#likeeeee

He remembers the night he tried to end it. No, that’s not the right word - because in all honesty that’s not what he was doing. He wanted to believe that he was attempting to make the smart decision, to save you heartbreak and grief and to give you a fighting chance to find someone better.

He knew that he wasn’t going to let you go, but hey, he’d give anything the old college try once. And the sick part of him wanted to test the boundaries, see exactly what could happen.

It had been late, so late that the city was as quiet as it could be in the upper east side, and leftovers were in the fridge from what he’d made you for dinner and he cleaned the dishes too.

A gentleman. Through and through.

Your apartment was a warm glow, safe and comfortable. It all felt so domestic he didn’t know how he was going to manage to leave, to let go of it.

He’s not good at bringing things up casually. And at this point, you two hadn’t crossed any boundaries. Hadn’t kissed, barely even touched.

But the tension was always palpable, like a live wire in the air with no grounding. The way you looked at him made him feel crazy sometimes, like one glance was all it took to undo him and his fucked up moral code and years of trying to balance the scales.

But this night, you sat so close to him that your knees were knocking his. Curled up on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and he could smell your body wash and perfume and the salt in your hair and feel the warmth coming off of you - god. This was not good for him.

“You do know that I’m a lot older than you, right?”

He never was good at timing. And you just cocked your head, stared at him like you thought nothing of it. His age, nor his random thought bubbling to the surface.

You reached out and it took everything in him not to tense up, just your fingertips picking at the frayed edges of his shirt sleeve. Your knuckles grazed his bicep, right where a vein protrudes, and he watches you carefully. Like you were a wild, unpredictable animal.

Ironic.

“Hmmm, guess you’re right. You do still carry a Walkman, that’s very old man of you.” You smiled to yourself and he had to stop himself from smiling too, because he wanted you to seriously consider this. To really think about it.

Your eyes met his and his expression was so unreadable. Bushy blonde brows furrowed, lips keeping themselves from quirking into a smirk. You stared at his lips a beat too long and he felt the urge to lean over and taste your mouth.

“That’s - I’m serious, I’m not who you think I am. I’m not what you think I am, and - “

You interrupt him with a scoff, rolling your eyes and he actually gawks. It’s so bratty it’s almost endearing coming from you.

“I see what hours you come home, you literally have a bruise on your cheek right now,” you make a point to touch his face, to press your thumb lightly against the blue patch of flesh and he has to fight the urge to close his eyes and keen into the touch. He smells vanilla against the pulse on your wrist.

“so if you’re trying to make a point about some seedy job you have, I don’t care. And maybe I like old men, ever considered that?”

He’s shocked for a couple of reasons. You’re still acting as though none of this is a big deal, as if it means absolutely nothing that he’s nearly 20 years your senior, or that you’ve noticed he’s oftentimes injured.

You’re perceptive. That’s…good?

“You like old men?” His eye is twitching, and you give him a goofy smile, like you know exactly why you said it that way and what it would do to him.

“No, actually. I just like you.” You lean your head against his arm that’s draped across the back of the couch, lightly caging you in.

And then he’s wrapped up again, hot from the inside out. He decides right then and there to give it right back to you, to make you just as squeamish and wound up as you make him. It’s not hard, he’s a smart man.

So he leans in, and your smile drops and you swallow hard, and he’s got you.

He’s so close you can memorize every line etched into his skin, you can almost tell exactly what caused the thick scar on his cheek and how many times he’s ever laughed or squinted or scowled.

“Sweetheart, I’m old enough to be your father.”

Fuck. Your whole body shudders, and you’re suddenly looking at your lap, anywhere but his eyes, and it’s surreal to have you so flustered like this.

You want him.

“Well…well I don’t care. Who cares? I mean,” you don’t expect his pupils to be so blown out when you peer into them.

“we get along, don’t we? You don’t enjoy our time together?” You say it so sickeningly perfect, just enough of a soft tone to make him ache. And you don’t do it on purpose, that’s the worst part. That’s all you.

He can’t turn you down. His body, mind, spirit won’t let him. He’s too gone now, doe eyed and a slight tremble to your bottom lip, and it’s nothing crazy but it breaks him nonetheless.

It also sends a thrill down his adamantium spine.

“Yeah, sweetheart I do. But I’m not easy. You might run away. And I can’t do that, can’t let you go like that.”

He’s past the point of being earnest, cause you’re breaking every ounce of any mask he put on. The real Dex, the one that knows where you go after work and the addresses of your co workers and exactly when to walk outside in order to assist you with groceries - he’s right here behind his eyes.

“I don’t want anyone else. Can’t even think about anyone else, kiss me please?”

You jut your chin and ask so nicely, how could he ever say no?

It’s hard, controlled at first and his hand meets the nape of your neck with skilled precious. It loosens up when you go slack under his touch. Like you couldn’t possibly think about anything else but how his tongue feels against your bottom lip.

Then you’re grabbing his face and it’s heavy in your hands and you scoot yourself against his big frame until you’ve got one leg thrown over his broad lap and your torso pressed directly against his side.

He’s groaning into the kiss, and your fingers find control in the locks. Your faces move this way and that way, noses smooshed together and teeth clacking. You feel something thick, and warm swelling beneath your thigh where it’s thrown over his lap - and you breakaway with a string of spit connecting your lips to his.

He wipes it away with his thumb, and a wretched thing happens between your legs. A fierce throb, leaking into your panties.

“Are you hard?” You’re being somewhat of a menace, but you can’t help it. Just to provoke the reactions only you can out of him, it’s worth it. You can feel his pulse thundering.

“Yeah, I am honey.” No point in lying when you can feel it, when you start to move your leg up and down to rub at the bulge that strains in his jeans.

He peers down, watches your soft, plush flesh and how it presses against his covered cock. He tries to hold it back, tries to rein it in but he can’t stop the bucking of his hips. You move even closer to him, deciding to climb onto his lap completely with your hands steadied on his broad shoulders.

His grip immediately finds your waist, and he takes a stuttered breath like he never thought this would really happen, that it would only be something he fantasized about and that’s it.

Because your weight is perfect on top of him, and he’s gentle when he rubs your back, stares up at you like you’re holding the world. You’re real and warm and right here.

“I feel it twitching against me.” You observe, beginning to grind your center against him. It’s heavy and firm, and the seam of his jeans catches you right between your puffy lips and steadily swelling clit.

“Jesus, fuck.” He groans while his fingertips press into your hips, push and pull you against him to aid your rutting.

He drags you down again, but this time he nudges your jaw to the side with his nose and mouths at your neck. This elicits a whimper of the most salacious kind, and he keeps you pinned to his relentless tongue exploring your earlobes and carotid.

“This’s what you wanted, huh?” His voice is rough and low in all the right places.

“Want it all, everything with you.”

This shakes him more than he’d like to admit. You’re nothing if not honest, too honest because now you’re cracked completely open with lust and hunger and wild eyes.

“Can’t just say things like that - look at me, look at me.”

And you do. Your gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t divert in the slightest.

“Say it again, please.” He begs. Though his expression isn’t pleading, isn’t aggressive though either. Just true. Heartbreakingly earnest.

“I want everything with you. I want you.”

It couldn’t have been more perfect. And it couldn’t have been more solidifying.