you’ll ever admit. A normal person breaking in would never bother cleaning up after themselves, or at least they would get sloppy enough. You decide to do something about the situation to cope with it. That’s why you start writing a new story about your experience. It’s obvious a stalker must check their victim’s gadgets too. The plot revolves around a stalker character and a woman who knows somebody is watching her but can’t prove a single thing, which is basically just your situation. Typing it out helps you manage your anxiety at first. You use the story as a test to see if anyone is actually looking through your laptop.

What you don’t realize is that Dex is actually reading those drafts. He sees every single word you type about him, but simply writing about the situation doesn’t rattle him. It pushes you to try something more direct, where you type out a new scene in which the victim leaves a sticky note beside her laptop. The note contains three simple words asking who the stalker is. You write that draft late at night, and you have absolutely no idea he knows what you are doing because he watches you type through the hidden cameras inside your bedroom. You tell yourself to wait for the morning to actually write it on the paper, and you stand by your word when you grab a sticky note from your desk the second you wake up.

You write the same question and leave a simple ‘Who are you?’ right beside your closed laptop so your room matches the draft before you leave for the day. You expect to feel a sense of control over the situation, yet your stomach drops the moment you lock your front door. The anxiety follows you everywhere you go and makes it difficult to focus on anything else because you only want to get back home to check your desk. You expect to find a clear answer waiting for you, but everything looks the same when you step inside. There is nothing different, and not even a single item is out of place. It leaves you feeling disappointed after seeing the paper resting there without anything written on it besides your own handwriting.

The scene ends where you left it, without a single letter edited in your document, too. You desperately want him to react, and the lack of proof frustrates you more than you would ever admit. It makes you wonder if you are losing your mind over nothing. That frustration only pushes you to try harder, so you write another scene showing how the victim feels like she is going crazy from the silence. You write that the character leaves a new message claiming ‘I know you’re here.’ before you put a second real note right beside your laptop. You refuse to move the paper or write anything new since you put that on your desk, and you force yourself to wait for him to make a move. You spend three days checking that same spot every single morning and night without getting a single reaction.

The agonizing wait only makes you more bothered by every little sound in your apartment until you decide to escalate the situation after waiting two more exhausting days. You write about the victim leaving a cup on the kitchen counter to catch her stalker, and you put a sticky note underneath a mug in your actual kitchen right after you finish typing. What you do in real life becomes a reflection of what you write on your laptop. You ask a simple question on the paper and put, ‘Are you reading this?’ to test if he actually reads your screen. You spend your entire time outside your home distracted, as you constantly wonder if this attempt will finally work. Maybe it’s fate that your instincts are telling you something because there are finally changes when you push your front door open later that night.

The mug is positioned where you left it, so nothing seems obvious at first glance. The sticky note waits hidden at the bottom, and you almost throw the paper away in defeat until you notice the mug is facing the wrong direction. You realize that the small detail has to be an intentional answer. The handle originally pointing toward the refrigerator now points directly at the sink. Nobody else would ever spot such a small difference, but you only notice it because you took a photo to compare against the counter. Your hands shake while you hold your phone up close to the cup. You don’t call the police or tell your friends about the update regardless of how you feel. You immediately run to your room to finish the draft you’re working on instead.

You type out how the stalker visited the apartment and moved the mug so the victim finally gets her proof. A sick thrill takes over you after finally confirming a real person was actually inside your personal space. That adrenaline makes you write another update where the victim becomes much bolder about the whole situation. She stops asking whether somebody is there because she already knows the undeniable truth. You refuse to let that rush of adrenaline die down, so you quickly plan your next move. The chapter ends with her wanting to know what the stalker wants from her. You stick a new note directly onto the center of your laptop screen asking, ‘What do you want from me?’ right before you leave your apartment the following morning.

It brings a personal risk, but you crave the closure it might bring. The note is where you left it when you finally returned hours later. You pull it off the screen, and your heart races while you flip the paper over. You trace your trembling fingers over the letters because his only response is a handwritten ‘Keep writing, sweetheart.’ on the back. The reality of the situation slaps you in the face while you stare down at his handwriting. Who actually does something like this? What kind of sick freak thinks this is a game? You are so pissed that your fingers dig into the edge of the desk. You grab a marker to write a message telling the stalker to fuck off. You leave the paper on your desk and threaten to call the police if he ever comes back.

“Just leave me alone,” you mutter to the empty room. That was your boiling point to stop writing more drafts to entertain a sicko. You shut your laptop hard enough that it makes a loud sound against your desk, and you almost throw the machine across the room. Dex watches you through the live feed on his monitor with a small smirk on his face. He leans back in his chair because he loves seeing you get all fired up, yet he avoids your apartment for the next few days to give you space rather than backing away out of fear. He wants you to deal with your own anger. The silence he gives you almost makes you believe your threat scared him away. Are you safe? Did he actually listen to you? It feels like you can breathe again, but you should have known a guy this obsessed would never easily give up.

You should have known he would pull some tricks on you, like leaving a rose right on your kitchen counter. How the fuck did he even get inside again? You grab the flower and then throw it into the trash without a second thought. Dex watches you destroy his gift through the screen before he rubs a hand over his face in frustration. He can’t understand why you would do that, but he also loves pushing your buttons. Did you not like the flower he picked? Who wouldn’t like roses? It was the first flower he bought to test the waters since it was always a classic choice. He is a persistent guy, so he leaves more bouquets despite your refusal to acknowledge them. He knows it pisses you off, and he thrives on it even when every single one ends up in the garbage the second you find them.

He switches to tulips the next time he visits your place, but you don’t even try to smell them. Flowers are not cheap in this economy, yet he is willing to buy different kinds of flowers as gifts for you, only to see how mad you can get. His next choice is peonies because he hopes to figure out what will make you smile, or maybe he wants to see you snap again. What does he expect you to do? Thank him for stalking you? Write him a love letter? Those gifts might feel less threatening, but they invade your personal space. The way you ignore every delivery starts working, though, because it drives him crazy. He might be getting frustrated by you, but your fear starts to turn into pure annoyance. You hate yourself for starting to expect flowers waiting for you after a few weeks, and that makes you angry because he acts like a boyfriend instead of a stalker with crazy tendencies.

Why is he playing house with you? It makes your stomach churn that you have to check around out of habit to see what kind of flower he brought inside. You know what he’s doing, and he’s fucked to think he can train you to act like a pet waiting for a treat from its owner, but this time you refuse to let it happen. You are not dumb enough to ignore the break-ins, and you are tired of his shit. He’s wearing down your patience to the point where you’re considering hiring someone to replace the locks. You pay good money so that you can feel safe again, but replacing them does absolutely nothing. Dex picks the door in seconds, like he always does, before he leaves another bouquet on your kitchen table the next afternoon.

How is he doing this? Is your privacy a joke to him? Him picking the new lock pisses you off way more than the flowers do. He has no boundaries at all, and he wants you to know it. “You have got to be kidding me,” you groan out loud while tossing the fresh flowers into the trash. You start leaving hostile written messages scattered around the apartment knowing he will read them. You want him to know how much you despise his actions. You put notes on the fridge or the bathroom mirror out of spite to tell him how much you hate his presence. Dex collects every piece of paper you leave behind like he enjoys making you angry. He never leaves a written response to any of your notes because he wants to see how far your frustration will push you.

His responses come through actions instead, like leaving a basket of groceries on your counter or dropping off a new book you wanted. Does he think he is taking care of you? Is he treating you like a pet? You reach your breaking point when you open the fridge to find a new carton of milk he bought for you. The audacity makes you want to move away and live somewhere else. “Stop hiding like a coward!” you shout at the ceiling before grabbing a marker from the counter. You write a message telling him to show his face if he plans to continue entering your home because you are done playing his stupid game. Dex watches you slap the paper onto the fridge, and he smiles knowing you finally gave him the invitation he wanted.

His only response to your angry message is a short note left right on your bathroom mirror. It says ‘See you soon’ without any other explanation. You spend the next few weeks waiting for him to make a move. The first week is hell because every noise outside your apartment makes you think tonight is finally the night. You spend hours staring at the ceiling while wondering if he’s standing right outside your door. Your mind goes right back to how easily he got inside before every time you try to find some comfort, everything might be over. You even start looking inside your closet or pulling back the shower curtain every time you come home. How long can someone continue living like this before they finally lose it?

Nothing happens yet, but somehow that makes everything worse because it feels like you’re just waiting for him to show up. The lack of effort from him makes the anticipation worse. The paranoia drains your energy until you can barely hold your eyes open during the second week. You stop checking the door every few minutes because you’re too tired to continue doing it. All you could do was get through the day, then come home to an apartment that’s constantly messing with your head. That exhaustion lets your guard down when the third week passes without any new flowers or rearranged groceries. You convince yourself the note was just another way to scare you. Maybe he got bored and found someone else to mess with.

You actually think he gave up after you didn’t find any sign that someone got inside again. You slowly start to believe you’re alone again, so you don’t bother checking every corner of your bedroom before climbing into bed. You don’t even remember falling asleep because the next thing you know you’re staring up at your ceiling again when something wakes you up in the middle of the night. You don’t think anything of it at first because you’ve been waking up like this almost every night. Nothing bad ever happens when you wake up like this, so why would tonight be any different? You only wait there for a few seconds before pushing yourself up against the headboard to rub your eyes because all you want is to look around the room before going back to sleep.

Everything seems normal at first glance until you notice somebody sitting right at the edge of your bed. This can’t actually be happening right now. You instinctively yank the blanket up closer around yourself while staring at the intruder who somehow got past your door again. How the fuck did he get inside? It takes a few seconds for your brain to process who it is. The guy isn’t some random stranger because you recognize him from the supermarket. You shouldn’t even remember that awkward conversation about pineapples, yet everything suddenly makes sense. Everything leads back to him, and you try to process how long he has been waiting there watching you sleep. Dex doesn’t move closer to you or try to touch you.

He looks comfortable, as if being in your bedroom in the middle of the night were the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t move from where he is to let you process the situation before he speaks. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says calmly while he looks right at you. He notices the fear on your face before he tells you that he genuinely believes those words should reassure you. Those promises mean nothing coming from a man like him. You don’t find his reassurance comforting in the slightest bit because he already crossed every possible boundary long before he appeared in your bedroom. There isn’t a single part of this that is okay. What kind of logic makes him think those words are enough, after everything he’s already been through?

The audacity of his calmness sparks anger right beneath your fear. He already broke into your home to watch you sleep, so there is no excuse for this. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” you demand while trying to steady your shaking voice as you point toward the bedroom door. You expect him to apologize for sneaking in, but he acts like this entire situation is normal. Dex ignores your order from the edge of the bed. “I’m one of the good guys,” he says calmly while watching your reaction. You let out a breath because you can’t believe a single word coming from a man who spent months stalking you. “Good guys don’t break into houses to watch people sleep,” you snap back at him while gripping the blanket.

The lack of guilt on his face makes you want to punch him since he honestly thinks he did nothing wrong. “Your intentions don’t matter after everything you already did, so prove it instead of expecting blind trust,” you say while maintaining your distance from him. Dex nods before reaching toward the waistband of his pants. You tense up because you genuinely think he’s finally about to attack you. He slowly pulls out the gun he brought with him instead. You expect him to aim it, but he places the firearm on the mattress right between the two of you. He gently nudges the pistol toward you so it sits closer to your hands. You stare at the object while trying to figure out his actual plan.

“Take it,” he says while he checks your face for a reaction. “If you really think I’m here to hurt you, then you should have something to stop me,” he explains while leaving his hands visible. He rests his palms against his thighs, so you know he isn’t grabbing anything else. This action is meant to reassure you, but it only reminds you that you have no idea what he is thinking. You hesitate to grab the pistol because every instinct tells you this is a bad idea. What if he just wants an excuse to hurt you? You eventually reach out to snatch the gun off the sheets before you can change your mind. You grip the handle tightly and point the barrel directly at his forehead without even thinking about it.

You expect him to dodge or hold his hands up in defense. Dex doesn’t flinch or argue with you at all. He doesn’t try to take the gun back either. You can feel the sweat forming on your palms while you hold the weapon up. He sits on the bed while you aim the firearm in his direction with shaking hands. You wait for him to do something while resting your finger right next to the trigger. The room is silent while Dex slowly scoots closer across the mattress instead of backing away from the gun. “Stop moving,” you warn him while tightening your grip on the pistol. He ignores your warning without acting aggressively at all. He moves forward until the barrel is only a few inches from his face. You push yourself harder against the headboard to get away from him.

He leans forward until his forehead touches the metal. He looks you straight in the eye without blinking. This gesture isn’t a bluff or some kind of challenge to him. Dex genuinely believes he’s proving he never intended to hurt you. You are dealing with someone whose mind works nothing like everyone else’s. “Shut the fuck up,” you warn him while pushing the barrel against his forehead. Dex doesn’t flinch away from the metal. “You’re not going to shoot me,” he says, and watches your expression. He talks like you hold a toy instead of a loaded gun. “You spent months leaving notes to make me show up,” he explains before pointing at the weapon. He believes those papers were an open invitation. “You wanted this as badly as I did,” he adds without a hint of fear.

You shake your head to shut down his twisted logic. “I wanted to know if I was going fucking crazy,” you snap back at him and push the gun harder against his skin. You insist you only left those messages to prove someone was breaking in. “I never wanted some creep inside my apartment,” you tell him while your chest heaves with every breath. Dex doesn’t look convinced by your anger. “We’ve been communicating for months already,” he argues like you two were exchanging friendly letters. He views the situation as a normal relationship instead of an invasion of your privacy. He ignores the weapon to bring up private details nobody else should know. “You’re a good writer,” he says, and looks into your eyes.

“Don’t bring that shit up,” you warn him while your finger twitches over the trigger. “I opened every document on that laptop because I wanted to know you,” he confesses while watching your face. You think he lies to get inside your head. “Even the drafts you never posted,” he adds before quoting a line from a scene where a character begs to be fucked on a desk. You never posted any of those drafts online, yet he knew the exact lines, so you realized he had really gone through your computer. Dex doesn’t stop there because he wants you to know what he does in your bedroom. “I read those stories way before you started leaving me notes,” he reveals while a smirk forms on his lips. He casually mentions how much he enjoyed reading your dirty drafts whenever he broke into your place.

You stare at him as you try to process the invasion of your privacy. “I didn’t expect you to write things like that,” he says before chuckling at your reaction. The way he talks about your personal files makes you feel exposed. “You have such a dirty mind,” he says without any shame. Dex finally lifts his hand from his thigh and reaches forward to touch your face. He brings his hand up to the back of your head while his thumb gently rubs your cheek. He slowly runs his fingers through your hair like he is trying to calm you down. You let the gun fall onto the mattress so you can place both hands against his chest to push him away. His body doesn’t move an inch when you shove him backward.

You try to push him a second time, but he ignores your effort. Your frustration boils over so you punch his chest before your hands grab handfuls of his shirt. “Get off me right now,” you demand while glaring up at him. Dex caresses your hair without acting bothered by your anger. “You can punch me all you want,” he says before he looks down at your hands. He tilts his head because he feels the anger radiating off your body. “I really don’t want to hurt you,” Dex promises while looking right into your eyes. You don’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth. He notices your doubt, so he tries to explain himself again. “I have no intention of harming you,” he insists while his voice sounds calm.

You want to scream because stalking is already a crime. “I never left any threats around the apartment,” he points out before defending his actions. He acts like unlocking your door is no big deal. He even reminds you of the times he fixed things around the apartment without asking for a thank-you. “I only ever left you flowers or groceries instead of anything dangerous,” he reminds you while his fingers massage your scalp. You know he is right about the gifts, but having a stranger inside your home is terrifying enough. You refuse to let him play the good guy. “You broke into my house,” you remind him while tightening your grip on his shirt. He nods slowly because he understands why you are so angry.

He knows you never asked for this situation, but he genuinely believes he is doing the right thing. You want to wipe that understanding look off his face so you insult him. “You’re just a lonely fucking loser,” you spit at him while hoping to finally piss him off. You try to find the cruelest thing to say. “You have no life so you have to stalk mine,” you add while watching for a reaction. Dex doesn’t look angry or offended by your words at all. He expects you to hate him so he accepts the insults without arguing back. He doesn’t think you should be grateful for his presence. “I know you hate me right now,” he replies while his hand continues stroking the back of your head. His voice sounds way too sincere for a home invader.

“But I just want to protect you from everyone else,” he explains like that justifies all his actions. His twisted reasoning baffles you. “What if some other guy found those stories on your laptop?” Dex asks before he scoffs at the thought. He shakes his head while imagining a different scenario. “Another guy would just force himself on you after reading all that,” he tells you while his fingers move softly against your scalp. He expects you to thank him for reading your computer. “You’re sick in the head,” you tell him because his reasoning is insane. Dex chuckles again while he stares down at your hands holding his shirt. He tilts his chin down to look at the space between your bodies.

“If I’m so sick, then why am I stopping you from calling the cops?” he asks without raising his voice at all. You look at your arms and realize he isn’t restraining you at all. “I’m not even holding you here by force,” he points out while his hands rest gently against your face and head. You hate to admit his trick actually works on you. He acts like you have full control over the situation, only to mess with your head. You know he could easily hurt you right now if he actually wanted to do it. “You think I believe that bullshit?” you ask him while your hands grip his shirt tighter. What kind of idiot would trust a man who breaks into homes because they think they’re protecting you? He’s playing a twisted game to see what you’ll do.

His claim that you can call the cops is obviously a lie. You know damn well he would run away, or you would end up dead long before the police ever arrived. He wants you to believe you hold all the power, but you know how dangerous he really is. “I promise you’re safe with me,” he whispers while his fingers move softly through your hair. The way he repeats he won’t hurt you messes with your head. He holds his other hand on your face as his thumb rubs your lower lip. You hate how your body reacts to him because you instinctively part your mouth without even meaning to. You end up breathing through your mouth the second your lips open under his thumb. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he tells you again like it’s the absolute truth.

The way he touches you makes your brain forget how messed up this whole thing is. It feels disturbing to experience something like this in reality. There are times you read books or watch movies about obsessed guys, but you never expected a stalker to actually show up in your bedroom. You always thought you would fight back or scream if this ever happened, yet here you are just letting him touch your face without doing a single thing to stop him, and it makes you feel pathetic. Dex watches your face carefully before he speaks again. “You call me lonely, but you’re exactly the same,” he points out while looking right into your eyes. He knows you spend all your time alone so you don’t have anyone else to take care of you.

He thinks you need him just because you don’t go out with friends every weekend. The pure arrogance in his voice makes you want to slap him. “I can take care of myself just fine,” you argue back before trying to turn your face away. He moves his hand with you to maintain his grip on your jaw. “You shouldn’t have to do it all by yourself,” he replies before he finally tests the waters. He slips his thumb past your parted lips to rest it directly against your tongue. You let out a muffled sound against his finger because you didn’t expect him to actually do that. His thumb tastes a little salty right on your tongue. You try to back away, but his fingers tighten in your hair to stop you from escaping, and you glare at him.

“I want to take care of you,” he adds while watching your chest rise with another deep breath. Dex uses his thumb inside your mouth and pushes it down on your tongue. The pad of his finger scrapes against your teeth before resting deep inside. You try to use your hands on his shirt to shove him away again. You want to scream at him to get out, but you can’t even form a word. He simply leans over you and uses his body weight to press you against the headboard. His chest pushes against your arms while his thumb stops you from speaking. “I really want to take care of you,” he whispers right to your face. He acts like having his fingers deep in your mouth is an ordinary part of the conversation. “You never let anyone else do it,” he adds as he watches your chest rise.

He looks you straight in the eye while you struggle to breathe around his hand. You try to swallow around his thumb, but the action makes your throat tighten uncomfortably. A muffled sound slips out before you can bite it back. You glare up at him with hatred right in your eye and want to look disgusted, but your body betrays your anger. The warmth of his hand on your face feels entirely too good, so your eyelids flutter shut for a second while a breath hitches in your chest. The involuntary reaction happens before you can even stop it. You open your eyes again to find him staring down at you. He watches your pupils dilate with a satisfied smirk on his face. You want to punch him for making you feel like this, and you hate that you just gave him what he wants.

He notices every reaction you try to hide from him, and he sees the exact moment your anger turns into something else. “Fuck,” Dex mutters under his breath as he takes in your expression. He sounds genuinely amazed by the way you react to him. “Look at you,” he whispers before a smirk forms on his face. He knows what he is doing to you, yet he points out how fast you gave up fighting him despite how much you claim to hate his guts. His arrogant tone makes you want to wipe that smirk away. You try to bite his thumb to erase that look off his face. Dex easily slides his finger deeper before your teeth can actually catch him. He pushes his thumb down harder on your tongue to force your mouth open again while his other hand grips your hair more firmly to tilt your head back.

The way he effortlessly pins you down against the headboard makes your stomach drop, and you feel fear with an unwanted thrill. You start to question whether you actually enjoy what he is doing to you right now. You wonder if you are really dumb enough to fold for a guy who broke into your apartment. A part of you wants to know if his gentle actions prove he won’t actually hurt you. Your brain struggles to process all these confusing thoughts at once. You should be fighting for your life, but your body wants more of his attention, and that’s when you realize you are leaning into his touch instead of pulling away. You look down and see how your hands are tangled in his shirt, and you’re no longer pushing him away from your body at all.

You clutch the fabric of his shirt while his hand rests firmly in your hair. Dex leans down until his lips almost brush against your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers directly against your neck. He promises he will walk away forever if you just say the word. You know he would never actually let you go, and he wants you to admit you want this just as much as he does. He turns his head until his mouth grazes along your jawline. He slowly pulls his thumb out of your mouth to leave a wet string of saliva behind, and you let out a whine when he does that. He wipes his damp thumb on your top before his hand drops down to grab your waist tightly. “Tell me to quit leaving things and watching you,” he begs, like he actually needs your permission to leave.

He waits for your answer while his chest is inches away from yours. You don’t say a single word while your hand moves up from his shirt. You slide your fingers to the back of his head to gently caress his hair. You look at him and realize you don’t want him to leave even though you know he is crazy for doing all of those things in the first place, but having him right here feels better than being alone. Your hand moves from his hair down to his shoulder instead of bringing him into a kiss against the headboard. You push against his chest just enough to create some space between your bodies. You don’t tell him to stop or leave the apartment, but you finally make him back off. “Go get my laptop from the desk,” you tell him while pointing across the room.

Dex looks confused for a second because he clearly didn’t expect you to say that. He stands up anyway before walking over to grab the laptop. You crawl forward to sit right in the middle of the mattress while he has his back turned. You want him to realize you are not just going to roll over for him like he expects you to. He walks back over to the bed and hands the device over to you. You flip the screen open and log in before pushing it right back into his chest. “Open your favorite one,” you instruct him while watching his face. You know he has a preference after spending so much time snooping through your files. You want to see what kind of things he enjoys reading the most. “Read it out loud to me,” you tell him while pointing at the screen.

You challenge him directly to see if he can actually handle the words he claims to enjoy. You want to hear his voice saying those sentences. “Read the part you liked the most,” you add, so he has to make the choice himself. Dex actually hesitates for a second and gets flustered by your words. He just had you pinned against the headboard, but now he suddenly looks caught off guard. He tries to look at the screen instead of looking at your face. His fingers hesitate over the keyboard while he stares blankly at the folders. He just sits there in silence without clicking on a single file. You watch him struggle to type the title into the search bar. “Are you actually shy right now?” you ask him while leaning slightly closer to his face. You cannot believe the guy who broke into your house is suddenly struggling to speak.

You let out a short laugh because the role reversal is almost funny. “You had absolutely no problem sneaking into my apartment and watching me,” you point out while he refuses to look up. You remind him that he crossed every single boundary long before today. You make sure he realizes how stupid his hesitation looks. “You already read all of them behind my back,” you remind him while waiting for a reaction. You know he spent hours staring at your laptop while you were gone. “It’s pathetic you’re suddenly embarrassed to read them out loud,” you add while watching him swallow. He scoffs at your insult, but he finally starts typing the title of the story. He clicks the document open before scrolling down the page to find the specific paragraph.

He reads the words on the screen silently to himself for a few seconds. “Why do I even need to read this out loud?” Dex asks while focusing his eyes on the text. He tries to act unaffected while sitting right across from you. “It’s not like you’re actually going to let me fuck you like this,” he adds while pointing at the screen. He is obviously trying to provoke you so he can take control again. You might fall a little right into his game without even thinking about it. “I didn’t tell you we wouldn’t,” you answer back while looking right into his eyes. You don’t give him a clear yes-or-no, but the vague reply works perfectly. Dex smirks a little bit before he clicks the cursor at the top of the paragraph. He clears his throat and prepares to read your filthy words back to you.

Dex clears his throat before he glances up at you. He places the laptop onto the sheets right beside him so he can view the screen. He looks back down at the document as he prepares to read your words out loud. “He pushes her legs open to get a good look at her cunt,” Dex starts reading directly from your laptop. He sounds casual while saying filthy sentences. You stare at him because you can’t believe he actually said that without any shame. Hearing your own words spoken out loud makes your stomach drop. He reaches his free hand forward to grab your knee right after he finishes the line. You watch him push your legs apart while his eyes scan the next paragraph. Dex drops his eyes back to the screen while his hand grips your thigh.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says while quoting the dialogue from the character. He uses a deeper voice so it sounds like he’s genuinely saying it to you. His hand sneaks up your leg before he rests his palm right between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his arm blocks you from moving. You part your lips when his knuckles brush against your sleep shorts. “His eyes can’t look away from between her legs,” Dex reads next while he looks right at your crotch. He looks where his hand cups right over your cunt. “Open wider for me,” Dex demands while pushing your knee further to the side. He doesn’t look at the laptop to say that part because he wants you to obey him right now.

You hate how easily your body listens, so you let your legs fall further apart. Dex smirks while watching you expose yourself to him. He drags his thumb right over the seam of your shorts to tease you. He looks satisfied before he glances back at the screen. “She begs him to touch her while her hips buck up against him,” he reads aloud as he moves closer to you. You try to close your legs, but he forces your knee back down. “Mm- stop it,” you complain while trying to grab his wrist. He easily dodges your hand before he pushes his palm firmly against your crotch. You try to squirm away on the mattress, but his grip on your thigh holds you where he wants you. He knows you want this even if you try to fight him off.

“I haven’t even read the best part yet,” he replies while his eyes look over the next few lines. He uses the heel of his hand to grind right against your cunt through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. “Nngh-” you gasp out as he finds the right spot. He applies more pressure while rotating his hand around your cunt. You realize he plans to use your own story to turn you on while he touches you just like this. “You’ll take it so well for me,” Dex reads aloud while his palm rubs against your sleep shorts. He looks back at the screen before he continues reading the next paragraph. “He guides his thick cock right against her cunt and drags the head through all her wetness,” he quotes as he pushes his hand harder against your crotch.

You hate how good it feels against your body. “He teases her by sliding it up and down her folds without putting it inside, yet,” he finishes the sentence while staring right at your face. Your legs part then close involuntarily because he grinds the heel of his hand over your clit. “You’re dripping for me,” he adds while his hand rests right between your thighs. You know what you wrote on that laptop. You know you never typed that specific line he just said. “You just made that part up,” you accuse him while trying to control your breathing. You glare at him because he just twisted your own words. “Maybe I did,” he answers back with a smug look on his face. He clearly enjoys seeing you get so defensive about it.

“It fits the situation,” he argues back before he pushes his palm firmer against your crotch. The unexpected pressure makes you grab a handful of his shirt. “I can already feel the dampness soaking right through your clothes,” he tells you with a smirk. You honestly have no idea if he’s bluffing or telling the truth. He continues reading the filthy scene to tease you. “He pulls her hips backward so he gets a clear view of her wet cunt before he lines his cock up,” he reads aloud while watching your reaction. You try to look away, but his eyes follow your every movement. “He pushes the tip right against her cunt and slowly slides his entire length inside,” he recites while grinding the heel of his hand against your shorts.

You feel worked up by his touch, and making him read the story out loud was supposed to give you the upper hand. You wanted to make him embarrassed, but the plan backfired since he’s the one touching you. He clearly enjoys having control over you right now. He scrolls down the document to skip to the part he loved the most in what you wrote. “He forces her onto all fours so he can finally take her from behind,” Dex recites while his thumb finds your clit through the fabric. You gasp out loud when he circles the sensitive spot. “His hands grab her hips tightly to hold her in place on the mattress,” he continues reading as he grinds his palm right over your center. “He pulls his cock almost all the way out before slamming it back deep into her cunt,” he quotes aloud before pushing down harder against your shorts.

He watches your hips buck slightly upward to meet his palm. “He fucks her from behind without giving her a single second to recover,” he reads next while he moves his palm faster against your shorts. You try to squeeze your thighs shut, but his arm blocks your legs from closing. “He shoves his cock inside her cunt repeatedly until she screams for him to fuck her harder,” he finishes the paragraph while his thumb circles your clit. You hate that he knows how to get you so worked up. “Nn- your reading voice fucking sucks,” you insult him to hide how good he makes you feel. You try to sound annoyed, but your body betrays your words. He just chuckles at your pathetic attempt to insult him while he continues to torture you with his hand.

“Then why are you grinding right against my hand?” he asks as you involuntarily push your hips up into his palm. You realize he’s right since your body reacts to every single movement he makes. “Hah- shut up,” you gasp out when his thumb pushes down harder. He loves watching you lose your mind over his fingers. “Mm-” you complain instead of giving him a real answer. Your hands grip the bedsheets instead of actually shoving him off. “Do you want me to stop reading now?” he questions while his hand continues working between your legs. He knows you won’t tell him to stop because you want him to touch you. “Did you finally prove your point?” he asks to remind you that your little plan failed.

You reach forward to push the laptop screen down so he finally stops reading your writing. “Shut up, and do something,” you demand while glaring up at him from the mattress. Dex looks at the closed laptop before he grabs it off the sheets. He leaves his spot on the bed to place the device safely on the floor. “You want me to take your clothes off?” he asks as he turns back around to face you. He sounds almost surprised by your unexpected change in attitude. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” you challenge him before you scoot right to the edge of the mattress. You lift both of your arms in the air and wait for him to make a move. He lets out a short chuckle while looking down at your raised arms.

“Are you really going to make me work for it?” he questions before he takes a step closer to your legs. You know he wants you, so you make him prove it. He clearly enjoys the new challenge. “Is it too hard for you to just do it?” you ask sarcastically while holding your arms up high. Dex scoffs at your attitude before his hands grip the bottom hem of your top. He pulls the fabric over your head and then tosses it somewhere across the dark room. It feels absurd to ask the guy who stalks you to undress you, yet you don’t even try to cover up. You aren’t wearing a bra since you just woke up from catching him staring at you earlier, so your breasts are exposed to him. He looks at your chest before he instinctively reaches a hand out to touch you.

You lean away from him so his fingers grasp nothing but air. You drop your hands down to his belt, but you stop trying to undo the buckle when he tries to touch you again. “Fuck- sorry,” Dex mutters while he pulls his hand back fast. He clearly didn’t expect you to avoid his touch so fast. “I just wanted a feel,” he tries to explain himself while looking down at your exposed body. He sounds a little desperate as he looks you over. You can see how much your body distracts him right now. “They look really good,” he adds while his attention refuses to leave your chest. You roll your eyes at his pathetic excuse before you grab the front of his pants. You pull him closer by the waistband so he stands right between your parted knees.

“I know I look good,” you reply with a scoff as your fingers struggle with his belt. You enjoy watching him lose his composure. He usually takes whatever he wants, but right now he just stands there with his hands at his sides. “That’s why you stalked my apartment,” you point out before you go back to working on his zipper. Dex watches you fumble with his pants before he grabs the bottom of his own shirt to pull it over his head. “Yeah, maybe you’re just a stupid good-looking girl who is about to get into bed with her stalker,” he argues back as he throws his shirt onto the floor. He watches you take way too much time trying to unbutton his pants. He eventually slaps your hands away so he can do it himself.

“Let me do it,” he mutters before he quickly undoes the belt and shoves his jeans down his legs. He steps heavily out of the denim without bothering to take off his boots and kicks the fabric aside while he leaves his boxers in place. You just sit there on the edge of the bed and stare up at his body. He actually looks incredibly good standing there in front of you. You wonder why a guy like him would ever choose to be a stalker. He could easily find a normal girl to fuck him instead of breaking into apartments at night. It’s a very stupid idea to sit here half-undressed, but your gut tells you he isn’t going to hurt you. You never planned to let things go this far tonight, but your thoughts scatter when his hands grab the waistband of your sleep shorts along with your panties.

“You’re staring at me,” Dex points out as his thumbs slip under the elastic band. You look up at his face to find him watching you. The corners of his mouth turn upward into a smirk. “No- I’m not,” you lie while shaking your head to make up a random excuse. Your face heats up because he caught you checking him out. “I was just thinking about something else,” you add while trying to look away from his stomach. Dex makes a sound of agreement before he nods like he believes your lie. “I want to take these off,” he tells you while his thumbs hook under the elastic. You give him a small nod, and he starts sliding the fabric down. You lift your hips off the bed to help him push the clothes past your waist. Dex takes a step backward between your knees as he drags the shorts and panties down to your ankles.

He grabs the garments before tossing them somewhere across the bedroom. He holds your knees and pushes your thighs apart to get a better look at you. He takes a breath while his eyes stare directly between your legs. He licks his lips like he is hungry for what he sees. “I honestly don’t know what to do first,” Dex admits while his hands rest firmly on your knees. He traces his thumbs over your kneecaps. “I don’t know if I want to use my mouth or just-” He cuts himself off while looking back up at your face. His eyes trail downward when you try to close your legs, but he firmly prevents you from moving. “You’d better figure it out fast before I change my mind,” you scoff at him while shifting slightly on the mattress.

You feel vulnerable, but you refuse to let him know it bothers you. “I might just kick you out then file a restraining order,” you warn him with a small chuckle. Dex shakes his head right away while his hands slide up your thighs. “There’s no need to do that,” he replies as he steps closer to your open legs. You cross your arms over your chest when another thought crosses your mind. “Do you even have a condom?” you ask him since you expect some basic protection. Dex stops moving entirely as a confused look takes over his face. “What?” he questions before leaning forward until his mouth hovers right next to your ear. He wants to make sure you hear him clearly. You feel his chest brush against your crossed arms.

“I’m not using a condom with you,” he whispers right next to your ear. He sounds offended that you even asked. “I want to feel every part of you,” he adds while you feel his warm breath brush over your neck. You lean your head back to give him an annoyed look. “What if you aren’t clean?” you ask him while dropping your arms to rest your hands on the mattress. You take something to prevent pregnancy, but you worry about everything else. “I don’t want to catch anything,” you tell him directly as you glare up at his face. Dex looks offended by your assumption. He lets go of your thighs and places his hands firmly on your hips instead. “Do you seriously think I have time to sleep around with anyone else?” he asks with an insulted tone.

He glares back at you to show how much the question bothers him. He wants you to realize how devoted he is. “I don’t even look in another woman’s direction,” he defends himself while his fingers dig into your waist. He hates the idea of you picturing him with another girl. “You’re the only person I want,” he reminds you as he uses his hands to drag your hips against his thighs. You roll your eyes at his words before you look him up and down. You notice he is wearing his shoes even though he is standing there in nothing but his underwear. You let out a small chuckle while looking back up at his face. “You want to do all these things to me, but you have your shoes on?” you ask him with a teasing tone. You point out how funny he looks standing in your bedroom with his shoes on.

“Are you really going to fuck me in just your boxers and your shoes?” you add to mock him a little more. Dex looks down at his feet before he lets out a short scoff. “I didn’t even realize,” he admits as he steps back from your knees. He bends down to remove his boots before he kicks them across the floor. He stands back up to face you again. You reach forward to grab the elastic waistband of his boxers. You use the fabric to pull him right back between your parted knees. You drag the material down just enough so you can see the base of his cock. You want to see if he understands the clear hint you are giving him. Dex watches your hands for a second before his own fingers take over the job. He shoves your hands away so he can strip the underwear off.

He kicks the fabric aside until he stands naked in front of you. You stare at his hard cock while he steps even closer to the mattress. He doesn’t give you any time to speak before his hands grab your shoulders. Dex pushes you backward so you lie down on the mattress. You were sitting right on the edge, so your legs ended up dangling off the bed. He steps into the open space between your thighs. Your legs naturally fall to rest against his sides while he stands over you. He takes up all the space right between your parted knees as he looks down at your exposed body. “You look so fucking good like this,” he tells you while checking your reaction. He watches your chest rise and fall before his eyes drop lower to get a perfect view of your cunt.

Dex brings one hand up to gently touch your thigh. His fingers trail slowly up your leg before moving across your stomach. He continues the path upward to drag his hand over your breast. You wonder if he can feel your racing heartbeat under his palm. His hand feels incredibly hot against your body. You take a deep breath when his fingers travel up your shoulder to caress your neck. You watch his eyes track every single movement of his hand over your chest. It makes your stomach drop because he looks captivated by you. You want to ask him to hurry up, but your throat feels dry. He finally cups your cheek while his thumb rubs right over your cheekbone. His other hand reaches down to wrap firmly around his cock.

He guides the head right against your wet folds to coat himself in your slick. He rubs his length back and forth across your wet cunt. “Fuck- feels nice,” Dex mutters out as he feels the dampness between your legs. He pushes the broad tip right against your cunt to tease you a little more. You lift your hips upward because you desperately want him inside. “Nngh- j-just- put it in,” you whine back while your hands grab the bedsheets tightly. Dex pushes the head of his cock inside you while his hand caresses your cheek. His thumb brushes your face as he slowly slides deeper. He thrusts into your cunt very carefully, like he fears he might hurt you. You lie directly against the mattress without any pillows beneath your head.

He finally pushes all the way in before he closes his eyes. “Shit,” he grunts as he buries himself deep inside your body. Your toes curl when his thick cock fills you out. You bend your knees to wrap your legs securely around his waist. He drops his free hand down to hold your hip firmly. Dex slowly slides out and then pushes right back into your cunt. He watches your chest bounce every time he moves inside you. “You look so good taking me,” he tells you while staring down at your body. “Ah- hah- just go deeper,” you whine, but he refuses to thrust faster. He wants to watch your body react so he doesn’t speed up at all. He takes his time sliding in and out of your wet folds. You reach up with one hand to hold the wrist he has near your face.

Your other hand drops down to rest directly over your stomach. You grind your hips upward right when he pushes deep inside you. “Nngh- such a loser,” you insult him while pushing back against his cock. You clench your cunt tightly around him. “Mmph- yeah?” Dex questions as his jaw clenches. You can tell your degrading words affect him more than he wants to admit. You squeeze your cunt around him again just to mess with his head. His nails dig right into your hip. Dex moves his hand away from your cheek so he can reach the back of your head. He tangles his fingers into your hair to hold your head down on the mattress. “But you love having this loser inside you,” he reminds you while his hand tightens on your hair.

The look in his eyes proves he dropped the gentle act. “Hngh- god-” you gasp out when he thrusts much harder into your cunt. He stops worrying about hurting you and just starts fucking you how he wants to. You scratch your nails across his wrist to stop him from going so deep. “Nn- don’t do it so hard,” you complain while your heels plant firmly against his back. Dex hums in agreement to trick you, but he immediately does the exact opposite. He pulls his cock out until only the tip rests inside your cunt before he thrusts his entire length back inside you. He knows he acts like an asshole right now, yet he refuses to stop. His fingers tangle more firmly through your hair because he just needs something to hold onto while he fucks you.

“Mm- s-stop being so rough,” you gasp out as your eyes roll back. Dex ignores your demand since he likes feeling your cunt clench around him. He moves his hand away from your hip so he can reach up to grope your breast. He thinks about how long he waited to finally touch you. Having you right here feels better than he ever imagined. He pinches your nipple right between his fingers to make you squirm under him. Dex feels satisfied as he finally touches the person he stalked for months. He knows he crossed every boundary to get here, but he honestly doesn’t regret a single thing. He used only to watch you walk around this bedroom through the hidden cameras he planted behind your furniture.

Now he gets to see everything right in front of his own eyes while he pushes his cock in and out of your cunt. Having you respond to him is what he wanted. “Fucking creep- ahhn- you’re so messed up,” you degrade him while your other hand rests directly over your stomach. Dex knows you only say those insults because you feel stupid for sleeping with your stalker. “You think I care what you call me when you wrap your legs around me like this?” Dex asks while he feels your toes curl against his lower back. He knows you are conflicted about this situation, but your body tells him what you actually want. You part your mouth to gasp when he hits that specific spot deep inside you. He knows what kind of pace gets you going.

The degrading names you use only make him want to go harder. Your nails naturally dig harder into his arm the deeper he goes. “Hah- shut up- mmph!” you whine back while scratching your fingers over your stomach. He chuckles at your pathetic attempt to insult him because your moans give you away. The way you react to him actually mesmerizes him enough to make him slow his pace down. Slowing his pace gives him time to take in every detail of your face, as he wants to memorize how you look when he takes you. Seeing you take him so well satisfies him even while he thinks it is funny how you try to act tough. You notice his head tilting downward to watch his cock slide in and out of your entrance.

He wonders if you enjoy looking at the sight of your bodies moving together just as much as he does. You see his eyes move from your stomach right back up to your chest. He thinks you look perfect like this and wants to burn this exact image into his memory. Staring openly at the breast he gropes makes him consider using his mouth on you instead before he watches your other breast bounce with every single movement he makes. Knowing he has your full attention pleases him because he genuinely enjoys making you feel so flustered. You notice him looking right at your face next, yet you fail to figure out what goes on inside his head. “Nngh- what are you looking at?” you ask because his constant staring bothers you.

You hate how he always studies you without explaining himself. You want him to speak up instead of being so quiet. Dex ignores your question and stops moving his cock inside you. He keeps staring right into your eyes while he slides his hands from the back of your head to your shoulders. He pulls you up from the mattress until you sit upright on the edge of the bed. Your legs are already wrapped around his waist while you naturally reach out to grab his shoulders for balance. “Hold onto me,” Dex commands before he slides his hands down your sides. He places his hands on your waist to hold you in place. He starts pushing his cock in and out of your cunt again. You hold his shoulders tightly so you don’t fall backward while he fucks you.

“Nngh- why can’t we just do it in one position?” you complain about him moving you around too much. Dex ignores your whining before he leans forward to bury his face into your neck. He lets his mouth touch your collarbone while his hands hold your waist firmly. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt as he brings his lips right next to your ear. “I just want to create every position you wrote,” Dex whispers directly into your ear while he shoves his cock inside you. Your cunt squeezes tight around his cock right after he says those words. Hearing his plan brings a rush of pleasure to your body. You think about what position comes next to fucking you while sitting like this. You wonder if he plans to flip you over the bed to fuck you on your stomach.

Dex bites down on your shoulder before he grunts against your neck to hide a whimper. He pulls his cock almost all the way out before shoving it back in. He likes the way your body responds to his twisted ideas. “Do you like that?” Dex asks as he feels your cunt clench around him. He wants to know if you enjoy the idea of having him in all those different positions. “Hah- s-shut- fuck-” you gasp out while your back arches. You hate how his crazy obsession actually turns you on. He chuckles softly at your denial because your actions contradict your words. He lets you dig your nails into his shoulder while his hands squeeze your waist tighter. Dex kisses your collarbone while he shoves his cock inside you.

He gets too caught up in the pleasure to filter his thoughts. He loves having you right here instead of just watching you through a monitor. “Mhm... You look so much better than the scre-” Dex stutters against your neck before he forces his mouth shut. He almost exposed the hidden cameras he planted around your home. He bites his bottom lip to stop himself from ruining the moment with a stupid mistake. You place both hands on his chest to shove him away from your neck so you can look at his face. “Ahhn- what were you going to say?” you ask while narrowing your eyes at him. You know he hides things from you. Dex slows his movements down so he can think of a lie while his hands caress your waist.

“Come on- it’s nothing,” Dex replies as he gives you a sloppy excuse to brush off your question. “I just meant you look better than I imagined,” he adds to cover his tracks. You want to question him more, but he refuses to give you the chance to speak. Dex leans forward again to bury his face against your chest this time. He takes your nipple into his mouth to suck on it hard. “Hah- wait-” you gasp out as his teeth bite down. He takes one hand off your ribs to slide it down between your bodies. He finds your clit before he starts rubbing it with his thumb. He uses it to his advantage to make you forget what he just said to you. Your hands move up from his chest to grab his hair while he works your clit.

He rubs his thumb over the sensitive spot as he continues moving in and out of your cunt. “Oh god- nngh- right there,” you whine out while your hips buck upward against his hand. Dex swirls his tongue over your nipple before he grazes his teeth over the tip. He moves his mouth away about an inch to kiss your breast before he goes right back to sucking hard on the peak. He thinks about how long he craved this exact taste while the soft whimpers you make only encourage him to bite down harder. He wants to leave a mark you will feel for days. Dex moves his face over to give the other side the same attention. You grip his hair firmly before you lean your head down to nuzzle your face right into his sweaty hair. “Mm- you really like it there,” you whisper while your hips buck up against his hand.

He feels right at home against your body, and having your hands all over him feels better than anything else. He knows he would never change a single thing if he could go back to the moment he first saw you at the supermarket. His therapist used to tell him his moral compass was never broken, but he just needed someone to guide him. He realizes now you are that person, but he never expected things to get this far. He was only supposed to watch you from a distance without making contact, and he never wanted you to find out he was stalking you. You were just too smart for him to hide from you. You played a clever game to expose him, and he fell right into it. His thumb slows down over your clit because he gets distracted by your breast.

He wonders if you notice how easily you affect everything he does, even with the way you arch into his touch. You can feel his cock twitching deep inside your cunt, and the feeling makes your breath hitch. The bed creaks loudly underneath you every time he shoves his cock in and out of you. “Ahhn- right there- fuck-” you moan out as the heat builds up between your bodies, and sweat drips down your chest. Everything he does pushes you closer to your limit, especially with how he moves fast before he goes slow. Dex grunts from the sensation while he continues to use his thumb to circle and rub your clit. It makes your toes curl while you struggle to catch your breath. “Hah- god- right there-” you whine while your cunt squeezes around his cock. Your nails dig into his scalp as the pleasure builds up because you want him to push you over the edge instead of just teasing you.

He sucks harder on your nipple, and you tilt your head back when his cock finds your g-spot. “Hah- god- I’m getting so close,” you pant out while your hips buck upward. Dex finally moves his mouth away from your breast so he can watch your reaction. You bury your face right into his chest because you refuse to let him look at you. You turn into a moaning mess against him as the pleasure brings you right to the edge. He hates it whenever you try to hide from him when he wants to see every single expression you make. “Nn- please,” you whine directly against his collarbone. He loves hearing you beg for him. He removes his hand from your clit before he uses that same hand to push your body away from his chest.

He pushes you back just enough to see your face properly. “Stop hiding from me,” Dex commands as he forces you to look at him. His hand moves up to the back of your head to tilt it backward while his other hand slides from your waist down to your hip. He enjoys the feeling of holding you in place while he fucks you when you look exactly how he always pictured you. You can’t help but part your mouth when you moan before you close your eyes, and you can feel your clit pulsing without his touch. Your cunt clenches around his cock while he watches your expression carefully before a smirk forms on his lips. He knows how to push you over the edge, and he loves knowing he causes this kind of reaction in you.

He leans down a little closer to your face to spit right into your open mouth. “Mm- hah-” you gasp out in surprise as the spit lands on your tongue. You open your eyes in surprise since you never expected him to do something like that. Your face heats up with embarrassment even though you actually enjoy what he did. His spit inside your mouth makes your cunt clench hard around his cock to the point he slows his pace down before he stops moving his hips entirely when you start cumming. His cock throbs inside you, and you tremble against him. He holds your hair and your hip firmly to brace himself. Dex closes his eyes while his mouth parts, but he quickly bites down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from being too loud. “Ahhhnn- fuck- Dex-” you whine out as you finish around his cock.

“I know,” Dex whispers while his hand moves to caress your back. He takes his hands off your hip and head before he unwraps your legs from his waist. He steps back to slide his cock out of your body. He wonders if you have any idea how much he loves the mess he makes out of you. He watches how puffy your cunt looks right after you finish, and he stares at how your clit pulses while your cum trails down your skin. You feel glad he backed away because your chest heaves as you catch your breath. You suddenly remember he hasn’t cum yet, but he grabs your arms before you can bring it up to force you to stand up. He turns you around to face the bed before he pushes you down onto your stomach. You react quickly by crawling forward until you get on all fours so your legs finally make it onto the mattress.

“Hah- what are you doing?” you complain while he climbs onto the bed right behind you. You hate how he always catches you off guard. His unpredictable behavior frustrates you to no end. “Shh- I told you we’d do another position from what you wrote,” Dex replies as he places a pillow under your stomach. He grabs a second pillow to put it directly beneath your face. You look over your shoulder with a pissed expression, but you look forward to what he plans to do next. “I haven’t cum, yet,” Dex states while his hand finds its way to your hip. His other hand reaches down to guide his cock right against your cunt. He easily slides inside you because you are so slippery from your own cum. “You don’t want to give me blue balls, right?” he asks while looking down at your back. His tone sounds more like a warning than a genuine question. He knows how much you crave his attention.

“Nngh- wait- I’m too s-sensi-” you try to say before his actions cut your words off. He shoves all the way in without any warning while his guiding hand moves up to hold your waist. “Ahhn- I just came- Dex,” you whine out while trying to adjust to his size. Your words tick him off enough to make him drag his cock out to the tip before he slams back in whole. “Well, I didn’t,” Dex grunts while he hits you deep inside. You stop looking over your shoulder to let your face hover inches above the pillow. You don’t care if your eyes close or if your mouth hangs open while he fucks you relentlessly. “I know I could finish in your mouth,” Dex says as he continues thrusting behind you.

Your hands grip the bedsheets while your toes curl against the mattress. “Mmph- then why didn’t you?” you ask him between breaths.

Dex shoves his cock deeper into your cunt before he leans his chest over your back. He uses his body weight to push your torso down against the stomach pillow. “There is nothing comparable to this,” he answers while he fucks you harder. You know he plans to take a lot more from you until you tire out. You aren’t against the idea because you actually look forward to it. Experiencing this kind of thing usually only happens when you read other people’s writing or your own stories. You never expected you’d end up getting fucked in so many different ways tonight. It feels like a win since it all happens right here in your bed. Your body manages to take every inch of him while the deep friction makes you gasp into the sheets.

His weight presses heavily against your back. The firm pressure holds you down and securely pins you to the mattress. Your face rests against the top pillow while your stomach pushes into the second one as his cock goes in and out of you. “Mmmff- hah- oh god-” your moans get muffled into the sheets from the way his body pins you down. Dex places one hand on your hip while his other hand reaches around to grab your side. You hear the loud sound of flesh slapping together whenever he thrusts his hips forward. You can also feel his balls hitting against your ass with every single movement he makes. It feels degrading to take him like this, but the sensation of his cock sliding over your cunt only turns you on more.

You find it embarrassing to admit how much you enjoy every dirty thing he does to you. “God, you feel amazing,” Dex grunts while he buries himself as deep as he can go. He knows how to use his heavy pressure to get the hardest reactions out of you. He leans his head down so his lips brush right against your shoulder blade. Dex eventually gets careless, and he realizes that the moment he opens his mouth to brag about what he saw on his monitors. “That guy from last month couldn’t even hit your spot like I do when he f-fucked you-” Dex stutters before he forces himself to shut up. He realizes he almost exposed his hidden cameras again, so he punishes himself for his sloppy mistake by biting down hard on your back.

“Ahhn- god- right there,” you whine out as the feeling of his teeth makes your cunt squeeze around his cock. Dex loves the way your cunt takes him, so he just lets himself continue fucking you into the mattress while he leaves bite marks all over your shoulder. You don’t even care about his confession because you are too exhausted to process what he says. He gives you back a few more bites before he stops leaning his weight over you. He raises himself to kneel right behind you. He grabs your hips to pull them higher so your lower back arches while your ass sticks up in the air. He raises his hand up before he slaps your ass roughly. The loud smack of flesh echoes through the room right before his fingers dig firmly back into your hip.

“Mm! Y-yes,” you gasp out while your nails scratch at the bedsheets. Dex groans loud enough for you to hear as he matches his fast pace with your needy sounds. He knows he can last for hours since he waited so long for this exact moment. Dex moves his free hand to your ass to squeeze it. Your chest rests against the bed while the side of your face lies on the pillow. You try to push your upper body off the mattress to get on all fours again. Your arms shake instantly when you try to lift your weight up. You feel too weak to hold yourself up, so you fall right back down to where you started. Dex chuckles loudly at your pathetic attempt to move. “Aww, poor girl can’t even support her own weight,” he mocks you while rubbing his hand over your ass cheek.

You let out a frustrated huff into the pillow since you hate it when he makes fun of you. He slides his hand under your stomach to help you out. “Bring yourself up,” Dex commands as he lifts your torso away from the bed. You try again with his help until you manage to get on your knees. He moves you all the way back so your back rests directly against his chest. He wraps his arm securely around your waist to hold you upright. You reach your hands out to hold onto his forearm for balance. “Good girl,” Dex praises you awkwardly because he never usually says things like that. He pushes his cock into your cunt to test how this new position feels. “Does this feel okay for you?” Dex asks while he thrusts his hips slowly behind you.

You want to adjust a little bit so you look towards the top of the bed. “Mm- let’s move closer to the headboard,” you suggest while leaning back against him. He nods before he takes his cock out of your cunt. He uses his free hand to remove your fingers from his arm. He guides you forward, so you both scoot across the mattress on your knees. It only takes a few short movements until your hands find their way to the headboard. You lean forward to rest your chest against the pillows stacked against the wood. Dex whistles at the sight of you bent over the headboard. He loves how you arch your back for him to fuck.

He raises his hand to slap your ass hard enough to leave a loud smack in the room. “Ah!- Dex,” you yelp out while your fingers curl around it. He grabs your hips firmly before he slides his cock right back inside your cunt. He starts thrusting deep into you again while you adjust to his size. “Too many interruptions tonight,” Dex whispers right near your ear as if he wants to taunt you. He knows he causes all the delays, but he loves acting like an asshole to annoy you. You clench your cunt tight around his cock on purpose to stop him from thrusting. You hate his arrogant attitude right now. “Ahhn- so are you telling me I’m an interruption?” you ask while looking over your shoulder to glare at him. The way your cunt squeezes makes it hard for him to move his hips.

“Fuck- wait- ngh,” Dex groans behind you as the tight squeeze makes his cock throb deep inside you. He easily folds because he knows he needs to play nice with you. You are literally offering him what he wants tonight. Anyone else would have pulled the trigger of that gun you held against his forehead earlier. He knows he is lucky you decided to fuck him instead of shooting him. He struggles to catch his breath while his cock pulses inside you. He hates losing control, but he hates the idea of you stopping even more. He doesn’t know how to process his emotions properly, so he struggles to find the right words to say. “I’m sorry- just stop doing that,” Dex whispers awkwardly while his fingers squeeze your hips.

He never apologizes to anyone, but he acts desperate to continue fucking you. “Nngh- please let me move,” he begs you while resting his forehead against your back. He tries to convince you to stop squeezing so he can reach his orgasm. He knows he sounds pathetic, but he only wishes that you would let him have it his way. You listen to his clumsy apology for a moment before you stop clenching his cock purposely. You grind your ass back against him to let him know he earned your mercy. You push your body directly into his crotch to make him take the hint. “Mm- you better behave then,” you warn him as you let him slide all the way in. Dex takes a deep breath before he starts moving his hips slowly behind you.

His hands squeeze your hips to balance you against the headboard. “Fuck- you feel so good,” Dex grunts out while he pushes deep into your cunt. The slow pace feels amazing as he hits every sensitive spot inside you. You let your eyes close while your fingers wrap securely around the wood. He eventually speeds up his thrusts once he realizes you aren’t going to stop him again. He slides his cock almost out before he shoves it back inside your cunt. “Ahhhnn- right there,” you moan loudly into the pillows while your back arches for him. Dex watches the way your spine curves while he fucks you from behind. He loves the way your body responds to everything he does. “God- you take it so well,” he groans out while his thumbs rub over your hip.

He makes sure to hit your g-spot with every single thrust so you forget about his cocky words. You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from being too loud in the room. He just continues fucking you until your legs start trembling against the mattress. Dex closes his eyes while his hips move in a careless manner behind you. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt before he grinds his hips against your ass. He pulls out to the tip to take a few seconds to breathe. He shoves back inside you when you expect it the least. “Fuck- you take me so perfectly,” Dex whispers out while he forces himself inside you. He doesn’t know the exact right words to say, but he wants to give you a genuine compliment. “You are so good to me,” he grunts as he slides against your g-spot with every thrust.

He stops moving for a few seconds every time he buries his cock deep inside your body. You grind your ass back against him to help him out because you want him to continue. “Hah- don’t stop- nn,” you whine out to urge him forward. Dex feels the way you push back against him while his cock pulses inside your cunt. He connects your needy movements to how close you are to another orgasm. He loves seeing you get so desperate for his cock when you’re right on the edge. You look over your shoulder to see what he does behind you. You find his head tilted back as he shuts his eyes tightly. You actually think he looks gorgeous like this even though you hate admitting it. You let go of the headboard with your right hand so you can reach backward.

You try to find his arm while he starts thrusting his hips again. Your fingers brush against his forearm to get his attention. “Mm- Dex,” you gasp out while your hand slides down his wrist. Dex opens his eyes the moment he feels your fingers touch his arm. He leans closer to your back so he can place his hand right beside yours. He easily intertwines his fingers with yours before he brings your hand forward to secure it against the headboard. “Shit- wait,” Dex curses loudly because that simple touch pushes him right over the edge. He thrusts his hips much faster while he fucks you without any mercy. “Fuck- I’m going to-” he whispers directly against your ear as his pace gets rougher. You feel his cock burying deep inside you every time he thrusts his hips forward.

You realize you can’t hold back your own orgasm when he moves this fast. “Ah!- y-yes- fuck,” you stutter out while you brace yourself against the wood. Dex shoves into you a few more times before he finishes deep inside your cunt. “God-” he grunts out as he unloads his cum right into you. Your body reacts to his climax like a switch flips in your brain to make your walls squeeze tight around his cock. You feel sensitive from the overstimulation, while the warm feeling of being filled makes you melt into the mattress. It feels stupid to let him finish inside you, but you refuse to stop him since it feels too good. He moves his chest away from your back to stand up straight on his knees before he lets go of your hand to hold your hip.

Both of his hands grab your hips to hold you in place while he slowly thrusts back inside you. He watches the way both of your cum coats his cock with every slow movement to see the mess he made. He never misses anyway, so seeing his load deep inside your cunt makes him feel proud. He loves watching how messy he left you tonight. Dex looks down at your body to check on you while his hips push forward. You are slumped against the stacked pillows with your arms hugging them tightly. Your ass arches up in the air for him, but your face buries into the fabric. “How do you feel?” Dex asks you while he rubs his thumbs over your hip bones. You feel too exhausted to form a proper sentence, so you shake your head at his question.

He raises his eyebrow at your silent response before he decides to ask you again. “Are you going to answer me?” he asks as he slowly drags his cock out of your body. You let out a long breath when you feel him leave your cunt empty. “Tired,” you mumble into the pillows. He chuckles at your honest answer because he knows he wore you out tonight. Dex looks over at the clock on your nightstand before he moves away from your back. He crawls up the mattress to sit right beside your head so he can lean back against the headboard. “Lie down flat,” Dex tells you while he helps guide your body onto your stomach. You follow his instructions so you can rest your body while hugging the pillow under your face.

He puts his hand right on your lower back to caress you slowly. He feels the sweat under his palm from how hard you worked tonight. You have your arms wrapped tight around the soft fabric because you feel exhausted. “Mm- it feels so late,” you whine into the pillow even though you never checked the time. Dex agrees with you before he moves his hand up from your back to reach your head. He gently caresses your head to comfort you. “It’s 4:23 in the morning,” he casually tells you while he continues petting you. You have no idea how long you actually had sex with him tonight. It feels like a lifetime has passed since he first pinned you to the mattress. You don’t even know what time you originally woke up to find him watching you sleep.

He probably stood in the dark corner for hours before he made his presence known. The terrifying thought should bother you, but his gentle touches make you feel stupidly safe instead. You realize you have no clue how long he has actually been inside your house. You adjust your head so you can turn your face towards his direction. Your cheek rests against the pillow now so you aren’t hiding your face from him anymore. You look up at him while he sits there looking comfortable in your bed. “You look like you plan to stick around,” you point out sarcastically as you narrow your eyes at him. He acts like he owns the place right after he finishes fucking you. He looks way too relaxed for a guy who broke in just a few hours ago.

You hate how easy he makes this look. Dex scoffs at your comment before he takes his hand away from your head. He reaches down to slap your ass hard to punish your attitude. “Ah!- hey,” you gasp out while he squeezes your ass cheek right after he slaps you. You glare at him because he acts so smug about having you right where he wants you. He clearly enjoys seeing how irritated you get when he treats you like his property. “Yeah, well, maybe I will just move in here,” Dex jokes back, but he actually means every single word. You probably assume he will leave when the sun comes up, but here he is, thinking about how easy it would be to watch you up close if he lived with you. He knows it will be so simple to insert himself into your life now that you have just had sex with him. He smirks down at your tired body and has no idea that he thinks about never letting you go.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

The FBI field office runs on a schedule so predictable you could set a watch by it, and you have long since memorized the rhythm of every agent who passes through the lobby on their way up to the eleventh floor. You know which ones nod, which ones ignore you entirely, and which ones stop to make small talk about the weather or the traffic on the way in. Agent Poindexter belongs to none of these categories, and that is precisely why you have started to notice him. He walks like a man who has trained his whole life to move efficiently, shoulders squared, steps even, and yet every single time he reaches the edge of your desk, something in his posture falters, as if his body forgets the plan the moment his eyes land on you.

It starts, or at least you first notice it starting, on a Tuesday when he stops directly in front of your desk holding a manila folder that clearly does not need to be anywhere near you. He sets it down, taps it twice with two fingers like he is trying to convince himself it belongs there, and clears his throat before speaking. "I need this signed off by Records," he says, and his voice comes out steadier than his hands look. You glance at the folder, then back up at him, and you can see the tension sitting in his jaw, the kind of tension that comes from a person working very hard to seem casual.

"Records is on the fourth floor, Agent Poindexter," you tell him gently, and you watch something flicker across his face, somewhere between embarrassment and resignation. "Right," he says. "I knew that."

He does not pick the folder back up right away, and for a few seconds he simply stands there, like he is trying to think of a second reason to stay that would sound less obvious than the first one had been.

By the following week, you have started keeping a mental tally of his visits, and the excuses have grown increasingly inventive in ways that make you want to laugh out loud, though you are careful never to let him see it. He asks you where the supply closet is, despite having worked in the building for over a year. He asks whether the elevator on the east side is still out of service, despite having ridden it up not twenty minutes earlier.

He once asks you, with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for interrogations, whether the coffee machine on your floor takes exact change or whether it gives change back, and when you tell him it does neither because it has been broken since March, he simply nods slowly and says, "Good to know," before walking away without ever having intended to use the coffee machine at all.

You do not say anything about the pattern at first, partly because you find it endearing and partly because you suspect that pointing it out directly might send him retreating for good, the way a spooked animal bolts the moment it realizes it has been seen. Instead, you let him keep inventing his small errands, and you answer each one patiently, and you notice the way his shoulders relax by a fraction every time you smile at him, as if your reaction is the only variable in his day he cannot fully predict or control. There is something almost boyish in the way he watches you when he thinks you are not paying attention, a kind of open, unguarded curiosity that seems entirely at odds with the rest of him, with the quiet, contained way he carries himself through every other hallway in the building.

It is only later, once you have started paying closer attention to him in return, that you notice how much he already seems to know about you, details you are fairly certain you never actually told him. He mentions once, almost in passing, that you must have had a long night, and when you ask how he could possibly know that, he simply says he noticed you came in later than usual, which would require him to know what time you usually came in to begin with. Another day he comments on the coffee order from the shop two blocks over, the one you only go to on days when the office machine is broken, and you are almost certain you have never once told him where you get your coffee. You decide not to press it too hard, telling yourself that a trained federal agent probably notices small details out of habit rather than out of anything more deliberate, and there is a small, private part of you that finds the attention flattering rather than unsettling, even as you file the coincidences away for later.

One afternoon he comes down without any folder at all, without any prop to hide behind, and he simply stands at the edge of your desk with his hands in his pockets, looking like a man who has run out of material and is now improvising for the first time.

"Do you know if the cafeteria still has the chicken sandwich on Thursdays?" he asks, and you can tell immediately that he has not thought this one through, because the cafeteria menu is posted directly behind you on a laminated sheet that he has clearly already read on his way in.

"It's right there," you say, pointing to the sign, and you watch the color rise slightly in his face.

"I know," he admits, and there is something almost relieved in his voice, like he has decided, in that exact moment, that pretending is no longer worth the effort it takes.

"I just wanted an excuse to come down here again."

The admission hangs in the air between you for a moment, and you find yourself grinning before you can stop it, because there is something disarming about a man who is clearly so unpracticed at flirting that he has resorted to fabricating an entire relationship with the office coffee machine just to have a reason to speak to you.

"You know," you say, leaning forward slightly on your elbows, "you don't actually need an excuse. You could just come say hi."

He blinks at you like this had genuinely not occurred to him as an option, like the entire architecture of his visits had been built on the assumption that a reason was required, that showing up simply to see you would somehow be against the rules.

"I could do that," he repeats slowly, testing the words in his mouth as if they belonged to a different language than the one he usually spoke.

You mention to a coworker, quietly and mostly as a joke, that you think Agent Poindexter might have a small crush on you, and the coworker laughs and tells you that he has apparently been asking around about your schedule for weeks, wanting to know what days you work the early shift and what days you take lunch, framing the questions carefully enough that most people simply assumed he needed the information for a security reason rather than a personal one. You do not know quite what to do with that piece of information, so you decide, for now, to do nothing at all with it, other than notice that he always seems to appear at your desk during the exact ten minutes you are least likely to be occupied with something else.

The next morning, he comes down at exactly nine fifteen, the same time he always does, but this time his hands are empty, no folder, no clipboard, nothing to hide behind. He stops at your desk and stands there for a moment, visibly working up to something, and then he says, with the careful cadence of a man who has clearly rehearsed the line more than once in the elevator, "Good morning. I wanted to say hi."

You look up at him and you can see how much effort it took him to say something so simple, how his jaw is set in the same way it gets when he is bracing for a difficult conversation, and you find that you like him even more for it.

"Good morning, Agent Poindexter," you reply, and you let the smile in your voice do most of the talking. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"It was, actually," he admits, with a small huff of a laugh that seems to surprise even him. "You have no idea."

From that point on, the visits do not stop, but they do change shape, shedding their folders and their invented errands one by one until what remains is simply him, standing at your desk most mornings, finding some new small thing to say. He tells you about a case that frustrated him, phrased carefully enough to stay within the bounds of what he is allowed to share, and you listen in a way that seems to genuinely surprise him, like he had not expected anyone at the Bureau to actually want to hear about his day rather than simply about his results. He asks you questions about yourself too, tentative and a little clumsy, about where you grew up, about whether you liked working here, about what you did on your days off, and every answer you give he seems to file away carefully, the way he might memorize the layout of a room before he had to move through it in the dark.

There is a Thursday, weeks into this new and unspoken arrangement, when he shows up holding two coffees instead of a folder, and he sets one down on the edge of your desk without a word, sliding it toward you with the same careful precision he brings to everything else.

"I didn't know how you take it," he says, a little sheepishly, "so I got you the same as mine. Black, no sugar. If that's wrong I can go get you something else." You take the cup and wrap both hands around it, feeling the warmth seep into your palms, and you tell him that black coffee happens to be exactly how you like it, which makes something in his expression loosen with visible relief, as if he had been quietly rehearsing contingency plans for the possibility that you might not.

You find out, quite by accident, that you left a pen on your desk one evening, a cheap plastic thing with your name stamped into the barrel that you had won at some office raffle, and when you go looking for it the next morning it is gone, and it is Dex, weeks later, who you spot twirling it absentmindedly between his fingers during a conversation, apparently without any awareness that he has been caught. When you point it out, laughing, he goes faintly red and mumbles something about meaning to give it back, and you let him keep it, mostly because the flustered look on his face is worth far more to you than the pen ever was. You start noticing other small things after that, the way he always seems to already know which elevator you prefer, the way he once mentioned, without prompting, that you hang your coat on the third hook from the door rather than the first two, and each time you catch one of these little details you feel less unsettled by it than you probably should, filing it instead under the growing list of things that make him strange in a way you have decided you like.

You start looking forward to nine fifteen the way you might look forward to a small and private holiday that only the two of you seem to know about, a few stolen minutes at the start of each day that belong to no one else in the building. He never quite loses the awkwardness, the slight stiffness in his shoulders when he first walks up, the way he sometimes seems to search for words the way a man searches his pockets for keys he is certain he brought with him, but you find that you do not want him to lose it entirely, because it is precisely that awkwardness, that visible effort, that makes it so clear how much he wants to be there. Other agents walk past your desk every day without a second glance, but Dex Poindexter has spent weeks now inventing entire imaginary errands just for the chance to stand in front of you for five minutes, and there is something in that dedication, clumsy and overthought as it is, that you have come to find quietly, thoroughly charming.

One morning, instead of asking about the coffee machine or the supply closet or the cafeteria menu, he simply asks if you would like to get dinner with him sometime, the question coming out fast and a little rushed, like he was worried that if he slowed down even slightly he might lose his nerve entirely. His hands are jammed into his pockets and his eyes are fixed somewhere just past your shoulder, not quite able to hold your gaze until the words are fully out of his mouth. "I'd like that," you tell him, and you watch the tension drain out of him all at once, replaced by something that looks almost like disbelief, like a man who has spent so long preparing for rejection that he does not quite know what to do with the alternative.

"Yeah?" he asks, and there is a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind you have only seen a handful of times before.

"Yeah," you say. "But Dex, you really didn't need three weeks of fake errands to ask me that."

Then Dex started to bake you cookies.

Every Wednesday and Friday morning you'd get ready for work to the smell of chocolate chip cookies. It was so weird how that smell penetrated your wall— and you could swear the sounds had started to get a bit louder too— but you ignored it and just blamed it on some kind of crack or hole that formed somewhere. This building wasn't a sight for sore eyes to begin with, which is why the rent was so affordable.

When you'd sit down for breakfast, your bell would ring, every, single, time. Perfectly at the moment you sat down at the table. It was almost eerie how good the timing was because you wouldn't finish your morning routine at the same time every day. Sometimes your lipstick would be lost, and you'd search through your bags and jean pockets to find it. Sometimes your hair would be more tangled than usual, and you'd have to re-do the hairstyle multiple times before it actually "sat" nicely. In any case, the time it would take before you sat down was very scattered and still— that's when the bell would ring.

You'd open the door regardless. Looking up at your tall blonde neighbor holding a tray with seven warm cookies in front of you. At first his delivery was very awkward and nervous.

"Hey there, I—uh, made more than I needed to. Here you go."

You'd say thanks and he'd say thanks too— for whatever reason, before turning away and disappearing into his apartment. The more often he'd ring your bell, the more confident and sharp his delivery became.

"Morning (....). These are for you. Did you sleep okay?" He'd say, lingering on your doorstep with a look so very warm it made you itchy.

Dex was handsome. There was no way around that. He was an incredibly good looking man. Sharp smile, nice white teeth, broad shoulders and almond eyes. Pronounced cheekbones and a sharp jawline. You liked looking at him when he first set foot in the café, but you weren't the type to fall head over heels for looks alone.

But then he saved you from possible assault at that party, brought you home without doing anything weird— except that your heels were missing; which you waved away as needed forensic evidence. In the aftermath, when the world felt like it was crumbling after the fight with your friend Carin, he was there—texting back in seconds, guiding you through the labyrinth of evidence, fortifying your claim for reparations with a patience that bordered on saintly. At the café, he tipped like a man who didn’t count coins, sliding bills across the table with a generosity that left you stunned. You didn’t question it—hell, the pay for the job was abysmal, and every extra dollar felt like a lifeline.

Yet, despite the obvious wealth he could have flaunted, he never did. No designer labels, no flashy watches, no ostentatious displays of privilege—just a quiet, unassuming presence.

Then there was the beach store. You had worn that skimpy attire on purpose, a silent test for your own curiosity. What kind of man are you really? And when his reaction was one of flustered discomfort—nothing lascivious, nothing predatory—he excused himself with a haste that spoke volumes. It wasn’t the response you expected. And in that moment, your trust in him deepened.

Dex was almost too good to be true.

Which was precisely why you tried to friendzone him, to keep him at arm’s length. There was something about him—something elusive, something that didn’t quite fit. But then again, you’d encountered far stranger men in your life, and you’d learned to overlook the oddities in exchange for the rare moments of genuine connection. And, if you were honest, the exhaustion of work and the fallout in your friendgroup had left you hollow. Starved for the way he made you feel when the world wasn’t pressing down on your shoulders. Those kitchen nightmare dinner nights, those quiet mornings where you'd acknowledge eachother on the balcony—

At work you'd think about the cookies he made; something about them and... him made you want more and more. You also thought of how selfless he was. How much he did his best to make you comfortable when you'd ask him to talk— distancing himself from you and looking down. It was sweet. He was sweet. You felt sweet and warm thinking about him.

After that epiphany, you became a bit more antsy everytime he rang your bell. And everytime you opened the door and he'd stand there with that shy sharp smile of his you could just feel your body respond. You wanted to spend more time with him but didn't know if the feeling was mutual.

Dex would go hot and cold a lot. Sometimes very eager and willing to stick around, while other times he'd brush past you and quickly slam his door.

Such a paradox. I wonder what you struggle with so much...? You thought as you shook your head at the floor, volleyball tightening in your hand. "—I know you're busy Dex, but I figured I could ask."

"I'm not. I would like to go with you." He smiled and leaned on the doorframe. "Just wondering why you're asking me... all of a sudden."

"Well I thought I already said why." The nerves crawled into you shoulders, nearly making you shake. "My friends—"

"You're lying."

He said it without hesitation, eyes penetrating yours without blinking. Your heart began to pound quicker, and you felt off— but not sure in what way off.

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry, that uh— didn't come out the way I intended. I meant, don't you just want to invite me for me?

You laughed away the silence and bit your lip. This was weird? Or were you making it weird? Maybe he knew you liked him, and didn't like that you were younger than him? Maybe this was his way of prodding at you before ultimately ending it all here; fair compared to what you pulled in that beach store.

Dex suddenly laughed, voice deep and gravelly.

"Scratch that. Why don't you come inside? I made some coffee and still have leftover cookies. My morning ritual is important to me, can't make any decisions without it."

You looked into his apartment and then back up at him before ultimately agreeing.

---------

Dex's POV

His heart roared when you stepped in his apartment. You'd been eating his nicotine laced cookies like the good girl he knew you were. Always finishing the tray before night-time; he concluded from the peeping hole.

You'd become more ignorant, more accepting and aloof to his behavior. After all, your brain had literally started to connect Dex and his cookies to the feel good chemicals he made you become hooked on.

The pills in his cabinet hadn't been cutting it anymore. He took twice the daily recommended but the obsessive craze over you still screamed louder than the pills. It made him mad, absolutely fucking crazed with want and desire— but now also paranoia and anger; the two feelings the antipsychotics muffled.

The days used to go by perfectly. Dex would see you in the hallways, watch you through his walls, talk to you and invite himself over for dinner whenever you had a free day. He'd make sure you wouldn't reject him by watching your mood when you entered the living room every morning. If you were grumpy and tired he would leave you alone for the day. Were you happy yet bored? That was perfect, and he'd immediately toss all his plans for the day in the garbage to attempt a visit. He'd brush his teeth until his gums nearly bled, wash himself so obsessively till his back turned pink. Ruffle his blonde hair, comb it back, mess up. Ruffle it again, comb it sloooowly— mess up. Ruffle, comb sloooowly— GOD DAMN IT!

Blood filled the sink and all his medication slowly disolved under the running tap. His fist had gone straight through the mirror, shards of glass distorting his face. Blood dripped from his hand, and he thought of taking a sharp shard to cut one finger off completely. This finger had come between him and looking good for you. He must cast it away—it was rotten. A fucking traitor.

Just wanted to look good for her... Dex slid down his bathroom wall, blood freckling the white sterile tiles as he fumbled around for the phone in his jeans. Need to hear my baby. I need to. The buzzing in his ears made him dizzy, dark urge telling him to cast his flesh away—

'Dex, can you maybe stay on the line for a bit?'

His breathing regulated, bloody finger smearing red streaks across the replay button on the screen.

Repeat.

'Dex, can you maybe stay on the line for a bit?'

The buzzing slowly faded alongside the violent thoughts.

Repeat.

'Dex, can you maybe stay on the line for a bit?'

He laid on the floor while saying your name, tears welling up in his eyes as he cradled himself into fetal position. "Thank you baby... my love... oh my everything... love you so much..."

Dex hated himself. Always had. Ever since his parents passed and he was stuck in that orphanage— he blamed himself for never being picked. Adults would stop by during play-time to watch the kids. They would pick the boys who seemed sweetest, the boys who would share toys without issue, who'd play with others and eagerly say hello to visitors. Dex however? Well he was always sitting by himself. Didn't know why cause he wanted to share his toys too. It's just that he didn't understand when he was supposed to share. By the time he was willing to hand them over the boy already started crying. Dr. Eileen Mercer, his psychologist, used to tell him it was because he had trouble with empathy. Empathy meant feeling pain for others and knowing when they're sad— right? The first part was very difficult, the second one even more. Dex had started to depend on logic to knit pick if he was supposed to act sad for someone. Try to read as many visual cues before a person was about to cry. Mirroring became a second tool. If he couldn't understand someone's pain with logic, he would simply mimic them. He'd subtly mouth the words the person was about to say, pulling down his eyebrows at the same time they did, with a little bit of delay so he wasn't freaking them out. But no matter how much he tried it never worked. His logical approach moved slower than someone's natural emotional response to pain, so those few miliseconds of delay made people feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortably meant uncanny. And uncanny meant fear. That kept him an outcast, all his life.

But then he met you and his body responded—real and raw—an emotional burst of love that he didn't have to fake. Something that just flowed through him, something unlogical, something new and old and normal and abnormal all at once.

It. Was. Everything.

Dex hated the idea of hurting you, but despised the idea of losing you even more. That was what set him apart from others. From normal people. To Dex, the ends justified the means. Anything to make you stay.

He couldn't afford you ditching him and finding someone else down the road. He'd know it wouldn't take long before you noticed he was, 'odd.' He was pretty sure you already did, with how sedated you were around him— like your brain was trying to turn off the alarm bells that would trigger around him just to have a casual conversation. Dex wondered how much longer you could numb yourself to his weird behavior. How much longer you could make yourself delusional to it all— and the time came where you began to stop. You'd ask him why he was in the grocery store at this time, ask him why he was always sorting mail in the hallway, asked about him coincidentally opening his door when you'd go out— ask him about weird rustling at his side of the wall.

No, no, no that wouldn't do and he fixed it before you would push him away further than that stupid fucking friendzone you put him in to keep him at a distance, before you'd dump him, leave him— and Dex had no choice, no control of his body because you had taken the reigns and spurred him on, he had to keep you close so he could breathe because the sun was his calling and he was Icarus. Forget about the stars, the north one the south one none of it fucking mattered without his sun to illuminate them—You were the bane of his existence; of the entire earth. Without you he'd have to take life away from every pathethic creature he shared air with on this godforsaken rock because if he couldn't enjoy the sun they shouldn't either!

So Dex thought of creating a magnetic field of sorts. The same way all the planets spun around the sun without flying out of line, he'd have to build something like that for you two to stay stuck together. Something that would make you come back, an itch you couldn't stop. An addictive substance.

He had browsed the internet for the safest one. Heroin, cocaine and methamphetamine where too much for his girl. He would rather chop his hands off than put that in your system— no it must be something strong but not too dangerous.

People who smoke cigarettes ignore the damage it does to their lungs, their teeth—shit their entire body. But they still pick it up and light it, inhaling it with the knowledge of how bad it is, just for that rush of satisfaction and calm, right?

Dex settled on nicotine and very high amounts of it mixed into his cookie dough batter. With this he'd make you ignore all of his shortcomings and problems. With this you'd stay blind to his quirks. You'd inhale knowing what he was and still come back for more.

Dex couldn't help but sob before he brought you your first platter the first time.

'Your moral compass isn't broken, Dex.'

'I killed them with rocks Ms. Mercer.'

'Are you going to kill me?'

'No, I—'

He didn't want to be the bad guy—he yearned to be like everyone else. Yearned to be normal so you'd love him. Wanted you to hold him because you cared. Didn't want you to be with him because of a nicotine addiction— but that dark urge reassured him that this was just the whistle to bring you over. Like how humans are lured in by the smell of good food, but then ultimately stick around at the taste of it.

Dex would give you the best taste. He'd tend to you like the goddess you were. He'd be good for you; best you've ever fucking had and best husband and father to the children you'd willingly grant him. He'd make it all worth it.

"So, how's your day been?" You asked, sitting down in the stiff wooden chair at his table.

"Pretty good. Coffee?" He poured it before you could say yes and plated you with two cookies. The ends justify the means. They justify it. I'm saving you.

"—Oh thanks. Hm, these are so addictive." You mused, dipping one in your cup and immediately consuming it.

"I don't think I can join you to the beach today." Dex wouldn't let you out in that outfit. No one should know what your body looks like in a bikini—No, this was only for him, his holy grail; only he could drink from it's chalice. "I have a lot of work to do. New case openings."

"Oh!" You shook your head and smiled. "Hey don't worry about it. I can just go myself."

"Hm. I don't think that's a good idea." His hand began to shake under the table and he squeezed into his thigh to calm down. He needed a higher dose, felt himself lose control. No, actually, you just had to stay here with him today. The only reason he was shaking was out of fear that you'd leave him behind. If you'd stay it would stop. Would it be smart to be honest and ask you to watch a movie? No, what if you denied? Then he couldn't lie and give you another reason to stay home. Maybe he should lie first and then ask for a movie? "There's been report of multiple stabbings and battery charged on that beach. Started a few days ago, probably some mob territory war." He finished pouring his coffee and put the kettle down, eyeing you up and down.

"Well I didn't hear anything about it on the news, that's strange..." You took another bite of the cookie and rested your chin on your palm. "Is it still a private case?"

"Yeah. We don't want to alert the suspects, gonna let them keep going until evidence is irrefutable. Not the most honorable way of handling it but we've lost cases due to lack of evidence before."

"Like with my attacker at the party..." You slid off your sunglasses and put them on the table. "Great world we live in."

I took care of him for you. I'll make this world better for you, Dex trailed in thought.

"Welp." You stood up and grabbed you bag. "I guess I'll just chill on my balcony for today. Don't want to disturb your work."

"—which I was planning on doing tonight. I'd still like to, uh. Hang with you. Maybe on my balcony this time?"

"Are you sure? It's really no problem."

"Yes." He watched your eyes trail over the empty cookie plate. "...want more?"

"No thank you, I ate so many already—I really shouldn't. I don't know what magic you put in those but they're better than the ones from the bakery... Kinda better than any I've tasted. Don't give them to anyone on a diet, kay? Cause you just keep eating them, it's mad."

Dex ran his hand through his blonde-greying hair, smile warm as he gathered the empty plates and cups from the table. With a green sponge in hand he began to scrub the plate, sound of water splashing through the sink. "It's just me. My magic touch."

You hummed in sarcastic acknowledgement before walking for the door.

"—hey hold up." He shut the water off and put the plates in the drying rack, wiping his wet hands on a grey handtowel. "I've got some clothing I don't wear anymore, been meaning to toss them out but thought of donating them to my helpless little neighbor instead. For a good cause." The joke landed out of balance, uncanny and strange yet still earning a subtle titter out of you.

"Aw that's really kind, thank you. Hm, maybe you can give them to me after I'm done changing in my apartment? I'll knock in a bit." You opened his door and softly closed it behind you with a satisfying click.

Silence.

As if possessed Dex darted to his closet and withdrew his nicest looking t-shirts and button ups from the rack. Four in total, he didn't have a lot of clothing— and scampered back into the living room. They were way too big for you, but the idea of you wearing them on the couch, eating ice cream or working from home on your laptop— it cradled his little heart with a fire so intense it made him jittery.

When you knocked he calmy walked to the door, opening it with a casual lop-sided smile before pointing to the shirts. "I already laid them out there. You can change here, treat my apartment as an H&M, it's uh, just as bland. Bathroom is—" Shit. The mirror was still broken. Need to make up an excuse... "Down the hall to the left. Don't mind the broken mirror, I shut it too hard on my way to work. Flimsy thing, you know how they can be. Alright." He clapped his hands together while looking outside. "I'm gonna set up the balcony so we can sit there. You want tea or anything else?"

"Ooh tea would be nice, thank you."

"Coming right up."

He watched you disappear into the bathroom with his shirts wrapped over your arms, and the question clawed at his ribs like a restless specter: How do you see me, (....)?

Was Dex, in your eyes, the kind of man whose presence lingered like a melody? With charm woven into his words, a gaze so warm it made you shiver and the quiet confidence of an ex-military who carried himself with purpose? Or did you dismiss him as little more than a hollow shell, a mannequin draped in the illusion of stability from being FBI, a dead eyed weirdo with a polished enough personality for you to give it a chance?

Dex exhaled sharply, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to dam the pressure building behind his eyes. He breathed out in one controlled steady stream, a reflex honed over years of practice with his psychologist.

Unshakable. That was the face he presented to the world—the man who never faltered, never wavered, never let a single crack mar the neutral face he wore daily. But you? You had seen past the facade once or twice. The way he'd come back home in shambles after a day of masking at work. The way he would stutter and stumble when you'd ask him about the chance of seeing eachother in the gorcery store so often. The constant thought of you unraveling him—of you realizing, with dawning clarity, that beneath the surface was a man worse than you believed him to be—sent tremors through the carefully constructed edifice of his control.

He supposed the chance of you viewing him as the first option; the charming one, was bigger than the latter. Why else would you still be here?

The warm summer breeze flattened itself on his face, clinging to the dab of moisture on his lip— green jasmine tea. Dex put your cup down on the small table. Even on a day like this; blue skies, no clouds, nice breeze— crime kept on rolling. The sound of sirens would appear every two minutes, and Dex wondered how much crime, murder and robbery was all happening at the same time across places, for that siren to roar up again. And again. Another man shot dead for ten dollars. Another woman chased in the street. Another shopkeeper held at gunpoint. Another kid left an orphan. Like he was.

Dex’s stomach twisted into a heavy knot at the mere thought of a future entwined with yours in a place like this—a city that killed, murdered and consumed hope like rust on steel. The specter of loss coiled around his ribs, squeezing until the thought of you, of your children, his blood—being torn from him clouded his mind. It was an inevitability he refused to entertain. Tonight, he would carve through the digital void, dissecting data until he unearthed the ten most impenetrable sanctuaries on Earth, places where fate itself would bend to his will, where he would be the only one out of many owning a gun. The spoon dragged through his coffee as his gaze lifted from the flickering lights of a police cruiser to the indifferent blue of the sky.

If you refused to see reason, if you didn’t yield to the inevitable and leave this place to move to another with him, he would have to persuade you. The question wasn’t if, but how. The worst of it wasn’t the resistance—the screaming, the flailing, the dawning horror as you pieced together the fragments of his slow design. That your assaulter was melting in a barrel of acid, or the poisoning of; what seemed to be your father figure, Earl. No the true nightmare was the moment you’d look at him and see what he truly was: a lovesick creature that wore skin and had no feigned empathy left to offer.

In such a state you'd run from him like the monster he knew he was— and then he'd have to subdue you— no. He didn't want to go there.

The darkness inside him hissed, a serpent coiled in his chest, its breath hot with temptation. Another option.

You carve pieces from yourself in the dead of night, feeding them to her drop by drop, hidden in meals until her blood runs thick with the presence of you. And when she discovers the truth—when she realizes the monster she’s bound to—she’ll hate you.

You'll take the M11 from the drawer, Dex. You'll sit still with the barrel below your chin, the trigger a whisper against the silence and when it pops you’ll bleed into the next life. Not as dust. Not as memory.

But as her.

A fragment of you, buried in the marrow of her bones. A ghost in her veins. And when the end comes for her, you’ll wait in the dark beside her, a shadow in the grave, bound together in the void where even time cannot pry you apart.

“Hey.”

Your voice wrapped around him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The wail of sirens dissolved into the rhythmic chorus of seals barking along the pier, their cries bouncing off the wooden planks like laughter. The city’s chaos muted into a distant hum, replaced by the carefree chatter of families weaving through crosswalks, their arms laden with shopping bags, their faces alight with the simple joy of ordinary life. Dex’s shoulders unknotted. He sank deeper into his chair, the weight of his thoughts no longer pressing him down.

You fixed him.

“Hey, sunshine.” The words slipped out before he could cage them, raw and unfiltered. He tried to mask the tremor in his voice with a smirk, squinting up at the shirt you wore—his shirt, swallowed by your frame, the fabric pooling around you like an oversized shroud. It should have looked ridiculous. Instead, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Your smile faltered, uncertain, but your eyes held something like curiosity. “Sunshine?” You laughed softly, the sound like wind chimes in a breeze, and settled into the chair beside him. “So we’re on nickname basis already, huh?”

Dex’s fingers twitched toward your untouched cup. “I—uh. There’s tea. For you.”

You cradled the cup in your palms, exhaling as you turned to the view. “Thank you… And thank you for the clothes.” Your voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “I mean, they don’t fit perfectly as you can see, but I was looking for something comfortable and these are way better than what I had. Are you sure you want to give them all away? Some of them look brand-new. I feel bad accepting them.”

“Don’t worry about it.” His gaze locked onto you, unblinking. “They weren’t doing anything useful in my closet. You look… r-really nice."

Shit.

His delivery was a disaster. A pathetic, stuttering mess. “I—mean, you always look nice. I just—” His stomach twisted, butterflies rioting beneath his ribs, his ears burning like brands pressed to flesh. "Uh, yeah."

You tilted your head, warmth radiating from you in waves. “Oh, thank you, Dex. I appreciate that.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He stirred his coffee with too much force, the spoon clinking against the ceramic like a metronome counting down to his humiliation. For a second, he imagined hurling it into the air, a perfect 360-degree arc before it impaled him mid-forehead. End the suffering.

“I think you look nice too.” You tilted your head, studying him with an intensity that made his pulse stutter. “I mean, you always do.”

Oh, don’t do that to me. Dex’s breath hitched. He lifted his cup with a trembling hand, his knuckles white around the porcelain.

You didn’t look away. And something in your gaze shifted—something fragile and luminous, like a flame flickering in the dark. His brain forgot how to work. Was that happiness? Fear? The two emotions bled together, indistinguishable, until all that remained was the clear realization that you were looking at him. Really looking. Longer than before. Your smile wasn’t just warmth—it was an invitation, a silent embrace.

His heart stuttered when you scooted your chair closer.

The gap vanished. Your knee nearly brushed his. The space between you was no longer air—it was a living thing, electric and alive, raising the fine blonde hairs on his arms. He could feel the heat of your body, the rhythm of your breath, the faint scent of the soap you’d used in the shower clinging to your skin. It was too much. Too intimate. A thread, invisible but unbreakable, stretched from his chest to yours, pulling taut.

“W—what are you—” His voice cracked. Hazel eyes darted away, feigning a laugh that died in his throat. “(…..)...”

You were flustered too. A woman like you, at a loss for words? It was intoxicating. It made him bold.

Dex took a breath. He let his gaze trail from the railing of the balcony to meet yours—slow, deliberate, like a hurt animal checking on it's hunter. When his eyes finally locked onto yours; confused and pleading, yours were shy and warm, and fuck— the effort it took to resist leaning in, to press his lips to yours, to be complete, nearly undid him.

Dex said your name. His voice was gravel and honey, a low rasp that vibrated through the space between you. Blonde eyelashes framed the worry in his gaze, a worry stemming from internal conflict. This was a feeling he hadn't felt before, it made him scared and confused and sad and happy— it was tranquility.

Like he’d stepped into a sanctuary. Like the world had stilled, and the only sounds were the soft strum of harps, the whisper of leaves in autumn, the quiet promise that everything—everything—would be okay. Violence was a time long forgotten and love was the only reality. And there you were. The pores of your skin, the flutter of your lashes, the softness of your expression—like feather-pillows cradling his fractured soul.

Dex's thoughts slowed, deliberate and weightless, like leaves drifting from the branches of an ancient tree, surrendering to you like humans surrender to gravity.

Best case scenario, a lighter voice in him began. She loves you and you love her and you fight for eachother and make it work and it will be serene.

A distant possibility. How to get there...

Dex slowly, uncertainly began to lean in. The air between you thickened, charged like a storm about to break. His pulse hammered in his throat, a wild, untamed thing, as he shifted infinitesimally closer. The world narrowed to the space between your breaths, to the way your chest rose and fell with each quiet inhale. His vision blurred, dazed, as he looked down at you through a haze of longing. This was the precipice—the moment where your sunflare would either annihilate him entirely or pass by with the mercy of a summer breeze. There was no in-between.

"(.....)..."

“Yes…?”

Your voice was a whisper, a plea, a surrender. Your eyes locked onto his, wide and searching, as you tilted your face up to meet him. The space between your lips shrank. He could feel the warmth of your exhalations, the way your breath mingled with his, and it twisted his heart into something fragile, something aching. Dex’s gaze dropped to your mouth—glossy, soft, parted just enough to make his stomach clench. He was going to kiss you. He had to. He would seal the two of you together, bind your souls in a way that could never be undone.

He leaned in.

Closer.

Closer.

His ears and cheeks burned crimson, the heat spreading like wildfire. Was it wrong that you were younger than him? The thought clawed at him, a jagged reminder of the lines he was crossing. Was it okay to kiss you here, in the apartment he had been spying on you through? The age gap loomed in his mind, a specter whispering doubts. Was he taking advantage? Oh god, but he wanted you. Needed you. His body betrayed him, refusing to move fast enough, slow enough, right enough.

“I— really..."

The words lodged in his throat, his heart tearing itself apart at the thought of you pulling away after this. He knew, with a certainty that bordered on terror, that the second his lips touched yours, he would never let you go. Never. You would be his—completely, irrevocably—and the weight of that promise, that responsibility, nearly crippled him. Please. Why wasn’t his body obeying him? Why was it betraying him like this?

Your eyes flickered open, studying him with a quiet worry. The concern in your gaze was a knife to his chest.

No. No, no, no, no, no—

He had freaked you out. He had ruined everything. The moment stretched, taut and fragile, and he braced for the rejection, the horror, the way you’d recoil from him like he was something monstrous.

Then—

Your hands found the sides of his face.

Palms warm against his skin, fingers curling just enough to anchor him in place. You looked at him—eyes searching—and Dex’s breath hitched. Permission. You were asking for permission. His eyebrows drew up, a silent prayer of need and anxiety, his eyes half-lidded in surrender. He gave you everything he had in that look. Yes. Always yes.

You leaned in.

The world held its breath.

Then—

The doorbell rang.

A shrill, jarring intrusion.

Dex and you both jerked back, the spell shattered like glass underfoot. He shot upright, his gaze ricocheting around the balcony like a trapped animal—anywhere but you. Shit. What now? The movies had never prepared him for this. The real moment had never been scripted.

His response had made you confused. Had made you pull away. Of course it had. What else could he have expected? He was a storm, and you were the quiet after, the stillness he didn’t deserve.

His chest ached. The moment had slipped through his fingers like smoke. With a mouth dry from regret and anger, he moved to the door. The person disturbing him would face his wrath.

"You."

"Agent Poindexter." The british man stood stiff, black hair gelled down and gaze knowing. Wilson Fisk's driver. The one who picked Dex up on the day of the bulletin slaughter. Fisk had ordered him to wear a red suit, belonging to the vigilante daredevil— Dex didn't know nor care about the logistics or reasoning. The agent was Fisk's sword at the time. Just carrying out an order. When he had murdered those journalists in cold blood, he forgot all about it. Fisk hadn't contacted him since. Now though...

His hands tightened on the doorpost. "What do you want."

“Follow me outside.” The agent’s voice was clipped, rehearsed. “The boss has asked for you.” He tried to peer past Dex, his fervor uncharacteristic. “Visitors?

Dex's eyes flicked to the side at the sound of the balcony chair rustling. "Sorry, this package isn't for me. Guy next door must've ordered." He said loud enough for you to hear, before lowering his voice to a venomous whisper. "Listen, I'm out. I did what he wanted, I'm done." He leaned in, gaze wild with murderous intent as he looked down. "You ever come here again. I'll kill you."

He slammed the door shut and took a deep breath. Fate wouldn't allow him rest, would it?

"Hey..."

He turned around at the feeling of your hand on his shoulder, his gaze still wild from anger.

"Oh, woah. Are you alright?"

The buzzing started then—a swarm of flies in his skull. She’s going to die. The thought clawed at him, shredding his sense of security like a plane torn from the sky. You’ll never be with her. Fate doesn’t favor you, Dex, it never did. You can pitch a thousand perfect games, and it won’t bring your parents back. Your compass... if I cant find one? then rely on structure... I need you to wear this suit... come with me... I killed them all with rocks ms. mercer... what kind of gun do you have, Craig? ... I'm familiar with the M11... did a couple years in the army.... got real cozy with the M11... wait, please, don't shoot me! this war... we're not enemi—

“Dex...?”

“Get out.”

“I—”

“I said get out!”

“—okay.”

It was inevitable. From the moment he’d seen you, all the restraint, all the fighting—it had to come undone now. That darkness inside him, the one he’d tried to bury beneath layers of control and repetition, had risen to the surface.

Dex couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Before he knew it, you were pinned against the wall, his hands gripping your shoulders, his body looming over you. His eyes burned with an intensity that stole your voice, your breath, your thought.

Visions crashed over him like waves—his time in the army, the gunshots echoing in the desert, the way visitors had left him in the orphanage, Mercer’s cancer diagnosis, his baseball coach’s face twisted in disappointment. They blurred together, a montage of guilt and grief and violence. His hands trembled on your shoulders, but his mind replayed it all: the killing, the screaming, the soldier crawling away from him as he raised his gun.

'General Flores sends his regards.'

'We’re not enemie—'

BANG.

Over and over. The face. The gun. The diamonds of light from the barrel illuminating the dark desert floor. The young man’s eyes, wide with betrayal, hungry for life. Why did I do that. Why did I not feel your pain as I robbed you from going home...? Let me feel it. I want to be like you.

BANG.

The tremors in his hands worsened. The gun—no, you—was shaking. Oh god.

'I speak perfect english! We can talk— Gah! I'm bleeding out, please, brother!'

'General Flores sends his regards.'

'We're not enemi—'

BANG.

“You’re… you’re a good guy, Dex.” Your voice was a fragile thing, trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Good guy. Okay? I don’t blame you.”

The visions—like VR glasses taped to his face—began to splinter, to fade into the recesses of his mind. Distant echoes. He looked down at you.

Oh. You.

“There we go,” you whispered, voice steady despite the fear in your eyes. “Good job. You’re doing well, Dex. I’m— I’m here. You’re holding me pretty tight, okay? Uh, try to breathe.” Your body shook like a sapling in a hurricane, but your voice anchored him. “Yes. Yes, good.”

Your words became a shield, a barrier against the screaming and the crying dissolving into the back of his mind. And then he saw it. What he had done.

He stood there, shell-shocked, his hands releasing your shoulders as if burned. “I—”

“It’s okay.” Your chest heaved, but your voice was a lifeline. “I’m gonna wait here until you tell me to go. No sudden movements.”

Dex’s forehead fell against the wall above you, his breath hot against your ear as he fought to regulate himself. It was like waking from a nightmare, his legs weak, his back slick with sweat.

“Here.” You grabbed his arm, steadying his shaking hand on your shoulder. “There we go. Okay. Alright.”

He whispered your name, weak and broken. “G-go home. I—I need space.”

You shook your head, grunting as you steadied his weight against you, delirious and exhausted. “Not before I lay you into bed.” You twisted around him, still trembling from the adrenaline. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“T-thank you.” The words stumbled out, his voice raw. He clung to the wall, using it to hold himself upright as you dragged him forward.

His room was dark, the world tilting and spinning beyond his control. His body was lead, his mind a haze of shattered memories. He collapsed onto the bed, and you adjusted him with a grunt, your strength surprising. The sound of rustling blankets filled the room, distorted and surreal. A warm cloth pressed against his forehead, then silence. The door closed. Opened. A fluffy weight stuffed between his arms.

So tired…

Before he knew it, Dex was asleep.

------

2012, (???), Location: (???)

The golden sun bled into the horizon, painting the desert in hues of amber. The young blonde soldier polished his rifle with slow, methodical strokes, the rhythmic scrape of metal against cloth blending with the laughter and roughhousing of his squadmates. The air smelled of gun oil and sweat, the dry wind carrying whispers of distant gunfire like a ghostly prelude.

“So, Benjamin… don’t got a pretty gal waitin’ for you back home?”

Dex hurled a grease-stained rag at the ginger-haired Burns, his eyes rolling as he gazed out at the endless dunes. The tent sagged under the weight of the evening, its canvas flapping lazily in the breeze, sand sifting through the gaps like a slow, insidious rain.

“What you bettin’ on, Burns? I give five pre-filled magazines on that he’ll finally squeak. No man can shoot that good without a good piece of woman waitin’ back over yonder.”

The tent was a mess of maps and scattered ammunition, the table a warzone of crumpled papers and loose bullets. Sand clung to everything, grinding between teeth, stinging eyes, a constant reminder of the land’s indifference.

Dex sat perched on a folding chair, his AK-47 cradled in his lap like a restless pet, his camouflaged pants blending into the chaos around him. He watched the perimeter, fingers tapping absently against the rifle’s stock.

A younger soldier, his glasses slipping down his nose, rocked back and forth on his chair, elbows digging into his knees as he studied the blonde with something like awe. “Maybe he’s just that good at shootin’ though.”

“Ah, ride his dick harder, four eyes,” Burns sneered, a toothpick clamped between his cracked lips as he stroked his chin. “I’m bettin’ my last pack of Marlboro Reds against him speakin’. Dessert’s prolly gonna kill me ‘fore I finish these anyways.”

A low whistle cut through the tension. “Way to sweeten the deal, Burns.” The New Yorker flicked a pack of gum onto the table.

“What you fuckin’ twelve?”

“Oh, shut up, you’re the one with a bad mouth, Burns. Enemy’ll smell you comin’ from a mile away. This is a token of concern.”

“Fuck you!”

The tent fell silent at the shadow that stretched across the entrance—a towering figure, buzz-cut hair, a scar slicing down his cheek like a grotesque smile. General Flores. The name alone sent a chill through the room. His presence was a blade unsheathed, a storm gathering on the horizon.

Dex wiped the sand from his eyebrows and stood in one fluid motion, snapping a salute. The others followed, but too late. The general’s glare pinned them like insects.

“Only man with fuckin’ manners around here,” Flores growled, his voice a chainsaw cutting through silence. His gaze locked onto the young blonde. “At ease, soldier.”

Dex lowered his salute, his jaw tight, and followed the general to his tent. The moment the flap closed behind them, the world outside seemed to hold its breath.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of maps and old sweat, the radio crackling like a dying man’s last words. Flores sat heavily, his broad shoulders sagging as if the weight of command had finally crushed him. The tent fabric fluttered in the gathering wind, sand skittering across the floor like tiny, frantic footsteps.

“Sit down with me, kid,” the general muttered, his voice raw.

The wind outside howled, a chorus of ghosts wailing through the desert. Dex’s eyes flicked around the tent—sterile, organized, a place where death was dissected like a specimen. Maps pinned to a bulletin board, letters tucked into corners, the radio murmuring in a language Dex didn’t understand. Flores usually had a translator here, decoding the enemy’s chatter into something useful. But today, the radio was quiet. Too quiet.

Must’ve been a quiet day, Dex thought, lowering himself into the canvas chair.

The silence was suffocating. Flores stared at him, his eyes two chips of flint in the dim light. The general leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight, and let out a sound that was half laugh, half growl.

“Y’know what I like about you, son?” he rumbled, his voice like gravel under a boot. “Always on the straight and narrow path. Followin’ orders like they’re the only thing keepin’ you alive. You’re secure, kid. I need more people like that.”

Dex nodded, his throat tight. The wind outside picked up again, a low, mournful moan. The radio crackled to life, a voice screaming in a language Dex didn’t know—sharp, desperate, terrified.

General Flores hung his head, reaching out to turn the volume down.

“Sir—”

"I know. I know." The once proud and strong general now hung slumped over his chair, eyes down on the floor as he twirled a dog-tag over his fingers. "—Used to do this with coins. Calmed me down when shit hit the fan. Man, the way Klein's face got burned off in 'Nam... jungle smelled like rotten meat and fresh pork all at the same time..." The dog tag was tossed on the table, name in it faint but readable.

Joseph Klein.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“It ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for. Dumb bastard knew what he signed up for.” He patted his breast pocket, a sad smile tugging at his lips when his fingers brushed against a bottle of rum. He pulled it out, followed by something small and silver. A coin. “Catch, son.”

Dex’s hand snapped up, catching the coin with a metallic clink. He turned it over in his fingers, the engravings worn smooth by time and touch.

"When them nasty thoughts start floodin' ya mind... focus on that stupid coin. Slip it around your knuckles, get real good at focusing on it. It'll keep you from descending down that rabbithole." The general took a swig of rum, breathing in through his nose as the alcohol burned down his throat. "Cheated on m'wife before this war. Told myself I was killin' the thoughts of Klein's death by doing it. A distraction I told her. She told me I was a dumb sack of shit." He chuckled, eyes burning into the nameplate. "Don't think she ever found out I was—what I was. I loved him. I loved Klein." Tears began to stream down his face. "We are who we are, Dex."

The radio began to pick up despite it's low volume, and the world outside the tent grew awfully quiet.

"They're comin, boy. You know that now, right?"

Dex's voice hitched, about to speak when the General put the barrel of his gun on his temple.

“Tell ‘em I send my regards from hell.”

“NO! WAIT—!”

The shot was deafening, a thunderclap in the confined space. Blood sprayed across the tan canvas, Flores’ head jerking back as if yanked by invisible strings. His body slumped forward, the pistol clattering to the floor.

Dex sat frozen, his breath shallow, the coin digging into his palms like a blade.

Then—

Gunfire.

The tent erupted in chaos, bullets tearing through the canvas like a swarm of wasps. Dex hit the sand, his helmet clattering beside him, grains filling his mouth as he gasped for air. His squadmates’ tent was already ablaze, shadows writhing in the flames, one of them—a man he recognized—flailing wildly, his body a torch against the night.

“Don’t kill us—!” Burns’ voice was cut short by a burst of gunfire.

“Fuck! Burns—you’ll pay for this—!”

Screams tore through the air as Dex crawled toward the tent flap, his hands shaking. When he tore it open, the world was a nightmare.

Fire roared in the distance, illuminating the desert in hellish orange. His friends—his brothers—were running, screaming, their silhouettes stark against the flames. One of them, engulfed in fire, staggered like a broken marionette before collapsing into the sand. The stench of burning flesh and gunpowder clawed its way into Dex’s throat. Just like Flores said; fresh pork and smoke.

The car’s engine growled like a beast satisfied with its hunt, its headlights carving through the thickening dark. Men in military fatigues leaned out of the windows, laughing as they picked off the last of Dex’s squad—one by one, like targets at a shooting range. The man on fire thrashed in the sand, his screams swallowed by the roar of gunfire. The laughter was sharp, cruel, a sound that would haunt Dex for the rest of his life.

His fingers trembled around the cold metal of his rifle. Too soon? Too soon.

He forced himself to move, crawling out of the tent’s entrance like a ghost, his body low to the ground. Every shift of sand sent a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. The cargo crate was his only salvation—a jagged, splintered shield against the storm of lead.

Behind it, he gasped for air, his lungs burning. His hands shook as he slotted a finger into his magazine. Jammed ammo? No. Check. Seven magazines in his chest rig. Dex did the math in his head, ignoring the gurgle of a dying man nearby, the final shot that silenced him for good. The laughter of the enemy was a knife twisting in his gut. Two hundred and ten shots. All of them he could make count.

Breathe in.

Out.

He rose like a specter from the sand, his rifle barking. One. Two. Three. The recoil dug into his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. He ducked behind cover as bullets chewed the ground where he’d stood. Footsteps crunched on either side of him, too close, too fast. The desert was turning against him, the sandstorm rising like a wall of teeth.

Breathe in.

Out.

As if possessed he shot left, twisting to shoot right before scrambling across the sand to avoid a ricocheting bullet— sand caked his fingers, grains sharp like rocks against the steel of the machine gun. Two men left, he wiped the sand off his eyes— shit. A sandstorm was beginning. He wasn't equipped for this. No men, no back-up. Footsteps at eleven o'clock.

He whipped his gun up and sprayed like a mad-man desperate for life— he needed to live, where was the other— Dex let out a wild groan as a stray bullet knicked into his shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound, red and bright.

"F-fuck...! Fuck!" He couldn't help but cry out as he held the wound, desperately trying to keep himself from bleeding out. He was twenty-two years old. Didn't want to die. Wanted to go home. His tan sleeve had turned dark red, streams of fresh oxygenated blood spurting out his wound and down his arm. Tonight he might die. Tonight, the desert might bury him alongside his friends.

He took a deep shuddery breath and laid down, eyes scanning under the jeep. There. He held his gun and aimed the best he could, gritting down his teeth as he lined up the shot.

The spray of his rifle was merciless — and it crippled the last man standing. He screamed and moaned on the floor, writhing around in pain as his eyes frantically scanned the bleeding american soldier walking up to him.

"Please— I have a wife. Children."

Dex stared at him, his face a mask of hollow indifference.

"Y—you want money? I have it. You Americans like pearls? O-or Gold and silver!?"

Silence.

The man looked up, eyebrows scrunching up in defeat. He dropped the tough act in defeat, shaking his head as tears welled up in his eyes. What could he be... no older than nineteen?

The smell of blood and burning flesh on the hot wind infused the young blonde with renewed hatred.

'"I'm like you! My friends, all dead because of this stupid war! No one wins. No one!"

But nothing moved in Dex's eyes.

"You're a slave to it just like I am! We're both victims, can't you see that?!" The dark haired boy grabbed at his legs; both were mangled beyond repair by bullets. "'I speak perfect english! We can talk— Gah! I'm bleeding out, please, brother!'

Dex’s AK-47 was empty. He tossed the rifle aside, and the man’s eyes flickered with a desperate hope.

He pulled out his M11, the pistol cold and heavy in his grip.

“General Flores sends his regards.”

“We’re not enemi—”

BANG.

Blood flecked Dex’s cheek. The fire behind him roared, casting long, writhing shadows over the sand. The enemy squad was dead. His teammates were dead. He watched the man bleed out, sand turning to rubies as it hungrily soaked up his liquid. Another soul usurped by the desert.

“Be happy you’re nothing like me.”

The young soldier slowly turned around, boots sinking into sand as he walked into the unknown. The sandstorm swallowed his walking shadow, drips of blood trailing behind.

Part of him would be kept here forever.

....

-----------------

Present day. Five hours later, 9PM.

Dex shot up from his bed, body covered in sweat. He inched back at the feeling of a ticklish ball against his arm.

A fluffy teddybear. Eyes too big and brown fur worn from holding. Dex grabbed the teddy by it's middle, eyes scrunching up in confusion. Was this yours...? He got up from the bed, tearing off his t-shirt with a nauseous groan as he tossed it on the bed. Where were you?

He held himself against the wall, low-iron making his head spin. God he was starving— how late was it? Where was his watch—? Oh. Tossed out the window at your old place cause it wouldn't stop buzzing with bpm reminders.

The living room was empty, and that's when the memories loaded in. He had you pressed against the wall? Shit. He had really let himself go this time... Dex rubbed the sleep out his eyes and turned on the kitchen sink, running his face with cold water.

So quiet and dark in his apartment...

The memories kept loading in like flashcards. Your shoulders shaking under his touch, the way you looked at him, fearfully yet desperate to help— spoken to him with the same calm he felt from his psychologist. You told him to breathe, nearly out of breath from how hard his body was leaning against your ribcage, and then you brought him to bed— he remembered the way you grunted as you tried to carry him.

The tap turned off and his fingers ran over his stubble, wiping off excess water from his jaw.

You saw him freak out... but you didn't leave without helping.

Because of the nicotine cookies. The dark urge snarled. You got her hooked.

Because she loves you. The lighter side spoke. She accepts you.

Dex shook his head and reached into his jean pocket. A silver coin. Flores' silver coin.

He rolled it over his knuckles, having perfected the move over the years just like the general said. The movement managed the storm inside him, making him able to focus on what to do next.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead as he steadied himself at the door. No weird tricks, no cookies, no faking.

This time Dex would come to you an honest man.

...

He stood at the door, fully aware of the sorry state he was in. Dex had looked into the mirror beforehand, accepting his pale skin, dishelved blonde hair and greying sideburns. He didn't look the way he used to, the scar of age written all over his face. His fingers grazed at the bullet in his shoulder. You should see him for what he really is. A scarred man, broken by the burden of his youth. Trauma imprinted on his skin.

'We are who we are, Dex.'

He exhaled, a shuddering breath that carried the weight of years, and lifted his hand. His knuckles grazed the wood, a hesitant knock—once, twice.

Silence. Then commotion on the other side.

The door flew open.

You stood there, framed in the golden halo of the hallway light, your eyes wide with a storm of worry. And in that instant, Dex forgot how to breathe. The years peeled away. The scars, the weight, the ghost of every mistake—none of it mattered. Let me be enough. Just this once.

His voice cracked when he spoke your name, a rasp of gravel and longing. “I’m sor—”

But you were already moving.

Your arms wrapped around him like a lifeline, your hands splaying against the ridged terrain of his back, fingers grazing the puckered skin where the bullet had torn through. No words. No questions. No demands. Just the desperate press of your body against his, as if you could fuse your very soul to his through sheer force of will. Dex’s breath left him in a rush, his arms banding around you like steel, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck as his heart—oh god, his heart—slowed its frantic drumming to the rhythm of your pulse. His left hand cradled the back of your head, tilting you closer, as if he could memorize the shape of you through touch alone. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words torn from his throat, raw and trembling. “Thank you for helping me.”

The hug broke as softly as it had begun. Your fingers laced with his, your grip firm and sure, pulling him across the threshold.

Dex’s breath hitched as he stepped inside. One step. Just one, and he was crossing into your sanctuary. His lashes fluttered, casting shadows over his hazel eyes, which flickered with the candlelight’s dance. The question hung unspoken between you: Are you certain?

You answered by tightening your hold on his hand, by nodding, by turning away just enough to guide him deeper into the room.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the warm, hushed glow of your living space, he had to bite back the plea clawing up his throat. Please. He wanted to beg you to let him collapse at your feet, to press his face into the softness of your belly, to feel your hands rake through his hair again. To be held. Just once more.

But you were already moving away, your fingers twisting together in that nervous habit he’d come to recognize. The space between you was a chasm—close enough to taste the heat of your skin, far enough to drive him mad with the agony of restraint. The candlelight painted your profile in molten gold, your lashes casting delicate shadows, your lips parted as if you, too, were holding your breath.

The Manhattan apartment hummed with the quiet chaos of a life just beginning to settle. Boxes—some still taped shut, others gaping open like forgotten mouths—dotted the hardwood floors. The late moon bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, blue fingers across the room. Flickering candles scattered across every surface. Their flames danced, casting shifting shadows that made the air feel thick, charged, like the space itself was holding its breath.

“So… do you uh, want me to make you some evening tea?”

His response was a shuddering exhale, his body betraying him by inching closer, drawn by an invisible thread. The unspoken desire coiled between you, thick and electric, louder than any confession. “Oh, yeah.” His voice was a low rumble, thick with want. “Can I… help?”

You shook your head, already turning toward the kitchen. The cabinet doors opened, your fingers closing around two mugs, then the drawer for the spoons. Dex watched you, his gaze a physical caress, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist—small enough to be cradled against him on nights when the cold seeped into his bones. He should have stayed where he was. Should have let the distance be his shield. But the need was a living thing, writhing in his chest, and it won. His feet carried him forward before his mind could protest, his arm stretching past your head to close the cabinet above you. You flinched, caught off guard by the sudden nearness, by the way his body caged you against the counter. His arm was a bar of iron, his bicep flexing as he braced himself, and when he looked down at you, his gaze was a storm—nervous, burning, hungry.

The cup in your hand trembled. Dex didn’t miss a thing. His smirk was slow, knowing, as he curled his larger hand around yours, his veins standing out against the golden hue of his skin. His fingers were rough, calloused, a stark contrast to the delicate bones of your wrist. He held your gaze as he guided your hand—and the cup—down to the counter, pressing you into the hard surface. Your breath hitched. A flush bloomed across your cheeks, and you looked away, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as a nervous laugh escaped you. The air between you thickened, saturated with something electric, something alive. The apartment itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence so heavy with tension it could have been cut with a knife.

Then Dex leaned in.

A strand of his hair fell across his temple, catching the light like spun silk. His eyes narrowed, pupils blown wide with desire, and in that moment, he decided he would never let this end. Never let you pull away. Never let the world remind him, ever again, that he didn’t deserve this.

“Are you feeling… better?” Your voice was a whisper, barely audible, but it might as well have been a shout in the hush. You looked up at him, your body swaying closer without your permission, as if pulled by an unseen force. “I was worried about you…”

“Oh yeah?” His smile was slow, wicked, his nose brushing against yours, a risky tease. “Have you… been thinking about me?”

You swallowed, your throat working, and for a heartbeat, your gaze flickered downward—just as his fingers found your chin. He tipped it back up, his touch firm, possessive, needy.

“Cuz’ I have.” His breath hitched, a ragged sound that betrayed his restraint. His hands dropped to your shirt—his shirt, and his fists clenched in the black cotton, twisting, pulling you closer until the space between you vanished entirely. The fabric around your waist grew taut, the ridges of his knuckles pressing into the softness of your stomach as he dragged you against him. “I’ve been thinking about you.” His voice was a growl, rough with need. “A lot.”

“Dex…” Your voice was a plea, your brows knitting together as you searched his face. The sparkle in your eyes told him everything he needed to know. “Me too.”

“R-really?” His voice shook before settling down into a velvet murmur, low and smooth. His chest ached. “That’s real good.” His eyes burned, welling with tears he refused to let fall, darting left and right as if searching for any sign of retreat before settling back on you. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna try something, okay?”

You nodded, slow and eager, your lashes fluttering shut as his palms cradled your face, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair. Dex memorized the moment—your parted lips, the flush on your skin, the way your breath hitched—before he let himself drown.

You sure?

Yes?

Then his mouth pressed onto yours.

It was wild. Uncontrolled. A collision of desperation and fire, molten lava surging through his veins, searing him from the inside out until his vision whited out with stars. He moaned against your lips, his hands anchoring you to him—one fisted in your hair, the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The sound of your lips meeting his was wet, messy, perfect. A symphony of need. He opened for you, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting the sweetness of you, the heat, the rightness of it. It was better than he’d ever imagined. Better than fantasy. Better than hope.

And when you moaned—oh god, when you moaned—it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, a melody that unraveled him completely. The effort it took to resist you, to resist this, nearly shattered him. His hands flexed against your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as if he could anchor himself to you, as if he could fuse your souls together right there on the counter. The thought of taking you, right then and there, of bending you over and losing himself in the heat of you, nearly undid him.

Dex tore his mouth from yours with a wet, obscene sound, a thread of saliva stretching between your lips like a silver cord—proof of what you'd just shared, proof of his desperation. Your eyes were wide, shocked, and he didn’t give a damn if it was because he was a terrible kisser or the best thing you’d ever tasted. You were his now. His baby. His sweetheart. His love.

His arms banded around you again, steel cables of want and need, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed back into yours. The kiss was fire. A conflagration. His head bobbed with the force of it, his lips moving hungrily, desperately, as if he could consume you whole. His hands mapped the terrain of your body—down your neck, tracing the delicate pulse point, down your spine, his fingers splaying possessively before tangling with yours, squeezing tight as if he feared you might slip away. Tears burned his eyes, spilling over in hot, silent rivulets, and the world dissolved into a haze of sensation—your scent, the taste of you on his tongue, the way your body melted against his. It was too much. Too good. Too right.

“I—” His voice broke, raw and trembling, his face flushed, his pupils swallowed by darkness. “I want you...” The words tore from his throat, a plea wrapped in a growl. “Want you to be mine tonight… please…” His mouth found yours again, wet and sloppy and hungry, his tongue delving deep as if he could memorize the shape of you. “Let me make you feel good.” His lips trailed down your throat, peppering you with kisses, his stubble scraping against your skin, marking you. “Wanna make you feel so good…”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form a single coherent thought. His sudden confidence had stolen your breath, left you drowning in the storm of him. All you could do was nod, your body betraying you by arching into his touch, silently begging for more.

Dex didn’t need words. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the couch. The fabric of your clothes was a barrier he ached to remove, but he laid you down with infinite care, his eyes half-lidded with adoration as he hovered over you, his breath ragged against your lips.

“Dex, I—”

He silenced you with another kiss, this one sloppy and desperate, his stubble grazing your cheek as his tongue traced the shell of your ear before diving back to claim your mouth. His hands roamed, possessive and reverent, mapping the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the way your body fit against his like a missing puzzle piece.

The bulge in his jeans was a torment, pressing insistently against the zipper, demanding release. He imagined it—oh god, he imagined it—unzipping himself, shucking off his jeans and boxers, freeing himself to you. He pictured slipping your panties aside, the first brush of his cock against your wet pussy, teasing you both before finally, finally sinking into you. Stretching you. Filling you. His length would be a revelation for you, too tight at first, too much, and you’d arch beneath him, a whine torn from your throat as you fought against his size. And he’d whimper, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, his hips trembling as he bottomed out, his vision whiting out with the sheer perfection of it.

The image was too vivid. Too real. His eyes rolled back, his breath hitching as he fought to push it away. That would be the final gate. The point of no return. And once he crossed it, there was no going back. No pretending. No undoing what would happen.

His voice was a rasp, torn from the depths of his want. “Tell me to stop.” The words were a prayer, a plea, a warning. “Tell me to stop before we go past the point of no return. Tell me to stop before I change things between us forever. Tell me to stop before you regret having me.”

He needed you to say it. Even if it killed him. Even if it meant walking away. Even if it meant he’d spend the rest of his life with the ghost of this moment haunting him.

"—I want you." Your hands curled around his hair. "I'm, uhm also on the pill so we don't need to—" You looked away, smiling and excited and nervous. "Yeah."

The blonde gave you a nod before suddenly picking you up, slotting your legs around his torso as he ground you into him. A broken sound toar from his throat at the hard ridge of his erection grinding into your jeans. "Mmm... are you sure? I don't know if I can stop when—mmph...!" Dex was silenced by your kiss, groaning as you latched his belt open and pulled his zipper down. He was already hard enough to break steel, his cock aching behind the confines of his boxers, and the way you touched him—like you were starving for him—was almost more than he could bear. The once hesitant features on his face twisted into ones more predatory, now fed by the confidence that you really wanted this. "Oh, fuck. I'm gonna do so many things to you baby, so many dirty fuckin' things." His arm snaked around your waist, other arm pulling your jeans off before perfectly tossing them into the laundry basket across the room.

"Hey—" you chuckled, "how'd you do that—" a high pitched whine escaped your throat, his fingers already working you.

"Good aim, sweetheart. I'll show you all about that later. Mmm..." Dex rubbed you through your panties, confidence lacing his voice as he hit that special angle on your clit over and over and over and over again. “Like that?” he murmured, his voice a dark purr, his breath hot against your ear. “Am I doing a good job?”

Your body shook from the intense pleasure, your eyes fluttering shut.

He lifted you briefly, fingers taking your panties off and tossing them before working you again. “Look at me.” The command was a growl, his voice rough with tension and something softer, something almost reverent. Hazel eyes burned into yours—sleazy and hungry and ravenous, his breathing ragged, like he was barely holding on. “I love you, y’know that? I’ve loved you—fuck, so wet—for a long time.” His free hand tilted your head up so he could kiss you again, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. But his fingers never stopped moving, never stopped teasing, never stopped driving you wild. “Ever since I first laid eyes on you— baby, I... I’m gonna show you how much I care for you,” he promised, his voice rough with sincerity and pupils blown out. “But you need to help me. This is… new to me.”

Your eyes widened in suprise from both confessions; yet you only inquired on the latter. "You've never—?"

"Waited for the right girl,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper as his thumb kept circling and rubbing your clit, quick and accurate. “And here you are.” His tongue slipped into your mouth again, exploring, tasting, kissing you like a man starved. “Want you to give it to me,” he growled between kisses, his hands sliding up your shirt, pushing the fabric up in one swift motion. “And I’ll give it to you…” The sight of you—bare, flushed, your breasts perfect for him—made his breath catch. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat and he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You whimpered, your back arching, your fingers tightening in his hair, and the sound of your pleasure sent a jolt of electricity straight to his cock. Dex groaned around you, his teeth grazing lightly against your skin—a reminder that he was still a novice at this, that he was still learning; your body his sacred text. When you hissed he sloppily apologized, mouth still closed around you as his other hand accompanied your left breast; squeezing and groping you while his tongue kept working.

It all seemed to be too much for you, and Dex didn't understand. This was just the beginning, he'd just started but you were already writhing and crying in his grip like he was torturing you.

"D—dex! Please, miss the spot for once I— you're gonna make me cum!"

He removed his mouth from your nipple with a wet pop, the tissue now covered in spit. Just a little more of this and you'd pass out, he was sure. But making you whine, the sounds of you, the heat from your skin— all of it was more addictive than anything he'd ever had—how could he stop hitting your spot? He never missed. Your cries made his head spin from overload.

Desperate to stop his relentless attacks of pleasure, you moved off him, fingers trailing over the white fabric. Your hands dropped to the waistband of his boxers, and Dex's cock twitched, desperate to be freed, his mind a whirlwind of panic and desire. He cut the low whine off in his throat when you pulled his boxers off; making his throbbing cock fling out against his taut stomach.

Based on the pause in movement and broken gasp he figured you were worried.

He shot forward, no longer reclined on the couch, his eyes searching yours in a frenzy.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice cracking. His hand cradled your face with tenderness. “D-do you maybe, uh, want to stop? W-was I too much—”

“No!” you rushed out, your voice breathless, your cheeks flushed. You straddled his lap again, your thighs trembling slightly as you settled over him. “No, I just. You’re… really big, Dex. I’m not sure I can fit that.” A choked laugh escaped you, nervous and sweet, and Dex’s heart stopped. "But I want to try.... 'cause I want you."

“O-okay.” The word was a relieved gasp, his hands gripping your waist, helping you rise just enough to align yourselves. “I just… wanna make you feel good.”

With lidded eyes and bated breath, he watched as you slowly, so slowly, lowered yourself onto him. Your wet entrance met his tip, and Dex’s entire body tensed, his breath hitching as you took him inch by inch. His fingers dug into your hips, his knuckles white, his entire being focused on the way you felt—God, you felt incredible—so tight, so hot, so willing. His tip breached your entrance, and a broken sound tore from his throat. Excitement, fear, and desire all bled together, his eyebrows drawing up from the sheer overload of sensation. “B-baby, I— I’m not ready—haahh, ohh fuck…!” His head fell back, his vision blurring as you sank deeper, your body stretching to take him, your heat enveloping him completely. A guttural moan tore from him, his hips jerking up involuntarily, burying him further inside you.

"Wait—" you whimpered.

“Nnngh! O-okay…” His voice was a ragged cry, his vision swimming as you took even more of him, your body finally flush against his, your hips meeting his in a way that felt like coming home.

You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders, your breath coming in sharp, needy gasps as you struggled with his size but just as hungry as he was. You paused every once in a while, your body trembling, before letting yourself sink further, your walls fluttering around him, driving him wild. Dex’s hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs—holding you steady, guiding you, worshipping you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was trying to crawl inside, like he needed your air to breathe.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he groaned against your lips, his voice rough with awe. “Never thought it would feel s-so fucking good...!” His hips began to jerk from overstimulation, slow at first, then harder, deeper, his cock sliding in and out of you with a slick, wet sound that filled the room. His arms wrapped around you tightly, taking over control to make you ride on him harder. You hissed and whined from his eagerness, your pussy not yet stretched out enough to accommodate the way his cock slid back and forth, wet with slick and precum and throbbing wildly. Every ragged drag had your breath coming in desperate needy gasps.

The usually shy and composed agent was a sweaty whimpering mess below you, speaking gibberish as he fucked into your wet pussy like it had replaced his need to breathe. Your body was tight against him like he might die if he were torn apart. His fingers dug into your back and ass, hair messy and he couldn't help but throw his head back on the couch. Cock repeatedly sliding into you with haste and hunger.

Dex watched you through half-lidded eyes, unblinking, black pupils nearly taking up all of the green-brownish colour. His eyes looked pitch black, two dots of charcoal framed by blonde lashes. You cried out when he went extra deep, big cock finally bottoming out inside you as he worked himself in, again, and again, and again, and again, and again and a-fucking-gain. The squelching was lewd, his thighs wet from your fluid. "Fucking love you." He said softly, grip on your hips tightening as he bucked up. His eyes rolled back from pleasure, but slowly flicked back onto you. He was obsessed with watching you, watching you take his big cock, watching you struggle and squeal. "I fucking love you." He spoke again, tone laced in intensity. Was it too soon for you to say it back? Or did you just not want to? With a swift angle change he hit a spongey spot inside that made you see stars, your eyes fluttered shut and you started to whine everytime he hit it. "Say it back." Dex demanded, angling you down harder to ground into that area over and over and over and over and over and over. The sticky wet liquid on his thighs had increased, now covering your leather couch. "Why the fuck are you not saying it back—ah!" He whined, moaning when your walls constricted around his cock impossibly tight.

The squelching filled the room along with ragged moans and stuttered gasps.

His hand instinctively wrapped around your throat, fingers relishing the control of the moment, tightening ever so slowly. "Mmm..." Your pussy tightened around his dragging cock, so tight it nearly halted it. "Fuck...! oh, y'like that baby...?" You couldn't get a word out, going limp in his hands from the pleasure. "Tell me you love me." Dex murmured, not stopping the way his tip prodded at your special spot. "Tell me y'fucking love me."

"—can't s-speak...!" You cried out, limp and slick with sweat.

The pieces puzzled together. Oh, of course. He hadn't stopped hitting the spot like you asked him to... but he couldn't miss, ever. A hung smile appeared on his face and he bucked you along to match his rhythm, your body rising and falling over him, your breasts bouncing with each movement, your breath coming in desperate, needy gasps. "It's okay... just try to say it back."

"I— mmm, l-love you."

That. Three words were enough. His cock twitched and his mind melted, everything dissolving into that single contact point between you. "That's it baby, fuck, love you m-more...!" You loved him, you did and he loved you back and this was perfect and he was losing his damn mind at it all. Everything was too much and too little and his face scrunched up from pleasure because it was all too loud and quiet and his body tensed because the blood rushing through his veins was too hot and cold and—

"Fuck!" Dex’s control was slipping, his movements growing erratic, his kisses frantic. "I love you, I love, I love you, you, I fucking— haah...!" His hips grew more desperate, hair stuck to his forehead as you arched and writhed in his firm grip. He could feel himself getting closer, his balls drawing up, his body tensing as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside him.

"I'm— I'm gonna—"

"Fuck, please no you're going to make me—"

Your walls tightened around and you sobbed from intense pleasure, face scrunching up and mouth a paused jutter of cries as you fell limp onto his muscled chest.

“Baby, I— I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm, his cock swelling inside you. “Fuck, fuck—!”

Everything went white.

He came with a guttural groan, his release spilling inside you in thick, scalding ropes that filled you completely. His body convulsed, every muscle locking tight as pleasure wracked him in violent waves. His face twisted—jaw clenched, teeth bared—before a broken sob tore from his throat. His fingers dug into your hips, yanking you down onto him as he emptied himself, his breath tearing through his lungs in ragged, shuddering gasps. His vision swam, stars bursting behind his eyelids as he filled you, over and over, until you could feel him dripping down your thighs.

The two of you lay there, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat, trembling in the aftermath.

Then you flinched as he lifted you off the couch. “Dex—what—?”

“Not fucking done with you, baby.” His voice was rough, possessive, as he cradled your exhausted body against his chest and carried you down the hallway, his steps sure despite the way his own legs shook.

Dex was high on this. High on the taste of you, the feel of you, the way your body had clenched around him. He needed more. Needed you like an addiction.

“I don’t know if I can take it,” you whimpered, squirming in his arms as he shouldered your bedroom door open and dropped you onto the mattress. “Dex, please—”

“Can I be your boyfriend?” His voice cracked, raw with desperation, as he already crawled over your shuddering body, caging you beneath him. “I swear I’ll make it worth it. I’ll do anything.”

You scrambled back on the bed, instinctively wary—like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. Your eyes widened as his hands gripped your hips, dragging you back into position. “Boyfriend? Yes, of course—I like you, Dex. I—” Your voice hitched, still thick with the remnants of your orgasm. “I love you.”

There was a flicker of hesitation in your last words, and it killed him.

His eyebrows shot up. “Do you really love me?”

"I do. I love you. It's just, it all went so fast and I was so caught up in my work-stress and living situation and—" You sighed, looking up at him. "I knew I felt things for you. I always found you attractive. Suppose I didn't notice I had feelings for you— or if you'd be willing to reciprocate them. I didn't want to ruin our connection. I valued it so much."

“I loved you the moment I first laid eyes on you.” His voice was soft, almost shy, but his eyes burned with sincerity. A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips as his fingers traced lazy circles over your stomach, sending shivers rippling through you. “I’m sorry if I acted… off. Some of my days on the job aren’t exactly pleasant.”

Your fingers slotted around his big hands, bringing them to your soft lips as you placed soft kisses on them. Dex figured you understood, the way you'd been eyeing his body, full of scars; and the big dent on his shoulder— you had noticed and understood he'd been through things. Probably pieced together his odd behavior was from field-trauma or other stuff.

The silence between you was thick, charged with something deeper than lust—something almost sacred—before it melted into something hotter.

“Can you… handle one more?” His voice was barely a whisper, his eyes wide and puppyish, his lips tugging into a bashful smirk.

You nodded.

The moment you did, he was moving—flipping you onto your stomach with ease, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled your hips up until you were flush against him. You gasped as his thighs bracketed yours, his cock already hard again, already aching for you.

“Good… so good…” His palm slid up your arched back, savoring the curve of your spine beneath his touch. “I wanna fuck you again. Real slow this time.” His chest settled over your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips cradled yours. He was everywhere—the heat of him, the rough scrape of his stubble against your ear, the way his breath hitched when he spoke. “Gonna put my mouth right here…” His lips grazed the shell of your ear, his voice a dark, velvety promise. “And fuck into you, sweetheart.”

You shivered, your body already responding, already needy for him.

“I—I thought you were inexperienced,” you stuttered, arching into him as his fingers slipped between your legs, testing your readiness.

“I am.” His smile was wicked as he pulled his hand back, bringing his slick fingers to his lips. He groaned, low and deep, as he tasted you—both of you—on his skin, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I’m gonna learn from you.”

“There’s not much to learn—” You squealed as his hands clamped around your waist, pinning you down. “You’re better than—”

“Shhh…” His smirk was downright sinful, his voice a rough purr. “Don’t make me jealous, baby.”

The first press of his tip against your entrance made you both moan. He was thick, stretching you open inch by inch, your walls clenching around him in resistance. Dex’s breath hitched, his vision whiting out for a second as pleasure ripped through him. A choked sound tore from his throat, and he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing himself to think, to breathe—anything but lose control.

His nails dug into your skin, his grip bruising as he held you still, his cock buried halfway inside you. The control it took to hold back was impossible. He was wild for you—drool slipping from his lips onto your back, his hips twitching with the effort of restraint.

“Are you ready to take me deeper…?” His voice was a growl, his cock twitching inside you.

You hummed, and that was all the answer he needed.

He pushed deeper.

You cried out—part pleasure, part pain—your back arching, your body craving more, addicted to the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him.

He groaned, his hips moving on their own now, rocking forward before slamming into you in one brutal thrust. His cock buried to the hilt, your body taking him completely. He pulled back just enough to drag a whimper from you before slamming home again, his hands tightening on your hips as your ass jiggled with every relentless pound.

The sight destroyed him.

His beautiful girl, flushed and trembling— now arched below him with her face down in the mattress as her older neighbor fucked her brains out. The reality of it turned Dex on even more. The age gap, the fact your skin was still so supple compared to his more rugged feel—

It felt controlling... possessive...

You whined when his arms curled around yours, pulling you upright. Dex's left arm hooked between yours behind your back, locking you in place as his right hand snaked over your stomach, dipping down to your clit, and rubbing that perfect spot again, and again, and again.

The dragging of his cock, filling the room with lewd squelching as he moved in and out of your tight pussy— the way he held your arms behind your back, impossibly tight in his grip— the way his finger circled and rubbed and pressed onto that sensitive bundle of nerves—

It didn't take long until you were a whimpering crying mess in his hands, growing more and more limp by the second— exhausted from the torturous pleasure he was mercilessly subjecting you to.

Dex's eyebrows drew up, so close to cumming already but forcing himself to last. This was a moment he had to capture in his mind, a dream come true that he should always be capable of replaying.

"F-fuck!" He groaned. You constricted around him in that specific way and he knew you were about to become undone. "Give it to me..."

The merciless pounding, the way he buried himself deep inside again, and again, and again, and again—

You were a stammering mess before every muscle in your body stood at rapt attention, silently crying before the final buck of his hips sent you over the edge. Dex shushed and cooed, telling you how good you were, how sweet.

His eyes fluttered shut from the wetness following your orgasm, making his hips buck and stutter, balls tightening and vision swirling.

You fell limp in his arms, and he held you tightly, burying himself as close as possible, hitting your cervix, desperate to get as close to your uterus— the idea of it.

"Mm! Fuck, I—" Drool dripped out, the blonde completely lost in pleasure as the filthiest fantasies ran rampant in his brain. "Wanna breed you...! Gonna fucking fill you up with my kids..."

You were too out of it to respond, half conscious and covered in sweat.

Everything went white and he lost track of what he was saying, crying and sobbing as his seed filled you up the second time, coating your walls in thick cum as his hips shuddered to a halt.

....

The room was quiet except for the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing—deep, slow, the kind of sleep that only comes after being used just right. Your body was a map of him: flushed skin, the faint red marks of his fingers on your hips, the slick evidence of what he’d done to you still glistening between your thighs.

Dex lay there for a long moment, just watching you.

This happened.

The thought hit him like a physical blow. He exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, his chest tight. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to touch you again, to prove this was real. That you were real.

You were his.

And he was never letting go.

Carefully, so as not to jostle you, he reached for the tissue box on your nightstand. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as he pulled a few sheets free. He didn’t want to wake you—not yet. Not when you looked so peaceful, so undone in the way that made his chest ache.

His thumb brushed against your inner thigh as he cleaned you, and you stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips. His breath hitched.

God, even your noises belong to me now.

The tissue came away damp with a mix of him and you, and Dex’s grip tightened around the box. He swallowed hard, his mind racing.

How did I get so lucky?

He’d loved you from the moment he saw you—had lusted after you, craved you, but this? This was more. This was all consuming. This was the kind of irrational, feral, horridly disgusting need that made his fingers curl into fists just thinking about it.

You were his.

And he was going to skin anyone who tried to take you from him.

His free hand hovered over your hip, not quite touching, as if afraid you’d disappear if he pressed too hard. His thumb grazed the curve of your waist, just once, before he cuddled against you.

I need to be better.

Better for you. Stronger. Worthy.

But even as the thought formed, his gaze darkened, his jaw tightening.

And if it's not enough...

He would keep you.

He would.

--------------

@sapphire-saga @starlitflora @crazydexling @ladymacbeth1987 @avidreader73 @yolainwonderland @devilsfendi

Bonus gift: Dex military flashback compilation.