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you freeze at the sound of your bedroom window swinging open. for a moment, it's all quiet. then someone drops lightly to the ground, and you hear heavy combat boots on the hardwood floor, advancing towards the kitchen. where you are.
you'd taken a gamble, leaving it unlocked when the city's in shambles already. now you're going to find out just how far your luck has made it.
a hulking beast of a man stands at the doorway, a dark shadow. there's just enough light coming from the single lit lamp in the corner to show you that he's wearing tactical gear, has weapons strapped all over himself; a mask covers everything but his eyes. and those eyes—or what you can see of them–bore right into yours. you panic instantly—this isn't what you'd wanted, this isn't who you'd expected. desperately, you lunge for a kitchen knife near you when a different one whizzes post your head and embeds itself in the wall behind, so close that you feel the way it cuts through the air in front of you.
"fuck!" you let out, making the (objectively correct) decision to stop moving. he's huge, bigger and stronger-looking than anyone you've seen in your entire life. and now he's stalking towards you, and you think you see the mask shift, as if he's grinning.
"what's wrong, sweetheart?" he drawls. "you expecting someone?"
the voice, oh, you recognise that voice. the pieces fall together. the way he walks, the knife—
"yes," you say, as calmly as you can, now that you know who's behind the mask. "i was."
"didn't think you'd be the type to let men sneak in through the window," he comments, conversational. his hand rests on the counter, just a mere few feet away from you, and it's like he owns the place.
"things change," you respond. "people—"
"don't give me that bullshit," he interrupts. "who the hell were you waiting for?"
you wince, but you've never been one to back down from a fight, especially with him.
"who d'you think, genius?"
"if it's anyone else, i'll kill them," he promises; you raise a brow.
"how would you ever know?"
"i'll find out," he says, and objectively this situation is so fucked up in so many ways, because you know he's being serious. you know he would, uncaring of how many lines he'd have to cross, how many lives he'd have to take or leave in ruins. and the worst part is, it doesn't even matter to you. if anything, the thought of him doing that, for you, because of you, makes him all the more attractive.
"dex," you say, placatingly, reaching for his hand. he jerks away from your touch, brows still furrowed.
"tell me you were waiting for me." his voice is harsh, but there's a certain undertone to it that tell you he's not just angry.
heat churns deep in your gut; logically you know you should just stop this game of cat-and-mouse, give him what he wants. but you've never been the most rational person in the room—
"god," you laugh. "this needy? what the hell did prison do to you?"
he makes a dissatisfied noise low in his throat and steps towards you while you reach for his knife in the wall and hold it in front of you in a lame attempt to defend yourself.
"what's this tiny thing gonna do?" he rasps, crowding you up against the wall, and you don't know if he's talking about the weapon, or you. you swallow, nervous. inside, you know that he won't hurt you. he has no reason to. but your body reacts all the same, adrenaline spiking as you subconsciously search for an exit.
"you can quit looking, baby, there's no way out of this." one hand tilts your chin up, the other reaches for his knife. when you don't let go of it, he makes a face at you—one you can't quite see because of his mask, but you know he's mocking you; there's that oh-so-condescending look in his eyes that you simultaneously love and hate. you glare up at him, refusing to break.
"what's wrong?" he asks you. "are you mad? show me how mad you are, yeah? take it out on me."
in a matter of seconds, his voice goes from sharp, taunting, to breathy and soft, almost a whisper. he's pressing your hand, the knife in it, against his neck; if you move, you'll hurt him. it's like he wants you to.
his other hand moves to cup your cheek, and you startle with the realisation that he's shaking with want for you.
"i am mad at you," you decide. "i'm mad because you left me all alone here, you selfish piece of shit. i'm mad 'cause there are a hundred men you could kill and not get caught, and you chose the only one who'd get you killed!"
"that's not—" he begins, then realises you're in tears.
"shit, baby, don't cry," he whispers, but you can tell he's not feeling as bad as he should—not even a little. the sick bastard's enjoying it. he slips the knife away from your hand, and slides it away from you on the counter. pulling his mask off, he tosses it to the side, forgotten, wipes your tears with the hand that'd been holding you.
"i'm not sad," you clarify, sniffing. it's good to see his face again, even if it's different now, older, more machine than man. "i'm just really fucking pissed."
his grin returns in full, so fast you'd think it'd been there this whole time, just hidden. "yeah? show me."
you pull him down to kiss him, channelling your rage and fear and grief into it, like you're trying to make him understand what you've been feeling all this time. he stiffens for the tiniest fraction of a second, then softens in your touch, groaning into your mouth, all tongue and teeth while his hand moves to the back of your neck.
you claw at his chest, taking in the new broadness of his shoulders, the way his muscles are taut under the fabric of his suit. you break the kiss, panting, and he halfheartedly chases your lips with something that's almost a whine, but not quite. he's different like that, now—before, he'd be whining, begging for you like a man starved, but something's changed within him. he takes and he takes and he takes.
you smack him lightly, shoving him away to create space between the two of you.
"i need this," you begin, then cut yourself off with a deep—and much needed—breath. "dex, i need this off."
he exhales, half-breath half-laugh. "impatient, are we?"
"fuck you," you snap, so, so close to losing it, and he dips his head to hide his smile, nosing at your throat instead.
"sweetheart, babe, i'm trying," he groans, now pressing sloppy kisses down your neck, and your hand instinctively tightens in his hair, eliciting another unholy noise from him.
"i swear you enjoyed this stupid fight," you say accusingly, a jab that you don't mean as you try to keep your breathing even, and when he doesn't reply, just smiles wider against your neck, you tug at his hair to get an answer. but then he moans into your shoulder, and you realise he has been getting off on this.
"fucking sicko," you breathe. "i hate you!"
he looks up just to shake his head and laugh, one strong hand keeping your head in place so you can't look away. "don't lie to me, baby, you love me. you're never gonna move on, right? 'cause i ruined you for anyone else, yeah? you'll never find someone like me again."
and it's true, so all you can do is nod and agree, breathless. "dex, baby, i love you, i'm yours, i promise—"
"good," he says, and shuts you up with another bruising kiss.