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dissolvedprincess · 6 days ago

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Chapter 3- Why Are You Like This? (Seriously, Why?) (Shane Maguire, Human Obstacle Course)

Masterlist

Enemies to Lovers. Summary: When you- a stubborn, sharp-tongued chef from San Francisco takes a job at a remote luxury lodge in Yosemite as a favour from your old boss, you immediately find yourself butting heads with the park’s brooding Wildlife Management Officer, Shane Maguire—a man who’s as uncompromising and wild as the land he protects. Protective of his solitude, Shane has zero patience for people from the city who wander off trail and break his every rule. Your first encounters are a battle of wits and wills, all biting sarcasm, heated arguments, and barbed nicknames—especially when he calls you “princess” just to watch you get more irritated.

But when the dangers of the wilderness close in, you two are forced together again and again. The line between rivalry and attraction blurs as every fight leaves you more breathless, every secret shared chips away at your defenses, and every accidental touch lingers too long. You falls first, despite all your efforts to resist him—but when Shane’s walls finally crack, he falls so hard there’s no coming back from it. Pairings: Shane Maguire/Reader. Warnings: Slow-Burn, Fluff, Violence, Swearing, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Enemies to Lovers. dissolvedprincess uroborosvirus not-the-teen-witch

Chapter 3- Why Are You Like This? (Seriously, Why?) (Shane Maguire, Human Obstacle Course)

"There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights." —Bram Stoker, Dracula.

You learned fast—about a month and a bit into Yosemite fast—that the sentence “well, at least it can’t get worse” is really just an incantation that summons worse. Maybe that was karma. You weren’t a saint; you knew you weren’t. The kind of cosmic payback where the universe leans over the railing, points at you, and goes, hey, watch this.

Dignity-wise, you weren’t rolling in it, but you had enough left to admit there was a nonzero chance this particular mess wasn’t on you—karma or otherwise. The hood fan droned a steady alto. The dish pit chattered like rain against metal. Bacon fat and sanitizer and coffee clung to the air, a scent profile you now recognized as morning-after-war.

Shane was leaning against one of your prep benches—again—arms crossed, eyebrow raised like the patron saint of You’re Doing It Wrong. Your heart did that stupid little jump when his shoulders shifted and the dark blue shirt he was wearing pulled tight across his chest.

Attraction? Absolutely not. Stress spike? More likely. Caffeine tremor? Highest odds. You were not interested in speedrunning your own self-destruction any faster than you already had.

…Or maybe you were; after all, you’d said yes to six months in a tourist trap carved into a forest, tasked with resurrecting a kitchen that greeted you with a grease glacier and a staff who thought FIFO was a boy band. Who signs up for that willingly?

You. Because apparently you either hated yourself, enjoyed themed punishments, or were very motivated by the vague shiny “favor” Mark promised when you got back. That last one made a tidier story to tell yourself.

Right?

You clicked your tongue, let the clipboard thwap lightly against your thigh, and squared up to him. “First of all, you’re not OSHA,” you said, as if reciting a kitchen prayer, “You don’t get to come into my kitchen and tell me what needs to be changed ‘because it’s a safety hazard.’” You even added air quotes, because if you were going to be petty, you were going to be thorough.

Becca and Brian were absolutely not pretending to be busy, the traitors. Becca had a towel in her hands she kept folding and unfolding like origami. Brian had found a spoonful of something to “quality control” for the last thirty seconds. Their barely hidden smirks pinged between the two of you like they were watching the pregame show.

Shane’s gaze did a slow, infuriating sweep of the room with that methodical calm of his—clocking the rubber mat corner lifting like a little green tongue, the back-door latch sitting just shy of true, the stack of cooling trays beading sweat too close to the exit—and then came back to you. He didn’t uncross his arms. He didn’t even blink. “Second of all,” he said, voice so even it almost counted as soothing, “I don’t need to be OSHA when I’m the one who gets the call to pull someone’s hand out of a mixer because the guard got ‘in the way of the line.’”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Okay—annoyingly—yes, he had a point. You’d learned by now that “Wildlife Officer” was Yosemite for whoever solves the problem first. Officially: bears, elk, tourists with death wishes. Unofficially: triage nurse, electrician, bouncer, storm siren, and the guy who just happens to be there when the universe says watch this. If a hand ever did get eaten by the Hobart (and with your luck it’d be yours—did your insurance even cover “chef v. mixer”?), he’d be the first call. Well—second. The first would be 911. Probably.

The hood hummed its steady alto. A pan settled in the dish rack with a shy clink. Steam ghosted off the line, carrying coffee and bacon fat and sanitizer—your new cologne. You pivoted, because you are nothing if not agile under fire, “This is my space,” you said, chin tipping up. “I have to manage flow and hot zones and get three eggs benny, two pancakes, and a vegan hash to the pass at the same time without a knife in anyone’s thigh.” You gestured with your clipboard at the neat choreography you’d wrestled out of chaos: Becca’s station reset, Brian’s mise finally labeled, the tickets ticking in sensible order. A smear of hollandaise cooled on your sleeve; the faint sting of a new burn pulsed under your cuff. “And if I’m being honest, I’m doing a great job so far.”

Something in his posture conceded—barely, but you caught it: a fractional loosen at the shoulders. His eyes flicked to the latch again, then back to you. Calm. Unbudgeable. The human obstacle course who—infuriatingly—wasn’t wrong.

He tipped his chin once, the corner of his mouth angling like he could grant you that and still win. “Great. And I have to make sure a bear doesn’t smell an open invitation and come in for the vegan hash.” A tilt toward the back door. “Your latch sits a hair off true. When someone lets it kiss shut, it doesn’t click. That’s a problem.”

“It’s on the list,” you said—too fast. It was on the list. You had that list taped to your mini-fridge, right beside the passive-aggressive note to yourself about labeling stock and the reminder to order more Cambros. Your shrine of bullshit.

“It was on the list yesterday,” he returned, not unkind. “And last week.”

“Okay, Dad,” you muttered, eyes dropping to your clipboard like it could shield you. Columns, checkboxes, inventory counts—anything to look at that wasn’t him.

Becca coughed into a towel to hide a laugh. Brian didn’t bother—he looked like someone had comped his brunch.

You filed a mental note: schedule Brian for night cleans until he’s too tired to be this entertained. Then you looked up again. “Just an FYI? You leaning on my prep bench is also a safety issue,” you said, dry as salt. “Mostly because of the, you know, outside all over you.”

At that, Shane finally pushed off your bench (you logged it, because of course you did) and stepped closer—not crowding, just trimming the distance until you caught him properly: pine and clean soap and a thin thread of cologne under the dirt-and-sun he seemed to carry like a second shirt. You pretended not to memorize it. You absolutely were not doing that. (You were doing that.)

“And here I thought I classed the place up,” he said, mouth ticking.

“Congratulations,” you shot back, “You’re a walking dress code violation.”

His eyes dipped to the latch one more time, then to your clipboard, then back to you. The room held steady around the three points of attention: the lifted corner of a mat, the almost-clicking door, the way your pulse kept ignoring your brain. He toed the corner of the rubber mat; the edge flipped up, a little green tongue daring someone to face-plant, “Tape the mat corners until maintenance re-glues,” he said, boot holding the flap down. He pivoted, chin lifting toward the back door. “Move those cooling trays six feet off the exit.” Then his finger cut toward the dish pit. “And this—”

A chef’s knife lounged in a pan of suds like a murder weapon. He didn’t even turn his head; his look slid to Brian. Brian went crimson and snatched it out, magnetic clack as he hung it on the strip.

“—does not live there.”

You planted your hands on your hips, riding that fine, ridiculous line between appreciating that he was right and hating that he was right; why does he have to be right? “I don’t come into your—” you waved vaguely at the door “—I wanna say outdoors but that’s too vague. Your… space out there—” (God, you needed two more coffees and a fifteen-hour nap) “—and tell you how to run it,” You huffed, “I don’t know if you were ever taught manners, Captain Clipboard, but it’s barely eleven-thirty and you’re pulling this shit. It’s rude.”

He glanced at the actual clipboard tucked under your arm, eyes warming with infuriating amusement, “You’re the one with the clipboard, if we’re getting technical.”

Your molars ground so hard you pictured your dentist buying himself a boat when you returned to the city and finally saw him again, “Don’t you have people to ticket? Small children to terrify? Why are you still here?”

He shrugged, utterly unruffled, “I was in the area.”

“So leave the area,” you shot back; go away, you wanted to yell. But not really because honestly this was probably the only thing stopping you from having a mental breakdown at this point.

His mouth tilted, not quite a smile, “Soon as you stop trying to sprain ankles and impale dishwashers, Princess.”

You opened your mouth with a retort that would definitely get you banned from polite society and possibly the park, but he was already moving. He crouched, big hands flattening the mat corner, then reached past you toward the tape gun. You grabbed it first, petty lightning-fast, and he let you have the win with a soft huff that somehow made you feel more ridiculous. Fine. This whole thing was fine. You can run a functioning safe kitchen. You’ve done it before. You drop into a crouch beside him, rip the tape with your teeth, and start crosshatching the mat corners like you’re mummifying the floor. He holds the edge steady, knuckles brushing your wrist—accidental, electric—and your stupid stomach does a little flip. Touch-starved. That’s all. You’re tired, over-caffeinated, stressed, and apparently one incidental graze away from writing poetry about hand proximity. Get a grip.

He stands, that quiet scan you recognize sweeping the line—edges, angles, potential disasters—before his chin tips toward the door, “That latch,” he says, “Listen for the click.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him, because reflex. Then you pull and set it anyway. The tidy snick lands somewhere neatly between your ribs.

No, he wasn’t right.

…Okay, yes, he was. And unfortunately, that really is a nice sound.

“See?” he murmurs.

“Don’t get smug. It’s unbecoming,” You wipe your palms on your apron, lift your chin, “And stop calling me ‘Princess’ in front of my staff.”

“Noted,” he says—too quick to be gospel—and then, because he can’t help being a menace, adds, “Yes, Chef.”

You should not like that as much as you do. For a beat you almost tell him to go back to Princess. Or, traitor brain whispers, you could tell him to use your name. You shut the door on that thought so hard it rattles.

He hooks a thumb at the dish pit, “Brian, keep blades on the strip. Water hides sins.”

Brian nods his head like a bobblehead in an earthquake, “Yes, sir.”

Shane’s gaze returns to you, the temperature of the room dropping a few degrees now that he’s rearranged three things and, somehow, your morning, “You’re running hot,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry, “You sleep?”

“Of course not. Have you met this place?” You set the tape gun down, slide your clipboard onto the bench, “I’m running on coffee, energy drinks, and spite.” (And the emergency No-Doz still rolling around in your glovebox, but details.)

His laugh is short and real, a warm crack in the armor, “Eat something that isn’t coffee.”

“I had a croissant,” you say, perfectly straight-faced.

Becca, from nowhere: “She took one bite and tossed it.”

Right. Becca just volunteered for night cleans.

You hate being seen that clearly. You also… don’t. You keep your eyes on Shane, who’s watching you like he’s waiting for you to wobble and bracing to catch you if you do, “You’re not my mother.”

“God help me if I was,” he says dryly.

A beat stretches—busy and quiet at once. The hood’s low hum. Pans air-drying. Becca finally exhaling. Sun slides through the high window and lays a pale rectangle across the tile, catching on the little Xs of tape you’ve just laid—stupid, practical runes that mean fewer accidents, fewer incident reports, fewer apologies you’ll have to make on three hours’ sleep. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, “Fine. Some of that was useful.” It comes out gruff because that’s the only way it’s coming out. No way you’re telling Yosemite Sam that you actually found him helpful and you are—god, fine—grateful he showed up.

“I live to serve,” he says, and for once there’s no bite to it.

“Don’t start,” You point the tape gun at his chest like a weapon, “And don’t lean on my prep bench.”

He glances at the freshly wiped steel, then lifts his hands in mock surrender, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You dream of it all the time,” you shoot back, “That’s why you keep doing it. This is the third time I’ve busted you leaning.”

“Slow learner,” he says, mouth tipping, “Fast fixer.”

“Fix the latch and we’ll renegotiate your bench privileges.”

He tilts his head, conceding the point, and steps past you toward the hardware like it’s already decided. As he moves, that slipstream of pine, soap, and the faintest thread of cologne trails after him. You absolutely do not memorize it.

“Eat,” he adds over his shoulder, “Real food. Not a croissant you bully for one bite.”

You grab a banana from the lowboy just to prove a point, peel it, and take a bite. He catches it, nods once, and the corner of his mouth curves like you’ve passed some ridiculous test. Then he’s at the door, fingers on the latch, and when it clicks again—clean, certain—you feel the echo settle in your chest, small and sure.

Nope. You absolutely were not doing this with Shane fucking Maguire.

<><><><><><><<> Apparently—because your body, mind, and soul love making a liar out of you—you absolutely were doing this with Park Ranger Ken. The kitchen had barely cooled from close when you walked into the bar and clocked him immediately: Shane, leaning forward at a two-top near the window, talking to a pretty copper-haired woman with glossed lips and a jacket that probably cost more than your rent back home. He looked cleaned up in a dark grey shirt with an unbuttoned black dress shirt thrown over it, sleeves pushed to his forearms like he’d been born that way.

And no, that flare at the back of your neck when his gaze lifted and snagged on you—when he raised a single eyebrow in that infuriating there you are way—was not jealousy. It was lighting. Or heat from the fryers still clinging to your skin. Or your fight-or-flight getting confused because he looked like trouble you might actually run toward.

You peeled your eyes away and aimed for the bar. Lodge bars all smell the same—citrus cleaner and spilled beer and tired pine—but this one wore it well. Edison bulbs, reclaimed wood, the soft hum of vacation chatter. Gabe—pressed white shirt, dark hair that never moved, perpetual smirk—sauntered over as you slid onto a stool. You absolutely did not glance back. You were not going to glance back. Not once.

“You’re thinking way too hard today, Chef,” Gabe said, setting a napkin down like a priest laying a cloth. “You okay?”

“Totally fine,” you lied, watching his hands grab bottles you didn’t recognize in your peripheral, “I’m more than fine. I am thriving. I am in the middle of nowhere, running a kitchen, sleeping very little.” He set a shaker down, ice rattling. “I almost became bear chow a few weeks back, a raccoon stole my shoe the other day, and a man who lives in a tent keeps telling me how to do my job.” He slid a glass toward you—pink salt rim, something hibiscus-bright and lime-cold. You raised it, “I’m fine.”

Gabe snorted, “We need a sliding scale for your ‘fine.’ Like one to ten so I know when to call clergy.” He leaned in, elbows on polished wood, “Wanna talk about it?”

“I want to get drunk,” you said, then tipped your head toward the table by the window because curiosity would always eat you before the bear did unfortunately, “But first, who’s the woman with the Park Narc?”

Gabe barked a laugh, “That’s Dr. Kelly Miles. Wildlife biologist. She’s on a contract—CWD popped in a pocket herd, so they’re coordinating with Shane and state guys.”

“CWD?” you echoed.

“Chronic wasting disease.” He grimaced, “Zombie deer, basically. They’ll try to contain it,” He poured a measured float that turned your drink jewel-toned, “Or try to.”

You take a long sip—cool, tart, sweet; hibiscus bright with a lime snap—just long enough to hide the clean drop in your stomach. Condensation beads your glass and slicks your fingers; the salt on the rim leaves a sting at the corner of your mouth. You can feel Shane’s attention the way you sometimes feel a draft you can’t see: not constant, but there in pulses, brushing the back of your neck whenever you forget to brace for it. You keep your eyes on the swirl of the black straw cutting through jewel-toned ice, like you could stir your face into something neutral.

Gabe watches you watch your drink. He’s freakishly good at reading the un-said for someone who still looks like he should be carded at his own bar, “Why?” he asks, mouth quirking. “You jealous?”

“Of what?” you deadpan. “Diseased deer?” You take another sip to drown the microscopic—not large, microscopic—spike of something petty and hot that you refuse to name. Maybe you should go to bed. Maybe you should go to bed for a week.

“Bold deflection,” he says, delighted.

“Put it on the scale,” you mutter, tapping the straw against the glass like a metronome for your patience.

“Okay.” He drums his fingers, mock-serious. “On a one-to-ten Jealousy Index—one is ‘who?’ and ten is ‘arson’—you’re at… a 6.2 pretending to be a 3.”

You arch a brow. He’s annoying. He’s right, “I’ll have you know I am a 2.7, tops.”

Gabe’s eyes flick over your shoulder with an mmhmm expression you want to swat off his face. Against your better judgment, you follow his gaze. Shane’s head is tipped toward Dr. Miles, listening the way he listens to maps and weather—total, quiet attention. She laughs and lays two fingers on his forearm, a light, familiar touch. Something sharp pinches under your breastbone; you swallow hard and drink instead of acknowledging it. The tequila warms a clean line down your throat you pretend is the only heat involved.

“Doctor’s nice,” Gabe says, softer now. “Smart. Not from here. She’s out with field crews most days. Shane drives the maps and keeps tourists from licking the elk.”

“Public health hero,” you say lightly, with a matching eye roll that scrapes harsher than you intend.

The song shifts; the room resettles in a friendly clatter—fork on plate, glass on wood, a chair leg squeaking against the floor. The fireplace kicks on with a soft whump, orange light wobbling across the backbar bottles. You drop your elbows to the rail and let your face fall into your hands for a beat, napkin catching your sigh.

“Okay, scale boy,” you say into your palms, “Update: today was a nine in bullshit. The fryer coughed, a vendor ghosted, Justine wants buttery and dairy-free for fifty, the pen graveyard is full, and Park Narc did a surprise inspection on my soul at eleven-thirty.”

Gabe huffs a laugh and slides a water next to your drink like he’s bribing you to be responsible, “And yet you live.”

“The night is still young,” you say, sipping through the straw like you aren’t casually considering swan-diving off the nearest overlook. You picture the trailhead sign: 0.6 mi to Vista Point. You’d get halfway, roll an ankle, and radio for the one person you’re trying not to need. You stay at the bar.

The door chimes; a gust of mountain air skims the nape of your neck—cold fingers, pine-scented. When you look up, Shane’s at the bar two steps left, a server between you asking for waters. He smells like outside and soap and that infuriating ribbon of cologne you’ve been pretending not to notice. He glances at you; the corner of his mouth tugs like a secret you’re both pretending isn’t there. His shoulders loosen one millimeter. It lands somewhere you don’t want to examine.

“Chef,” he throws out, like a greeting and also a question.

“Ranger,” you return, aiming for neutral and hitting sparkly-petty.

“Park Narc,” Gabe adds helpfully, wearing his stupid, triumphant grin. You file him under creative punishments I will invent later.

Dr. Miles appears at Shane’s shoulder, copper hair catching the Edison glow, smile easy, “They can seat us outside if you want to breathe while we talk models,” she says to him, then offers you her hand; “Kelly.”

You shake—firm, warm, professional. You almost hate how nice she seems, “Welcome to the circus.”

“Likewise,” she says, amused, folding her hands while she waits.

Shane reaches for the waters; the back of his hand brushes the edge of your stool, a ghost of pressure—you good?—and you don’t move. You keep your eyes on the glass, on the straw, on anything that isn’t the look you know he’s wearing. “We’re gonna grab a table,” he says. “You’ll…?”

“Be finishing this,” you say, counting breaths—four in, six out—until your pulse stops acting like a moth at a lightbulb, “Then probably going to bed or watching trash TV. Undecided.”

Kelly laughs, “Self Care, I can respect that,” She smiled, “Well, I hope you have a good night.”

They drift back to their table; the air they leave behind keeps buzzing like a tuning fork. You stare at the pink salt crust on your rim and tell yourself the ache under your breastbone is just sodium, not anything as stupid as feeling. The salt stings your tongue. You take water to wash it down like that will help.

Gabe leans in again, voice pitched just for you. “Scale check?”

You think about the latch clicking home earlier, that neat little snick that settled somewhere between your ribs. About the dumb Xs of tape on tile. About his knuckles steadying the rubber mat while your fingers brushed them and how your pulse threw itself at your sternum like it wanted out. You think about the way he says Yes, chef and it makes your spine go loose, about a bandanna at his throat and mud drying on his boots and the impossible relief of someone competent walking in before the disaster instead of after. You think about copper hair, a hand on his forearm, and the fact that you are a grown adult with functioning boundaries and a career you came here to save. You rename it in your head—work crush on competence. Harmless. Manageable. Not your problem.

“Four,” you say. Maybe the scale is backwards. Maybe you’re lying to both of you.

Gabe’s mouth curls, “A lying eight-point-two.” “Four,” you repeat, steadier this time, like if you say it evenly enough your chest will stop pinching. “And that’s only because her hair looks really nice.” You clink your hibiscus-salt thing against the water like you’re toasting to your own denial, then take a long, cool sip that paints your tongue lime-sour and sugar-sweet and buys you five seconds of not-thinking.

Gabe nods to himself. “Okay, that’s fair. She does have really nice hair.” He shrugs, benign judge of character and conditioner.

“Thank you.” You tip the last of your drink back. The ice slides, the straw rattles, and you’re left with a salted crescent and the faint ache of sobriety nudging your temple, “I should go. Grab a few hours of sleep before I do this all again tomorrow.” You click your tongue, already feeling tomorrow’s weight crawl onto your shoulders. “And by ‘do it all again,’ I mean call Mark in the city, cry-complain into the phone for twenty minutes about how the hell I’m supposed to pull off a buttery and dairy-free brunch for fifty, then go sit in the walk-in and practice my ‘everything’s fine’ face until my thighs go numb.”

“You have a choice,” Gabe says, nodding so earnestly you could cry from the sweetness of it. “Just… not about certain aspects.”

He’s an asshole. A sweet, naive asshole.

“There’s no ‘certain aspects,’” you say, sliding off the stool. Your legs protest in that rubbery, post-rush way, “There’s me exhausted and there’s the kitchen. That’s it. Binary.”

He grins as you fish out your card. The reader beeps; your phone buzzes in your pocket like it wants in on the argument. “Final nightly scale check?”

“A 3.6,” you offer, aiming for breezy and hitting resigned.

“A sharp eight,” he fires back, smug, “I’m starting a log. We’ll chart the growth of your denial. Little line graph. Maybe color-coded.”

“I hate you,” you tell him, smiling tight because you don’t. Not even a little.

“I do make a good drink, though.”

You wobble your hand side to side. “Eh,” you tease, because pettiness is free and you need a win.

He points a finger at you, “Cruel.”

“Motivational,” you counter, tucking your receipt away. Your head is cotton and static; your chest is too full of things you refuse to name: the way Shane’s eyebrow twitched when he saw you, the copper swing of Kelly’s hair, the neat little snick of a latch that you are absolutely not comparing to how it felt when his knuckles brushed your wrist. You are a grown adult with a job and a spine and a list taped to a fridge. You are not spiraling over a man who lives in a tent and tells you to eat.

You thumb your phone awake. A text from Mark sits like a reminder you don’t want: Call when you can. We’ll sort the menu. You exhale. Okay. You’ll call him from the laundry room so you can ugly-sigh without an audience. You’ll sketch three versions of a brunch that doesn’t use butter and somehow still tastes like butter. You’ll set an alarm, then another for the alarm, because mornings keep arriving no matter how you feel about them.

Gabe slides a water bottle toward you without asking. You take it, grateful, and tap the rim of your empty glass once—goodnight, goodbye, get a grip. The door chimes when you push out into the cooler air; pine and ash ride the breeze, the kind that makes your skin prickle awake. Somewhere behind you, the room laughs. Somewhere across the room, a chair scrapes, and you don’t look to see if it’s him.

You angle toward the path, counting your steps the way you counted your breaths at the bar—four in, six out—like math can hold you together. Maybe it can. Maybe it will, at least until morning, when you’ll pin your hair back, sharpen your knives, and pretend your heart isn’t doing extra credit in a class you swore you weren’t taking.

Your brain, rude as ever, started its checklist carousel: call Mark first thing (laundry room, better reception, fewer witnesses); draft three brunch menus that taste like butter without butter (olive-oil cake test, coconut crème anglaise?); confirm egg delivery (again); reorder Cambros, nitrile gloves, and a criminal number of pens; train Becca on poached eggs rotation; knife-safety refresher for Brian (again); print new closing checklist (bolded “LATCH. CLICK.”); allergy labels for the wedding; staff meal plan that isn’t “pasta but different shape”; try not to cry in the walk-in; sleep for, what, ninety minutes?

You were still arguing with yourself about coconut vs. oat when the footsteps matched yours. You didn’t clock them until a shadow moved in your peripheral and a voice spoke at your shoulder.

You flinched hard enough to kick gravel. “You asshole,” you hissed, hand flying to your chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I was loud,” Shane said, not bothering to look sorry. “Pay attention.”

You paused, glared, then shook your head and started walking again. “You’re the worst.” You tugged your jacket tighter, pretending your heart hadn’t just tried to exit your body. “What are you doing here, anyway? Harassing me again? Because I need sleep, not a lecture.”

“Walking you,” he said simply. His boots kept easy time with yours, “Path’s dark. You forgot your headlamp. Again.”

You tried to ignore how annoyingly true that was, “I’m fine.”

“Never said you weren’t,” he returned. “Said the path is dark.”

“That’s an opinion.”

“It’s a fact,” he said, deadpan, as your toe clipped a half-buried root you hadn’t seen. His hand came up, light at your elbow, steadying without making a production of it. You pretended it didn’t send a stupid little spark up your arm. Touch-starved. Blame that.

You kept your gaze forward, counting the pools of porch light, “Don’t you have… models to talk about? Diseased deer to save? Doctor Kelly to consult?”

“Still doing that,” he said, “We’re meeting again at seven.” A beat. “Outside.”

“Hot,” you muttered, because you are a mature adult who absolutely wasn’t jealous, “Who says romance is dead.”

He huffed a laugh, “It’s a disease model, Princess. Not a runway. She’s state contract. Good at her job.” Another beat, lighter. “Likes my maps.”

“Everyone likes your stupid maps,” you said, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near brittle. To your horror, he seemed to hear the wobble and let it pass.

You fell into a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable—boots on gravel, the night pressing soft and cool against your cheeks, a far-off coyote making a sound like a door hinge. Somewhere behind you, the bar’s door chimed again; the world narrowed back down to the path, the bend of trees, the careful sync of your steps.

“Today was a lot,” he said finally.

You snorted, “That your clinical assessment?”

“You looked ready to bite someone,” he said, amused, “Figured walking you might keep the homicide rate down.”

“Altruism looks weird on you,” you said, “Like a borrowed jacket.”

You hit a darker stretch where two lamps were out. The stars opened above you—obscene, busy, a spilled salt cellar. Your breath smoked the little bit of light in front of you; his did, too, briefly silver when your steps synced and then fell apart again.

The part of you that wanted to know what they were—colleagues, old friends, convenient—raised its head and you kicked it back into the bushes. He didn’t owe you anything. You didn’t want anything. You wanted… sleep. A working fryer. A life without scale checks.

He angled the headlamp down when a shadow moved under a bush. Just a rabbit, a quiver of ears, gone. The beam slid over the gravel, your boots, his boots, the edge of your shadow shouldering his until the path brightened again and he killed the light.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

“You and Gabe have a script?” You tried to make it light. It came out tired, “Yes. A croissant. In spirit. And I’m fine, I’m going to go have something to eat when I get back to the cabin and try to figure out how not to have a mental breakdown.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a crinkled-wrapped bar, held it out for you, “Humor me.”

You stared at it like it might explode. Then you took it, because fighting over a granola bar felt like losing more ground than you wanted to admit, “You carry snacks now? Like a toddler.”

“I carry solutions,” he said, “And a toddler would be easier than you. Eat it,” He nodded to it. You didn’t want to eat it, or maybe you did and you just didn’t know it yet. You felt your fingers unwrap it, break off a bit and put it in your mouth, “Happy?” “Sure,” He offered simply. Dickhead.

The cabins appeared between the trees—porch lights casting waffle-patterned shadows on the steps, the low roofs wearing the night like a hat. Your door was second from the end. A moth battered itself stupid against the bulb. You hated how your shoulders unclenched at the sight of home-that-wasn’t yet.

He stopped at the bottom step and looked, not at you, at the little world that was yours: the mud smudge on the mat from your boots, the recycling crate a foot too close to the rail, the latch on the screen that liked to sulk. He didn’t say anything about any of it. He watched the trees a second longer than felt strictly necessary; his radio muttered once and went quiet.

You climbed the two steps and turned, one hand on the rail, “So. Lecture-free escort?”

“For tonight,” he said, “Limited-time promotion.”

You should have said goodnight. You should have gone inside and have the hottest, longest shower of your life, then set an alarm and pretended you hadn’t. Instead you stood there in the porch light haze and cataloged him the way your traitor brain had started to: the stupidly reassuring weight he brought with him, the way he always seemed to stand in the space that meant you didn’t have to, the patience that felt like a net even when you didn’t want catching.

“Thanks,” you said, because anything else would be a confession. It still tasted like one.

He nodded, “Text if you need me.”

“I’ll call you if the breakers do the thing,” you said, because you needed him to get on maintance’s ass and push them to fix it faster.

“Wow, you’re gonna use a phone, growth,” He smirked, crossing his arms. “No, Brian will use the phone. I’m supervise,” You pointed out as you reached for the door and he said your name—your actual name, not princess, not chef. Soft. A touch of gravel. It hooked behind your ribs.

“You’ll be okay,” he said. Not a promise. Not a lecture. Just a fact he was willing to hold until you could.

Your mouth did a very undignified thing where it didn’t know whether to smile or argue, “Go away, Maguire,” you managed, gentle but safer.

He stepped back, hands in pockets again. “Night.”

“Night.”

You slipped inside. The latch did its neat little snick—echoing somewhere small and stubborn in your chest—and you leaned your forehead against the cool wood for a second longer than you meant to. Then you dropped your bag, peeled off your shoes, and went to find your phone and the laundry room and a voice on the other end who would tell you you’re not crazy for trying. Outside, gravel cracked under heavy boots leaving; a moth kept battering the bulb, relentless, stupid, alive.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 8 days ago

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o wow

Pretty — Ben Poindexter x Reader

📣Notes: Love me requests that ask for that mountain of a man be a girl.

Tags: Sub/bottom Dex - Feminization - GN reader - Breeding kink - Anal sex - Overstimulation - Coming untouched - No specifications of reader's genitals - Smut - No plot

He shouldn't be this turned on by what you're doing to his body and your constant humiliation towards him, but all his responses betray him and he can only move his hips back, seeking yours so you can hit that spot inside him that makes him bite the pillow just the way you want it.

The pillow swallows all the little breathy sounds ripped from his throat.

And you feel proud of yourself for achieving this; someone like him, who always wears a mask to cover what he truly desires, hiding behind an armor he's spent years perfecting only to have it shattered by you, is something to be proud of, and so you give him your all as a way of thanking him.

"Pretty" is the only word you can use to describe what you're seeing on him right now, his attractive sweat-covered back arched, presenting himself to you, that scar etched deep within him revealing itself to your eyes filled with lust, those strong forearms behind his lower back, his wrists held tightly by your hand.

And he could let go at any moment. He's physically stronger than you, and it would be so easy to do it. But he's exactly where he wants to be.

He's sobbing, he's whining and complaining about you being too deep, too much to take, gasping for air, being loud to the point of it being insufferable and still, he doesn't tell you to stop or even try to get away.

So all you have left to do is caress the skin of his wrist with your thumb while you continue fucking him as if you wanted to tear something out of him.

Stifled sounds fill your ears, beads of sweat decorating his freckled skin, and his shoulders occasionally tremble as you collide with his bruised prostate.

Poor sweet thing looks dirty even if he tries to hide his face, he has a cute blush on the back of his neck that you wish you could take a lot to where else it spreads and a promising thrust of your hips has him now turning around, showing his face with his cheek pressed into the pillow and you feel a shiver down your spine at the expression you are met with.

He's drooling, red cheeks you're sure they're burning, those golden lashes soaked with tears that threaten to spill from his half-closed eyes, and you tighten your grip, changing the rhythm from thrusts to rubs that make him tense up and gasp.

You lean in just enough so your chest touches his back and your hips grind into his ass, causing his weeping cock to press uselessly against the mattress and his stomach, giving him the slightest friction. You feel his body begin to tremble from the proximity, and you hold him there.

Moving, humping, your body impossibly closer to his until your lips are at his ear, and you finally feel it right to start telling him everything you're thinking about him in this situation.

First, it's the basics, little things that makes him let out an involuntary moan, but it's not enough. Telling him he sounds like a girl, only to see him squeeze his eyes shut, knowing he's imagining it. Then telling him he looks like a pretty girl being fucked for the first time, all loud and nervous about the next step.

All of what makes him leak, and then you hit him with something bigger. You start whispering, almost in a purr, how much you want to fill him up until he's dripping, how bad you want to see the mess between his legs when you're done with him, you tell him he's taking you so well, that he's doing good, that he's a good boy, you also call him a good girl, just making a mess inside his sweet head.

You let your hand slide under him to his belly and press down to feel him squirm, then go lower to squeeze his cock, making him cry out and stiffen at the sudden touch on his sensitive length, giving him light squeezes as you thrust in and tell him he's soaked, that this way you can slide in so easily it's obscene.

A dirty fantasy that has him babbling your name.

You continue to level up, your fingers playing with the tip in a better way as he raises his hips a little at the stimulation.

You begin circling his sensitive slit and whispering how tight and swollen he is, moving your fingers like it's his little pleasure button, like if you're playing with his clit, and he buries his face back into the pillow at the humiliating sob in his throat.

Then you feel the fat drop of precum escaping the slit and you continue teasing him.

Mentioning how good his soaked little cunt feels, suddenly quiet so he can hear the sticky sound made by the way you slide in and out of him, the lube doing its job perfectly, and oh, he's crying so good.

You stop touching his cock and force him to stretch enough so his fingers can reach where you're spreading him, so he can feel how open he is. You start telling him how much you want to pump babies inside his ruined pussy, ordering him to feel how wet he is for you.

All that shame and need travel straight to his pulsing cock, and he becomes extremely silent when the orgasm hits him, just that small, petulant gasp as he spills onto the mattress and his thighs stiffen.

He's completely in tears now, not sure if it's because of the intensity of the orgasm, the embarrassment of wanting you to tell him again how tight his pussy is, or the fact that you keep thrusting and you don't stop even when you know his cock is soft and hypersensitive, it's not like he was using it either way.

Your hands travel all over his body, drawing more pathetic sobs from him. You slide them under him again, up his torso, caressing his ribs with your fingertips until you reach the curve of his chest and you grab his tits to squeeze and massage them, and he whines, humiliated once again as your hips take on a gentle rhythm, so passionate that your skin burns even more.

Your hands knead him, playing with those muscles covered in a thin layer of fat that makes them soft to the touch but hard when you squeeze like you're getting paid for it, perky nipples rubbing against your palms, overwhelming him more when you decide to roll them between your fingers.

There's also comments about his tits of course, which is somehow worse for him, even more than the fact you said you wanted to put babies inside him.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 10 days ago

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dissolvedprincess · 16 days ago

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okay this is something else🤤

Taste — Ben Poindexter x Reader

📣 Notes: Matt's turn will come.

Tags: Sub Dex - GN reader - Oral sex - Both genitals - Smut - No plot - Mentions of blood somewhere - Just Dex using his mouth on the pussy and the cock

Dex eats you out like a starving man who hasn't been eating a proper meal in weeks.

He gets on his knees before you, eager and trembling, like he’s made just to worship you because Dex doesn't just like it—he needs it. Before being inside you or just about to do anything related to intimacy he needs your flavor on his mouth.

Tongue slick and practiced, eyes fluttering every time you sigh, every time your fingers tug his hair and he tastes how much you want him. He whines into you like he’s thirsty for it, needy and grateful with every small lick, every soft suck on your clit. There’s something desperate in the way he obeys—like being used this way makes him feel whole.

And when it’s your turn to push him down, to feed him what he’s been begging for, he opens up without hesitation. You don’t even have to ask. The mess you leave on him doesn’t matter—he wants it there, dripping down his neck when you're soaked in your own pleasure and his saliva, that mess going down his chest, catching between those pretty muscles. He looks down at himself, flushed and glistening, ruined and panting like a good toy who knows his place.

His favorite position is when you sit on his face, because he can squeeze your legs, caress your hips, touch your sides to give you extra sensations, his nose rubs against your swollen clit every time you thrust your hips forward.

It makes him feel useful, as if you need him as much as he needs you, every inch of your body being touched by strongly dangerous hands, treating you with delicacy, like something fragile in his hands, his fingerprints on every part, feeling your tremors, warm skin, every curve, every tiny mark imprinted on your skin. His face is your throne.

He sucks on everything he can reach, inserting his tongue to taste you better, rubbing your walls from the inside as you writhe on him and drop your weight into his mouth when it becomes too much to take, squeezing the muscle, a sensation he's addicted to when he's drunk on your taste. He gives you quick little kisses followed by desperate sucks. He won't be satisfied until you soak his face and he begs you for one more.

He's needy, he makes it filthy, even romantic, and too loud making your cheeks flush, the sounds of his moans mixing with those caused by his mouth on sensitive flesh, just making it worse, and sometimes you want to turn your gaze to watch him thrust into nothing, seeking friction that is not there, only you causing that in him.

Another of his favorite positions is when you're on your back, with one leg over his shoulder while he grips your thigh with the other so you can't close them. He likes complete access, just so he can press on your lower belly right over your bladder to double the intensity, knowing that by pressing there you will drip a little more into his mouth, knowing that your temperature will rise to the point of burning him.

Making you gasp while he babbles against your core... Always seeking validation, asking if it is good, if he can continue, if he's doing it right, even if he sees you're overwhelmed and about to finish again in his mouth, he needs that praise that will make him close his eyes in an attempt to not hump the mattress underneath like a dog, sometimes the situation being so dire that he has to grip himself so as not to get a sticky problem inside his clothes like an out-of-control idiot.

He's greedy, sucking as if he wants to bite—never actually doing so—licking a long line with his flattened tongue from your hole to the tip of your clit, only to then place a small kiss right there and flick his tongue around, soaking you with his saliva until it runs down your skin to stain the fabric of his bed.

Then he gets desperate, because he feels it's not enough and he moves his hand towards your core, stimulating with his thumb while he takes his time to play with you, and when he has the idea of making eye contact, to confirm that you enjoy it, he whines because he sees you broken thanks to his mouth, and it is enough to make him leak, to get him wet enough to be uncomfortable.

When your flesh is already numb with his tongue, he loves to place his thumbs on either side of your cunt to then open it and stare, something he loves to do. You don't quite understand why he does it, sometimes it can be overwhelming, too intense it makes your cheeks burn in shame for how intimate it becomes, but you just want him to keep going.

He does his thing to observe how you throb, how soaked and raw you are from something he did, he likes the color, it makes him hungry, how it shines from the wetness, how ruined it looks, and then he'll lean in again to continue, but this time with his thumbs keeping you open, devouring you with nothing but need, little licks to feel the twitch of your hips.

He's obsessed with your taste, your smell, the sounds, you. He loves to put his nose on your mound and inhale while his tongue works. He adores to put his nose on you before you've even finished removing your underwear, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on the soft and soaked fabric, tasting you through the material.

Sometimes he can't wait and ends up pushing the fabric to the side, occasionally lapping on the material too because he gets dizzy as if it were a vice.

He likes it when it gets messy, when his hands grips your inner thighs leaving dark marks and your feet almost on his shoulders, while he hollows his cheeks where you keep dripping.

He doesn't stop until you're exhausted and satisfied, so swollen and throbbing, relaxed from finishing many times. And when it's all over, he stays there for a while, cheek pressed against your thigh, smiling slightly like a fool. He'll never tell you that he stays there to obsessively smell you one last time.

There are no limits with him; you set those. You decide when to give it to him and when it's too much.

But he never has a problem with it, he never says no to it. He loves to eat you out in every way, in any situation.

One of his favorites is when you're on your period and want him to do it, he'll be more than happy to use his mouth, aching for the taste of iron exploding in his mouth, staining his nose, dripping down his chin.

With watery eyes and salivating for your flesh, he feels good when he swallows, drinking the last drop out of your body. He gives you a smile just so you can see that red color filling his mouth as a silly little joke, making you want to slap him.

Dex is a needy, obedient thing—submissive in all the ways that count, especially with his mouth. He needs to be used, needs to be told he did good, and when you grab his chin to look at your lovely work of art on his face.

He smiles.

Because that’s exactly where he wants to be.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

At first, he finds hard to swallow everything as much as he likes, but later he is able to suck as if it were an act of devotion.

Urgency always eats at him first. He trails kisses from your neck down your torso before kneeling fully in front of you. When he does, it's with his mouth half open, lips wet from licking, begging without a word. He doesn't just want to please you—you can see it in his eyes—he wants to be possessed. As if your pleasure were something sacred and he were lucky enough to taste it, as if he himself could feel what you feel when you're inside his mouth.

He holds your thighs as if they were his only link to reality, moaning before he's even put his mouth on you, smelling you through your clothes, rubbing his face against the bulge he wants to eat.

The first lick, the first intense brush of his tongue along the base, makes him gasp. He tastes you. He snuggles your weight against his face, closing his eyes as if he's settling into a familiar place. His tongue is soft, then firm, grazing the tip as if he knows you by touch. As if he's memorizing what makes you shudder.

Once he wraps his lips around you, it's over. Wet heat, perfect suction, that pressure that makes you forget where you are. He drools all over you, saliva running down his chin, dripping from his chest, and he loves it. He loves the mess, the noise, how you can't help but sink deeper.

His throat flexes as he swallows around you, and even when he gags—when his eyelashes moisten and his nose presses against your pelvis, invading his senses—he doesn't hold back. He moans with it. He hums as if it's doing him good too. The sounds he makes are desperate, shattered, high-pitched moans that vibrate around you, and it's clear he's hard just from the act of serving.

He loves it when you fuck his face, pulling his hair until it hurts his scalp, until his lips are ravaged and his throat is raw from the work.

And when you finish—whether it’s in his mouth, across his face, his chest—he doesn’t flinch. Lets it happen. Lets it mark him. You don’t even have to warn him anymore—he craves it. Gets greedy for it. Looks up with glassy eyes, lips swollen and red, chest rising fast with every panting breath, painted in your release and still wanting more.

You’ve seen him ruin his own boxers from this alone. Just from the act of giving.

Sometimes you catch him holding himself after, breathing hard, eyes glazed while he stares at you like you’ve broken him in the best possible way. Like you gave him something he never thought he deserved.

His favorite part will always be the tip, because he closes his lips around it and sucks until you drip directly onto his tongue, cleaning the remains with it, he plays with you as he wants until you have no choice but to get inside him completely, being extremely careful with his teeth but if one day it happens, he wouldn't care so much because he knows that a slap will make him control himself.

He licks everywhere, kisses the sensitive flesh with wet sounds that make it throb, like a lollipop he can't stop tasting.

Then he takes care of his mess, drying you off completely like something clinical and delicate, satisfied and happy from you ruining his mouth and throat for a few minutes.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 18 days ago

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cryig

i loveee ur dex vs memes story and i think dex's typing style is so millenially cute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

thank u i also think dex's texting style would be very cutee <3 more hcs on this with bf!benjamin poindexter in mind haha yayyyayyy

i think messages go usually like this:

he writes a full message

re-reads it four times

deletes it, rewrites it shorter

deletes it again

ends up sending just: “Ok”

if he's trying to be warm or funny, he tests out different ways to type it:

See you soon :) See you soon. see you soon See you soon :—)

but what he ends up sending is:

See you soon

then he thinks on it for the next ten seconds or until he has something else to do.

other stuff under the cut:

never uses emojis intentionally

once copied one from ur message to try it and accidentally sent 👁️

panicked & sent "Sorry" afterwards and refused to explain (he doesnt delete/edit it. he doesnt know how to)

types like this:

Heading home now Let me know if you want anything Still need to pick up the prescription Did you eat

sends photos of mundane things with no caption: your cat, his breakfast, the weird shadow on the wall he thought looked like a gun (this one scared you so he apologized)

texts you from the pharmacy stuff like:

Which cough syrup? You liked the blue one? [note: he knows this. he just wants the confirmation] Not the mint one. you gagged photo.jpg

you reply with: “❤️ ur my wife”

he doesnt reply for 8 mins then just sends:

he definitely drafts some of his texts in his Notes app if they “matter” (this has a loose definition for him it could literally be anything). he types them out, reads them silently, then out loud, rewrites, deletes, rewrites again, copies them into your chat, reads it again, and still stares at the screen for 2 mins before hitting send. u have no idea how many versions of:

Do you want dumplings Or should i get something else? You said your stomach hurt. i can make soup I'll be home in 30

have lived and died in his Notes app.

u also have no idea how many versions of you look good in that shirt / you look nice / you should wear it again sometime / unless that's too forward / sorry have been abandoned for him to text you only:

Blue shirt's nice on you

you reply:

??? perv love u

he puts his phone face down. he is fully red.

meanwhile, you text him stuff like this:

dex dex i just saw a dog wiht a backpack wearing goggles i need to lie down

he responds:

Haha Ok Are you lying down now

and you also send him shit like:

THIS FUCKING STOVE WHY IS THE HEAT VIBRATING DEX WHY IS IT WET

he responds:

Is it the front right burner again the gasket's loose Use the other one until I fix it

he doesn't like texting first unless it's necessary (or really he just prefers if you text him first). and every time you text "miss you" he replies with:

Me too On my way soon Sorry running late

(never "i miss you too," or even just "i miss you" back, always "me too," like he's afraid you'll take it back if he says it wrong)

once, you asked him why he took so long to text back. he said, calm as ever, "i didn't want to say the wrong thing."

you said, "literally just say the thing."

he nodded. "okay."

that night you got a message:

The thing

and a follow up:

:—)

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 20 days ago

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more shane ahhh

Chapter 2-Bear Spray & Sass: A Survival Guide (Step One: Don’t piss off the ranger....Is he even actually a ranger though?)

Masterlist

Chapter 2-Bear Spray & Sass: A Survival Guide (Step One: Don’t piss off the ranger....Is he even actually a ranger though?)

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” — Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

A bone-deep yawn clawed its way out of your chest as you moved through the well-worn choreography of the morning kitchen. The air inside still carried a hint of burnt toast and industrial-grade cleaning spray, but at least it didn’t reek of last week’s disaster—a far cry from the chaos you’d inherited when you first arrived. Now, the kitchen thumped with a steady, practiced rhythm. Chefs moved around you, wiping down counters and scrubbing pans with an urgency born from hard lessons learned. You caught sight of Marco scraping down the grill like his life depended on it (because, after last week’s near-miss with a health inspector, maybe it did). Even the trainees, usually prone to giggling and minor culinary arson, stayed focused.

Almost a well-oiled machine. Almost.

There were still moments you had to bark reminders—like when Becca tried to slip past without labeling the soup stock, or when one of the new kids confused medium rare with “let’s try to kill someone’s dad tonight.” You’d given up on perfection. Progress, not miracles.

With a practiced flick, you opened the stainless steel bins under the counter, the hinges creaking in protest. You twisted the tops of the garbage bags, yanked them free with a satisfying heft, and nudged the swinging door open with your hip. “Don’t forget the exhaust fan!” you called over your shoulder, barely waiting for the answering groan.

The outside air hit you like a slap—a sharp, bracing chill that snuck under your collar and made you blink, eyes watering. The sky was a pale, powdery blue, the kind of color that promised a deceptively gentle morning. Your breath fogged in front of you as you trudged towards the dumpsters, both hands full and shoulders already tense against the cold.

You watched your boots squelch over the damp gravel, mentally reviewing your to-do list—inventory, menu planning, teaching the new kid the difference between parsley and cilantro, again. You only looked up when you caught a shape moving at the edge of your vision.

That’s when you saw him.

Not the sanitation worker. Not a groundskeeper.

A bear. A fucking bear. An enormous brown-black shadow, broad as a fridge and twice as confident, snuffling around the industrial dumpsters like he owned the place. His massive paw swept across the metal lid, rattling it with a hollow clang. He barely seemed to notice you at first, engrossed in the prospect of last night’s leftovers.

You froze mid-step, garbage bags dangling from your fists, every muscle locked. Your brain scrambled for a rational response, but all you managed was a strangled, “Oh.”

The bear paused, lifting his head. Black eyes, unreadable, fixed on you. Your heartbeat hammered so loud you swore he could hear it.

“Hey, buddy,” you croaked, the words tumbling out thin and warbly, far too bright for the situation—like you were greeting an untrained Rottweiler instead of a several-hundred-pound bear. Your lips twisted in what you hoped looked like a friendly smile, your hands awkwardly holding the bulging trash bags out like some kind of peace offering.

The bear’s massive head swung in your direction, jaws working on some unidentifiable piece of refuse, breath misting in the cold morning air. For a terrifying heartbeat, his dark, ancient eyes locked with yours—alien, intelligent, completely indifferent to your existential crisis.

He grunted, a deep, chest-rumbling sound that vibrated in your bones, then went back to investigating the bin, as if your presence barely registered. You stood rooted in place, legs trembling, every cell in your body screaming at you to run but knowing any sudden movement was a very, very bad idea.

You became hyperaware of everything at once: the raw, metallic scent of the garbage mixing with the loamy earth; the scratchy chill of the air stinging your cheeks; the thunder of your pulse crashing in your ears, impossibly loud, threatening to drown out rational thought. Your hands were slick with nervous sweat despite the cold, and your mouth had gone bone-dry. You could feel your heart trying to pound its way out of your ribcage, every beat jarring through your entire body.

Okay, you thought wildly, this is fine. Totally fine. Just a bear. Just a huge, wild animal with claws the size of salad tongs. No big deal. Fucking Yosemite.

You kept your eyes fixed on the bear, your breath shallow, and began inching backward—one careful step at a time, trying not to trip over your own boots or make any noise that might accidentally signal “dinner bell.” Your mind reeled with every story you’d ever heard about bear attacks and every lecture Shane had delivered about “staying bear aware.”

Don’t run. Don’t turn your back. Don’t make eye contact. Or do make eye contact? Shit. You couldn’t remember.

With every step, adrenaline surged higher—nauseating and electric, buzzing just beneath your skin. You tried to regulate your breathing, but your lungs barely seemed to work, tight and fluttering. The bear’s sheer indifference was both comforting and humiliating, as if you didn’t even rate as a potential threat or snack.

At last, you felt the doorframe against your back. You fumbled blindly for the handle, never taking your eyes off the animal. The second your hand found cold metal, you whipped the door open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind you. You pressed your spine to the wood, eyes wide, chest heaving. For a second, you just stood there, gathering the broken pieces of your dignity.

“So, anyway,” you gasped, the words tumbling out in a wild, half-hysterical rush, “there’s a fucking bear outside.”

Brian, the head chef you’d been tasked with training, moved through the kitchen with an enviable sort of calm, as if nothing short of a tornado could faze him. He was elbow-deep in a giant metal bowl, massaging dough with steady, flour-dusted hands. Around him, the kitchen bustled: pans clanged, the sous chef barked orders, a radio played tinny classic rock, and somewhere in the background someone started swearing about a broken juicer.

You stood in the doorway, still wide-eyed, hands trembling from the adrenaline jolt of your bear encounter. It felt surreal that anyone could be this unfazed.

Brian didn’t even bother to turn around as you stumbled in, slamming the door behind you as if the flimsy wood could possibly protect you from half a ton of hungry wildlife. Instead, he just glanced over his shoulder, his face a mask of bored amusement. “How big?” he asked, as if you’d just spotted a stray cat out by the dumpsters.

You stared at him, your brain still running in panicked circles. “Uh… big. Like, ‘could eat me in two bites’ big. What’s the usual unit of measure for a fucking bear? Because this is my first time.” Your voice cracked just enough that you winced, but Brian only smirked.

He wiped his hands on a towel, still maddeningly chill, and ambled to the counter where the staff radio sat docked. “I’ll call Shane to deal with it.”

You blinked, incredulous, the garbage bags still dangling from your hands. “Wait, why him?”

Brian gave you a long, flat look, as if you’d just asked why he bothered to use knives in a kitchen. “Because he’s the Wildlife Officer. It’s literally his job. Unless you want to go out there and reason with it, chef?” He cocked an eyebrow, “You could try throwing it a scone, but I don’t like your odds.”

You let the trash bags thud to the floor, exhaling hard, still jittery with nerves, “Nope. Not me. I’m all about food safety, not wildlife safety.”

Brian just grinned, an unhurried sort of satisfaction in his eyes, and clicked on the radio; “Hey, Shane? You’ve got another one at the bins. Maybe bring the big stick,” he said, drawling the last words with a touch of mock drama. He glanced at you, lips twitching; “Yeah, might wanna hurry. City girl looks about two seconds away from quitting.”

You rolled your eyes, but you could still feel your pulse thumping wildly, “I hate this place,” you muttered, slumping back against the nearest wall, letting your head fall back for a second, as if that could keep your heart from beating out of your chest.

Brian just shrugged, already drifting back to his prep station. “What do I do with the rubbish?” you asked, voice breaking ever so slightly.

Brian barely looked up, his broad hands expertly pressing dough into a battered cake pan, the flour-dusted counter evidence of a busy morning. He shot you a crooked little grin, blue eyes glinting with mischief, “Leave it there ‘til the bear’s gone. The bins aren’t going anywhere. Just skip it for now. You survived your first bear. You’ve earned it.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out more as a thin squeak than anything approaching bravado, “Oh, okay.” You pressed your lips into a tight, fake-smile line, willing your hands not to shake, “Cool.” Your voice cracked as you cleared your throat, forcing yourself away from the door and over to the sinks. You cranked the water, scrubbing your hands like you could rinse away the adrenaline—and, let’s be honest, the leftover fear.

No one had ever mentioned this part when you’d agreed to leave San Francisco for a ‘simple’ six months in the wilderness. Sure, you’d read the contract—lodge kitchen, staff training, maybe a moose or two in the distance. But nowhere did it warn you about bears at 10 a.m., your heartbeat stuttering wild in your chest. You stared at the suds swirling down the drain, letting the shock bleed out of your system as you tried to slow your breathing. Honestly, you probably should’ve realized, given the zip code. Still, ‘watch for bears’ wasn’t exactly top of mind when you took the job.

Before you could dwell on the thousand ways you could’ve died, the back door slammed open with a sharp, metallic bang. A gust of crisp mountain air rushed in, making you shiver in your damp chef’s coat.

Shane strode in like a storm cloud on legs: muddy boots leaving prints on the tile, a battered grey jacket flapping open over a faded black t-shirt that clung to his chest, jeans that had definitely seen better days. His jaw was dusted with stubble, hair sticking up as if he’d run a frustrated hand through it on his way in. He looked more like he belonged out there in the wild than in any kitchen—untamed and unimpressed.

His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing, zeroing in on you like a heat-seeking missile. “Which way?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, steady in a way that was almost infuriating.

You pointed your finger at the back door, still leaning against the sink, arms crossed to steady your nerves, “Big brown one. Looks like he could bench press a truck. I’d offer you backup, but I’m pretty attached to my internal organs,” you deadpanned, flashing a weak but genuine smile.

Brian snickered behind you, not bothering to hide his amusement as he chopped onions, the rhythm of his knife never faltering. You shot him a dirty look, but it bounced right off his easy confidence.

Shane’s eyes flicked to the trash bags huddled by the door, “You touch anything? Try to scare him off?”

A fresh wave of embarrassment flooded through you—your cheeks burned as you shook your head, “Nope. Just stood there and wondered how much I actually wanted this job.” You tried for breezy, but your voice was still tight. “As it turns out, I draw the line at bears trying to eat me before lunch.”

A ghost of a smile curved his mouth—so fleeting you almost missed it, “Good instincts. Bears like bold idiots.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant as praise or a gentle insult, but the knot in your chest eased a little. You watched as Shane unhooked a battered canister of bear spray from his belt, shaking it once like he’d done this a thousand times. He tugged on a pair of thick gloves, the leather creased and stained, every movement precise and practiced. There was a weight to him, a steadiness you found yourself desperately grateful for.

He paused by the door, shooting you a look that was almost soft, “You stay in here, yeah?”

You held up your soapy hands in surrender, “I’m not risking blood on my uniform if the bear eats you,” you quipped, “I’m staying right here.”

He nodded, lips twitching with the hint of another smile. Then he was gone, slipping through the door and letting it swing shut behind him. For a moment, the kitchen held its breath, the usual clatter of pans and chatter of staff falling into a tense silence—everyone listening, waiting for the telltale crash or shout that would mean all hell had broken loose.

Brian finally broke the tension, tossing a handful of onions into a hot pan with a hiss and a sizzle that snapped you back to reality, “See? Piece of cake. Or, you know, piece of garbage.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was finally slowing, the sharp edge of fear giving way to the familiar comfort of kitchen noise. You drifted toward an empty bench, pulling out a stack of cutlery and bowls, more for the distraction than out of real necessity, “I came out here to teach you lot how to make a proper risotto and not fail health inspections,” you grumbled, “not to become some kind of bear whisperer.”

Brian flashed a lazy, lopsided grin, “You ever think maybe it’s the same thing? Both require nerves of steel. And the occasional radio call for backup.”

You snorted—couldn’t help it—and felt the worst of the tension melt from your shoulders. The kitchen gradually resumed its rhythm, pans clanging, knives chopping, someone humming along to the radio. Then, muffled and distant, a voice called out from outside—Shane’s, firm and commanding, low enough you couldn’t make out the words, but calm. Not panicked. You held your breath, straining to listen. In your mind you saw a dozen disaster scenarios: Shane getting mauled, the bear bursting through the back door, you being immortalized as the idiot who got the Wildlife Officer killed on her second week.

A minute later, the back door banged open again. Shane strode in, raking a hand through his messy hair, eyes bright with adrenaline but utterly unfazed, “All clear,” he announced, the words washing over you like a warm blanket, “He’s just after the scraps. Give it five and you can take the trash out.”

You let out a long, shaky breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, sagging against the bench. “Thanks, Ranger Rick,” you shot back, pointing at the garbage, the implication clear, “Since you’re already there…”

He shot you an exasperated look, “Really? I save you from a bear, and you want me to take out the trash?”

“And I’m forever grateful,” you replied, raising your freshly washed hands, “But I just washed up.”

He huffed, but there was a hint of laughter in his eyes as he hefted the bags, “You owe me, princess.”

You grinned, warmth finally creeping back into your bones, “I’ll be sure to stay on the trails.”

He pointed at you, half warning, half tease. “I’ll hold you to that.” He headed out again, boots squeaking on the tile, and somehow the kitchen felt safer—warmer—just from his presence, even as the faint tang of garbage and adrenaline lingered in the air.

You shook your head, trading a rueful glance with Brian as you made your way back to your station, “Remind me—does hazard pay cover bear encounters?”

Brian’s laugh rang out, rich and genuine, the kitchen bursting back into noisy, normal life. And for the first time since you’d arrived, with all your nerves still humming, you felt—if only for a moment—like you actually belonged.

<><><><><><><><><>

The walk was longer than you’d ever imagined—and about a hundred times more miserable. By the time you’d made it halfway up the trail, every romantic notion you’d ever had about wilderness solitude or taking in the fresh mountain air had been thoroughly destroyed by the reality of mud, uneven terrain, and swarms of insects determined to treat you like a buffet.

You shifted your grip on the strap of your backpack. Your other hand clutched a crumpled, hand-drawn map, courtesy of Brian. He’d marked out the route to Shane’s tent with an enormous red X and a note that just said: “Good luck, chef.”

You’d laughed at the time, assuming he was exaggerating. “Who actually lives out here?” you’d asked, half-joking, half-hopeful he’d admit it was some elaborate prank. “This is a joke, right? No one actually camps like this unless they’re hiding from the law or the IRS.”

Brian just grinned, utterly unhelpful, and shrugged. “Wildlife Officer, remember? You want to say thanks, you gotta go off the grid.”

Now, knee-deep in reality, you realized your mistake. The ‘trail’ was less of a path and more a suggestion—overgrown grass, tangled tree roots, and the kind of damp, squelching earth that threatened to suck the boots right off your feet. Every few minutes you had to stop to brush away a spiderweb or re-orient yourself by squinting at the crude map. Birds chirped in the distance, mocking your every misstep. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something large crashed through the underbrush and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

You muttered to yourself, “I could’ve just written a thank-you note. I could’ve just ignored him. But no, I had to do the appreciation thing. Genius move. I’m not doing this again.”

A backpack weighed heavily on your shoulders—overpacked, of course, because you’d panicked and stuffed it with every possible just in case supply you could think of: extra water, an emergency snack, hand sanitizer (Brian had suggested bear spray. You’d laughed. Now you weren’t so sure.)

You stopped for a moment, wiping sweat from your brow, feeling your calves ache and your lungs burn from the climb. You listened to the wind rustling through the pines, the far-off burble of a creek. Okay, you admitted, maybe it was pretty. In a ‘nature might kill me’ sort of way.

Finally, after what felt like hours—though your phone (now almost dead) would’ve told you it was only thirty exhausting minutes—you spotted the dark green canvas of Shane’s tent through a gap in the trees. Your first emotion was relief, pure and visceral, a desperate little sigh escaping your lips. But right behind it came exasperation, tripping over your pride, because you were covered in mud, your hair had become a nest of tangle and humidity, and you were breathing like you smoked every day for forty years. If anyone had told you a week ago you’d risk the wilds of Yosemite just to deliver leftovers to a man you didn’t even like, you would’ve laughed them out of the room.

You dragged yourself up the final incline, legs trembling with fatigue, dignity long since abandoned somewhere back where the trail disappeared under a mess of pine needles. The forest around you was beautiful—shafts of sunlight filtering through the canopy, the cool hush of earth and wind—but your chest was still tight with annoyance, your mind listing all the reasons this was a terrible, ridiculous idea. You muttered under your breath, “This better be worth it,” more a prayer than a joke.

As you neared the tent, Shane stepped out, squinting at something in his hands—maybe a compass, maybe a multitool, maybe some mysterious wilderness thing you’d never understand. When he looked up, it took him a beat to register you—a figure stumbling out of the woods, wild-eyed and panting. His confusion quickly melted into a broad, utterly amused grin. He barked out a low laugh that echoed through the trees, “Bit far away from civilisation, Princess,” he called out, sounding thoroughly entertained. His gaze swept over you, taking in the mess you’d made of yourself. He waited, arms folded, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world.

You forced yourself forward, chest heaving, hair sticking to your cheeks. “I know,” you grumbled, feeling a new wave of embarrassment burn up your neck, “and I’m regretting every second of it.” You doubled over, hands braced on your hips, breath coming in short, wheezing spurts. “Bear with me a second—” You sucked in another lungful of pine-scented air, “I don’t think I’ve walked this much since high school P.E.”

Shane arched a brow, his smirk widening, “You want a seat… or CPR?”

You shot him a glare, straightening up and trying to muster what little dignity you had left, “Jury’s out,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way your heart wouldn’t stop hammering, “I mean, at this point, if I keel over you could just roll me down the hill I guess.” You glanced around, not quite meeting his eyes. A thousand nerves tumbled around inside you—self-consciousness, stubbornness, that infuriating need to impress him, or at least not embarrass yourself further. “Anyway,” you managed, “besides dying out here, I actually came for a reason.”

You slipped your backpack off your aching shoulders, acutely aware of Shane watching you with that damn bemused half-smile, like he was witnessing a rare woodland creature attempting to navigate civilization. You pulled out the container, your hands only shaking a little as you held it out, feeling almost sheepish.

“I… uh… brought you something,” You cleared your throat, glancing at the ground. “Leftovers. From lunch. I don’t know how mountain men reheat food if you want it now or for later, but… this is a thank you,” You swallowed, nerves threatening to make you babble. “For, you know, saving me from becoming bear chow this morning. And for taking out the trash. I figured it was either this, or a fruit basket, and I didn’t want to lug a melon up here.”

He stepped closer, taking the container from your hand, his touch brushing your fingers just enough to jolt your pulse again. He stared at it, and then at you, a faint surprise flickering in his eyes before he covered it with that familiar, infuriating smirk, “You brought me lunch?” he said, sounding more touched than he wanted you to notice.

You shrugged, trying not to sound flustered, “Leftovers. Was going into the bin anyway,” The lie was easy, but you didn’t quite meet his eyes, “Thought I’d give to the needy. See? I can be charitable.”

He laughed again, this time softer, “Didn’t know charity came with mud stains and a near-death experience.”

You rolled your eyes, finally managing a crooked smile, “Don’t get used to it. I prefer my acts of kindness from behind a kitchen counter, not halfway up a mountain.”

Shane looked at the lunch container for a long, quiet moment, the smile never quite leaving his face. The sunlight filtered through the pines and caught in his hair, making him seem almost gentle—except for the mud caked on his boots and the hard set of his jaw. He flipped open the lid, sniffed the contents, and gave an approving grunt; “Risotto? Not bad, princess. Thought I’d be getting a soggy sandwich at best.”

You let out a soft snort, straightening your jacket and brushing a stray pine needle from your sleeve, “Maybe next time.”

He barked a low laugh, the sound echoing through the trees, “Noted.”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling awkward and a little too exposed beneath his steady gaze. You couldn’t help but wonder what you looked like to him—panting, mud-splattered, hair a disaster, standing there giving a peace offering like some kid who’d just conquered summer camp. Why do I care so much what he thinks? you wondered, the thought as annoying as it was undeniable.

Shane stepped back and gestured toward a battered folding camp chair beside his tent, “Sit. Before you collapse and I have to actually give CPR.”

You managed a wobbly smile and gratefully dropped into the chair, your legs protesting as you finally gave them a rest. The seat was cold, but you didn’t care. You watched him rummage through his tent for a battered metal mug, pouring water from a thermos, the easy familiarity of his movements making the wilderness seem a little less wild, before walking over to you and handing it to you.

He settled onto a log nearby, taking a bite of the risotto, chewing thoughtfully. For a moment, the only sounds were birds, the distant sigh of wind, and your own uneven breathing. You looked around, taking in the neat little camp: tent perfectly pitched, gear hung with military precision, an axe leaning against a stump, and—of course—a well-worn trail between here and the trees. It was so different from the chaos of the kitchen, and yet you could see the order in it, the comfort Shane must find in this simple, controlled solitude.

Shane glanced over at you, a quiet curiosity flickering in his eyes, as if he could sense the parade of thoughts marching across your tired brain, “Not what you expected?” he asked, voice low and even, his arms resting easy on his knees as he leant forward, still eating the food.

You gave a small, crooked smile, letting your gaze wander around his makeshift camp—the tent flaps moving in the breeze, the battered coffee mug, the military-precise neatness of his setup. “Honestly?” you replied, “I figured there’d be more… I dunno, doomsday prepper. Maybe a moat? Some kind of elaborate defensive perimeter made out of sticks and tin cans.”

He threw his head back, white teeth flashing in the dappled sunlight, “Yeah I’m still waiting for the permit for the defence system,” The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, and for a moment, he looked years younger—like the weight he always seemed to carry had lifted, just a little.

You snorted, the sound bubbling out before you could catch it, your shoulders finally dropping from around your ears, “Well, at least the company’s not bad.” You nudged a small pebble with your boot, suddenly aware of how much calmer you felt in the hush of the woods.

His eyes softened as he angled his body toward you, the humor lingering but fading into something more genuine, “So let me get this straight,” he said, eyebrow raised in mock-seriousness, “you hauled yourself all the way up here—risked your life, dignity, and probably your city-girl reputation—just to bring me leftovers?”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck, “Don’t make it weird. Brian said it was the polite thing to do.” You shrugged, trying to seem casual, “And I’m nothing if not polite.”

He took another slow bite of risotto, watching you over the rim of the fork, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Polite, huh? If that’s the word you wanna use, princess.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “You know, kids tell stories about people like you,” you teased, arching a brow in his direction.

Shane’s mouth curved upward, one brow arching in amusement. “Do they now?”

You leaned back in the camp chair, stretching your aching legs and letting the exhaustion fade into something closer to satisfaction, “Yeah. The weird guy who lives in the woods—never shows his face except to terrify the locals. Some kind of hermit who was abandoned by polite society decades ago.”

Shane rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth quirked up as he fought off a laugh, “You think I’m some kind of Bigfoot now? Or am I just the local cautionary tale for clueless city folk who get lost in the woods?”

You pressed a hand to your heart, feigning deep offense, “I mean… I’m still not convinced you’re a real ranger. For all I know, you’re just a really enthusiastic cosplayer with a taste for solitude.”

He grinned, scraping the last mouthful of risotto from the container, “Careful, Princess,” he warned playfully, wagging his fork in your direction, “I’ve got a badge and everything. Very official. Might even let you see it someday if you stop insulting my profession.”

You smirked, pushing yourself out of the folding camp chair and stretching your aching back, feeling every inch of the trail you’d conquered to get here; “Like a mall cop, then? Just with more grass stains and less food court access?” You held out your hand for the empty container, an eyebrow cocked. Shane eyed you, “It wasn’t bad,” He said simply, “You might make the food there edible yet,” He teased as he handed back the container, standing up as well. He watched you crouch down and wedge the container back into your backpack, your hands a little steadier than when you’d arrived.

You zipped your bag closed, letting out a dramatic sigh. “I pray I never have to make this walk again. Next time, I’m sending a carrier pigeon.” You heaved the bag over your shoulder, rolling your eyes, “Here’s hoping I don’t run into Yogi Bear on the way down. Or, you know, a pissed-off moose. Because apparently that’s a thing here, too.”

Shane shook his head, an amused, exasperated smile tugging at his lips, “Jesus,” he breathed out.

You grinned back, but before you could shoulder your pack fully, he stopped you with a hand on your arm—gentle, grounding, “Wait here a second,” he said, his tone suddenly more serious.

You stood there, awkward in the silence, fidgeting by the battered camping chair as Shane disappeared into his tent. The forest seemed to press in closer while you waited, filled with the distant caw of a crow and the hush of wind in the pines. You glanced at your boots—mud-caked and somehow still not the worst part of your day—and tried not to imagine every possible woodland horror lurking just off the trail.

When Shane returned, he held something small, bright orange and battered in his hand—a can of bear spray. He handed it to you, meeting your eyes with a rare, earnest look, “Here. In case you do run into Yogi—or anything else,” he said, the teasing gone from his voice, “Spray first, panic later.”

You stared down at the can of bear spray resting in your palm, its garish orange label a sharp contrast to the mossy earth and forest gloom. For a second, you just blinked at it—stupidly touched that Shane, the human embodiment of “figure it out yourself,” would hand over the one thing between you and becoming bear lunch. Something in your chest loosened, just a little.

You looked up at him, catching the glint in his eyes, a stubborn smile tugging at your mouth, “This almost makes me think you like me, Maguire,” you teased, cocking your head, “Or at least that you’d rather not have me become some sort of cautionary tale.”

He scoffed, leaning back on his heels, arms crossing over his chest, “No, I just don’t want to have to deal with the paperwork. Or worse, Kyle Turner breathing down my neck if you turn up dead,” he deadpanned. “Purely self-preservation. I heard he’s a nightmare in crisis meetings.”

You rolled your eyes, playing along but feeling oddly warmed by the exchange, “Of course it is. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your busy hermit schedule with all that admin.”

He chuckled, a real, easy sound that rolled out of him and wrapped around you like sunlight on a chilly morning, “Get back safe, alright?” His voice was a touch softer now, earnestness slipping through the cracks in his usual gruffness.

You nodded, tucking the bear spray securely into your jacket’s side pocket, “I’ll try. But if you hear someone screaming down the trail, probably me.”

He smirked, eyes following you as you shouldered your bag. For a moment you stood there, hesitating, letting the quiet stretch—a thousand things unsaid hanging in the dappled light between you. Shane looked so at home here, framed by trees and sky, a soft kind of affection behind his usual exasperation.

With a breath, you turned and started down the trail, glancing back over your shoulder. He was still standing there, arms folded, watching until you were nearly out of sight. Somehow, the wild didn’t feel so big or dangerous with him behind you. You walked on, heart a little lighter, steps a little surer, a secret smile playing on your lips as you stepped back into the woods.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 21 days ago

Text

Desperation — Ben Poindexter

Notes: Another very creative request.

Tags: Top/Pathetic Dex - GN reader - Smut - No plot - Psychological spiral - Overstimulation - Emotional breakdown during sex - Obsessive behavior - Insecure Dex - Self worth Issues

The sheets stick to your skin.

Everything is wet. From your sweat, from his too, or maybe it's his tears; you don't even know anymore. You've been face down on his mattress for so long that your arms and thoughts have gone numb, and now you only know the stinging heat of the air, the sting of stretched muscles, and the punishing rhythm of his hips thrusting into you as if trying to fuse with your flesh. Feeling like you're in heaven itself while he's lost in another place.

He's somewhere behind you, barely staying upright, his hands planted on either side of your waist as if he needs your body to bear every fingerprint of his.

His body is trembling, not in a erotic way that indicates he's being driven by pure sexual pleasure, but rather by a nervous breakdown crudely disguised as sex.

His thrusts are relentless, so uncontrolled in a way that shows he doesn't trust stillness. His thighs slam into yours hard, skin against skin in vulgarly wet collisions. He moans with every movement—hard, abrupt, gasping as if it is pain the only thing he's feeling, and you can feel the desperation in the way he moves, there's no control, no intention. Just pure, gut-wrenching need, driving his cock deep, over and over again.

As if he's trying to prove a point through sheer repetition.

And to make it worse, he's loud.

God, he's so loud.

He can't stop babbling. He asks if he's doing it right, if you like it, if it feels good, if he's making you feel the way you're supposed to. Over and over again. Then somewhere in your brain comes the thought that he's so insecure it hurts.

You already have an idea of what is going on.

The way he lunges at you like you'll drop a compliment if he fucks you hard enough. The way he leans over your back like he wants to press himself against your body and stay there until the doubt melts from his bones.

His voice is shattered, half words, half whines, soft pauses in his breathing where confidence should be. He's shaking and you can feel it in his legs, powerful thighs that have no business trembling this much glistening with sweat you wish you could see and twitching under too much strain.

He's held himself back so long he doesn't know what to do now that he's in. So he overcompensates. He thrusts like someone trying to outpace his thoughts. Rough, shallow, deep again, faster, too fast, then harder again, harder until you're dizzy and nothing seems real except the raw friction between your bodies, drooling on the sheet that sticks to your sweat-damp cheek, letting out little whiny sounds every now and then, so cockdrunk you don't mind he's kind of losing his mind.

And he moans at everything.

At the sound of your body when he hits too deep. At the wet slap when he pulls out too quickly. At the gasps he takes out of you. Every sound you make, intentional or not, draws another pathetic broken whimper from his throat, another babble about how good you feel, how good this feels, how much he wants to be better, how much he needs to know if you're liking it.

But he never gives you time to respond.

Every murmured question, every pleading moan, everything blurs beneath the relentless pounding of his hips, leaving no room for it. A part of him doesn't even want to truly hear it; he seeks solace without the risk of rejection, which makes it contradictory, because he doesn't understand why he wants to get something out of you that he won't want to hear.

He continues as if he fears silence, as if he believes that if he pauses long enough to breathe, you'll tell him he's not enough, that he's failing at something, that you no longer feel good.

He's dripping.

His cock is soaked, leaving you a mess, and each thrust sloshes outrageously. There's cum from earlier—either his or yours, you've lost count—slicking every movement, dripping from the base of him and running down your thighs. He doesn't care, he doesn't stop. He just keeps fucking, babbling, trembling, thrusting his length into you again and again as like he's terrified of what would happen if he stopped.

You can feel how close he is. The panic in his body, the way he buries his face in your shoulder, biting you without quite breaking the skin, just so you know he's there. His arms tighten around your waist, his thrusts get wetter. He pants against your neck, and it's hot, frantic, wet, like he's crying and doesn't know it.

You lose track of time.

Everything becomes heat, pressure, noise. You no longer know where your body ends and his begins.

He needs you, and he pushes himself harder than he should to give you something you already have, punishing himself as if it were the only thing that could contain all the doubts that overwhelm him.

He moans as if it hurts, as if he can't believe he's allowing himself to feel good.

📣: An user informed me that it seems there's someone copying our works or taking inspiration from them, so I want to make clear that we do not care, before someone decides to let us know again. This is only a dirty project between friends for friends. Please don't go to our DMS for things like that; we're here to share fanfiction about mentally unstable men and we are glad there's apparently people liking it.

As long as you don't feed my writer's work to AI we are good.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 21 days ago

Note

yum

hate sex with dex?🙏

COMPLEX DEX 18+ ⸻ BENJAMIN POINDEXTER

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 687 WARNINGS. 18+ only! rough sex, hair pulling, general filth, prone boning. mdni. I have no idea how to write hate sex, im a tender loving sex girl ALWAYS so this was weirdly hard???

Love and hate are quite comparable, each like sides of a coin. It's strange how easily they can be mistaken for one another. With Dex, there was both love and hate, either in their pure separate forms, or misguided judgement for one, when you really feel the other. Though it was like he couldn't quite differentiate between the two, either one getting lost in translation.

In your relationship with Dex, it was no secret that he struggled, struggled in every sense of the word. And that transpired into almost everything, really: fights, sex, you name it. The sex you liked, the fights, not so much. Arguing wasn't something you liked to do with Dex, it felt counterintuitive, like you're going backwards. But with sex often followed and it oddly felt like progress was being made, as if you were getting somewhere after the disarray.

Of course rabid, mindless fucking wasn't the solution, though it often helped getting you both to the next step of reconciliation, helping you forward when disagreements and conflict were to arise. Maybe you were in a particularly rough patch of your relationship, because that was happening an awful lot lately: each of you wound so tight that frustrations would lead to disputes, and those disputes would lead to sex as if it was the only 'fix.'

An argument arose earlier this evening, and because each of you were so taut and rigid, it was only natural for it to get slightly out of hand. A small spat of mistrust over the dining table had turned very quickly into muffled grunts and strained whines, each of you resulting to something sexual as a resolution.

Half your clothing is discarded, while the rest remains loosely on you, fabric acting as a barrier between your front and the rug you lay face down into. Dex's hand on the back of you neck keeps you in place, grasp firm as he essentially uses you for support — using you for something to hold onto while the rhythm of his fucking builds.

He's rather far inside you, both depth and pace makes it hard for you to breathe. The brute, unkind nature of his fucking leaves you choking and spluttering on gasps, each one becoming more strained than the one before. It's almost relentless, the unruly dicking he's giving you makes you forget the cause for your little falling out in the first place: the feel of his cock and sound of his skin slapping yours being the reason why.

His hand on your neck rises and weaves into a small clump of hair at the back of your head — fingers locking as he grabs a fistful like it was to aid his momentum. Dex lowers to your level briefly, body essentially collapsing on top of you so he can reach your ear.

His grasp tightens and your head lifts from it's position into the rug. "You gonna apologise?" he husks, voice low and gravelly against the shell of your ear.

"Me?" you choke out, a particularly deep gasp following after a brute jab of his hips, the act like he was trying to coax it out of you.

He nips at your earlobe and coos, squishy flesh caught between his teeth. "It was your fault," words vibrating slightly with the hum of muffled voice.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Dex releases his hold on your lobe though the one in your roots firm, clutching on tight as he resumes his prior position: sitting on his heels, knees either side of your ass. He places his other hand on the small of your back, pressure substantial so as to manoeuvre and manipulate your body in a way that better suits him. Like he's guiding you with the hand in your hair and one above your ass, bringing you in to meet the repetitive, almost sadistic nature of the dicking.

"Got anything to say?" he grunts, words short between low groans.

"No," you respond, holding your own — not backing down. Same as him.

"No?" he murmurs, punctuating his rhetorical question with a punitive jut of his cock. "Fine. Have it your way."

⎯ ☆ ⎯

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 22 days ago

Text

Machiavellian — Ben Poindexter x Reader

Notes: This request was kind of confusing but then I realized about who I'm writing about. I enjoy requests like this, thank you for making me write this at work.

Tags: Sub/dom Dex (??) - GN reader - No plot - Smut - Oral fixation - Oral sex (Reader receiving) - Overstimulation - Power play - Psychological Domination (¿?) - Multiple orgasms - Control through submission

He starts slowly, as he always does with you. Hands moving gently on your skin, mouth reverent, as if you were something fragile and sacred, prepared just for him. His head is between your thighs, and he feels devoted, almost urgent, or even voracious, but at the same time calm and steady, as if he has all the time in the world and tomorrow isn't real.

The first time he makes you come, it feels inevitable, it always is with him. Dex doesn't rush or push; he simply listens to your breathing, feels your thighs clench on either side of his head with the long licks he gives to your flesh, and follows the rhythm he wants and knows it makes you scream. He moans against you as if he's the one feeling that overwhelming mouth.

You feel so powerful like this, flushed and warm, one hand buried in his hair and the other on your ribs, trying to contain yourself as your body trembles all over.

He continues.

Gently at first, as if he's just calming you down. He lets you fall gently, his tongue moving as if meant to soothe, not excite. Your muscles clench, your thighs spasm only mildly, and he murmurs softly against you like a sweet, harmless comfort, and you let him stay there.

Then you come again, slower somehow, but more intense than before. The pleasure is duller now, it still courses through you from head to toe. Your stomach tightens, and your fingers grip the sheets; he still doesn't stop, not even pause. There's no change of pace, no abruptness, only a gentle, silent persistence, as if waiting for something only he understands.

At some point, you realize you've lost count.

You're not sure how much time has passed: ten minutes, thirty, maybe more? Everything blurs together. The heat, the shivers, how your thighs open for him even as your body protests, even as your hips shudder every time he brushes against extremely sensitive spots in your raw flesh. He doesn't press against you, doesn't hold you back. Every movement is measured, considered, gentle enough to make you feel safe, as if you could stop him at any moment. As if he's only here because you let him be.

And maybe you are.

It's hard to tell when your breathing becomes labored, your chest quickens, and your hands hold him closer. You think you're leading this, that you're allowing it, especially that he's at your mercy, licking and sucking you as if he needs it to be alive.

But his mouth never falters. His hands never slip and every whine of his seems perfectly in sync with the ones that leave your throat. You don't notice the precision, don't question how he always seems to know exactly when to pull back and when to push a little harder, just the right amount of time to keep you exposed, aching, right on the edge between too much and not stopping. You don't realize how skillfully he keeps you there.

He looks wrecked. His face is dripping with your taste, pupils so wide it's nothing but gorgeous, his hands trembling slightly as they squeeze your thighs enough to leave marks you can't remember you asked for.

He's making himself look pathetic that you feel like you've taken something from him, and you're glad because it feels good.

He keeps going.

You let him, or could it be that you don't stop him. Maybe you just don't want to lose whatever this is... That trembling heat in your belly, the rawness of your nerves, that dull, numb ache that has gripped every part of you. You come again, and your legs jerk, and he holds them, almost tightly, just enough to keep them steady as he continues.

You whisper his name without realizing it, your hips shift, and he murmurs something low, something soft, not quite audible, but enough to fill your chest.

You think he's falling apart for you.

You don't see how he raises his eyes every time you moan, checking, memorizing, adjusting. You don't notice how little he lets himself be defeated, how carefully he follows the path; just the right amount of showing how needy he is to make you believe that you're the one using him. That he's lost in you.

And he is. Just not the way you think.

It doesn't end until you're sobbing. You lose yourself in him again and again, slowly dissolving, dragged away, until your thoughts cloud, your thighs won't stop tensing, and your voice becomes hoarse with sounds you don't remember making. He's still there, all firm, gentle, and so adoring.

Then, when you finally remain still, when your hands fall limply at your side, when you exhale as if you've been completely emptied, his mouth touches you one last time, soft like he's tired.

You think you've exhausted him.

You don't feel the leash around your throat that he's supposed to be wearing.

46 notes · View notes

dissolvedprincess · 22 days ago

Text

oh…oh..my god..the romantic act of being clothed by their freshly worn shit…..that was bad for my heart…

Late Night Confessions

shane maguire x f!reader

warnings/content — angst, fluff, alcohol consumption, reader and shane have a history together, arguing, shane is a smart ass, crying, love confessions, hurt/comfort, mention of shane being taller than the reader, shane is sweet near the end which almost feels ooc, i also know nothing about liquor so i apologize if my details are off hehe, no use of y/n, quickly proofread as always. word count — 5.4k (ahhhh, my longest fic EVER) a/n — it’s finally here!! this is probably my favorite fic i’ve ever written and i really hope you all enjoy it too! i had a fun time writing this & really enjoy writing for shane! i was stuck between ending the fic this way or ending it with hate sex, but in the end i chose this one (which i’m somewhat regretting now) BUT if anyone would like to see some hate sex with shane i would not turn down the request. what who said that??? must’ve been the wind or something 🫢

feedback is always appreciated <3

────── .✦

“Look what the fuckin’ cat dragged in,” the words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them, an audible reaction to the sight before you. Shane, looking as brooding as ever, making his way towards the bar. Dressed in his usual uniform of a black cotton t-shirt, a flannel over top, dark pants, and a pair of tightly laced work boots. You watch as his eyes scan over you and you can tell that you are the last person he was hoping to see tonight by the look on his face alone. Ditto is all you can think.

“Shane fuckin’ Maguire, what are you doing here?” You spit out, a harsh laugh following the question. He takes a seat on the bar stool diagonal from you and orders a beer, making you wait for his response. Typical of him. Thinks the world oughta stop and wait specifically for him, so you’re no exception to this. You roll your eyes, raising your beer up and taking another long swig from the amber colored bottle, finishing it off. You tap the bottom of the now empty bottle on the bar in front of you, asking the bartender for another.

“Is a man not allowed to stop in for a nice cold drink every once in a while?” He scoffs, feigning the feeling of being hurt by your comment on his face, but the emotion doesn’t reach his eyes—they’re still empty. He can’t feign the emotion that well. He lets the look linger on his features for a few seconds before it’s gone completely and his usual cold, uninterested look returns. Still the same Shane that you once knew.

You watch as he shrugs the dark colored fleece-lined flannel from his shoulders, then down his arms. You try not to notice how the muscles in his arms contract with the simple movement, but it’s too hard to tear your eyes away. It’s like your brain is actively trying to betray you. You don’t have control over it anymore, it’s yanked the reins from your tight grasp and you have no say in the thoughts that are now plaguing your mind. All from one simple movement. Damn it, Shane.

He flings the flannel across the barstool next to him, the one that’s closer to you, and the motion of the fabric gliding through the air sends a slight rush of wind towards you. You breathe in and you can smell the lingering scent of pine, dirt, and the musky cologne that he wears, all left behind from Shane. The smell is all too familiar, all too distinctively Shane for you to handle right now. You’re still staring at him when his eyes catch yours. You watch as a knowing smirk forms on his lips, his eyes staring directly into yours. You pull your gaze away finally and focus on the bartender in front of you.

The bartender slides the two of you two brand new bottles of beer across the bar and you graciously accept yours, taking a nice, long drink of it. You’re going to need it for tonight. “Just surprised, s’all,” you finally begin, sucking air between your teeth in annoyance. “You know, seeing you in here with all the civilized folks. Mimicking behaviors, pretending you’re one of us. Thought you’d rather be out there with your animals, where you fit in the most.” You smile sweetly, proud of the snarky comment that you’ve fired out across the bar at him. Knowing him, you should probably take cover now before he loads his tongue and returns fire. His aim is unrivaled and he never misses—both with a real gun and with his calculated, quick words.

“Ouch,” he starts, furrowing his eyebrows and raising his hand to his chest to cover his heart as if you have aimed perfectly and pierced him in one of his most vital organs. “Why do I feel like I’m doin’ nothing but catching your anger tonight? No one else to throw it out at?” He questions, moving his hand from his heart to the cold beer in front of him. You watch as he grabs it and brings it towards his lips, tipping his head back to allow the cold liquid into his mouth and down his throat. You watch the movement of his sharp jaw, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. He’s not even putting up a fight like you wanted him to.

“Guess not.” You answer simply, looking down towards your lap for a beat before you raise your eyes back up and in his direction. His eyes are already focused on you as if they never left. You feel the temperature in your cheeks rise and you’re cursing yourself silently. You don’t know if the change in your body’s temperature is due to embarrassment for how you immediately attacked him tonight, or if it’s something else. Something that you’ve thrown into the furthest depths of your being and locked away, but it’s a room you know you still have the key to. You come to the conclusion that it’s a mixture of both embarrassment and the feelings you’re trying to keep at bay.

He speaks before you can let any more syllables slip past your lips. “Gotta make my way back to civilization every once in a while. If I stay out there too long my most primal, animalistic instincts would take over completely.” Even if you weren’t looking at him, you could hear the smirk just in his voice alone. But you are looking at him, so you’re graced, or much rather cursed, with being able to hear and see the smirk that’s plastered on his lips as he maintains eye contact with you. You snort, rolling your eyes. He starts again, “I do prefer being out there with the animals. They don’t bitch and whine at me like the rest of you do.”

“They can’t call you out on all your bullshit, Maguire. You prefer an opponent who can only fight back physically, not one that can make you realize what kind of person you really are.” You huff, finally breaking eye contact and turning your focus towards the bottle in front of you. Your grip on it is so tight that your knuckles are turning white from the pressure. You loosen your grip and pray that Shane hasn’t noticed your physical reaction to his presence and words alone. He knows just how to crawl under your skin and poke and prod around in all the wrong places. You raise the bottle and take another drink, hoping that the alcohol will help loosen your tightly bound nerves.

“I already know what kind of person I am, sweetheart.” He sneers, and your eyes dart towards him at the sound of the nickname. Sweetheart. It makes you sick.

“Don’t call me that, Shane.” You start, and your voice is mean—lethal is a better word for it. You surprise yourself with just how much bitterness is laced between the words that just slipped from your tongue. “You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.” You finish, shaking your head, but it’s more towards yourself than towards him.

He throws his hands up in mock surrender, raising his eyebrows along in the process. “I hear you loud and clear. No nicknames.” His response is non-chalant. God, you hate that about him. Your feeling of being embarrassed for attacking him at first sight tonight has dissipated now. He deserves every harsh word that leaves your mouth. You raise your beer to your lips again and take a long drink, finishing it off. You set the now empty glass bottle on the bar in front of you before slipping off of your barstool. “Where are you going?” You hear Shane ask as you breeze past him, but you don’t respond, you don’t even look back. If you did look back, you might’ve seen the way his eyes trailed your figure as you made your way towards the bathroom.

Once you’re in the safety and security of the empty bathroom, your nerves ease just the smallest bit. You need a breather—just a minute alone away from him. You look at yourself in the oversized mirror that’s hanging above the perfect, porcelain sink. The reflection staring back at you is tired, drained. “What the fuck are you doing?” You ask yourself out loud, as if the person on the other side of the mirror is a different entity from yourself entirely. A different body and mind that has the answers to why you’re actively trying to destroy yourself when you sit out at that barstool in the presence of him.

You wish it was someone else, but alas, it’s just you on the other side. The same body and mind that has no real answers to the questions that are plaguing your mind. With no one on the other side to talk you into ending the night here and leaving Shane sitting on that barstool alone, you give yourself one last look in the mirror before exiting the bathroom and making your way back to your seat at the bar.

“There she is,” Shane says as your feet bring you closer to the bar stool. You ignore his comment and pass by him to reach your seat, but there’s now a glass of what looks to be bourbon sitting in front of your barstool on the bar. “Thought you needed something a bit stronger than beer.” He answers, noticing the confusion that’s plastered on your features. You nod, taking your seat. This is how Shane was—argumentative one minute, then doing something kind the next and acting like it’s nothing. You reach for the glass in front of you and pull it closer towards you, swirling the liquid around before taking a drink. You feel the liquor making its way down your throat, settling in your stomach. It leaves behind a nice warm feeling in its path. You cling to the warmth, a feeling you haven’t felt tonight.

“Jim Beam,” he speaks again, watching as you drink the liquor he bought you. “You still like the cheap stuff?” He questions, finishing off his beer and flagging down the bartender to order his own glass. The question is simple, but the thought of him remembering anything, even something as trivial as drinking cheap liquor, about you is like a kick to the ribs. You feel that familiar feeling trying to claw its way up from the deepest parts of you. That room is still locked, but the hinges are starting to give.

“How’d you know I wasn’t leaving?” You ignore his question, tracing your finger around the rim of the glass as it sits in front of you. You watch as the bartender brings him his drink and he takes a large gulp, almost finishing the glass in one swallow. He never was one to savor anything. Food, drinks, you.

“Could tell you weren’t completely finished with me yet.” He responds simply, and you hate that he still has some grasp on how your mind works. You nod, bringing your glass to your lips and finishing off your drink as well. You set the glass back on the bar and avert your attention back to Shane. He’s tapping his finger against the thin, empty glass that’s sitting in front of him.

“Thank you.” you say finally. The first kind words you’ve spoken to Shane Maguire all night. The first kind words you’ve spoken to Shane Maguire in months, really. His eyes meet yours and there’s a flicker of something you can’t quite read. Surprise, maybe? Shock? You’re not quite sure, but it would make sense from the sudden switch in your tone. “For the drink.” You clarify, and he nods his head to acknowledge the words, but doesn’t give you a verbal response.

“What brought you to the bar tonight?” His words are quick, but he seems genuinely curious. Now you’re the one that’s surprised.

“I wanted to get drunk.” You say the five words like they’re the most obvious thing in the world. Which really, they are. Why else would you come to the hotel bar by yourself on a Tuesday night? You have no hidden agenda. He shoots you a look and you just shrug your shoulders. He laughs. It’s one of his real laughs and god you hate the sound of it. You hate the sound of it because you love it so much.

It reminds you of being woken up at the first sign of dawn, Shane kneeling in his tent with a cup of black coffee just for you. Him laughing at your “bed head” as he called it, which you argued should be categorized as “sleeping bag head” due to there being no real bed in sight. You think about how he talked you into going camping, how much you argued that you wouldn’t like it—you were proven so wrong. You absolutely adored it. The sounds of the birds chirping in the early morning, the fresh scent of pine that blew through the wind when the trees swayed. How safe you felt at night tucked under Shane’s protective arm.

You’re almost fully immersed in the memory when Shane's raspy voice pulls you from it. The picture perfect memory has been shattered, and you’re back in the confines of the bar with him sitting a few seats away from you.

“You doing okay over there?” His voice is unsure. Your eyes focus back in on him and he’s looking at you still. “Seems like you left there for a minute.” The words hit you like a truck. Who was he to act like he cared about you?

“Why are you acting like everything is normal?” The question sits in the air as the two of you look at each other silently. The tension between the two of you has now doubled and it’s not just you feeling it. Shane could ignore it all he wanted before, but now you’ve made it impossible to ignore.

“What am I supposed to do? Sit here and make both of our nights a living hell just because we have a history together?” He scoffs, and you can’t believe the words that just came out of his mouth. You feel your blood becoming hotter as if he had reached inside of you and turned your internal thermostat up to the highest setting.

“That’s the difference between you and I, Shane!” The words come out louder than you expect them to. You see someone across the room glance over at the two of you, so you try to keep your voice under control when you speak again. “My night is a living hell. I have actual feelings for you that I can’t just ignore unlike you who feels nothing for me.” You’re sure it’s the alcohol that’s making you this open with him, but at this point you don’t even care anymore. The pent up anger you’ve felt towards him for months is finally boiling its way to your surface and letting it out hurts less than covering it with a lid and keeping it trapped inside, waiting for it to slowly come back down to a low simmer.

“Who said I feel nothing towards you?” Shane spits back out at you immediately. You can tell that he thinks it’s his turn to be upset now. His eyes are wide with shock and he’s leaning closer towards you than he has all night. “You have no fucking idea what’s going on inside of me, so don’t try to act like you do.” He finishes, leaning back against the back of his chair again. His eyes are still on you, but they’re darker now—angrier. If looks could kill, you would be laid out dead on the floor of the bar right now.

“That,” you emphasize the word, and now it’s your turn to lean in closer towards him, “Is—was,” you correct yourself, “The whole problem, Shane. You never talked about anything with me. I was left to try to figure out what was going on between us and you don’t leave very good clues. You’re too stubborn for your own fucking good, Maguire.” You huff, and you think that the amount of anger you’re feeling right now masks the copious amount of hurt you’re feeling tingle underneath your skin. You were fine with Shane seeing you angry at him, but seeing you be hurt by him? That was something else entirely.

“We were never going to last.” He ends the sentence with your name and your heart constricts at the sound of it. “I was doing you a favor, ending it when I did.”

Favor.

A favor.

He thinks he was doing you a fucking favor?

He thinks that throwing you to the side like you were nothing was doing you a favor? The sentence actually makes you laugh. The sound abrupts from you loudly and you watch as Shane looks at you with confusion plastered on his face.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself, Shane. I actually can’t believe it. You’ve somehow painted yourself as the good guy in that fucked up head of yours and the funniest part is that you actually believe it. I can’t fucking stand you.” You finally break your eyes away from his face—his beautifully worn face, and your eyes dart around the room, looking for anything else to focus on. The more you search the bar that’s set back in the hotel lobby, the more you realize that this is not where you need to be having this conversation with Shane fucking Maguire.

You grab your bag angrily and open it, digging through the messy contents for your wallet. You find it eventually and take some cash out before throwing the bills down on the bar in front of you. You’ve probably thrown down more money than what your drinks actually cost, but you would pay any price to be out of the presence of Shane Maguire right now. You swing yourself off of the barstool and land on your feet clumsily. The liquor mixed with the beer is definitely not doing your balance any favors.

“What are you doing?” You hear Shane’s deep voice as you make your way past him, but you don’t answer. You’ve talked to him enough for tonight. Your feet quickly carry you to the front door of the hotel lobby where you make your exit to the large parking lot. Once you’re outside, it hits you that you drank too much to drive yourself home.

“Fuck.” You whisper to yourself angrily as you begin to pace the parking lot. You’re reaching into your pocket for your phone when you hear his familiar, heavy footsteps making their way towards you. You don’t want to look up—you already know who it is, but you do look up. Shane. He has his flannel back on now. His hair is tousled like he’s ran his hand through it one too many times on the short walk he’s made to reach you. “Leave me alone.” You bark out, returning your focus back to your phone. You’re trying to type your password in, but your hands are shaking from the mixture of anger and nerves. You type in the wrong password for the fifth time which causes your phone to lock itself down. You groan in frustration, lowering your hand down to your thigh.

“You can’t drive yourself. Not like this. You’re too worked up and even if you weren’t, you drank too much to drive yourself anywhere tonight.” Shane finally speaks and his words are calm, reasonable even, which only causes another wave of hot anger to flood your entire being. You’re watching him as you pace back and forth. He’s standing on the sidewalk a few feet away from you. His stance is firm, his arms are folded in front of his chest and you feel like a child again whose father is scolding them for an action they’ve made impulsively.

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’m not that stupid, Shane. I’m trying to get someone to pick me up.” You wave your phone out in front of you to prove your words. “I don’t need you acting like you care about my well being.” You roll your eyes before turning and making your way further into the dark parking lot to distance yourself from him as much as possible. It doesn’t work, of course. As you make your way deeper into the parking lot, you hear his heavy steps trailing behind you. He’s a pest that just won’t leave you alone no matter how many times you swat at him.

“I do care about your well being.” The words cause you to stop dead in your tracks. You turn on your heel and make your way back towards him. You don’t have to take too many steps, his long strides made it easy for him to keep up with you as he followed you. Before you know it, you’re standing inches from his chest. The closest you’ve been to Shane Maguire in months. You're looking up at him with fire in your eyes while he’s looking down at you with something you can’t quite place. You don’t let yourself think about it for too long before you begin with your assault of words on him.

“Do not tell me that. You don’t get to leave me and not speak to me for months just to pop back up into my life out of pure chance and speak to me so casually as if nothing ever happened between us.” Your heart is beating so loudly in your ears that you can barely hear yourself speak. The words that are flowing so easily out of your mouth have been festering inside of you for months, just waiting to be able to have the chance to expel themselves from your body and into the world. They’ve found their intended target and they’re doing as much as they can to tear him down. “You don’t get to act like you care about me. It’s not fair, Shane. I know that you can acknowledge somewhere in your brain that what you’re doing to me right now isn’t fair.” You finally finish and your chest is heaving from the mixture of anger you’re carrying and the need to bring more air in.

You feel your eyes begin to prick with tears, but you don’t raise your hands to try to wipe them away. You know that once you acknowledge them, that means they’re real. You let them make a home for themselves in the corners of your eyes and pray to whatever higher power is out there that they stay put and don’t start to flow down your cheeks freely.

In one swift movement, so quick that you don’t even register what’s happening at first, Shane’s large hands have found their way to your cheeks and his lips have connected to yours. Your eyes are open for a few seconds in shock before you close them and return the kiss. Your body has betrayed your mind so many times tonight that you’ve lost count. Shane has that effect on you. His lips are slightly chapped just like the last time you felt them pressed against your own. The kiss feels needy on both ends as if this is what both of you have been craving. You break away as you come to your senses. This is wrong. You’re looking up at Shane with confusion in your eyes, your faces still merely inches apart. His hands are still on your cheeks as if that’s exactly where they’re meant to be.

“What are you—what was that?” You stutter, tearing yourself away from him further. You don’t make it very far before he’s grabbing ahold of your wrist.

“Fuck—I love you.” He breathes out quickly before you can say anything else or tear yourself away from him any further.

The words knock the wind straight out of you. You’re not sure you heard him right, but you’re sure that you’re not currently breathing.

Love?

Love.

Those feelings that you had trapped deep down inside of you in that dark room have busted through the door and they’re now racing their way back up to your heart.

”No,” is all you can get out at first. You feel the dam break and the tears that were living in the corners of your eyes are now making their way down your cheeks. “No. No, you don’t. You can’t tell me that, Shane.” You throw the words out quickly, and all you see him do at first is nod at your words.

“I do, and I know.” He starts, releasing his grip from your wrist and bringing his hands to your cheeks again. He’s wiping at the tears on your cheeks with the calloused pads of his thumbs. You’re sure this is the softest he’s ever been with you. “I’m so sorry, I know this isn’t fair. I know I left you and I know this is confusing. I’m fucking confused, too. It was easier for me to turn away from you than to face my feelings head on like a man.” You can tell he’s telling the truth from the look on his face alone. It’s too much for you to handle right now. “I thought that me loving you would only fuck things up for you. I thought that I was doing you a favor by getting you as far away from me as I could.” The words are confirmation that you did nothing wrong, but they still make your heart ache. In some screwed up way, Shane was doing what he thought would benefit you the most.

“You still hurt me, Shane. I should fucking hate you right now.” You cry out, but you nuzzle your cheek further into his palm. You watch him nod through teary vision and the anger that’s in your body is slowly being divided between anger, sadness, and confusion. Confusion because you don’t hate him. At this point you don’t think you could ever hate him. Confusion because you do love him, despite the screwed up way he treated you while thinking he was protecting you. It’s an odd feeling, receiving comfort from the same person who caused you all this grief.

“You should. I know that. I wouldn’t fault you for it.” He tells you, moving his hands from your cheeks to wrap his arms around your back. You fall into his embrace, pressing your face into his chest and breathing in his familiar scent as you let your tears fall freely now. The adrenaline that you’ve felt in your bloodstream all night is quickly dissipating and both your body and mind are crashing. You’re so tired. You can tell that Shane feels it too from the way your body is slumping against his.

“You can’t do this to me again, Shane—” You tell him, and he cuts you off before you can continue your sentence.

“I’m not going to. I promise you I won’t.” You feel his large hand rubbing soothing circles against your back as the words come out of his mouth. You so desperately want to believe him. At this moment in time, you don’t think there’s anything in this whole entire universe that you want more than that.

“I’m still angry, Shane, but I’m so tired now.” You continue, the words are muffled against his chest, but he hears you. You feel his chest vibrating under your cheek, but you can’t make out what he says. He’s pulling away from you now, grabbing your hand in his and leading you back inside the hotel. You don’t fight him anymore, trailing behind him as he makes his way into the hotel to pay for a room for the night before he leads you to the elevator. Your tears have stopped now and your brain is on autopilot after the emotional rollercoaster that the night has been. He leads you down the corridor and into the hotel room, shutting the door behind you.

You sit down on the bed and Shane kneels in front of you, untying the laces of your shoes and pulling them from your feet before setting them neatly beside the bed. He grabs the hemline of your shirt, bringing the fabric up your stomach. He’s able to rid you of the material with a bit of help from you maneuvering your arms to make it easier for him. You're both quiet as you move through the motions, just taking in the presence of one another. You're taking in how physically close you are to him just as much as how emotionally close you are to him at this moment. You knew you missed Shane before, but his gentle touches have multiplied that feeling tenfold.

“Up.” He tells you quietly and you follow the direction, standing up from the bed in front of him. His face is level with your stomach now. You feel him undoing the button of your pants before lowering the zipper and pulling the fabric down your legs. You step out of the jeans, placing your hands on his sturdy shoulders to steady yourself. He places a quick kiss to your stomach before rising to his feet again, now towering over you. You’re bare in front of him now, aside from your bra and underwear, but there’s nothing sexual about the acts that are happening. Just two people taking comfort in being around each other, open with each other.

He shrugs his flannel off and sets it on the chair behind him before peeling his own shirt off as well. You think he’s going to place it on top of his flannel, but he maneuvers your head through the neck hole, then your arms through the arm holes. You’re now enveloped in his scent as his shirt engulfs your frame. You bring your fingers to the hemline, rubbing the worn cotton between your fingers. “Lay down.” He orders you gently, so you crawl into the oversized hotel bed and lay on top of the duvet. You run your hands across the soft covers, gripping at them with your fingers.

“Are you going to lay with me?” You voice quietly, watching with tired eyes as he keeps his distance from the bed. You’re hoping that his answer will be the one that you want to hear.

“Yes, I want to. If you want me to.” He answers, voice filled with raw honesty. You nod your head and that’s all the confirmation he needs before he’s unlacing his boots, undoing his belt buckle, and pulling his pants down his legs. You feel the dip in the bed from his weight as he places his full body weight on the bed, situating himself so that he is laying next to you finally. You scoot closer to him, a silent invitation for him to touch you. He quickly gets the hint and turns on his side to face you, throwing an arm over you in the process.

The position you’re laying in with him brings you back to that night camping in the woods again. That same feeling of being protected by Shane is flooding your body all over again, just from his arm being draped across you. You scoot closer into his chest, resting your hand against his warm, bare skin.

“I love you, too.” You finally tell him, letting your feelings towards him share space in the world and not just be trapped inside of you. You draw patterns against his skin, feeling goosebumps starting to form right underneath the tips of your fingers as you drag them around lazily.

“I know,” He tells you simply, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Get some sleep.” He says finally, squeezing your bicep with his hand before resting the hand flat against the top of your back, pushing you even closer to him.

This dynamic between you and Shane is complicated—some would even call it toxic, which you could agree with to some extent. Shane is a complicated man, his mind is an intricate maze that you can rarely ever solve. You're sure he could say the same thing about you. In the end, you're both just two broken people who are trying to do their best at quietly fixing themselves with pieces that sometimes don't fit, but you’re still learning—and you’re both still trying.

You know that there’s still a long road ahead for the two of you, but for the first time in months you’re able to fall into a deep, comfortable sleep with Shane in bed beside you.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 25 days ago

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dissolvedprincess · 28 days ago

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cried reading this, loved it.

maybe autistic reader hcs,,,, preferably dex :p

ben poindexter x autistic!reader. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, sfw ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, autistic!reader

DEX WITH AN AUTISTIC PARTNER . . . watches you more than he breathes. not in a way that’s suffocating, to you, at least. he watches because you make sense. you’re one of the only things in his life that ever did. the way you line up your silverware. the way you hum when you concentrate. the way your face changes when the light is too bright or the world is too loud. he memorizes it all. he doesn’t forget.

he learns your sensory triggers without needing to ask. dimmer switches installed in his apartment before your third visit. noise-canceling headphones bought in two colors, black for him, your favorite for you. his voice drops when you flinch, like instinct. “you okay, baby?” soft, low, just for you. like he’s the only one allowed to touch your edges.

he doesn’t get overwhelmed when you stim. in fact he loves it. watches your fingers flick, your legs bounce, your breath catch, and it soothes something deep in him. he starts giving you little things without explanation. a keychain with a satisfying click. a velvet ribbon. a smooth stone. he leaves them on your desk like offerings.

his obsessive brain finds comfort in your routine. he likes knowing what you’ll do, where you’ll be, what you’ll eat. he likes patterns. you’re his favorite one. and if you ever let him be part of your routine you might as well have married him.

he’s insanely protective. if someone mocks your infodump, if they make a joke that lands too close, if they say that word that always makes you freeze? dex’ entire body goes still. his jaw tics. his knuckles crack. later, they’ll find their tires slashed. or worse. you’ll never know it was him.

you don’t always want to be touched, and he learns that too. never questions it. never makes it about himself. he sits nearby instead. close, but not too close. legs crossed, arms folded, eyes always on you.

he masks sometimes, years of it. it’s survival. but when he’s with you he lets go. his voice shifts. his shoulders drop. he rocks a little when he’s anxious, and you never say anything, so he keeps doing it. he stops hiding the cracks.

he mirrors you so hard it’s ridiculous. if you flap your hands, so does he. if you wear your headphones a certain way, he copies it. if you start drinking peppermint tea, suddenly he’s obsessed. he doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. “you’re just smart,” he says when you point it out. “i figure you must know what’s good.”

he makes scripts with you. not because he needs them, but because you do, and that means he does now too. he’ll sit beside you on the couch, mapping out what to say at the grocery store or the party you’re both dreading. “do you want me to do the talking?” he asks. “i don’t mind. i like people less than you do anyway.”

when you infodump he listens like it’s gospel, even if he doesn’t get it. even if it’s about bugs or trains or colors or something you’ve told him a hundred times. “tell me again,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “you sound good when you talk about stuff you like.”

he’s not scared of meltdowns. he handles them with military precision, lights off, blanket up, voice low, body near. if you lash out he doesn’t flinch. if you cry he lets you. if you go silent he waits. he’s patient in ways no one ever was for him. because it’s you, and you’re worth waiting for.

he doesn’t always understand what you’re feeling. he’s not great with empathy. but he tries. god, does he try. because if it’s you, he wants to get it right.

you teach him what you need and he learns fast. you don’t like being touched unexpectedly, so he starts asking every time. “can i hug you?” “can i sit here?” “can i play with your hair?” it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together. he always asks. it makes you feel safe. he likes that.

he doesn’t care if you stim in public. not even a little. he’d stand behind you like a bodyguard. if anyone stares, he stares back harder. once, someone laughed under their breath and he turned to them with that dead look in his eye. “you think that’s funny?” he said, monotone. they stopped laughing immediately.

he’s so good with food. if textures are hard, he notices. if you only eat three things, he never makes it weird. he stocks your favorite cereal. memorizes your coffee order. cuts the tags out of your clothes before you even ask. you don’t have to explain. he just gets it.

if you go nonverbal he adapts instantly. pulls out his phone so you can type. writes “yes” and “no” on his hands. talks slower. waits longer. he always has a pen in his pocket just in case.

he has bpd. you’re autistic. some days, the communication gets tangled. you don’t always understand what he feels, and he doesn’t always understand how you think. but you both try.

he doesn’t take you to crowded places. he knows it overloads you. dates are quiet: a rooftop, a library, a nearly-empty diner with a booth in the back.

he’s not great at words, but he shows you everything. he’ll put your favorite movie on without asking. hand you your headphones when you start to look overwhelmed. rub your back in slow, predictable circles when you start to rock.

he gets fixated. his thoughts loop. his emotions spiral. but so do yours. you understand each other in a way no one else ever could. the way he gets angry when something shifts too fast. the way you panic when your routine breaks. the way you both hold onto each other when the world won’t stop spinning.

you both get overstimulated, but in different ways. if you have to leave a situation, he leaves with you. no questions. no hesitation. “we’re done here,” he says, grabbing your hand. it feels good. to be protected like that.

when he spirals you keep things structured. lists. steps. reminders. he never knew how much he needed that. you never thought someone like him would listen to you. and yet he does.

you hum when you're comfortable. and he starts doing it too. like he's tuning himself to you.

he knows your food habits down to the bite. if your safe meal changes he notices the second you push it away. "not today?" he asks. not judging. not pressing. just adapting. he’s already pulling something else out of the fridge.

he lets you pace around him. circle the room. monologue about cats or timelines or texture inconsistencies. he sits still and listens, occasionally nodding, sometimes asking questions he already knows the answer to just to keep you going. he likes how happy you sound when you talk about what you love. you’re never more alive than when you’re in your own world. he wants to be let in.

when people are cruel to you he doesn’t let it slide. ever. you’re rambling about something, a little too fast, too loud, hands moving, until someone makes a face. rolls their eyes. interrupts with a laugh. or worse, says something like “you’re kind of weird, huh?” and dex just stops moving. completely. his body stills. his mouth sets. eyes locked on the offender with that terrifying kind of calm. “what did you say?” flat. emotionless. lethal. he doesn’t yell. doesn’t make a scene. but the way he stands, shoulders square, chin tilted, fingers flexing like he’s debating breaking their nose or just caving in their throat, it makes most people shut up real fast.

he walks you out, hand gentle on the small of your back. “you don’t need to hear that shit,” he mutters. his other hand twitches. you know he’s thinking about how easy it’d be to follow them home. he never asks if it hurt your feelings, he just knows. if anyone ever mocks the way you stim, the way you speak, the way your voice changes when you’re excited, he’ll go so quiet it’s dangerous. “you have ten seconds to leave,” he’ll say. “before i do something i won’t regret.”

he keeps every note you’ve ever written him. the sticky reminders, the typed-out “can’t talk today” messages, the little scraps of paper you use when your words go away. they’re folded neatly in a box under his bed. labeled. dated. categorized. he reads them on the nights you’re not there. especially the ones where you wrote his name first.

he doesn’t like surprises but he loves when you do something new. you try a new stim toy. he watches, fascinated. you change your scent. he buries his face in your shirt and won’t stop sniffing you for hours. “you smell different,” he says softly. “i like it.”

he always knows when you’ve had a bad social interaction. you don’t even need to say it. your eyes get distant. your sleeves get tugged. you go quiet. and dex just slides his arm around your waist and says, “you did fine. fuck the rest of them.”

he makes schedules for you when you’re too fogged to do it yourself. on whiteboards. on napkins. on the back of his hand.

you sometimes script your conversations with him. he recognizes it instantly. never calls you out for it. plays his part like he’s rehearsed. like he’s proud to be included in your little world of preparation.

sometimes you touch his face just to feel the difference. his skin is colder than yours. his expression rarely changes. but when you brush your thumb over his cheekbone, his eyelids flutter just a little. like it short-circuits something in him.

he doesn’t compliment you traditionally. “the only person i can stand.” he’ll say “your brain works better than mine.” he’ll say “i’d kill anyone who makes you uncomfortable.”

if you pace, he matches your steps. if you rock, he mirrors you. if you pick at your fingers, he offers his hand so you can do it to him instead. he’s not always gentle, but he’s always attuned.

you don’t always make eye contact so he learns to read everything else, your posture, your hands, the way your head tilts when you’re overwhelmed.

he doesn’t let people talk over you. if someone interrupts you he stares them down until they shut up. if they mock the way you speak, he steps forward: “say that again. i fucking dare you.” if you flinch he pulls you behind him, and deals with it.

he never says “calm down.” instead, he says, “i’m here.” “take your time.” “you’re safe.” he learned early that logic doesn’t work when your system is flooded, so he gives you his presence instead.

he doesn’t always understand your reactions, but he doesn’t invalidate them. if you cry over something he finds small he sits with you anyway. if you need to leave a room he leaves with you. no questions. just loyalty.

he likes when you label your feelings. “i’m overstimulated.” “i’m anxious.” “i feel like a burden.” it makes him feel like he can do something. he can’t fix emotions, but he can fix problems. and when you give him language, you give him the tools.

he’s obsessive — always has been — but you’re the only person that ever made it feel like devotion, not pathology. he wakes up thinking about you. he goes to sleep worrying about your safety. and in between he makes sure the world doesn't touch you unless it goes through him first.

started 7.20.2025. finished 7.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 29 days ago

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Need a Hand?

Benjamin Poindexter x reader

warnings/content — this is a part 2 to Special Delivery! stalking, fluff, gender still isn't mentioned so this can be read as gn!reader. no use of y/n. i also think this could be read by itself? there are a few references to special delivery, but i don't think this would be confusing to read without reading the first part. quickly proofread. word count — 2.6k a/n — i received this request for a part 2 while i was working on this, so here it is! after writing this all i could think was damn i hope this isn't too ooc, but honestly to me, anything i write where dex is happy seems like it's ooc to me bc it's barely ever shown. i apologize if there are any mistakes! i hope you guys enjoy! feedback is always appreciated! <3

────── .✦

The following weeks into being neighbors, Dex tries to create as many opportunities to interact with you as possible. Creating the first interaction was simple, you had given him all he needed for that one. He was able to give you your tupperware back and he slid into a short, but sweet conversation with you about how good the cinnamon rolls that you gave him were.

After that, he tries to catch you in the hallways and in the lobby of the apartment building. He learns your schedule—what time you leave, what time you get home. Your habits, such as what days you do your laundry and what days you do your grocery shopping.

Grocery shopping days are on Wednesdays and laundry days are on Mondays. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights you go for a run. He has started to trail you on your nightly runs, not too close to cause suspicion, but not too far so that he’s able to keep an eye on you. New York is full of bad people who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of someone as kind as you, but Dex is positive that he is not going to let that happen.

He gets an even better grasp at who you are as a person during your runs. It’s always the same route, and towards the end of your run you always stop at a bodega that’s not too far from your shared apartment building. He watches you go in and grab a drink from the cooler before speaking to the man at the register. It’s clear to Dex that the man working the cash register enjoys your company, but who wouldn’t? Some nights, there’s a woman who sits near the curb outside the bodega. You always make sure to ask her if she wants something and on multiple occasions he’s seen you purchase something for her and hand it over to her after you exit the bodega. He appreciates that about you. Your kindness isn’t something you give in hopes of receiving something in return, or something you do when you think someone’s watching.

You’re genuinely being good to just be good.

─────────

Today is Monday, which means it’s laundry day for you. He has timed how long it takes for you to wash and dry your clothes down to the minute. He listens as you shuffle through your apartment before opening your door and entering the hallway. He hears you close the door behind you and the roll of the wheels of your laundry basket against the hardwood in the hallway. It gets fainter as you make your way towards the stairs. He looks towards the clock. 8:07. If his mental calculations are right, which he knows they will be, you should be on your way back to your apartment with your freshly cleaned clothes by 9:23.

So, he does all that he can do right now. He waits for you.

After a few minutes, he hears you enter your apartment again and turn the tv on. He listens as you put on more music that he isn’t familiar with. At this point, Dex has your routine memorized when you’re outside of your apartment, but it’s a different story once you’re actually in your apartment. Sure, he can hear you, but it’s not the same thing to him as seeing you. Dex wants nothing more than to see you in your own habitat that you’ve created. One that is a complete reflection of you and who you are as a person. That’s the one downside of being next door neighbors, he’s not able to peek through your windows and see the version of you that you let out when no one’s looking.

When he looks at the clock again, it’s 9:18. You’ve just exited your apartment for the final time and you should be on your way to grab your clean clothes. He counts to sixty then makes his way out through the threshold of his apartment and into the hallway, then down the stairs. He checks his watch and the time is now 9:21. Two minutes until you should be on your way back through. He lingers in the apartment lobby, grabbing the key from his pocket of his jeans and unlocking his mailbox. There’s nothing in it. Of course there’s nothing in it, he checked it once this morning already, but he wants to make it look like he has a reason for being in the lobby when you make your way back through.

He hears the door that leads to the communal laundry room creak open as he’s shutting the door to his mailbox. He’s glad that the maintenance manager hasn’t taken the time to grease the hinges of the door yet. He looks down at the face of his watch. 9:23. His calculations were correct and you’re right on time for a meeting that you were unaware was even going to happen. He swings around and sees you walking towards the stairs that lead up to your apartment. You’re carrying a large reusable tote bag full of laundry and you’re rolling your laundry basket behind you. He calls your name and you turn around, a smile immediately covering your face as you see him. He likes that your reaction to seeing him is happiness—something about it makes his chest feel warm.

“Hey there, Dex!” You greet him, resting the tote bag that appears to be heavy with clothing on the ground. He can’t let you carry it up the stairs. No, he won’t let you carry it.

“You’re doing laundry this late?” He teases, a smile now spreading across his own face. He takes in your outfit—an oversized matching set of loungewear. You look comfortable. He wonders if this is what you always wear when you’re home. This is the side of you that he craves to get to know.

“Yeah, it is a bit late for laundry.” you agree with him, shrugging your shoulders slightly. “You get anything good in the mail today? Anything other than bills?” You question, a playful smile on your lips as you shift on your feet before picking up the large tote bag again, readjusting it in your grasp.

“Nothing today,” he answers, and he knows it’s a lie. He did receive mail this morning when he checked the mailbox for the first time that day. “Here, let me help you with that.” He’s walking over to you, reaching for the bag that you’re now holding again.

“No, Dex,” you shake your head, gripping the bag tighter with your hand. You’re being stubborn, you want to prove that you don’t need help. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it.” You tell him, but Dex wants nothing more than to help you—to be of use to you.

“Are you always this stubborn?” He stops in front of you, holding his hand out for you to pass him the bag of clothes. You roll your eyes playfully and he smiles as he watches you finally offer the bag to him.

He reaches for the bag, and your hands brush each other in the process of the smooth transfer of the oversized bag. Your hand is soft, just the same as the night that you planted yourself in front of his door and presented him with the cinnamon rolls. His brain goes fuzzy. He isn’t used to this.

He situates the handle of the bag in his grasp before raising it and resting it securely on his shoulder. He realizes that you’re not going to give him access to the laundry basket as soon as you begin to speak again.

“Thank you, Dex. Really-” before you can finish your sentence, he interjects.

“Aht, aht, I don’t think so,” he shakes his head, reaching his hand out again and pointing down at the laundry basket. “That one too.” He states, and his voice is firm—unwavering. He gives you no room to refuse his offer. He watches as you look down at the handle of the basket that is still in your possession, then back to him. He raises his eyebrows at you. You sigh defeatedly, rolling the basket in between the two of you so that he can easily take it from you.

“Really, Dex, you don’t have to do this. I’m used to taking my laundry up by myself.” You tell him as he grabs ahold of the handle, then you turn to make your way towards the stairs that lead to your shared floor.

He follows you as you both begin to make your way up the stairs, walking side by side. “Well, you don’t have to do it alone when I’m with you.” He turns his head to look at you, but you’re already looking at him. You’re smiling. He returns the smile and he is almost positive that he can see your cheeks turn a tinge of red before you snap your focus back down to the stairs. Is that a good sign? Is he doing something right? He has to be, right?

You share small talk, you tell him how you need to go to the grocery store soon. Which he already knows, your grocery shopping day is only two days away—Wednesday. He relishes in the fact that you speak so freely to him, he comes to the conclusion that you’re already comfortable with him. You do most of the talking, but he doesn’t mind. He enjoys listening to the sound of your voice, he finds that it comforts him. He wishes that he could have a stash of recordings from you just as he has from Dr. Mercer so that he could listen to your voice whenever he wanted to. Maybe one day he will.

You reach the front of your apartment door and you begin fishing for your keys from your pocket. Dex expects you to thank him and for your interaction to be over, but you do something that surprises him. Something that he hadn’t even thought of when he created this scenario for the two of you to be in.

“Here,” you start, slipping the key into the keyhole and twisting it, effectively unlocking your door before you pull the key out, depositing it back into the pocket of your sweatpants. “Come in, you can just set the bag on my counter, please.” You finish, opening your door and inviting him to follow in behind you as you make your way in and around the kitchen counter.

He trails in after you, closing the door behind the two of you and parking the laundry basket beside the now closed front door. His eyes are scanning over your apartment, he’s making a mental note of whatever he sees so that he can think back on it later. Your apartment has a similar layout to his, but it couldn’t be more different. Where Dex’ walls are bleak with few pictures hanging, yours are covered in framed photos that seem to have meaning to you.

These photos must be what he heard you hanging up on that first night that he met you.

Pictures of a family, your family he assumes, covering your walls. There are photos of you with friends, you look happy in them. There are other posters of bands he doesn’t know and colorful artwork hanging on the walls of your living room. Your lights have a yellow hue to them making the room feel inviting and warm. He can tell that you put a lot of work into making your space truly fit you.

Where his apartment is essentially just the space he goes to sleep, shower and eat, yours is the space where you go to truly live. He assumes that this is what it would be like for him, too, if he wasn’t cursed with the brain he was given and the trauma that he has endured.

A twinge of pain stings his chest, but he quickly compartmentalizes the thoughts and brings his attention back to you.

“So, Dex, tell me, what can I do to repay you for this service that I so greatly appreciate from you?” You ask him as he shrugs the bag from his shoulder and onto your counter just as you asked him to.

He pretends to think for a few moments, he already knows what his answer will be, before he lets the words slip past his lips, “Let me take you out to dinner next Friday.” The words hang in the air for a moment as he observes you, your eyebrows have raised and you let out a small laugh.

“That’s not me repaying you, but I am inclined to take you up on that offer.” You smile, and this time he’s absolutely sure that your cheeks are turning red at his words.

“I wasn’t finished,” he begins again and he's wearing a smile on his face now, too. “And, you have to make me more cinnamon rolls.” He finishes, and he sees your smile grow wider at that request. There is a twinkle in your eye that he doesn’t think was there before.

“Honestly, Dex, I thought you were lying when you told me you liked them!” You exclaim, laughing as you look at him from across the counter.

“What? No, I really liked them.” He admits, and he feels his cheeks begin to hurt at how much he’s been smiling tonight. He really isn’t used to this.

“So, I take you out next Friday at seven for dinner, you bake me more cinnamon rolls, and I’ll consider us even. Deal?” He questions you, even though he already knows that your answer will be a yes.

“Deal.” You give your verbal stamp of approval as you nod your head in agreement.

“Good.. Good. Well, I better get back over to my apartment, it’s a bit of a long walk.” He jokes, but as soon as he hears the words slip out of his mouth, he realizes how unfunny the joke that he just made was.

To his surprise, you do laugh. The laugh you let out is loud, it’s a true laugh that was caused by him and him alone. The sound of it is music to Dex’ ears. He wants to be able to swim through it, be completely and utterly surrounded by it.

“Oh my god, Dex,” you manage to get out between laughs, “That was such a dad joke, but it was so good coming from you!”

“That’s what I was going for.” He shoots back, but honestly, that’s not what he was going for. He doesn’t even truly know what a dad joke is, but he’s pleased that he’s able to pull this sort of reaction from you.

Your laughter has quieted down and you’re now leading him towards the door. He opens it and steps through the threshold of your apartment, back into the real world where he doesn’t have you as a distraction from himself.

“Thank you again, Dex. I’ll make sure to put our dinner down on my calendar, and I will also make sure to have those cinnamon rolls ready for you before our dinner.” You tell him, leaning against your door as he stands in the hallway.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says, nodding his head as he steps over to his door. “Goodnight.” He bids you farewell for the night with one last smile tugging at his lips and you do the same, a small “Goodnight, Dex.” leaving your lips as you close your door, separating the two of you for the night.

He enters his apartment and the stark difference between your two living spaces is even more apparent now that he’s standing back in his own white, bare apartment.

This interaction paired with the other information that Dex has gathered about you makes it clear to him that you are good for him. You were everything that Dex was searching for. A beacon of hope that would shine for him during the dark nights he faced.

He was going to make sure that he did everything in his power to keep himself from ruining this.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 29 days ago

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STRAY ⸻ BEN POINDEXTER

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 1673 SUMMARY. you stumble upon a stray on your way home one day and are unable to turn a blind eye. you’re aware of your boyfriend’s distaste towards animals, so you sneak the kitten into the apartment, hoping he wouldn’t notice. but once dex finds out, he’s not best pleased. he has some past issues pertaining to small animals, though you know nothing of that. you hope he can warm to the kitten, especially when so many similarities are shared between them NOTE. no idea when this is set, but its fanfic, it doesn't really matter lol

You often stumbled upon many things in New York, well how could you not. Usually it would be birds swallowing rats whole in alleys, used syringes dotted around sidewalks, even half naked men licking various substances off of various surfaces. Really, you’ve seen it all. You thought you were unfazed by what you’d see on your commute to and from work, but never did you think you’d find something you actually wanted to stop for.

You take a little detour on your way home today when you hear a soft squeaking that was outside the realm of squeaking you usually hear. And once you step into the alleyway —with caution, of course— you see a small cardboard box, air holes stabbed with what you guess to be a pencil. It was risky, you knew that. There could be virtually anything inside.

Looking over your shoulders, you reach into the dumpster, gently collecting the box in a way that doesn’t threaten or scare the animal you presume to be inside. Holding it at a slight distance, you peer into one of the larger holes and see something white and fluffy inside, the tiny animal backed into a corner.

“Shush, it’s okay,” you whisper, hoping your quiet calm voice will comfort the animal inside. “I know, I’m sorry,” your heart breaks when you hear a small hiss, the sound telling you there’s a kitten inside. A scared kitten inside.

With heightened awareness, you open the top of the box and peek inside to get a better look, finally seeing the sweet abandoned thing — it’s wide green eyes staring back. The kitten takes a moment and the spiked hairs return to normal, as do the pulled back ears and bushy lowered tail.

There wasn’t a chance you would put the kitten back, especially not after locking eyes so you carefully do up the box and pull out the cardigan from your bag, laying it atop the box to minimise distress for your new household addition. You knew you couldn’t go around stealing animals on the street, but this was different. It was clear this one was dumped, discarded.

In some sort of weird way, the kitten reminded you of your partner, the partner you were dreading announcing the news to. He’s not a big animal person, much less cats. They were actually one of the animals he hated most. Though you know you can change his mind, that's what you told yourself anyway. He’s just never been loved by a cat before, that’s what it is.

The walk to the apartment building is spent with you preemptively planning for all outcomes of how this may go — thoughts of guilting him with similarities he shares with the kitten: green eyes, rejected, alone, abandoned, you could go on. Other thoughts pertaining to how the addition will benefit you in particular, and how could he say no to that?

You tuck the box under your arm as you unlock the apartment door, keeping the kitten hidden and tucked away. You step inside slowly and see Dex in the kitchen right in front, preparing dinner.

“Hi honey,” you greet like you usually would, not so keen on bringing unnecessary attention to yourself while you figure out what to do with the cat.

“Hey baby,” he returns, smile sincere as you meet him for a kiss, again like you usually would — sticking to routine, avoiding suspicions being raised.

You place your bag aside and head towards the bedroom. “Good day?” you ask, speaking to him from across the apartment.

Though he doesn't respond, and instead you see him appear in the doorframe of the bedroom, questioning eyes following you. With his lack of answer you turn around to repeat the question, but you jump, letting out a small shriek when you see him.

“What’ve you got there?” he asks, scoping you out, tone accusatory while remaining playful. Speaking like he was sussing you out, already seeming to know something was going on.

You laugh weakly, and shrug your shoulders.

“The box,” he tilts his head, eyes honing in on yours. “What’s in it?”

You step aside, moving out of the way from the box on the nightstand — the kitten hidden behind your body. But it seems Dex had already spotted it when you first walked in, and his assumptions were correct when you’re no longer acting as a shield.

“Okay,” you sigh and pick up the box. “Promise you won’t be mad.”

His brow scrunches and his head cocks, not liking the sound of where this is heading. It wasn’t exactly the best start, and you were very aware of that. So you tut and gesture with your hands, the act theatrical as you try to figure out how to word what you want to say. Though with all your prior planning, you fall short and forget all the points you were going to make in order to soften the blow of bringing a kitten home.

So instead, you open the flap slowly and tilt the box for Dex to see, letting him look inside. Your gaze flickers between the kitten and his face, watching the dozens of microexpressions play out when he finally sees what’s hidden. His ears pull back and his features tighten, not overly excited about what’s inside.

You put his lack of enthusiasm to annoyance that you’d bring an animal back without checking, though really it was something else. Something he shamefully locked away, unwilling to share. He knew you’d never look at him the same if you were to find out what he used to do with small animals, so he never told you. But if you had known, you would have never brought a kitten home knowing that it may strike up issues within your lover.

Dex struggles for words, incapable of thinking of a response, so he walks out of the bedroom, heading back into the kitchen. That hurt you more than verbal rejection itself, him having nothing to say just felt worse.

You look down to the cat and frown, offering sympathy with your face in hopes it would understand. If there was any chance of Dex coming around, or even remotely warming to the idea, the kitten had to be cleaned — having a dirty, flea-ridden furball on furniture would not be helping your case.

And so you make your way to the bathroom and set the box on the side, preparing to wash the kitten. You’re quiet and calm as you hold it under the running water, gentle hands giving it a scrub in efforts to rid the dirt and grime. Once you were certain he was cleaned —you noticed it was a ‘he’ when cleaning— you wrap him into a hand towel and hold him tight to your chest.

In the room over, Dex was stewing on thoughts of the similarities he shares with the kitten: neglected, lost, abandoned, saved by you. He knew you meant well, your good nature was the thing that drew him in most, but he couldn’t quite get past it, not yet anyway. But it was you, his feelings far more complex when someone he loves is involved. He couldn’t break your heart in the now for something he did in the past.

Back in the bathroom, you were coming to terms with the possibility that the kitten would only be a temporary resident, and so you were comforting yourself with the chance you may have to give up the cat in the morning. You sit on the lid of the toilet while you begin to pat him dry, pressing kisses between his ears and giving him a cuddle as a way of apologising.

Footsteps scuffle in the doorway and you peer up to see Dex standing there, a small plate in hand. He steps inside and places the dish on the counter beside you, a cooked steak diced small sitting neatly atop. You smile sadly at him and mouth ‘thanks’, appreciating his efforts. Like last time, he has nothing to say, but instead he now offers a nod, the action showing you his acknowledgement. It was an improvement.

He stills his footing and he lingers for a moment, hovering like he was trying to work up into saying something.

But you get in there first, interjecting nervously.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve checked with you first. I just panicked, you know? I wanted to help him, he was all alone,” you apologise, a soft, subtle frown spreading across your face. “I can take him to a shelter in the morning— they won’t be open now.”

“No,” he shakes his head sternly, narrowing eyes accompanying the motion. Though his harsh expression wasn’t out of frustration, more like he was trying to solidify what he was going to say next — show you he means his words. “We should keep him.”

“Honey— don’t just say—”

“You want him,” he pauses after his interruption and steps closer, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “So I want him.”

“Really?” you beam, smile bright and wide as you look up at him. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

He shakes his head and extends a tentative hand towards the kitten, but he stops, unable to touch him just yet, so he retracts his hand and lets it hang at his side. You take note and smile, showing him you appreciate his efforts, but don’t expect him to be chummy. Not so soon anyway.

You pick up a piece of steak from the plate and guide it to the kitten, waiting for him to eat it and when he snatches it, you peer up to Dex, meeting his small smile with a rather large one of your own.

“What cut steak is this?” you ask, and pick up another — feeding your new baby from your hands. “He seems to love it.”

“Wagyu.”

“Maybe that should be his name.”

“Not a chance,” he shakes his head firmly, adamant on showing disdain for the name. “Not a chance.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 1 month ago

Text

beautiful!

Ashes — Ben Poindexter x Reader

Notes: Dark content.

Tags: Sub Dex - GN reader - Reader smokes - Unmedicated Dex - Cigarette burns - Mild smut - Painplay - Power imbalance.

He makes a small grimace that doesn't hide his unease when you light the cigarette, the faint scent of the material being burned for the first time reaching his nostrils.

His eyes rest on your swollen lips as they close around the circumference of the cigarette, the man beneath you can't hide the hint of jealousy he feels at how your attention now seems to be on that object, and it's ridiculous, that's how he feels.

You feel strong hands on your lower back squeezing the flesh there, with intentions on bruising the skin and with a simple glance, you give him a warning, which makes his hands stop. He just frowns, looking at you with glassy eyes from the smoke that came from your lips to end up on his face.

You loved having him like this, in the middle of the night, naked and vulnerable on the edge of his bed while you were dressed in his own nightclothes, your thighs holding him in place, comfortably sitting on his lap, kissing him like there was no tomorrow, and maybe, you'd light a cigarette just like you're doing right now.

He doesn't like them; they leave strong odors on clothes. But just because you're the one consuming them, he tolerates them. And what you like is what he likes too.

Over time, he has learned to enjoy them just like you do.

Especially when his medication wasn't getting in the way.

That is why there's that typical buzzing in the distance around his head—not as loud as other times since his other senses are focused on what really matters, which is you... Keeping him calm, mellow, and so blurry.

Hazel eyes full of devotion and need making you tremble, you can see his composure crumble with each passing second as the cigarette burned down, the ashes about to fall, and you give him one of those loving glances that he adores, glances that hid a question, and he nods even when there's no words involved.

He doesn't understand why to this day you still ask permission to do something like that, he told you before that you can do anything you want with him and he would say yes, if that makes you happy and keeps you on his side.

While he's deep into his thoughts you smile satisfied by his nod and after taking a long drag you bring the burning tip close to the skin below his pulse on his neck, he tenses when the cigarette is close enough to start burning and he gasps shakily when it finally makes contact, biting his lip as the minimally painful sensation spreads down his neck as you hold the tip against his flesh for a few seconds, then you press down only to see him twitch in place and when you know it's too much, you stop, staring at the flick of his eyelashes.

Your eyes move to your work, an ugly mark almost imperceptible due to the lack of lighting in the room, a perfectly circular burn, from your position you can see the ashes, and it is lovely, he seems to like it too because it makes you smile and it feels good, his boner pressed into your stomach is proof of that and you take another drag to then join your lips with his in a hungry kiss.

Dex's hips seek friction against the thin fabric of the shirt, involuntary movements as if he wanted you not to notice and you laugh at his action, he doesn't know it's funny and squeezes your waist, seeking contact, needing your heat, the delicious ache in his neck somehow spreading out and that's when he realizes that you pressed the cigarette against his skin again, this time lower near his collarbone, making him smile against your lips at the sensation.

Soon, more burns are spreading across his torso, leaving small pieces of sensitive raw flesh in their wake until you reach his crotch, so close to where he's already dripping and throbbing, sweet boy starts to pant in need when he sees that you’re not continuing, he squeezes your hip with a hand in warning, an action that you dislike immediately and for one last time you press the spent cigarette on the base of his length, your fingers making light contact with his cock in the process and he lets out such a weak whine full of desire that causes your cheeks to blush.

It hurts so good he's a mess, leaking with the poor friction and the enveloping pain, mouth open, thin pink lips glossy with saliva while he pants.

You keep the cigarette there longer than you should have until he takes it in his hand and throws it straight into the trashcan.

He immediately wraps his arms around your waist and begins to kiss you desperately as if he needs to melt with you, as if you were going to leave him, his cock wet and trapped between your bodies, aching not only from the lack of friction but from the throbbing burn.

A moment of intensity that makes him want to beg for you to place more cigarettes on his skin, to burn him more until he can't feel nothing but pain.

As the kiss escalates and his hands try to get rid of the shirt you're wearing, he finally realizes that the medication was preventing him from feeling the perfect way you can hurt him when you want to.

#lux loves

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dissolvedprincess · 1 month ago

Text

submissive dex speaks to the demon inside me

warm feeling ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: huh, writer's block is truly my biggest enemy... i swear i'm working on the series lmao, i just need my brain to start working properly...have this for compensation....

warnings: porn with no plot, con non-con, bottom Dex (duh...), humping, blowjobs, overstimulation, morning sex, slight begging, not proofread.

word count: 1.2k-ish

The first thing you register is the heat.

There’s a slow, steady friction against your leg—something soft but tense, like a trembling pulse pressed to your thigh. For a moment, in that hazy state between sleep and waking, you’re not sure what’s happening.

Then you shift.

And that’s when you hear it.

A broken little whimper.

You blink groggily, eyes adjusting to the soft spill of morning light. The room’s still mostly dark, curtains drawn shut but leaking thin stripes of pale gold. It’s quiet, except for the shuddery breaths you can now feel against your skin.

You glance down.

Dex’s face is buried against your shoulder, his nose pressed into the hollow of your throat. His eyelashes flutter, mouth parted—quiet, panting, trying so hard not to make noise.

But he’s moving.

His hips are grinding slow, frantic little circles against your thigh. Sweat slicks his forehead, sticking messy strands of his dark-blonde hair to his skin. His cock is hard—so hard you can feel the shape of it through his boxers, pressing hot and damp where it drags along you.

“…Dex,” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He jerks. His whole body stiffens, breath catching like you’d shot him in the chest. But he doesn’t stop moving—can’t, apparently. His cock twitches, grinding again, slow and desperate. His face burns red.

“Shit—I—I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. “Didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

You slide your hand down his back, fingers curling at the nape of his neck.

“Dex.”

His hips jerk again, needy and helpless. His teeth sink into his lip so hard you think he might draw blood.

“I was—dreamin’ about you,” he rasps, breath shaking. “Woke up like this. I—I tried to stop, I just—”

His words collapse into another broken little sound. A whimper, soft in his throat. His cock twitches against your thigh again, leaving another smear of precome in the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Can’t help it,” he breathes. “Can’t—mmh—help it.”

Your heart clenches, tight in your chest.

Benjamin Poindexter, Dex—your Dex—the same man who could take out three armed men in five seconds without blinking—is shaking against you, rutting like a needy animal, terrified you’re going to shove him off and tell him to get out.

But you don’t.

You just tilt his chin up.

“Hey.” Your voice is soft, low. “Look at me.”

His eyes flicker open.

Wide, wet, blue.

Full of guilt, need, that obsessive ache you’ve seen in him before—the same thing that made him glue himself to you in the first place. Like if you let go, he’d shatter on the spot.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. Your thumb strokes his cheek. “Dex. It’s okay.”

His breath hitches. His hips grind again, almost involuntarily, cock throbbing where it’s pressed to your skin.

“You—” His voice breaks. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in, firm but gentle.

You kiss his temple.

And then you shift beneath him, moving slow, guiding him off your thigh.

He sits on the bed, as back pressing against the headboard as his tongue licks over his lips. He watches you hover above his lower body, heart hammering against his chest.

Dex swallows hard, eyes darting between your face and your hands as you tug at the waistband of his boxers. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, tip shiny with precome. He’s trembling, his stomach twitching every time the air hits him.

“Hah,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Fuck—fuck, you don’t gotta—”

“Shh.”

You slide down, pressing him back onto the headboard. He gasps when your mouth brushes his hip.

“I want you to relax,” you murmur. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock—god, he’s so hard it’s almost painful. A thick vein throbs along the underside, twitching when you give a slow, deliberate squeeze.

Dex whimpers.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he pants. “I—this isn’t—I don’t usually—”

“I know,” you whisper, kissing the head of his cock, tasting the salt of him on your tongue. “It’s okay. You can give it to me.”

His eyes slam shut.

And then you take him into your mouth.

Slow.

All the way down.

Your lips glide over the flushed head, your tongue flicking lazy patterns along the slit, and Dex loses it. His hips jerk—only for a second, until he remembers himself and slams his fists into the sheets to keep still.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. His whole body is shaking now, sweat prickling his forehead. “Baby—oh—fuck, baby, you’re—”

You hum around him.

The vibration makes his breath hitch, and his thighs twitch against the mattress. His hands fist the blanket tighter, knuckles white.

“Nnh—nnh—please—”

You don’t let up.

You keep your pace slow, steady, teasing the tip with the flat of your tongue, then swallowing him deeper just to feel his stomach jump.

His cock twitches helplessly in your mouth, already flushed deep red and so fucking wet—your spit and his precome pooling in messy drips down his shaft. You let your lips glide up the head with the lightest suction, tongue swirling lazily around the swollen crown, then back down again. Slow. Sometimes quick.

You smirk, pulling off just to tease the red, angry tip, licking up another droplet.

“You close, baby?”

His eyes are wrecked.

Wide, blue, glossy. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, sweat starting to bead at his hairline.

He nods—but it’s not confident.

It’s scared.

Like he knows he’s gonna lose control the second you give him permission.

You hum and take him into your mouth again.

And then you pick up the pace.

Just a little.

Not enough to let him fall over the edge—just enough to keep him right there. Your tongue circles, mouth working in slow suction, then faster, back down, shallow thrusts with your lips tight around him. Your hand moves in tandem with your mouth, pumping the base, squeezing just a bit firmer each time.

Dex’s hips jolt under you.

“Mmh—” His voice is wrecked, raw with desperation. “I—‘m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You don’t stop.

His hips buck despite himself, and he lets out a full-body shudder, a choked sob of relief and shame all tangled up in one.

You let him come down your throat.

Hot, pulsing in waves—he’s gasping your name, his stomach heaving, trying to apologize even as he spills into you.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—shit—fuck—”

You don’t stop.

Your mouth stays on him, sucking gentle, then hard again, your tongue still flicking over the tip just to watch him twitch.

“Ah—!” His thighs clamp around you, helpless, his hands trying to push you off but not really pushing. “Nnh—no—too much—too much—”

You pull back just enough to breathe.

“Thought you couldn’t help yourself, Dex,” you murmur, lips glossy with spit. Your hand strokes him, slow and slick, watching his hips flinch at every motion.

“Please—” His voice cracks. His eyes are glassy, lips trembling. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I can’t—”

“You can.” You lean up, press a kiss to his chest, right over his hammering heart. “You’re safe. You can give it to me.”

His hands find your wrists, clutching like a lifeline.

And then he breaks. Again.

More white ropes sputters out, some landing on his stomach while the others drip down from the slit of his cock.

His whole body trembles as another sob racks through him, cock twitching in your hand, still so sensitive it’s almost painful—but he’s not telling you to stop.

He won’t.

Because he needs this. Needs you. Needs the safety of giving in, of letting go.

So you kiss his jaw, his throat, his sweat-slicked chest.

“...Did so well for me, baby.”

He pants, eyes locking onto yours.

“Did I?”

You huffed, “always.”

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw

#lux loves

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