Work Text:
You’d spent the majority of the day together. Breakfast, a walk, lunch. He had insisted, in fact. You didn’t bother asking why. Sometimes he just… needs to be around you. It’s sweet, in a way. The way he’ll come near you, mirror you. Your breathing will match his. He’ll match your smile with one of his own. He’s a little awkward with it, too attentive, but he’s not trying to be.
He just needs a little finding. He uses you as a reference point. If your posture changes? So does his. Tone? Softer.
Dex only relaxes when you acknowledge him. When you tell him he doesn’t have to try so hard. That he’s good. You treat him gently. Maybe a little teasing at times, but you’re sweet on him. The both of you know it.
You’re safe. Warm.
An anchor. A guiding light.
A North Star.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
It’s at lunch, out at some bodega he had dragged you to, that something shifts. A coworker of yours had caught your eye. You gave Dex a gentle hug, told him you would be right back, and scampered off.
He watched you. The way you smiled. The way you laughed.
The attention you give them instead of him.
Suddenly, the room feels wrong, different. Empty, despite the people occupying it. Despite the way you were only a few feet away.
He stands there, quiet, as you talk—like a shunned puppy.
You’re not intentionally ignoring him. You only planned to speak with your friend for a moment. But you get caught up in it, in the moment, distracted.
Dex hates it.
It’s disrupting the time he has with you.
He tries to think back, seeing if you act this way with him. The touches. The laughs. Sure, you touch and giggle with him, but is it the same? Is your tone different? His brows furrow, eyes narrowed, as he watches through a hazy blue blur. He doesn’t know why you have not come back yet.
What the problem is. The error.
When you finish up, he acts a little different, a little quieter. Your cheeks are still carrying a happy warmth. It doesn’t thaw the cold he feels in his chest. He doesn’t mean to be dramatic with his long stares and quiet thinking. Doesn’t mean to come off as nonchalant, apathetic.
He’s just… confused. A little hurt.
Jealous.
He replays everything: what you said, how you smiled, and what he should’ve done differently. How he should have staked his claim. Should’ve held you close. Should’ve glared until your friend left the two of you alone. The way it’s meant to be.
So, he adjusts. Talks to you a little differently, tone changing subtly with each sentence until he thinks he’s got it. Tries to smile more, like your friend. Makes jokes that he thinks you’ll like. Touches your arm more.
It comes off strange. He can be affectionate, but never quite like this. Never so forced. It seems unnatural. Not his style. Like he’s over-correcting a minor issue.
His attempt at fixing himself to appeal more doesn’t work. Not fast enough. Not good enough.
He needs your attention. Now.
Not aggressively, not violently. Just… desperately. Urgently.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
Now that you’re home alone, Dex in his own apartment—the one he’s been dragging your stuff into for months—everything seems to… relax. You don’t know, still, what was wrong with him. But you’re sure he would’ve told you. Especially if it was serious.
Dex, meanwhile, has been… doing some thinking. He types out a text to you. Finds a single issue. Deletes the whole thing. He’s picky. He’s been at it for a while. Pacing, trying to find something to say. To tell you how he feels. You’ve been so trusting and proud of him for being open about his feelings.
And here he is, overthinking and unable to do anything.
He thinks about recording. Maybe that’ll help. But once the camera starts rolling, his eyes meeting his own through the screen, he pauses. No thanks. He’d rather not look at himself right now.
He wants your attention. Staring at his phone, he thinks of a way to get it. To make you look at him—at him—the same way again. To prove it was always just going to be you and him.
The message pings moments later.
He debated adding more. Typing something small. Sending a photo. He kept opening and closing your messages.
You pause your show, some stupid reality TV about out of touch celebrities, as you grab your phone. You smile upon seeing Dex’s contact pop up. Maybe he’s coming to tell you he loves you? Or maybe he’s opening up about today.
You swipe open the message. A video? Dex doesn’t usually send those. Not unless he’s showing you something he did, or he’s showing you something he thinks you’d like.
The thumbnail doesn’t give much away. It’s just dark, like maybe he had his thumb over the camera, and he didn’t realize he needed to move it. No follow up message, either.
No explanation, no added thoughts. You click it open.
As expected, it was his thumb covering the camera, phone shaking just a little. He finally moves his thumb.
You’re greeted by his face, flushed. His mouth, open, lets out soft little pants. He’s staring directly at the camera. As if he’s looking at you. Carefully, he angles the phone, slowly showing you all of him.
The flush creeped all the way up his neck. His broad shoulders, followed by thick biceps. The fast rise and fall of his toned chest. His sweat slicked abs—the ones you’ve spent countless nights thinking of. Lower still, until he’s hesitating—as if deciding the best route. You’re watching the camera—pointed at the V-shaped line accessorized by veins that leads straight down—as it shakes.
Suddenly, you’re very aware of your own heat, the way your cheeks warm up. It doesn’t matter that you’ve seen it in person. That you’ve had him countless times.
He’s never done this.
He tips the camera, showing you his cock. The tip is flushed an angry, deep red, almost matching the earlier flush of his cheeks. He’s got a hand wrapped around the base. Not stroking, just squeezing. Like maybe he was waiting for you.
Even from down here, you can hear his heavy breathing. You can almost feel it in your bones. He angles the phone, staring straight into the camera, as he keeps his body in view. He keeps it all in view. It takes a moment, but you understand—he’s angling the camera like he’s looking down at you, like it’s you he’s got with him.
The thought makes your thighs squeeze together. Though, you know this isn’t like Dex. Confusion swirls with arousal.
He’s staring like he’s waiting, like he might if you were there with him. Like he wants a response. Not just showing, but asking. Asking you to see him, choose him.
He fumbles a little as he lets his hand move. A small grunt leaves him, bordering on a whimper, as he watches himself in the camera. He’s picturing you.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
He sounds needy, yes, but also… unsure. Desire practically oozes from him, physically manifesting as pearls of milky white pre-come. But you sense the dependency in his tone. The way he aches for your approval, your attention.
He whimpers softly as he lets his pace quicken, just the way he likes it. His brows furrow, wrinkled in the middle, as sweat beads down his furrow. Your name slips from his tongue. Gentle. Like he’s scared to say it. Like he might ruin it if he does.
His eyes stay open, stay on the camera, as if he sees you. Occasionally, he’ll mutter your name, and it makes his hip stutters. Makes his breath catch.
He’s not sure if this is working. If you’re watching. But he wants you to. God, he does.
Like this, he looks pathetic, desperate.
“Look at me?” He repeats, sounding much more whiny. He didn’t start confident, but his nervousness has only gotten worse the longer he keeps himself like this.
But his body enjoys it nonetheless. His hips jump into his fist, stomach muscles clenching.
But Dex isn’t just turned on—he’s destabilized, and trying to fix it using the only language he can access in the moment.
It’s the only way he knows how to get to you.
His pace falters. Just for a second. Like something in him stutters—like the thought slips in too loud, too sharp: What if you’re not even there?
His hand stills, grip tightening, breath catching halfway in his throat. His eyes flick up again, searching the camera like it might answer him back.
There’s no response.
Just the quiet hum of the room. The faint shake of the phone in his hand. And it does something to him. Something worse than the jealousy ever did.
His composure cracks—subtle, but there. In the way his shoulders tense too hard, in the way his rhythm loses that careful control he tries so hard to keep.
Your name slips out again, softer this time. Not said—breathed. Like he’s reaching for you and coming up just short. And then—he can’t keep it together.
His movements turn uneven, desperate in a way he’d never let himself be if you were actually there. Like he’s trying to chase something he can’t quite hold onto. Like he’s trying to pull you back through the screen.
His voice wavers, breaks, as he lets out soft sounds and little words. More pleas than anything.
His eyes stay locked on the camera even as everything else slips—like if he just keeps looking, you’ll still be there on the other side of it. Like you’ll choose him.
The video ends with him whimpering softly, panting, as he pulls the camera back to his face. He’s still got that slick sheen of sweat coating him. Tilting his head, just slightly, he gives you this pathetic little look. It’s one reserved especially for you.
The video cuts, leaving you in the silence of your own room.
Your finger hovers over the replay button longer than it should.