Archive of Our Own

You had just moved in, boxes still piled in uneven stacks around the mostly empty room. Sure, it had a bed and the bare essentials, but none of your things had found their place yet—everything still sitting where it had been dropped, like you weren’t fully settled, just… paused.

Your roommate—Benjamin, he said—was nice.

Awkward, in a way that didn’t quite settle, but nice. He’d helped you carry your boxes in without being asked, offered you a drink before you’d even set your keys down, lingered just long enough to be helpful without crossing into overbearing. He seemed… lonely, maybe. Like someone who didn’t go out much, who stayed in more than anything else.

That was fine by you.

You weren’t much of a partygoer yourself—more comfortable in quiet, in routine. Besides, the rent was decent. That alone made up for a lot.

You’d been in your room—still strange to call it that—for a while now, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the boxes like they might unpack themselves if you waited long enough. Putting it off. Just a little longer.

A soft knock breaks through the stillness. Quiet, but precise—like he knows exactly how loud to be.

You sigh, pushing yourself up and crossing the room, the door opening with a soft click. “Hey, uh… Benjamin.”

The name feels stiff in your mouth. Too formal, maybe. Ben? Benny? God, you don’t want to make this more awkward than it already is.

He smiles—gentle, easy—but there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match it. Something a little too focused, like he’s looking through the moment instead of just standing in it.

You try not to linger on that. Probably just nerves.

“Call me Dex. Thought you might need help,” he says, already glancing past you. His gaze flicks over the boxes, the room, the corners you haven’t touched yet—taking it in like he’s mapping it.

Oh.

Right.

You hesitate for just a second before stepping aside. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve been… procrastinating. To say the least.”

He shakes his head and steps in like it’s nothing—like he’s done it before, like he belongs there already. It doesn’t seem to bother him. Not even a little.

He reaches for the nearest box without asking which one matters, fingers already working at the tape, clean, efficient. Like there’s a right way to do this, and he knows it.

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to.

He doesn’t ask where things go.

Doesn’t pause to check.

Just opens the box, eyes flicking over the contents—quick, quiet, absorbing.

Sorting.

Deciding.

Like he already knows where everything should be.

A faint, almost pleased look crosses his face. Gone as quickly as it came.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just someone trying to help.

Still… you shift your weight, something small and strange settling low in your chest as he moves deeper into the room, setting your things down with careful, deliberate precision.

Like he’s placing them exactly where they belong.

Like he’s placing you.

 ─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

You emerge from your room hours later to the quiet of an empty apartment. Dex had left you earlier, after unpacking, to let you settle. You’re sure it’s empty, almost 100%, but you look around anyway. 

It’s an invasion of privacy, you tell yourself as your hand lingers on his bedroom door knob. You hesitate. Carefully, you knock, giving yourself a brief moment to think as you await an answer. Nothing. Just silence. Quiet, empty nothingness. 

You twist the door knob. 

The door opens with little push, no resistance. 

You’re just curious… He’s not exactly talkative. Stepping inside, you walk closer to his bed, hesitating. It smells like him. His cologne. Like sweat, in a way—like he works out in here. He probably does. Heaven knows he’s built. No hoodie can hide the broadness of his muscular shoulders. 

A small prickle, just a lingering feeling at the nape of your neck, makes you feel as though you’re being watched. But when you turn, seeing no one, you brush it off as ‘paranoia.’ Or maybe guilt for snooping in his room. 

Carefully, you smooth your fingers over his bedsheets. Soft, not at all what you thought they’d feel like. Not rough or some weird fabric. Same for his blankets, his pillowcases. It makes you giggle to imagine him picking out the softest fabrics—this man who seems so strange, so rough around the edges. Maybe you’ve just been misjudging him.

You let yourself wander for a few more brief moments before leaving, doing your best to either not touch anything or return it exactly as it was. 

The door closes behind you with a soft click. 

 ─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

Dex isn’t quite sure what to do with this. 

He saw, of course, the way you entered his bedroom. He’s not a paranoid man—but he knows roommates are a risk. Of course he installed cameras. 

Your fingers grazed many things—his bed, for one, which he is absolutely confused by—but they never took. Never stole. Just curious, fleeting touches across his things. Not that many of them exist, given he’s not the sentimental hoarder type, but he digresses. 

He’s not watching you to be a pervert—though, you do look pretty—he tells himself. It’s just a precaution. A roommate who steals isn’t something he can handle right now. Or at all, at any time.

He trusts you. It makes him feel a little strange to do so. But he can’t exactly help it. You’ve been nothing but kind, a little awkward, and curious. 

So, when he comes home to you—home, such a funny word to him—he gives you a smile. Not as forced, not as perfected as his smirk. It’s a little crooked. A little smug. Like he knows something you don’t, but he still isn’t judging you for it. 

You’ve left your things out. It makes you feel a little self conscious, makes you move around to throw your dirty mug in the kitchen sink. The apartment smells of food. Not the kind he makes, but yours. You’re not sure if he’ll appreciate it. Surely he will? You shrug it off, continuing. 

“Hey,” he says, drawing you out of your thoughts like a siren. 

Your eyes flick to his blue ones. They glance, just briefly, at his lips. His nose. His jaw. Just curious. 

“Uhm, hey. I thought I’d cook. Since, y’know, you weren’t here. Didn’t know when you’d be back, but I made enough for both of us.”

You speak a little fast. Didn’t want to keep him there with some drawn out explanation. His eyes flick beyond you. To whatever you’re making. You catch the way his brows raise experimentally, just a fraction, at the sight. You had bought ingredients yourself. He bites back a ‘could’ve asked, I would’ve bought them.’ He’s not quite sure why he’s so intent on being helpful. Maybe it makes him feel grounded. Maybe it makes him feel like a good guy.

He nods once. Watching you. Slowly, he leaves you to it, heading to his bedroom. You tense a little. You’re… pretty sure he doesn’t know. 

He knows. He steps inside, his own fingers tracing the path you left, trying to imagine what you thought. It’s unbearably difficult to guess. It’s either too optimistic, or just unbelievably unrealistic. 

He stifles the urge to roll his own eyes. 

 ─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

When lunch is done, you set it out. You weren’t sure if you should call out to him, or maybe just wait. Maybe go knock? But he had settled it himself, returning to you before you spiraled. He sits. 

Oh.

You didn’t think he would eat with you. Across from you. Slowly, you take a seat, eating. You keep your mouth stuffed to prevent any questions from falling out. 

The apartment is quiet. Comfortable. But he still watches you. Precise. Like he knows something. Like he can’t figure you out. His eyes linger on the way you eat, how you pick at your food before eating it, how you won’t give yourself any time to breathe, lest a question reveal itself. He isn’t judging. No, no. He’s learning you. Studying. 

Eventually, you slow down, talking a little. Soft. Like you’re a little nervous to say the wrong thing. He gives small nods as he eats. You’re just filling the silence. He’s so used to living in silence. You’re disrupting his routine. 

You let out a soft apology.

For the jacket you left on the couch. The mug in the sink. Small things. 

“Sorry. I tend to… leave my things out, sometimes.”

His head tips to the side slightly, curiously. He’s thinking. You think he might be annoyed, but no. Not a flicker of annoyance passes through him. He doesn’t even look bothered, honestly. 

He slides you the salt as you reach for it. Before you can even get halfway there. Handy, but deliberate. 

You were sure he’d be at least a little mad about the small mess—he seems very… particular about his space, after all. But no.

He just looks like he’s considering something. The mess? 

You, maybe?

“I noticed,” he says, voice blunt. Not sharp, but firm. Like he’s sure of himself. 

Factual.

A small pause follows, just a beat, enough to feel real. Intentional. Purposeful.

“It’s fine,” he adds. He takes a bite of food. His eyes never leave yours, looking up at you through thick lashes. 

His tone doesn’t just say ‘it’s fine,’ though. Because it isn’t. Not in the way you think. It’s fine because he decided he can handle it. He will handle it. 

You feel better now. More comfortable. He feels certain.

He’s nice. A  little weird, but nice, you think.

You fit. He can work with this, he thinks.

 ─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

You’ve gotten… closer, as time has passed. It’s only been a few days, sure, but you’re not actively tiptoeing around each other anymore. In fact, you’re very comfortable around him. He’s (almost) a friend, in a way. 

He’s a sweet guy.

That’s what you think of as you sit on the couch, absentmindedly rubbing your arm. It’s chilly. Dex doesn’t like to change the thermostat. Likes it even less if you touch it without asking. 

You’ve got small little goosebumps. It doesn’t bother you much. 

He sees it. Stops and looms, staring at you, for a moment. Turning, he walks away. You give his back a small glance, but you pay it no mind. He comes back with a jacket of yours. You must’ve left it out. Looking at him, you pause. 

He saw you were cold. You smile, intending to grab it from him, when he reaches around you. His chest is close to your face, his arms around you, skin brushing. 

Oh. Wow. He’s… close. 

He drapes the jacket over you like it’s nothing. Smooths it out, fingers lingering just enough to make you pause. They brush your collarbone just once. When he steps back, your eyes on his, he maintains eye contact. Steady. 

Unwavering. 

He doesn’t mean to get so close—doesn’t think of it like that. It’s just… easy. Fast. And he knows he’s being helpful.

Of course, you both noticed the warmth of each other, so close together. 

You brush it off as him being thoughtful. Sweet. A little surprising, but warm. Of course, it’s different for him. He feels it was necessary, correct, a task well done. 

No overthinking. No apology.

 ─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

Again, later that day, you’re in the kitchen. You open the cupboard, reaching, but his hand shadows yours. Behind you, you feel the careful press of his hips against your back, very clearly trying to give you a respectable distance. He doesn’t want to hump you like a dog. But he does want to help.

He grabs the glass you were reaching for and hands it to you. He’s not intentionally being dramatic. Not intentionally dwarfing you.

But when you turn, looking up at him, all you feel is small. Not just height-wise, but every part of you feels minuscule under the weight of his heavy, steady gaze. He isn’t challenging you, per se, just… waiting for you to finish your thought process. 

You don’t recoil, you don’t call it out. You just feel it. Feel him. His warmth. 

 ─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

Any mess you leave out? He takes care of it. 

Leave clothes out? He hands them to you. Doesn’t toss, throw, or anything of the sort. He takes care to hand them to you, fingers brushing. 

Your bad habits—your mess, your energy—bring him closer. Gives him a reason to approach.

─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

It’s late.

The apartment has gone still in that heavy, settled way—every sound louder for it, every shift of fabric, every breath.

You’re in your room, half-sprawled across the bed, phone loosely in your hand. You’re not really looking at it anymore. Your thoughts keep drifting, circling back to something you don’t want to sit with for too long.

Him.

The way he moves. The way he stands too close without seeming to notice. The way his eyes linger—not in a way that feels wrong, just… too aware.

You shift.

Once.

Then again.

Trying to ignore it.

It doesn’t work.

There’s an ache there, low and persistent, something you can’t quite settle. Your legs press together without thinking, your body adjusting in small, restless movements like you’re trying to outrun the feeling.

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “God…”

This is stupid.

Your phone slips from your fingers. It hits the floor with a dull thud. 

Too loud.

You bend across the edge to pick it up, just as a knock sounds. Just once. A small pause ensues, barely enough time to call out.

And then the door opens.

Dex steps in like the pause between those two things doesn’t exist.

Like knocking was just… a formality. Decency. 

“Did something happen?”

His voice is even, steady—but there’s a thread under it. Something tight. Controlled. He doesn’t like the loud noise. You wonder if maybe it scared him? Was he scared something happened to you?

You freeze, pushing yourself up a little too quickly. “I—yeah, I just dropped my phone.”

It sounds off. Fake. You know it does. You can hear the wobble in your own voice. The tremble. You can only hope he doesn’t know why it’s there. 

He doesn’t answer right away. No. He’s looking at you. Not rushed. Not careless. Just… taking you in. It  doesn’t take him long. A  few seconds, maybe. That’s all he needs. His gaze dips—brief, precise—then comes back up, settling on your face again. There’s a shift there. Small. But unmistakable.

“Oh.”

It’s quiet. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… understood. Like maybe he’s seeing you in a new light. A light you definitely didn’t want him to notice. 

Your stomach twists. Anxiety? Fear? Maybe even anticipation. You want to throw up, to run away, to throw yourself at him.

“Dex, I’m fine—”

You don’t even know what you’re trying to cut off.

But he’s already moving. He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. Not like before, where it felt incidental—like proximity just happened around him. This time, it feels chosen. Like he needs to be near you. Like he knows you want him near you. 

He stops near the edge of the bed. Close enough that you’re aware of him in a way that makes your skin feel too tight. Too hot. Too… everything. 

“You don’t sound fine,” he says.

It’s not accusatory. Just… certain.

You swallow, shifting again without meaning to.

His eyes flick down. He notices. Of course he does. God, he notices everything. It’s almost irritating. 

There’s no awkwardness in him now. No uncertainty. Just a quiet, steady focus—like he’s working through something, step by step.

“You keep moving,” he says.

Factual. Unfortunately.

Heat floods your face. “I’m just—trying to get comfortable.”

It sounds weak. Even to you. Like a flimsy excuse shaking in the wind of a tornado. You’ve never been a good liar. 

He hums, low, thoughtful. Tilts his head slightly. That same look. The one right before he decides something. Before he does something he thinks you need.

For a second, it feels like he might reach for you. Fix something. Fix you? Adjust something. Adjust you? Like he always does. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the silence stretch. Lets you sit in it. In his attention. You’ve never wanted something more in your life. 

A small beat. Chosen. Then, “You should be more careful,” he says.

Your brows knit slightly. “What?” 

You’ve been careful. You kept this part of yourself away from him. Did he seriously notice earlier? Surely not, if he reacted that way. You feel crazy, unsure. What could he possibly mean?

His gaze holds yours. Steady. Unwavering. There’s something almost amused at the edge of it now. Subtle. Controlled. That doesn’t help matters. It’s like he takes pride in confusing you, almost. Like it’s a joke. Like he’s some sort of sadist. It makes you pout. 

“Dropping things,” he clarifies. A beat. “I’ll come check.”

Your breath catches. It’s a promise. To keep you safe? To check on you? To come for you? You’re not quite sure what his intentions are.

You’re fine with it either way.

He lets that sit there. Just long enough. Watches you debate. It makes him smile a little. 

Then he steps back. Like that was the only thing he came in to say. Like everything else—the way he looked at you, the way he understood—didn’t matter at all. Like he didn’t just see you. Really see you.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

And you’re left in the quiet again. Only now—it doesn’t feel empty. No, it still feels heavy with the weight of his presence. His knowledge. His gaze. 

You, greedily, almost wish he would come back. Face you again. Give you some sort of reprieve from the ache in your heart. The thoughts of him in your head. The neediness of your stupid cunt. 

Traitor, you think. Always getting you into trouble.

─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

He doesn’t talk about it. Of course not. He’s just… closer now. 

When he’s home, he makes himself hard to avoid: lingering in doorways, standing in your space, fixing things that hardly need it, and somehow always showing up when you’re left alone with your thoughts. 

Always.

It’s like he knows. 

There’s no big moment. Nothing in particular. Just all these little moments, like drops of water, filling a larger bucket. 

When he isn’t home? He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, watching you. Those cameras come in handy. He doesn’t mean to be weird. Doesn’t mean to seem pervy or voyeuristic. He’s just… careful.

He misses you, in an odd sort of way. 

Likes to be around you, to see you, even if he isn’t there. 

He probably should tell you he’s got little cameras in the apartment before you start walking around naked. The thought makes him want to laugh.

Makes his cock twitch in his pants until he reprimands himself like a bad dog. 

Damn him. Maybe now, now that he’s not hellbent on being helpful and nice and not… into you, he starts to recognize that you and him might be feeling the same thing. 

That same dull, persistent ache that shoves you together.

Two peas in a horny pod.

─ ⊹ ⊱ 𖣠 ⊰ ⊹ ─

One night, you let yourself give in. Just one night to yourself. Sure, his room is practically right next to yours. And maybe the walls are thin, who knows, it’s not like you’re a scientist who’s tested the theory. 

Maybe there’s a chance he could hear you.

Does it really look like you care?

(No.)

Carefully, you let yourself settle into the bed, propped up against your pillows just the way you like. Your door is shut, the lights off. The only source of illumination is the little lamp you keep next to your bed. Kicking your shorts off, you lay there in a shirt, panties, and socks. You rub your feet against the sheets briefly, legs squirming, before letting your thighs part. 

You audibly sigh. The tension in your body seems to ooze out the moment you allow yourself a respite in this moment. A chance to breathe. To let your fingertips slide beneath the elastic of your panties. 

You try to keep your thoughts away from him, his warmth, that smile he would give you. The strength of his shoulders. The press of his hips when he’d reach over you. 

His handiness. His hands. 

His hands. 

You sigh a little, fingers teasing your clit, as you imagine they’re his. His veins flexing, digits curling carefully. He’d be so good to you. You wonder if he’d eat you out, look up at you with those big blues through thick lashes, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Would he let you pull his hair? 

Would he pull yours?

You shudder a little, a chill running down your spine, as you touch yourself. A small whine or two escapes your lips. You’re trying to be quiet, you swear, but thoughts of Dex—who is only feet away—are new territory, and you can’t help yourself. 

You’re so close, right on the precipice. The brink is right there, your feet stepping on the edge, as you nearly climax. 

Only for a knock to jolt your whole body.

You know he hardly hesitates before opening the door, so you don’t bother yelling. Scrambling, you cover yourself with a blanket, hurriedly wiping your hand on the fabric. A little… dirty, but desperate times. Desperate measures. 

He enters a moment later.

Fast, immediate. You’re not fast enough to hide the flush on your face, the heat of your body, the shaky way you meet his eyes. 

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t walk away.

He knows. You know he knows. He knows you know he knows. It brings you no peace. 

You can see the gears turning in his head, the way he’s thinking. The way he’s paused. Not reacting. 

Just once, his eyes drop, glancing at the blanket. At the way you’re clutching it tight to yourself. The flush at the base of your neck creeping up to the tips of your ears. His eyes meet yours again. Fast, but not fast enough to hide the way he just looked at you. As if you’re the only thing he wants to see. Almost as if you’re all he needs.

 Maybe he could die a happy man.

You swallow thickly, watching him. Watching the way he acts like nothing is happening when you both know better. 

He’s not discovering you, he’s deciding. 

To act or not to act. 

Slowly, he steps forward, still making eye contact with you. He looks… sure of himself. Not as awkward, not nearly as socially inept. He’s almost smirking. Not the practiced one he gave you when you first arrived. But a real one. Dimples dot his cheeks. His strong jawline looks softer now, less cutting and more stable. Like a steady foundation.

He says your name slowly, almost testing. Seeing how you’ll react. Will you push him away? Make him get out?

He seriously doubts it. It’s almost amusing to him, the thought of you so clearly wanting him and pushing him away. He knows you wouldn’t. So he smiles. 

“Dex,” you reply, breathless. You try to match his tone, but it wobbles. 

You’re nervous. Hell, you’re almost naked under that blanket, with serious sexual frustration built up. You were so close. It makes you irritated, needy. Desperate. Blinking, you shift just a little, enough to catch the fabric. It makes you wince. Part of you wishes he would get out, let you finish. Another part wishes he’d climb over and help. You thank God everyday that mind readers aren’t real. Probably.

He takes another step, only a foot away, before pausing. “Can I come closer?” Dex asks, the way one would approach a skittish cat. 

Hesitant as you are, you nod, deciding to be brave. Somewhat. It’s mostly your body acting of its own volition against your protests of fear. 

“Move the blanket,” he says, moving to stand beside the bed. It’s not exactly a request you can deny. You give a pitiful look, but he doesn’t let you escape. Not that easily. So you grab the edge of the fabric. Carefully peeling it off, you let him see you—all of you. 

The fabric of your panties. The sliver of stomach where your shirt has ridden up. You feel exposed.

Not just physically—though, of course, that too—but it feels like he’s looking through you. Straight into the softness of your heart, beating like a rabbit, as you squirm before him. To the mush of your brain.

Your lower lip juts out a little. It’s unintentional. A reflex. Like your body can’t help but express the whirlwind you feel inside. The typhoon of emotions barely kept beneath your flushed skin. His eyes, obviously, notice. It’s like he’s always zeroing in on everything, always accurate and precise when he sees something he wants, needs, or catches his interest, everything else a blue blur. 

His eyes flick to your panties, the evident wet spot, before returning to yours. Dex’s hand raises, beckoning you forth in a ‘come hither’ motion. You try not to stare too hard at the way his fingers curl. 

Slowly, you crawl to him across the bed, mattress dipping beneath your weight, until you kneel in front of him, just a little uneven with him. Even now, he seems so tall. So big. 

So strong. 

You stare up at him. A small, almost smug, look appears on his face as he looks down at you. You melt a little. 

“You know…” he starts, “You could have told me. I’d have handled it for you.”

Of course. That same need to please slipping through. Even when he tries to tease you. To be smug. He’s good at it, but God knows he’s still a handy man. 

He doesn’t touch. Hardly speaks. He studies you.

When you start to shift, hands moving to grab at him, he swats them away. Immediate. Doesn’t miss. 

“Still.”

You stare at him. You’re not quite sure how he’s doing this to you, but you aren’t mad. 

“What do you need?” He asks. As if you need a solution to a problem. Like he knows he’s the answer. “Tell me.” He doesn’t give in, not even when you give him that sad little frown, trying to be quiet. Dex won’t stand for it. 

Squirming, you look away, eyes drifting to the blanket next to you. “Touch me.” It’s less of a demand, more of a plea. “Want to feel you. I… want you to touch me,” you manage. It takes a lot of effort not to just stay silent and frustrated. Especially when he just tilts his head, as if waiting for more, so expectant. You whine. 

“I answered you,” you add, petulant. 

“I know.”

“So, do—“

He cuts you off, shaking his head. You glare at him. 

“Please? I… I’m sorry. I need your help.”

That makes him pause. Very visibly. You swear you see his breath hitch, his Adam’s apple bob around a swallow. He’s not as strong as he thinks. But he’s definitely aware that you’re pushing on purpose, blue eyes narrowed dangerously at you, thick brows furrowed. 

Words settle on the tip of his tongue. He wants to ask if you’re taking advantage of his kindness, his willingness to help, his desperate need to be good. But he refrains. It’ll only serve to make you feel better. And, honestly? He’s a little less than pleased with your attitude. The way you manipulate him. Not to say he isn’t falling for it, but still. 

He shushes you, a finger placed over your lips, as he watches you. Your eyes dart off; his don’t. Never. 

Nodding, you look at him, as if promising to stay quiet. He removes his finger. You scoot backwards, resting on your elbows, with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. One of your feet kicks his leg. Spreading your legs, you let one of your hands wander, snapping the elastic of your panties. You’re taunting him, in a way. Asking—no, begging for it. For him.

He doesn’t jump, doesn’t pounce, doesn’t run. But he does get on the bed. Slowly, carefully, as if he’s finally decided on what to do. His hand grabs yours, ceasing the snap of elastic on skin, before he grabs your hips. He leans in, breath ghosting on the sensitive skin of your ear. 

“Flip over.”

You swallow, hesitant, as he backs up just enough to let you move. Other than the space he allows you, you’re stuck, completely and utterly trapped beneath a cage of muscle and demand.

You do as he says.

With your back to him, on your knees, hips tilted just enough to try and tease him, you feel vulnerable. You’ve got no idea what he may have in store for you. No idea what he’s thinking. Not that you could read his emotions from his face anyways. Being visually impassive is a skill he’s honed.

You feel his hands on you—finally, really on you. Calloused, the hands you’d expect from a working man. A strong man. They glide over your back, sliding beneath your shirt, before pausing on your hips. His hands pause—not because he doesn’t know what to do, but because he’s deciding how much to give you. It would make you giggle if you weren’t already pent up. If you weren’t so frustrated with him. 

He sees it. Best believe he understands exactly what you want. And he won’t give it to you.

His fingers slide over the globes of your ass, under your panties. You can feel every finger, every callous. Carefully, he moves his hands, pulling them down just enough to bare you to him. The damp fabric pools at your knees. He must’ve gotten closer, considering his breath fans across your heated skin, almost touching your bare cunt. 

You want to jolt, to run, to press back against him. But you don’t. You’re not quite sure why. Fear of punishment? Of being left like this, leaking and needy? Who knows.

His hand slides—finally—but not where you want.

Up your spine instead.

Slow. Deliberate. Two fingers tracing the length of you like he’s reading something written beneath your skin—pausing at each vertebra, pressing just enough to make you feel how easily he could guide you.

You shiver. Of course you do.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he’s cataloging it. Keeping it.

Then—before you can brace for it—his mouth follows.

The first press of his lips is barely there. Not a kiss, not quite. Just warmth settling against your spine, testing. Measuring.

You suck in a breath.

That’s when he does it again—lower this time. Firmer. Lingering just a second longer than necessary, like he’s rewarding himself for the reaction he pulls out of you.

His hand tightens at your hip when you try to move.

“Uh-uh.”

Soft. Immediate. Final.

You still. You’re scared to do otherwise. Not because he’d hurt you, but because he would stop.

“Can’t even stay still for me,” he adds, voice brushing over your back just as much as his mouth had. “Thought you needed help.”

“I do—”

“I know you do.”

It’s not reassurance. It’s fact.

Another kiss—this one slower, dragging just slightly before he pulls away. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to remind you he’s there. His fingers drift lower, unhurried, like he’s in no rush to give you anything you haven’t earned.

And you feel it—how controlled he is. How intentional. How he’s choosing every second you stay like this.

A quiet sound slips from you—frustration, need, something softer underneath—and you press back before you can stop yourself.

This time, he exhales. A little heavier. A little less controlled. He’s not impulsive, but you’re testing him. He’s not one who likes being pushed, being teased, being rushed into something he’s clearly taking his time on. Some people would say slow foreplay is the gentlemanly thing to do. You’d beg to differ at this point. It’s torturous. And you’re pretty sure he likes it. 

“Look at you,” he says, low, almost against your skin again. “All that attitude earlier… gone.”

His thumb presses—not where you want, but close enough to make your breath hitch, your whole body tightening around the absence of more.

“Needy,” he continues, like he’s figuring you out piece by piece. “Could’ve just said that.”

There’s approval there. Not kind. Earned. Deserved. He knows you want it, knows you’re trying (mostly).

Another kiss—higher this time, just below your shoulder blade. Slower. Warmer. Like he’s starting to enjoy it.

“Good, though,” he adds after a beat. “Finally doing what I tell you.”

His hand stills again. On purpose. Letting it settle. Letting you sit in the weight of it—his voice, his touch, the way he’s holding back when he clearly doesn’t have to.

“Say it again,” he murmurs. A pause. Closer now. Mouth just barely grazing your spine when he speaks. “Properly.”

You hesitate. You’re not entirely sure what he means. Beg again? Tell him you need him? Need help? You decide to go out on a limb and just combine all options. 

“P-please. I need you. Need your help. Can’t do it myself, Dex,” you reply, spine curving just a little beneath him, his warmth, his mouth. “Please? I’m really sorry. Didn’t mean to be bad. Help me, Dex? You’re so helpful. Swear. I love it, need it. Need you.”

Your words come out as a ramble, a little breathless, as you shift your head. You can’t see him. But it’s hard not to try. 

He goes still behind you. Not frozen—no, never that. Just… held. Like every muscle in him tightens around your words, around the way you offer yourself up so easily, so messily.

Your voice lingers in the air between you, soft and trembling and open.

For a moment, he doesn’t touch you at all. And somehow, that’s worse. Then—you feel an exhale. Not yours. His. Low. Controlled. But heavier than before.

His hand tightens on your hip, thumb pressing in just enough to ground you, to remind you where you are. Who you’re with.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. Closer. “That’s better.”

Not kind. Not mean. Satisfied. You’ve done something right.

His nose brushes along your spine before his mouth follows, slower this time—less measured, more indulgent. Like he’s letting himself have a taste of something he’s been holding back from.

“You need me,” he repeats, like he’s testing the shape of it. Deciding how it fits. “Can’t do it yourself.”

There’s something in his voice now—something darker, warmer. Less careful.

His lips press again, firmer this time, lingering just enough to make your breath catch, your body soften under him without thinking.

“Should’ve said that first.”

A pause.

His hand slides—finally, finally—lower, but still not quite where you want. Just spreading you open. Watching the way you drip. Never rushing. Never giving too much at once.

Teaching you.

His other hand steadies you when you shift, fingers spreading against your side, anchoring you in place like you might drift off if he didn’t hold you there.

“You get impatient,” he continues, almost thoughtful again—but there’s a thread of something rougher woven through it now. “Start acting out.”

His thumb presses, just a little sharper this time. A little closer. A little faster. 

“And then you expect me to fix it.”

Another kiss—slower, dragging faintly downward, like he’s savoring the way you react.

You feel it—the shift. Not a break in control. Never that. But… A loosening. Like he’s decided you’ve earned something. Like you’ve been good enough for it. 

“Lucky for you,” he adds, voice dipping lower, closer to your skin than your ears, “I don’t mind taking care of what’s mine.”

That lands heavier than anything else. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… certain.

His hand stills for half a second. But this time, when he moves again… he doesn’t stop himself.

Finally—finally—his thumb brushes your clit, finding it immediately. It’s enough to send a spark through you. Enough to make your hips buck and squirm against him. But God you try not to. You try so hard to sit still for him. And he knows it. He sees it. Feels it. 

Your legs shake with the effort you put forth. Dex chuckles under his breath. If you looked back now, you’re sure he’d be smirking—that real one that dimples his cheeks, makes him look almost boyish. Insanely smug. 

God, you wish you were strong enough to hate it. 

He’s so glad you aren’t. 

Carefully, you feel his hand shift, fingers moving near your entrance. A small sound leaves your lips. A pathetic, needy sound. He doesn’t judge you. Slicked by your own arousal, he pushes a finger in until you cry, somehow curling his fingers perfectly to hit that spongy spot inside of you like a dead-on bullseye on his first try.

“That’s what you wanted, right? Just like that…”

He’s better at this than you thought. Your hips subtly roll back against his hand. Part of you, the cocky part, doesn’t think he notices. But you know he does. He doesn’t say anything, though. Maybe he’s granting you a small reprieve. 

Maybe he’s studying how you move, how you feel. 

“Look at you. How you react. So pretty.”

He’s proud, yes. Of you and himself. But something in his tone reads as condescending. Like he knows you need his help, like he gets off on it. Maybe that handiness goes deeper than you thought. Less insecurity, more kink. You’re not too mad. 

You keep yourself mostly still, rolling your hips gently enough to keep him happy while still helping yourself, and he likes it. 

He adds a second finger, thumb still circling your clit. The pressure is light—but it’s entirely too much.

“Dex, I’m—‘m gonna—“ You swallow, bracing, as gasping little whines leave your mouth. It’s hard to keep your head afloat amidst the pleasure that he bestows upon you. 

He smirks. “Hm?” He hums, slowing down. “Oh, yeah?”

You wish you could wipe that smirk off your face. 

Pitifully, you nod, whining quietly. 

He stops. 

Oh, he stops. Leaves you right there. For the second time that night, you had been edged by Dex. And the first time wasn’t even intentional. 

You’re about to whine—even if he’d get mad—when you moan instead. 

He didn’t leave you there for long. No, no. Not Dex. While you were busy crying, he moved lower, removing his fingers and thumb. Instead of leaving you empty, desolate, he placed his mouth over you. It makes you squirm until his hands come down, a small whack echoing in the room, until you settle. He holds you there, holds you against him. You can almost feel the red marks, the purple bruises in the shape of his fingerprints starting to form. A symbol of him, of the way he stays, the way he lingers. Even when he’s not with you, even if you leave the apartment, he’ll be with you. At all times. Always. 

And maybe that was a little intentional. Maybe he’s a little possessive, obsessive. Territorial. 

He doesn’t let you push back, doesn’t let you move. Dex’s strong arms, his capable hands, keep you in place, effectively pinned with the weight of his body and his intentions. 

Your stomach twists a little, bladder feeling suddenly full, as your legs shake. You’re babbling, begging him not to stop, crying for him. A part of him, small and sadistic, revels in the desperate sound. It’s music to his ears, a soundtrack of pleasure and need. 

And maybe he feels kind, generous. Maybe he’s lost in you. Maybe he thinks you’ve done good enough to deserve it.

Regardless, he finally lets you finish. You have to bite at the mattress to muffle your screams. He keeps you spread and open for him. Even as you come in his mouth, his throat swallowing it greedily, he doesn’t stop, going until you’re visibly shaking with each flick of his tongue against your clit, every plunge of his tongue in your hole. 

Maybe it was a punishment, not a reward. Your hands fly out, reaching behind you to grab his hair, the word stop tumbling out. 

“Can’t take it?” He mumbles, just barely pulling back. Not to give you any grace. Just to make his own words audible. He doesn’t stop fully—but something in him shifts. Reins it in. Like he’s adjusting to just how much you can take. “Just wanted to see you lose it, baby.”

He slowly lets you come down, lets you slump on the bed, body still a little… twitchy. His hands smooth you over. Gentle. Like he didn’t just wreck you.

“Flip over for me, okay? You can do it. Let me help,” he murmurs, voice soft and sweet. 

It’s almost unnerving how fast he can switch. How fast he can change tone with you. But God, you’re living for it. For him. His touch. So you slide over onto your back, his big hands guiding you, stabilizing you. He presses soft kisses all over you. 

Gently, he nips at the plush of your stomach, the skin of your chest. His tongue laps at any marks, any spots he bites too hard. He doesn’t want to hurt you—but he does anyway, only to soothe it. If he has to be a little mean to get to help you, he’ll do it. He slides upward, his painfully hard erection pressed against you, as he digs his nose into your neck. His lips, pink and a little chapped, press against the skin of your collar bone. 

Kissing, he pulls you closer. Your scent overwhelms him. Grounds him. He nearly loses himself in it before reining it back in and pulling back. His eyes meet yours carefully. Steady. Unyielding. Like he’s making sure you’re okay. Like he’s making sure you handled what he gave you.

His gaze doesn’t soften. Not really. But something in it steadies—like he’s reached a conclusion. Satisfied.

His thumb brushes once along your jaw, slow, grounding, before his hand slips away entirely. The absence is immediate. Noticeable. 

You feel it. Of course you do.

“Good,” he says, quiet. Not praise thrown carelessly—placed. Earned.

He watches you for another second, like he’s making sure you stay right where he left you. Not drifting. Not pulling away. Then he leans in—just once more. Not rushed. Not hungry. Deliberate.

His lips press to your forehead this time. Softer than anything else he’s given you. It shouldn’t feel as heavy as it does—but it does. It lingers longer than it needs to. Like a mark you won’t see.

When he pulls back, his hand finds yours briefly—fingers curling, squeezing once. Grounding you again, or maybe grounding himself. It’s hard to tell.

“You did okay,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. Like he’s still thinking about it. Still replaying it.

Then—just like that—he’s up. Not exactly the mushy, sentimental type.

Gone from the bed, already putting distance between you like none of it required effort at all. 

At the doorway, he pauses. Not turning fully. Just enough that you know he’s still aware of you. Still… there.

“Get some sleep,” he adds, tone back to that same calm, controlled cadence you’re starting to recognize.

A beat.

Then, quieter—“I’ll hear if you need me.”

Not ‘I’ll be here.’ But ‘I’ll hear.’ Subtle. Deliberate.

The door closes with a soft click. And you’re left there, body still humming, skin still warm—with the unmistakable feeling that this wasn’t an end. Just the first time he decided to let you have anything at all. 

But that’s Dex, isn’t it?