Hellllooo could you write something like Benjamin Poindexter x reader with primal play
of course!! i'm writing this with ddba dex in mind :p
i can see this starting in two different ways:
either you approach him and ask to try some primal play. he's never heard of it so you give him a brief run down. the whole thing—him chasing you or hunting you, manhandling you, exhibiting his strength against you—made him smile faintly. "you're into that sort of thing, huh?" he never would've thought that you'd like or even know about such a kink, but he's more than ready to explore it with you.
or he comes to you with it. he doesn't necessarily know about the term 'primal play', but he's always enjoyed the way you squirm under him when he fucks you, so he figures he could escalate it but really making you scared of him. just pretending, of course. he tries to coax you into pretending to run away from him and be scared of him. he makes it clear that he wants to play the role of predator and make you his prey. if you're immediately up for it, great! if you seem to be apprehensive about it, he tries to be so gentle with you. "you know i'd never actually hurt you, sweet thing? we're just...trying something knew." he calms you down enough to start looking forward to it.
either way, he takes you out in hell's kitchen at dead of night. he's wearing his blue compression shirt and tactical pants, he's holstered his guns and several knives. seeing him like this in the near dark of a neighbourhood everybody knew to be riddled with crime made an unfamiliar blend of fear and arousal settle in your abdomen. you knew well enough that dex would never actually try to hurt you, just as much as you knew he could if he really wanted to. smudging the line between eroticism and terror with the most dangerous man you knew was seriously doing a number on you.
dex pulled you in for a searing kiss before stepping back and pulling his mask over his face. he said nothing and just nodded his head to the side, indicating for you to run.
you took off, not sure if you should be jogging or sprinting. you knew dex would be able to catch up to you at any pace with ease, so you didn't think about it too much. you took a few strides and turned to look over you shoulder—dex was already gone.
knowing he was now in the wind made your heart rate spike. out of genuine fear or excitement, maybe even a mix of both, you weren't sure. but you kept running.
you didn't know where to go so you just passed a block from your apartment. out of nowhere, you heard a whistling noise and the hem of your shirt was pinned to a window's wooden panel with a paperclip. dex's handiwork.
you smiled despite yourself and tried to remove it, but it was lodged in there deep. you grunted softly and tugged at the shirt in hopes of tearing it free, but the rift spread all the way to just below your sternum. your now-ruined shirt billowed in the wind as you frantically looked around in search of dex, but he was still nowhere in sight.
dex watched you from his vantage point. he chuckled lowly as he saw your head whip around before you took off running again. he passed between buildings and watched you as you advanced through the area. eventually, you stopped and leaned against a splintered wooden door to catch your breath.
he watched the rise and fall of your chest with abnormal focus. he knew you were at least a little frightened, and probably quite worn out. he watched you wipe a sheen of sweat from your upper lip before making his next move. he drew a throwing knife from his hip and flung it right by your head—three out of six inches of the blade embedded into the door mere centimetres from the side of your face.
you turned to run, but dex finally appeared in front of you. he pushed you back and crowded you against the door with a knee between your legs and a hand creeping up your waist through the slit in your shirt as he pulled the knife out from the door.
he tilted your face up to his with the tip of the knife and slipped his mask off. his smile was unlike anything you had ever seen from him before. it was self-satisfied and gratified. you knew without him telling you that he had enjoyed this little experiment far more than he thought he would. he wanted to breathe in all of your little gasps, the air that you had to labour to push out of your lungs.
he finally retracted the knife from your chin and pressed his lips to yours for only the second time that night. he hoisted your legs around his waist and carried you to an alleyway to fuck you in peace.
check out my masterlist with several other dex works :)
author note: every time i think about how lonely dex must be, i get unbearably sad :( so i wrote this about sort of inducting him into your social circle
cw: fem!reader, implied age gap, brief intimidating behaviour from a stranger
your friends love dex. they didn't know it, but he was weary of them at first; he didn't like how often he called you to check up on his girl and you told him that you were "clubbing with the girls", or "at dinner with the girls", or "sleeping over with the girls". he was your man! didn't that count for anything?
he tried to coax you into taking a break from being such a social butterfly. "baby, you know it's not safe to be out at night", "i'm just worried. you know drinking too much isn't healthy", "there's been girls like you going missing in the neighbourhood. i'd never forgive myself if that happened to you". sure, there was no evidence of missing women, but he needed to try something. he was desperate.
you had finally relented and agreed to let dex meet your friends and personally keep you safe. at first, you were apprehensive. you didn't want to be that girl who never went anywhere without her boyfriend, who always had to check in for permission from him and always let him crash girls' night. you knew it was annoying to be around. but dex had been worried sick! you knew how much he cared about you, and his intentions were (mostly!) good. you owed it to him to put his mind at ease.
you soft launched dex's presence in your friend group by bringing him to the club; the girls would be dancing on other guys anyway, so coming equipped with dex wouldn't be too disruptive.
you walked hand in hand with him and met up with your girls in line and you beamed at them. they smiled in confusion as they looked at dex next to you. sure, he was dressed more appropriately for a late night stalking than dancing, and the scar on his cheek indicated a life of violence, but that was just dex!
in the club, you danced and dex kind of just stood there. his arms slung around your waist as he watched you with hearts in his eyes. he was mesmerised by the way you moved, the way you turned in his arms and pressed your back to his chest and grinded against him. he couldn't believe he had been missing out on this for whole months.
after a while, dex broke his stare and caught sight of your friend, max, who had gone to the bar for a glass of water. a man was standing—practically looming—over her. she looked scared, but didn't call for help or even open her mouth. you noticed dex's distraction and tracked his gaze to max's clearly frightened body language. you turned to dex to ask if you could help and caught him reaching in his pocket, presumably for a projectile.
after you slapped his hand away, he grumbled and stalked over to max and the perv. "back off, man." dex dwarfed the man in comparison. you watched as the guy opened his mouth to object, but dex didn't let him. "'m not asking. go."
he scampered away and you wrapped an arm around max's shoulders as she trembled. you did feel uncomfortably aroused by dex's chivalry, but max was clearly shaken up.
you and the girls ended the night early, which you were grateful for. you needed to have dex in you sooner rather than later.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
from that night on, your friends wanted dex to tag along almost as much as he wanted to shadow you. they always greeted him with excitement, "hi, dex!" all in unison.
he'd smile faintly and settle down with his arm slung around your waist. "hi, girls" was all he'd really say. you brought him to your friends' apartments and sometimes even to house parties. the girls even took to asking him for advice.
one of your closest friends, natalia, asked the group what to do about a guy. "sometimes he seems so into me, then he goes a whole week without texting! meanwhile, he's posting other girls on his story." the group was united on him being a fuckboy, and natalia turned to dex, laid back next to you on the sofa. "what do you think, dex?"
everyone turned to him expectantly and he shifted slightly, stretching his legs out. "yeah, he's not serious about you. forget him. find a guy that wants you to be around all the time." the group hummed and natalia nodded firmly. you watched dex in amusement.
seeing him blend in with a group of college girls was amusing since he didn't at all; he stood out like a neon sign. but knowing that your friends liked having him around made you so happy.
socialising dex like a stray that's not used to being around other animals :o
Dex struggles with his impulses in a domestic environment.
Cw: mild descriptions of violence, a little suggestive (16+?), emotionally evolved Dex lol, AFAB reader but little to no physical descriptions
I wanted to try to explore this side of him. Enjoy :D
Dex was, looking in from the outside, objectively doing better than the majority of the population. He took care of his body, rigidly adhering to his carefully curated schedule and eating as recommended. He stayed as healthy as possible on his own, though he occasionally indulged himself to keep you company while trying a new restaurant or simply to be spontaneous. After some trial and error, he had found medication that reduced the violent oscillations of his mood to manageable levels. And yet—
He'd been plagued by growing restlessness.
One such instance occurred when he found himself admiring the slope of your neck a bit too long on a random afternoon. The day was unremarkable, he was seated on the couch while you sat on the floor, your back against the couch and frame between his spread legs. He'd occasionally lean over and point out a number that fit a specific cell, causing you to whine at him for interrupting your focus and spoiling the fun of Sudoku, to which his eyes twinkled with mirth as he reclined back. But his eyes wandered, over your neck, to your shoulder, and he felt his skin get a little hot. How he wanted to grab you and claw at you. He wanted to press so deep he'd leave indents in your skin as if it were plasticine. He wondered which button he had to push to make you feel that desire that was boiling over within him. He had to excuse himself because he felt a tremor in his hands and a tightness in his stomach. He never told you about it after that, but it was torturous to sleep cuddled up to you so keyed up. He tried to keep his touches tender, and in return he received your sweet kisses all over his upper body and a pleasant gratitude for his conduct. He gnawed on his lip until it was sore to hold himself back.
The next time it happened was when you decided it was time to deep clean the apartment. He was elated to help, and proud you understood his need for cleanliness and perhaps adopted some yourself. Seeing you adopt some of his habits soothed an itch he hadn't realized was there, and he jumped in to help. It was a little difficult because you kept touching his forearms and back and smiling knowingly, but he persevered to actually finish the tasks you had outlined. He had been wiping a window when he heard you keen and jolted, quickly rushing into the bathroom to see your hand split on a broken tile. He grabbed the first aid kit and patched you up while you sniffled so adoringly, he couldn't help but snort at your reaction to which you pushed him with your foot.
But my goodness, wasn't it hot. He wanted to be the one to trace your delicate veins and arteries with his knife, and he had a specific one in mind too, to gently nick you here and there while you were below him, preferably worked up and begging for his touch, any touch. There certainly were parts on your body which yearned for the pressure of his blade, and he could find them and give you that overwhelming pleasure. Afterward, he could kiss the little marks and patch you up. The stupid tile stole his thunder and he swore he'd replace them all. His hands shook as he clumsily finished wrapping you up and he wiped his sweaty face, feeling his cock jump as he saw some of your blood mixing with it. He took a long shower after that, scrubbing more violently when he remembered your cute, confused expression at his disarray.
The need that's been building up within him finally boiled over when he came home one night, tired and slightly drained from the perils of public transportation. He kicked his shoes off and walked into the living room, hesitating to sit in his outside clothes, but also too worn out to change immediately. He heard a shuffle and glanced up, seeing you smiling shyly in your sleepwear. He felt his heart tug and he smiled back in greeting, his crow's feet deepening until he noticed something was different — your skin was glowy, as if freshly moisturized, hair obviously styled meticulously for such a late night, and some bolder makeup emphasizing your lips and eyes.
His eyelids lowered as he took you in, and stepped closer, gently grabbing your hips. He didn't want you to touch his dirty suit so he leaned down to press a chaste kiss against your sticky lips, but your eagerness in response surprised him. You pulled him closer by the neck and pressed your torso against his, making him gasp into your mouth, and mere seconds later he felt your warm tongue licking into his mouth. You tasted a bit like toothpaste and something sweet you probably ate not too long ago. Dex tilted his head and walked you back into the bedroom, changing angles as his hands began to roam the curves of your body. He's been holding himself back for so long that restraint had begun to feel brittle. He tried to be careful but your scent, your skin and mouth were too intoxicating, your blatant expression of desire — the kiss — along with the obvious preparation made his heart thud heavily; you wanted him. He panted as he pushed you onto the bed, quickly pulling on his tie to loosen in while you shrugged his blazer off. Between bated breaths, you murmured his name softly. He grunted in response, delirious as he pulled at your clothes.
—Would you, um, could you... Tie me up? I'd like to try it. A-also you can... You can bite a bit harder.
You punctuated the request with that shy little smile that made your lips glisten as they stretched. He froze, then let out a needy moan. You were gonna be the death of him.
— Are you sure? I don't want to... He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he pushed his hair back. I don't know how to pace myself.
He waited for your reaction with bated breath, looming over your body. There were so many things he wanted to do, and he wanted to do them perfectly — he wanted to be the only one to please you, to have you, to hurt you. But your encouraging, tender smile in turn undid him.
— Yes, I'm sure, baby. I trust you, I... I'll tell you if it's too much.
He tenderly took your wrists and tied him to the bedframe with his tie, gently kissing the newly formed knot. Then, his eyes drifted downwards, and he licked his lips in anticipation of marking the clean canvas before him. It was going to be a long night.
synopsis you finally have a reason to invite dex to your apartment and it quickly spins out of your control. at least you get to keep the knife.
or, dex keeps getting in your head when you're trying to get into his.
notes this was originally two parts but i combined them because i saw no way to separate them.
tags suggestive content (mdni), nothing crazy just sexual innuendos, fluff, humor, awkward situations (i mean it this time), fantasizing, descriptions of violence, suicidal ideation, feelings, flirting, morally gray reader (?), mentions of sexual assault (not by dex), discussions of canon events
wc 6.2k
series masterlist • previous part • next part
The knife you swiped from Dex stayed in your kitchen drawer for a week.
You had tossed it in among the other mismatched knives you used for cooking when you made it home from his place, and there it remained.
It was slightly menacing, both blade and handle inky black compared to the sea of metal it swam in.
It was there every time you opened your drawer to cook dinner, large and commanding, appearing as a poorly hidden weapon among your cutlery. Cryptic like a cursed object you were storing away from the wrong hands.
I.e., your clumsy ones.
You’d be lying if you said you were never enticed by the idea of using it for your dinner prep. It was much sharper than any regular kitchen knife, and would probably slice through your veggies like paper.
The thought made you shiver.
You pulled it from the open drawer and squeezed the handle tight, taking notice of how the metal pressed indents into your palm–likely the very same ones that graced his.
It was lighter in your hand, the blade jutting out thicker than its handle making it aerodynamic. You ran your finger along the blade and realized it wasn’t sharp like you assumed.
It was dull–even more blunt than your kitchen knives which made Dex’s throw a lot more impressive than you once thought.
He must have thrown it on a whim, a straight shot into the stereo console with just a flick of his arm fueled by distress and rage.
He certainly had the upper body strength for it.
You held the knife up and scanned your kitchen walls for something you wouldn’t miss—no pun intended.
The walls were sparsely decorated because you took most of your hangings down for a stick-on wallpaper project and hadn’t gotten around to putting them all back up.
There was that old painting of the moon you thrifted when you first moved in. It was bought just for the sake of covering your white walls so you wouldn’t feel like you lived in an asylum, and now it wasn’t really your style anymore.
With the moon in the center of the painting as a focal point, you took a breath and flicked your wrist out, releasing the knife from your grip.
It zipped to the wall, sticking right into a spot beside the painting’s frame.
“Oh god,” you rushed over to pry the blade from your stick-on wallpaper. “Definitely not getting that deposit back.”
A firm knock at your front door startled you out of your panic.
In your eagerness to play badass secret agent, you totally forgot you had only been goofing off because you were waiting for the owner of the knife you were throwing around to show up at your apartment.
See, your admiration of his physique the other night hadn’t just been you plain objectifying him. You had a giant box in your living room waiting to be opened up and assembled into a lovely walnut display cabinet.
And Dex still owed you that favor for leaving you all alone at the wedding.
While you could have put it together yourself, you had repeated that exact sentence in your head every time you passed the cardboard eyesore (or stubbed your toe on it) ever since it was hauled into your apartment a month ago.
So why not spare yourself the back pain?
The favor was requested by you the night you went to his place after the wedding. Just before you left, standing in the doorway of his apartment, you were suddenly struck with the perfect way for him to finally make up for his string of disappointments.
“Can you come over and help me rearrange my living room this weekend?” your eyes were lit up like Christmas morning.
He coughed awkwardly and nodded. Then, gave you a quiet goodbye as he closed the door.
It took you ten minutes of sitting in your cab before you realized what his problem was.
“Oh my god,” you audibly gasped, which made your driver briefly look in the rear view mirror. “I think I just invited my friend over to sleep with me.”
You thought your request was normal enough, but maybe it was the context in which you asked that made him pick up on an innuendo that wasn’t intended.
It was late at night, both of you having just made up after a difficult fight, you left wearing his hoodie, and then asked him to make it up to you by coming over.
It sounded like you were asking him to come rearrange something else.
The thought made you burn up and you wished the ground would open up and swallow your entire taxi whole.
At least your driver didn’t mind you venting the entire story of your friendship to him. He called you a hot mess as you were getting out but at least he was a good listener.
To make matters worse, Dex was out of the city for the past week so you didn’t even get the chance to clarify that there was actual work to be done, and not on you.
Before you rushed to the door, you considered pushing the furniture box into the middle of the living room just so he’d see right off the bat that there was a very real cabinet that needed to be put together.
But then, he knocked again and you were out of time for any other protective measures.
A small prayer was said in your mind as you held the doorknob. You don’t know why you were so freaked out over a slip-up.
A small part of you wondered what would happen if you just went with it. He still showed up at the address you texted him, so did that mean he was…down?
You tried to blame the twist of desire in your stomach on anxiety.
It was also the hottest day of the year, and you were about to be in your enclosed living space with him for an hour putting together furniture…
You press your cold palms on your face to sober up. Now, when he was literally outside your door, was not the time to be having these thoughts.
You pulled the front door open.
“Kept me waiting,” he said, and it almost annoyed you that he was observing rather than chiding. And that he seemed a lot more unbothered than you were.
You were already uncomfortably hot, and it wasn’t because of the failing A/C in your unit.
“You deserve it a little bit,” you put a hand on your hip in a playful manner. “After you kept me waiting.”
You weren’t still angry with him about the wedding. You just wanted to get on his case for being so casual about all of this when you were close to running a fever.
Like a frisky kitten trying to rile up her littermate.
And Dex took the bait. His lip pressed into a line, a tendon in his neck twitched.
Then, he walked past you into your apartment like he was owed entry.
You felt his hard body brush against yours as he did, and hated how you caught yourself mapping the feeling of him against you to memory.
He stood in the middle of your apartment and you shut the door after recovering.
“Come on in, why don’t you.”
“You were going to let me in anyway.” Amusement laced his tone. He spotted the large box in the corner taking up enough space to count as a second dining table. “Is that the one?”
So he did think he was here to build furniture. You should be wiping sweat off your forehead right now.
“That’s the one!” you answered a bit too fast, causing him to raise an eyebrow. You motioned to your open toolbox on the coffee table. “I’ve got a box cutter in there.”
He gave a quick shake of his head, as if to silently say ‘don’t need it’ and pulled the box tabs open with his bare hands. The tape went taut and pulled apart without much effort.
“Suddenly you’re above using knives?” you chimed quietly, mostly to yourself.
You both began pulling the walnut stained particle board out, organizing them by order of the instruction booklet you found in the bottom of the box.
If only the entire process of building the cabinet had been that smooth.
While the parts list made perfect sense, the instructions were an odd collection of pictures that didn’t look anything remotely like what you were building. All accompanied by one word instructions.
Screw. Hammer. Slide.
It was messing with your head more than the heat.
You took turns flipping the instruction booklet upside down and right side up, trying to make sense of it until finally resorting to improvising.
Which went well enough until you turned a page and saw a picture that did make sense.
“Uh,” you wiped sweat off your brow. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we made a mistake.”
He moved to stand behind you. So close you could feel the heat of him against your back and you were forced to remember how it felt to have him against you.
“What did we do wrong?”
Right. Maybe you should stop imagining him pressing you up against your half-built display cabinet and answer him.
You cleared your throat. “We were supposed to attach the doors while the cabinet was still lying flat...”
“Hmm,” he grunted and you felt it low your stomach. “One of us will have to hold the door while the other screws it in place.”
The doors had to be screwed in from three hinges, at three different heights to support the weight.
And to reach the lowest hinge, the person with the screwdriver would have to be on their knees.
This is what you get for letting your imagination run wild while he was breathing the same air as you. The universe was punishing you–or, maybe your filthy mind subconsciously brought this reality closer to you as a gift.
You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Right. Okay, I’ll hold the door.”
He frowned. “It’ll be heavy. But okay.”
It could weigh a ton for all you cared–you weren’t going to get on your knees in front of him right now.
So you ignored the trembling in your arms from the weight and tried to silence your pathetic whine of effort as you lifted the cabinet door and lined it up at the hinges. You had to balance it against your hip to keep from dropping it.
Dex was changing the screw-head at your toolbox, taking his sweet time while you were standing there beside the cabinet shaking like a leaf.
Oh, you realized, this is a game to him.
Of course he didn’t protest to you holding the door that was clearly too heavy for you. He wanted to watch you struggle and beg for his help.
Well, you weren’t going to. You wouldn’t let him get the upperhand on you with that stupidly handsome concentrated glare of his as he fiddled with your tools.
“There we go,” he held up the screwdriver for you to see, and then approached the door, “keep it steady.”
A bead of sweat rolled down your neck as if on cue.
“I’m sure you can manage, Mr. ‘I work for the CIA’,” you said breathlessly. “What do you do for them anyway?”
Now probably wasn’t the best time for asking questions. It was so hot that the glass door you were holding had begun to fog up from your mingled labored breathing.
But you had to distract yourself from how close to you he was standing.
“Their dirty work, mostly.”
He had alluded to something like that before. Contract work he called it.
Good thing you didn’t use that knife of his to cut salad like you were planning to. It could have been in someone’s skull before, and you didn’t want to be haunted for trying to eat healthy.
Once the first hinge was screwed in, it took some of the weight off your poor arms.
“So you’re a lapdog?” you provoked.
The middle hinge was secured after, and you were about to breathe a sigh of relief. But then you noticed the intense gaze he was directing at you.
Cold. But not like you were on the other end of his knife. He was looking at you like you put him on the other end of yours.
“I’m not their lapdog,” he said. “They call and I answer.”
You swallowed hard. “Okay, so more like a merc. Noted.”
He didn’t like your insinuation that he was owned by someone. Got it.
“Yes, more like a merc,” he confirmed.
He rested the screwdriver on the cupboard so he could grab a few loose screws from the bag left behind in the box.
“Dex, can you hurry?” your arms were starting to tremble again. “It’s getting really heavy.”
He was likely punishing you for your remark, making you wait because you insulted him. But how were you supposed to know? It’s not like he ever gave details on his own. You had to interpret everything yourself unless you asked directly.
“Yeah. If you hand me the screwdriver.” he requested, returning to your side.
You balanced the door against your upper body so you could grab the screwdriver and hold it out for him to take.
He smiled at you gratefully, like your handing him the screwdriver was doing him some sort of favor, and grasped the other end.
Only, he wouldn’t take it from you. Just held onto it. Your fingers just far enough apart to not touch.
And then still holding your gaze, he knelt onto the ground in front of you. The movement was slow, drawn out as he balanced his weight on one knee. He was looking up at you now.
Your mouth went dry.
“Thanks.” Dex finally took the screwdriver out of your hand.
You swallowed hard and squeaked out a “sure” like you didn’t just have the dirtiest image possible conjured into your mind.
You weren’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been scheming to put those pictures in your head, either.
The low hinge was right by your hips, and you could feel his hand brush your skin over your shirt with every turn of the tool in his calloused hands.
Once the last screw was in, you let go of the cabinet door and stepped away from where he was kneeling beside you.
“Your turn to hold the door,” you stammered out. Kneeling in front of him didn’t seem like such a bad punishment after what he just put you through.
“Too heavy? I won’t say I told you so.”
“Good, then don’t,” you huffed, waiting for him to balance the other door without breaking a sweat.
He didn’t even have to balance it against his hip like you did.
Show off.
With a soft breath tumbling past your lips, you focused on screwing the door to the hinge.
It was a little taller than your height, so you had to reach up to get the screw in. Your fingers trembled with effort as you lined up the first screw up at the top.
Your gaze flickered to his face. Dex was watching you.
Another bead of sweat slid down your neck. His eyes followed it, unbothered that you caught him looking.
The screw slipped from your clammy fingers and slid across your wooden floors.
“Need help?” His tone was void of concern.
“No. My hands are just sweaty,” you huffed, and picked up the screw that rolled towards the couch. “It’s hotter than hell in here, if you haven’t noticed.”
You tried to ignore his leering by lining the screw up again and twisting it into the hinge.
The second screw went in smoother than the first.
“You’re not making this easy for me, just so you know,” you murmured, grabbing another screw from the bag.
“How can I make it easier for you?” he asked.
You decided to ignore him. You didn’t trust your voice right now.
Now for the last hinge.
“Want to switch again?” His tone was overly saccharine, like he was a concerned neighbor or something.
“You’re not funny,” you muttered, lowering to your knees. You turned the screw in slowly, careful not to drop it this time.
When you stood from the floor, your head spun. You were already faint from the heat, and getting up too fast was turning your brain to mush.
A soft groan left your lips and you rubbed your temple to ward off an oncoming headache.
“Just sit back,” you heard him say in your daze, “I’ll do the rest of the work.”
You were too spent to argue. You took a few steps backward til the heels of your feet hit the couch and you let yourself sit down.
The cabinet was fully built with the glass doors you two just secured onto it, so he got to work pushing it into the exact spot against the wall you had shown him earlier.
You were grateful he was attentive enough to remember exactly where you wanted it.
The sound of furniture sliding across the floor barely registered in your mind. Then you heard your refrigerator open.
Before you could succumb to your heat-exhausted stupor, something cold was pressed to your cheek.
You blindly reached for it and your eyes fluttered open to see him standing above you. He was pressing a cold water bottle to your face, and you took it from him gratefully.
“Drink up.”
“Thanks,” you obeyed, unscrewing the cap. “Your debt is officially repaid.”
As you tilted the bottle back, letting the cool liquid quench your thirst, he began wandering your apartment.
His glances around were a lot more subtle than yours when you were eyeing his place.
You watched him peer down the hall at the closed doors and could guess what he was thinking with that focused, analytical expression darkening his eyes.
Which was your bedroom? Your bathroom? He was making a mental map of where you lived. Where each room stood relative to the other.
Then, he looked at your kitchen. At the indent in your wall from where you had chucked the knife–his knife–into the wall by accident.
He pointed to it. “What happened here?”
You shrugged. “Just a scuff.”
Like he’d buy that. He probably recognized the exact outline of the knife model he used.
But he left it alone anyway, letting you get away with your terrible attempt at a lie.
“Right.”
You missed the knowing smirk he wore.
It was late by the time the apartment was cool enough for you to feel like moving around again.
You were organizing books and thrifted ornaments into your new cabinet. They had been on the floor of your closet for a month, waiting to be shelved and now you had Dex to thank for their new home.
Heat prickled your skin every time you opened or closed those cabinet doors, remembering what it took to get them attached.
You had made a huge mistake showing him how easily he could get under your skin.
You wouldn’t be participating in a cat and mouse game with him if it wasn’t thrilling for you too, but that didn’t mean you were happy about him somehow making you the mouse again and again.
Deflections and taunts weren’t enough to put him in his place. He was too familiar with that game.
Dex managed to disarm you with simple brushes. He never even directly touched you once–not with his hands, anyway.
Not when he walked into your apartment. Not when he stood behind you to read the instructions. Not when he was holding the other end of the screwdriver. Not when he was handing you a water bottle in a manner that felt a little too similar to aftercare…
Yet still, you were undone by him.
You shut the cabinet doors with a loud thud, and stopped when you were about to pass by the indent you left in your kitchen wall.
He definitely knew you had his knife. That you were using your wall like a dartboard instead of treating it like the weapon it was.
You recalled the way he, too, stopped to admire the notch before he left your place. You lifted your hand to run your fingers over the crease.
The jagged stretch of the ridge in the wall against your skin pulled your thoughts to the rough scar he had running across his cheek.
It was always tempting you to reach out and touch it when he spoke to you. Distracting you, pulling your eyes to it and making you wonder how he got it in the first place.
Your hand pulled back slowly, returning to your side.
Maybe it was time you looked his name up on the internet.
The blue light on your laptop screen strained your eyes as you sat at the kitchen counter.
A bowl of popcorn was strategically placed next to you–which was for your nervous chewing habit, not because you thought you were about to be particularly entertained by anything you found.
This was your friend you were going to be digging up dirt on. Someone you had come to care about deeply. Not just some random name you heard on the news.
Your skin tingled from anticipation as you typed his full name into your internet browser.
Benjamin Poindexter.
The search pulled up a number of links for you to click. All of them referenced a lengthy criminal record attached to him dating back nearly ten years, along with a publicized psychiatric record.
That part tugged at your heart. It seemed too invasive to release something like that online for anyone to read. So you ignored it.
You perused the Bulletin articles that named him as one of the FBI agents complicit in Fisk’s crimes.
You remembered hearing about that corruption case because every New Yorker at the time was talking about it. But with how busy your life was back then, how were you expected to have retained the names of every single agent involved in that case?
It’s not like you ever thought you’d be involved with one of them.
There was more focus on Dex than the other agents in the article, though. His name was connected to the attack at the very journal you were reading from, where he was dressed in a fake Daredevil costume.
He had a trail of bodies behind him. And not just the ones he was ordered to kill–innocents, lives taken out of his own volition.
You had expected it. It still didn’t prevent the sweat gathering in your palms. You distracted yourself with caramel popcorn.
Another article from two years ago. Dex spent six years in jail, then was let out on mysterious circumstances where he assassinated a target and multiple innocent bystanders.
The bowl of popcorn beside you was half-empty now. You’d hate to be his lawyer during the trial for this case.
It wasn’t hard to find the videos online of said trial. You skipped to the end where his life sentence was being read, focused on the way his lips were pulled into a lopsided smile.
You couldn’t understand why he seemed so pleased with himself. Maybe he knew prison wouldn't keep him long.
As they led him out of the courtroom, something caught your eye. Something that pieced together the rest of the story.
You had it all wrong. The knives were never his weapon. It was his hands.
The comment section of the video confirmed it for you, with half of them being about the alias ‘Bullseye’ and theories connecting him to different attacks that happened just before he was arrested again.
Wait.
You thought back to a few weeks before your flight.
Your best friend was hosting her engagement brunch so you had skipped your usual morning at the diner. When you got home, you saw on the news that Bullseye had attacked AVTF soldiers and they were closing it for investigation.
You were a little more concerned about making breakfast at home for the next week rather than the attack. That sounded bad, but you were just desensitized from years of living in proximity to Hell's Kitchen.
But it was different now. You knew the attacker.
Part of you wondered what would have happened if you were there that day. He hadn’t attacked any bystanders according to the articles, so it’s not like you would have been hurt.
Would you have still been able to form a bond with him if you had seen him killing in front of you like that?
You weren’t completely numb or anything–you’d have been terrified. Probably hiding in the very booth you now sat with him at every morning.
But you’d been harassed repeatedly by the AVTF on your way to work just for the crime of crossing paths with one of their patrol routes.
And they didn’t show you any mercy with inappropriate comments, ‘random’ searches, or vaguely offensive remarks you had to bite your tongue at.
So a little part of you would have been grateful to see them get handed back the same respect they showed you tenfold.
You snapped your laptop lid shut with trembling hands.
It should have disgusted you more. He’d taken innocent lives. Tore families apart.
But his actions in the past didn’t require justification or forgiveness from you. He never asked you to absolve him of his sins.
Just acknowledge them. See them for what they were. No amount of exaggeration journalists added to his crimes distracted from the fact that his crimes were heinous, so he knew exactly what you’d find when you eventually researched him.
Maybe that’s why he told you in the first place. He knew you weren’t going to run.
You always gave him grace, gave him solace from the memories of being manipulated, used for murder, and discarded again and again.
Dex would tell you who he was, and you would stay every time.
Your hands brushed the bottom of the bowl when you reached for more popcorn.
Time for a refill.
You rolled out of bed early the next morning. Mostly because you didn’t get much sleep last night–but more importantly, you were determined to get to the diner before Dex.
He was always there before you, claiming your table before anyone else could. You’d watch him remove his headphones as you sat across from him and thank him for the coffee he ordered for you while he waited. Always piping hot, because by now he knew how to predict when you’d come in to drink it.
Today, though, you were making it your job to claim the table.
You were hyperaware of everything in the diner when you sat down. The silverware on the table wrapped in a cloth napkin, the wooden stirrers by the coffee pot.
Above all, the empty spot in the middle where the lobster tank used to be. In the past, it was so insignificant to you that you didn’t even realize it was gone when you came back to the diner after it stopped being a crime scene months ago.
But after reading the attack details last night, it was impossible to ignore how peculiar it was that Dex–or, Bullseye–deliberately chose to involve the lobsters in his grudge against the AVTF.
The bell above the door rang, and your eyes followed him. His expression shifted a moment when he saw you there at your usual table, early for once.
Knowing how analytical Dex could get (especially over you) he probably suspected something was up immediately.
That was alright with you. It’s not like you were trying to hide from him.
When he sat down across from you, before he even got a word in, not even a hello, barely even a breath—you reached into your bag and stuck his knife down onto the table.
You did so casually and without any regard for the permanent score it would leave on the surface of the table. It was about time you carved your signatures into it, anyway.
Dex’s eyes fell to the knife, and then looked up at you. Not asking questions yet, just watching. Gauging your expression. Searching your eyes for malice or contempt.
When he confirmed you weren’t angry with him, he leaned forward, hands folded on the table.
“So?”
“I looked up your name,” you explained calmly. “Your full name.”
He nodded, and then tilted his head. “You think you know everything now?”
He was asking in a roundabout way if you knew he was Bullseye.
“I put some of it together on my own already. But I know you’re…” you trailed off. You glanced around to check for any eavesdropping customers, and then dropped your volume. “Familiar with the lobster tank.”
Dex chuckled at your retort. He picked the knife up from where you had stuck it in the table and twirled it between his fingers.
It wasn’t just a neat trick to show off for you. His eyes were dead set on you. Watching you for signs of fear. Checking if your pupils would dilate, for the slightest flare of your nostrils indicating your breathing quickened.
But you were the very picture of calm. Content, even. Maybe even a little hungry since you waited an hour for him.
“I still have questions though.” you leaned back, crossing your arms.
“You always do.” he quipped.
“Just to piece the rest of the story together,” you clarified. You read the news, but you wanted to hear him tell it. “Three years ago you were sprung out of nowhere and then you….”
You made a gun cocking gesture with your pointer finger and thumb–just in case anyone was listening.
He was looking down at the knife in his hands.
“I made a deal with Vanessa Fisk. She let me out in exchange for,” he copied your gun gesture with his hand. “I didn’t have a choice. I was…out of my mind.”
You had a feeling that had more to it than just being incarcerated.
“Did they have you on some kind of drugs?”
He stayed silent. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he was deep in thought. You were bringing him back to a time he likely didn’t want to remember.
You didn’t want to push his head underwater like that. But there was one more thing you had to know.
“What I don’t understand is,” you tapped your nails against the table idly. “You ended up back in prison anyway.”
Dex looked up at you. His eyes met yours but he was far away.
“Wasn’t a fight I planned on coming back from.”
His words knocked the air from your lungs.
The psychiatric record you found last night came to mind. You had been so wrapped up in getting to know him, you never even thought about the idea of losing him.
And not just to any old threat. Losing him to himself.
“Oh…” your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Um, so. Vanessa Fisk–did you…you know, out of revenge?”
He shrugged. “It was more like a favor.”
“A favor?” You were intrigued. The fact that he met with you everyday clued you in that he didn't really see anyone else outside of work. “A favor to who?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” he quoted to you, putting the knife in his jacket pocket.
It was just a saying he used to satiate your curiosity. But you took it as a riddle. Your eyes narrowed as thoughts turned in your head.
You remember reading that there was another vigilante at the scene during the mayor’s boxing match.
“You mean Daredevil?” the corners of your lips twitched up.
His brow furrowed in annoyance. “Yes. Daredevil. Why do you care?”
“It’s really cool that you know him, that’s all. I mean, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” your voice went all high pitched, and it made his eyes narrow more. “He’s an underground symbol of hope. He’s badass.”
Dex didn’t seem to share your sentiment.
“Will you introduce me?”
“No.”
“What? Why not?” your lips formed a pout.
You were cooking dinner in your apartment alone later that night. It was fortunate that your throwing knife was now safe and sound with its owner, no longer calling you to use it for peeling potatoes.
It was also probably lodged in someone’s throat now. At least, that's what your imagination fed you. You'd never actually seen Dex in action.
Did giving Bullseye back one of his knives make you complicit? Hopefully not.
Soft music played from your speaker over the sizzling of the pan on the stove and low hum of the exhaust fan above it. You were humming along, idly passing the time while you watched your rice cook and fluff up in a sauce pan.
A small smile was etched onto your lips as you recalled your meeting with Dex this morning.
He probably wasn’t expecting you to let him explain himself to you. To let him give you his version of the events. You just wanted to hear his perspective, not judge his actions. You took them for what they were. He seemed to understand that.
The vibration of your phone on the counter startled you.
Dex’s contact name he had typed in himself popped up. You lowered your music–ignoring the thudding of your heart against your ribs now audible in its absence–and answered.
“Hello?” you wondered if he could hear the smile in your voice.
“You should open a window while you’re cooking,” he said. “It’s a lot more efficient than a fan.”
“I don’t know if that’s true–”
Your stomach swooped.
“Can you see me right now…?”
You walked to the balcony window where your curtains had been pulled open. All you could see past the glass was the city lights reflecting in from other skyscrapers and apartments.
With a small tug, you slid your balcony screen open.
“Dex?” you called into the phone.
Before you could take another breath, something zipped past your head and into your apartment. You whipped around, facing the kitchen wall.
A knife–the very same knife he had stolen back–was lodged into your kitchen wall. Next to your painting of the moon. The very same spot that you had accidentally carved into your wall yesterday.
Your phone was still pressed to your ear as you approached the blade in the wall.
There was a message etched into the onyx blade.
You’re cute.
A soft syllable of laughter fell from your lips. You reached up to trace the white etchings in the blade, imagining how long he sat up at his vantage point, looking into your open curtains and carving that message just for you.
“Very funny Dex,” you turned towards the window again, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “You’d come say it to my face, if you were brave.”
You held your breath for a beat. Come over. Please.
“I would. But I like the view.”
You sighed, wistful and disappointed as you walked back to your balcony.
“Seriously, where are you?”
You squinted in the dark of the night, closely watching the nearby rooftops for the slightest of movements, indicating someone was there. That he was there.
Finally, you spotted a dark form on a nearby rooftop.
“Just wanted to return what’s rightfully yours,” his voice rasped into the phone. “Figured it was my turn to deface your souvenir.”
You thought back to the red pen you left on the back of the photograph he still has. You wondered where it was now. If he still kept it in that CD case, or if he had it hung on his wall. Or maybe…he carried it with him.
The idea of that made your heart skip.
You slowly lifted your hand up and waved. Hesitantly, not quite sure if the lump on the roof you were looking at was really him.
But you got a vague wave back from the dark figure.
“Coward,” you said into the phone pointedly, your face hurting from how hard you were smiling now.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
“Sooner than I’ll see you, apparently,” you jabbed before he could hang up. “How long have you been up there?”
“Hmm,” he hummed into the line. “Lost count. I’m multitasking. Watching my perp.”
You squinted. He was technically working. He must have been watching you through a rifle lens.
“Well, watch your perp and let me finish cooking dinner,”
“Enjoy your stirfry.”
“How did you–?” the line went dead.
You laughed and walked back to your food on the stove.
Then, a dizzying thought crossed your mind. He must have been watching your building because his target was in your area.
You looked behind you in your kitchen, where the knife was still stuck into the wall. It was hung up exactly where you planned to rehang all of your expensive art.
You were planning on turning it into a gallery wall anyway.
a/n when you try to get over your crush by researching their social media but it backfires and you like them more now.
feedback always welcomed! especially for the beginning. i struggle writing anything smut adjacent.
taglist @bakameeee @not-the-teen-witch @snowwythegloww @altgojo @ficcharsimpsblog @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @thecityofspareparts @that1weirdweebgirl @mariayjws5 @doesanyonereadthis @nghtwngs @angel113431 @star-yawnznn @ethereal-athalia
synopsis dex is bleeding half to death and becomes obsessed with how you look when you sleep. meanwhile you're trying to make him understand why you won't let him turn your apartment into a hospital room.
notes this is the end of 'part 1' so to speak :) thank you to everyone following this series so far!
tags hurt/comfort, romance, some humor, patching up, gendered nickname used, canon typical violence, descriptions of wounds, suggestive photographs, dex's spinal scar and chronic pain hcs, some suggestive content, discussions of suicidal ideation, mentions of religious beliefs
wc 6.7k
series masterlist • previous part • next part
There was a loud thump outside on your fire escape.
Hearing it should have frightened you out of your skin. It could have been a burglar and the unlucky apartment chosen happened to be yours. It could have been the sound of your upstairs neighbor’s ashtray falling off their railing and onto yours (which you already had to talk to them about twice before).
But you knew it wasn’t either of those things when you heard a second thump. This one louder, heavier. And then a stretch of silence that made you hold your breath.
Nausea turned in your stomach and an unwelcome thought forced its way into your mind.
You couldn’t explain it, but you knew what–or who–it was before you were even outside. The blanket over your lap was thrown off and forgotten as you shot up from the couch and ran for the balcony door.
All your fears were confirmed when you slid it open.
What Dex told you about his job hadn’t made you blink twice since you last spoke. You told yourself that the man who could turn any item into a bullet just by wielding it had no reason to fear death. The man who had escaped prison not once, but twice and got away with murdering the matriarch of the Fisk underground crime ring had no choice but to believe he had nine lives.
But that lost all meaning to you the moment you saw him sitting on your fire escape, slumped over and holding his side. There was a trail of dark crimson blood on the metal stairs that ended at his shadow visible in the pale moonlight.
Cold fear tightened your lungs.
Dex was hurt. Badly bleeding still, his breathing shallow and barely there. He must have dragged himself up the fire escape steps and gave up, falling against the railing once he saw the light coming from your door.
“Oh my god,” your voice broke as you dropped beside him. “Dex?”
He lifted his head when he registered you were speaking to him, and leaned back against the railing with a grunt of effort.
“I’m fine.” he said through gritted blood stained teeth, lips quivering into a pleased smile. “You had to live on the second-highest floor?”
Without wasting a second to respond to his smug statement, you reached for his arm and pulled it around your shoulders.
“You’re bleeding, so I’ll move slow.”
You were trying to stay calm at the sight of his blood seeping through his compression shirt, darkening the blue fabric. But your voice was shaking and giving you away.
“I can handle a little pain. Nothing I’m not–” he groaned when you helped him lift off the ground. “Fuck–not used to…”
“Stop talking.” you pleaded, dragging him into the threshold of your apartment.
“Yes ma’am,” he dropped onto your couch like dead weight and you don’t even think about the blood he’s soaking into it.
Anger bubbled up in your chest. How could he be so casual about this when you were about to lose it on him? He’s bleeding out, still shivering despite being in the warmth of the apartment now.
“How long have you been like this?”
You grabbed one of your dining chairs and sat across from him. He gave you a barely registered nod of consent when your trembling hands hovered over the harness on his chest.
“Don’t know,” he winced when you unlatched his chest harness and dropped it onto the floor. “Saw you through the window. Your light was still on. Followed it without thinking.”
You gasped at the sight of the wound when you lifted his tight shirt. A long gash spread across his skin, definitely needing stitches and you were far from equipped to mend him. Tears brimmed in your eyes.
“Not sure why I even came,” he mumbled, eyes glassy and unfocused, and panic gripped you harder at the sight. “Maybe I’m selfish. Wanted to…be with you. Even if it meant seeing me die.”
The tears came all at once, rolling down your face and clinging to your lashes. His gloved hand raised to your cheek, catching a salty tear and smearing your skin with his blood in the process.
You shoved his hand away, rejecting his touch. He wasn’t doing it for your comfort, anyway.
The crying never stopped even as you began cleaning the wound. You would wipe your tears on your sleeve when your vision became too blurry to continue. Then you’d check his eyes, gaze on you sometimes piercing, sometimes vacant as he was slipping in and out of consciousness. But always on you.
You knew he could tell you were checking for signs of life when you did it because he still had half a mind to twitch his lips into an exhausted smile. As if it was satisfying to him that you were fretting over him. Sobbing over him. Mourning him even though he was right in front of you.
His eyes shut again, listening to every sharp breath you took from crying, every sob you tried to hush, and imagined the salty taste of your tears on his lips.
Dex woke before sunrise. The only light in the room was the living room lamp, painting you both in soft dusky yellows.
He was lying on your couch with an uncomfortable sting in his side and foggy memories of you stitching him back together. Pleading for him to stay awake, keeping him warm when he started to twitch and quiver from the blood loss.
You had paused with every few agonizing tugs of the needle to wipe your tears away. Or at least the ones that he hadn’t felt drop onto his skin while you worked. His shirt and gloves had been removed by you at some point but he must have been passed out during that part.
And there you still were beside him, with your chair pulled a little closer to the couch than he remembers. Your cheek rested on his thigh, head turned away from him so he couldn’t see the red streaks on your face from the crying or how you looked when you slept.
Dex didn’t stress over the inevitable crick in your neck you’ll get from your position. He just thought about how much he wanted you there, worried sick to tears over him and staying the night by his side in case his body went cold for good.
If you had the means, you’d give your own blood to keep him breathing. He heard it in the uneven rhythm of your breaths as you slept and the occasional frantic whisper that fell from your lips.
You talked in your sleep. He’d remember that. If only you had elected to sleep with your head turned in his direction. Whatever image he was forming in his head, he knew you looked so much sweeter in reality.
Another sharp pain shot through his side and he involuntarily twitched his leg that you were sleeping on.
He held his breath. Prayed. Don’t move. Not yet.
But your head shot up quickly when you woke, having never managed to make it to a deep sleep when you were so sick over him.
“Dex,” you called his name before you even processed you were awake, and that made his chest tighten.
“I’m good,” his voice rasped when he spoke. “I’m alive. Somehow.”
That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. He saw how your face scrunched up angrily at him.
“Somehow?” you rubbed your eyes and leaned closer to his stomach, examining the bandages. “I spent a good hour trying to keep you from meeting God. That’s how you’re alive, you asshole.”
In his delirium he found your slip-up amusing, a smirk painting his lips.
Meeting God after the life he’s lived. Dex didn’t believe in that stuff anyway. He wasn’t even sure if you did. If there was a God, he sure wasn’t looking out for Dex.
You were, though. And his smirk melted into something softer.
“You are, by the way–selfish for coming here,” your voice trembled with indignation. “Making me drag you to my couch and soaking it with blood. And what would I have done if you died?”
“Could tell the police you caught me for them,” he suppresses another pained groan.
He paused when he saw the resulting anguish in your eyes.
“That’s not what I meant.” Your voice was small. Hurt.
You couldn’t believe that after everything, he thought you were asking what you’d do with his body. Not what you’d do without him. Not if he had died on your watch, with you being the last to have touched him, the last voice he heard.
Maybe that’s why he came–so you’d be haunted by him forever. It both sickened you and sent a rippling ache through your heart.
Dex let his head fall back onto the couch in resignation. His fingers twitched, tapped the couch a few times. Your words must have gotten through to him.
You reached out, gripping his fidgeting hand in both of yours.
“You need more rest.” you whispered. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
A beat of silence between you.
Then, to your surprise, you watched him push himself further against the back of the couch. Just enough, like he'd admired your body from afar enough times to know exactly how much space to leave for you.
He wasn’t looking at you, though. Like he was trying to save himself the trouble if you didn’t catch the meaning of his gesture.
A plethora of excuses came to your mind. I shouldn’t irritate the wound or it won’t be comfortable with us both.
They were all abandoned when you rose from your stiff dining chair and pressed your knee onto the couch, the weight sinking beneath you. You lowered your body beside him and his arm had slid beneath you as you did, lying on your side with your head rested on his arm. It was much easier on your neck than your earlier position.
It terrified you how icy his skin still was. So lifeless and frail. Nothing like the usual heat you felt whenever he was near.
You stared at him in the dim living room light. He was already staring at you. Not willing to let you escape his wish to see what you looked like as you slept.
It was silent, but not uncomfortably so. Even with your heart pounding rhythmically, and your chest rising and falling a little faster from the proximity. It was the kind of quiet that spoke louder than any words you could say to one another right now.
With your eyes scanning his face, you lifted your weight onto your elbow. It was easier to see him this way since he was confined to lying on his back. He watched you look down at him, gaze flickering over your face. Cataloguing every flaw and feature to memory even though by now he could place your lips alone out of hundreds of pairs.
You were doing the same. Remembering when you first saw him, the glance you stole when he was unaware. You hand lifted to his cheek. His chest stuttered when you dragged your thumb over the jagged scar he had there. Back and forth, slowly, your lips parted ever so slightly.
He watched you for as long as he could. His slow blinking became occasional squints as he tried to keep his eyes open, but once you heard his shallow, even breaths you knew you had lulled him to sleep.
You stayed right where you were. The sight of his face, relaxed for once instead of tense from his mind running faster than he could catch up to it made you tender. But then, that awful, harrowing thought made you hollow again.
That you almost lost him.
The sight of him gasping and bleeding was all too sobering. It reminded you of a fact you had spent too long ignoring, too caught up in uncovering what he hid beneath the surface to acknowledge. That Dex wasn’t invincible.
Eventually, his nine lives would run out.
So you stayed bent over him, listening to him breathe until the cusp of blue hour broke through the window. Afraid the room might become silent of his breaths if you didn’t watch over him, or that his body would go cold if you weren’t there to keep him warm.
The restlessness in your bones made your joints tingly and numb. Exhaustion crept into your body and with a gentle push off the couch, you sat up. Looked about the room.
The gear you had haphazardly stripped from him was strewn on the floor at your feet. You reached for the leather chest harness he kept his gun in.
The dull sound of the metal latch involuntarily put the memory of removing it from him into your mind. Your fingertips ran over the cool leather, caressing it the way you did his skin moments before.
Your fingers stopped when you reached the small pocket meant for a smaller throwing knife. When your fingers tucked into the pocket, you felt the worn texture of old paper.
As if this night couldn't get anymore complicated, you pulled it out. This moment was so familiar to you and even pulled a soft laugh out of you.
Remembering the first time you found this folded up square in a CD case in his apartment. Dex hiding it from your eyes before you came over so you wouldn't think he was a creep.
But now, to find it in the harness he wore to his very dangerous job, in the very pocket that rested just over his heart...
It was so unfair of him. The way that he cared for you was tender and punishing at the same time. Loving you from a distance. Loving you as an observer and never sharing himself with you. Loving you, whether that love be platonic or not, and not caring if you loved him too by walking into danger every single night.
You wished he knew how it felt for you. To be cared about in a manner that's self-serving. To do things for yourself and not considering how it might affect him.
But on the contrary, that was the only love he knew. At least, before you.
That thought softened your resolve.
Fine. You could cut him a break—but you wouldn't let him get away with it completely.
Dex’s mind was quiet when he slept for once. Whether to credit the blood loss making him delirious or your body heat keeping him grounded during the night, he didn’t know. But he was certainly partial to one of those in particular.
It was the sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket that woke him. Anticipating the call to action had become a constant he relied on, but lately it felt like he was only getting sent away when he was with you. But it’s not like he had many career options left.
Speaking of, you seemed to have left him during the night. Slipped away, likely into your bedroom. He was watching your closed door unwaveringly the entire time he was getting ready. The pain still echoing in his side from the still fresh wound was nothing compared to the wanting thoughts coating his mind.
He wanted into your bedroom. Badly.
Dex never got to see your sleeping face like he wanted to because he fell asleep first the night before. He was almost pissed off at you for taking his chance away like that after he let you sleep beside him.
Even while he was on his mission, stalking his target with the deadly stillness of deep water, his mind was on that closed bedroom door. Taunting him with the morning light that shone from under the crack. Beckoning him closer.
The urge to turn the knob and take a peek at you sunk its claws into him. He knew most people kept their most intimate items where they slept, too. Old family photos, poorly written poetry, keepsake boxes kicked under the bed. Dex wanted to know if you had any of them.
But he had resisted for one reason alone: you hadn’t invited him in.
It was a strange feeling to be stuck outside your door with some invisible force keeping his boots rooted to the ground. Like he was a vampire who needed permission to enter a home. Like he was above sneaking into your room while you slept.
You hadn’t invited him in.
Did he ever ask you permission for anything before? No. So why now was he suddenly unable to act?
That question plagued his mind as he stepped out of hiding to take out his target. By now, completing a mission like this was second-nature to him; but he went a little overboard on securing his kill so he could feel his stitches tug and sting.
When it was over, Dex slipped his mask off to breathe the cold night air into his lungs, catching his breath. He reached into the pocket of his gun harness as he always did afterwards and pulled the folded square he knew would be in his pocket.
This was his ritual after a mission. It kept his thoughts at bay, kept his mind quiet.
But when he pulled it out in his gloved hand, he immediately noticed something off with it. The paper wasn’t worn and flexible from being folded and unfolded time and time again. The red ink that had become splotched and runny wasn’t visible on the back anymore.
He quickly unfolded it.
Oh.
That’s not right.
When you had found the photo in his harness, you didn’t just find it touching. You saw it as an opportunity. If he wanted to play around with his life and show up scaring the soul out of you, then you could have your own fun too.
You had taken the stolen photo back and replaced it. With your beach photo. He’d seen it before, your figure lying on the sand with a silk veil draped over you. The outline of your body was barely visible through it, every curve or straight line appearing like carved stone. You looked like art, in short.
It wasn't like you gave him a nude—your pose and some help from the natural shadows covered enough to make it barely not x-rated.
Dex didn't find any of this as amusing as you did. It sent blood rushing away from his head and he was supposed to be calming himself down. Not working himself up. He was caught between irritation and arousal, both combining into a frustrating cocktail of inconvenient emotions he wasn't expecting to feel when he reached into his pocket initially.
And after he was so nice about not coming into your room earlier, too. He took some comfort in the fact that the correct photo was at least safe with you, but still. Not cool.
That photo was his.
He took another look at you posed on the sand. Ignored the burning heat on his skin. Folded it up into a square. And shoved it back into the holster.
He'd deal with you once he got home to New York.
The dull pattering of rain outside the window was a welcome start to your Saturday evening. It was thundering, the grey sky flashing with lightning and the air outside muggy and uncomfortably warm.
You were safe and sound in your apartment with a hot cup of tea, because no one in their right mind would step out into weather that bleak and unfavorable.
None except Dex apparently.
You were standing in your kitchen when you heard a drop onto your fire escape. This time, not producing a sound that sent you into cardiac arrest.
The mug in your hand was set down in favor of stepping out into the living room and looking at your fogged up screen door. You could see his shadow outside the door and your lips curved into a smile.
Dex,—still clad in his full Bullseye suit and gear—pointed to the door handle, signaling for you to open up for him. You shrugged your shoulders in a mock question, as if you couldn’t understand what he was asking.
You watched him raise a gloved hand to the foggy glass. He dragged his finger across it, drawing a target symbol into the window. Then, he pointed at you through the center of the target. That got a giggle out of you.
When you slid the door open, he came in dripping wet. He must have just returned from his mission. One you wanted to punch him for going on considering he had just been gravely injured the night before.
You almost flipped out when you left your room in the morning and saw that he and all his things were gone. Leaving behind only the blood stained into your sofa and memories that made you short of breath.
“Where is it?” he asked, not even bothering to greet you first.
“What, you don’t use the front door anymore?” you crossed your arms over your chest and looked into his eyes. “Is this some kind of villain protocol I wasn’t aware of?”
“The photo,” he emphasized through tightened lips, which he only did when he was wound up. Your joke on him must have really hit a nerve.
“Who’s asking? Bullseye?” you gestured to the mask he was wearing. “Because I believed it was Dex who that photo belonged to.”
You were trying to get on his case, yes. And you did think he was hot with the mask on, yes. But you liked his face a whole lot more. You knew he’d oblige if you asked, too.
He huffed out a breath and slipped the mask off his face. The way his blond hair stuck up for a moment made your smirk widen. Cute. Like a vicious golden puppy.
“What, you didn’t like the new one?” you teased.
“I–” you watched his throat twitch as he swallowed hard. “I like it. But.”
The other one is special.
Your heart leaped at the unspoken words. Even with your (artistically) revealing photo in his possession, he was still missing the original.
“Okay, fine. You can keep both.” you sighed out mockingly, like this was all a big inconvenience for you.
His shoulders relaxed.
“Follow me, I’ll get it for you,” you said over your shoulder, starting down the hall. “It’s in my bedroom.”
Then his body went taught.
Permission. Explicit, intentional permission for him to enter your bedroom. To think he had been driving himself mad the past 24 hours, trying to find a reason for his reluctance to sneak inside, and now here you were with an open invitation.
It was like you could read his mind. Anticipate just what he wanted from you without having to ask. But you were still always asking him anyway, just to rile him up. And he would entertain your questions because he was always rewarded for it.
Such as now, as he stood in the door frame of your bedroom. Different than he envisioned when he was outside of it yesterday morning, but still so you that it almost suffocated him.
His eyes went straight to your bed (which you forgot to make this morning). Not because he was curious about the colors and patterns of your sheets. But because he had a suspicion to confirm.
The shark plush was, in fact, there on your bed. Dex just knew you slept beside it nightly based on how it was partly concealed by your quilt.
He had the urge to hide it from you. It came over him so quickly he didn’t know what to do with it. So, he let it keep reeling.
He had finally gotten a taste of what it was like to be that plush in the photo. Taking up a space at your side, being pressed to you until his scent was indistinguishable from yours. And now he wanted more.
Without it, you'd still need something to hold at night.
He stepped into your room finally, watching your back. You were digging through your dresser drawer, searching for the photograph you owed him.
No one ever gave him their back. Not anymore. It was too big a risk. But there you were, knowing anything in your bedroom could be weaponized against you by him, and still–you trusted him.
When you turned back around, folded photo in hand, he didn’t have the chance to fix his face into something more pleasant for you.
His hand brushed yours when he took the photo from you and he tucked it away into his pocket.
Your gaze dropped from his face down to his side. He had half a mind to think you may have been checking him out before his erratic brain remembered your fingers had been digging in his wound just two days ago.
“How’re your stitches doing?” you asked, concern veiling your voice.
Dex thought back to the feeling of them pulling apart during his mission last night. “Could use a touch-up.”
While he was eager to get you fussing over him again, he also knew you’d have to leave the room to get the first-aid supplies.
And you did, not before giving him a gentle scolding that he was reckless and needed to take it easy. “I’ve still got blood stains on my couch, by the way."
“Comes out easy with hydrogen peroxide.” he called after you.
“I’ll ignore how fast you answered that.”
Once your voice was far enough away, Dex walked to your still open dresser drawer and peered inside. As he thought, it was an underwear drawer so he diverted his attention quickly beside it and spotted your laundry hamper.
Resting on top was a crumpled pajama set with a blur of navy blue mixed into the pile.
His hoodie. On your pajamas. You wore it to bed. It wasn't a question in his mind. There's no other reason for it to be there, tangled up in your sleep clothes. Dex tore his eyes away from the sight when he felt a tug at his heart.
He stepped away from the hamper and moved to your bedside table.
Slow and stealthy, he pulled the top drawer open and catalogued what you kept inside. Supplements. Meds. Sleeping pills. An expensive chocolate bar you were saving for later. Half-stamped rewards card for a local book store. Wired earbuds.
He shut it and opened the bottom drawer. Raspberry gum. Receipt for the overpriced chocolate bar. And pressed to the very back of the drawer—a worn journal.
That urge, much like before, rushed through his veins without warning. Take it. It wasn’t so much a thought as it was a need to be met. An itch he couldn’t ignore.
With a quick glance at the door to make sure you weren’t coming, he pulled the journal from the drawer. It was closed securely with an elastic cord he pushed aside.
Dex flipped to the last page. It was dated back a week ago. He didn’t even read what was on the page. Just skimmed to see if his name was written. Eyes darting to every capital D on the page until...
“Sorry it took so long,” your voice called from the hall.
It startled him from his snooping and he tore the page out, shut the journal closed, and shoved it back in the drawer.
You appeared in the doorway holding the kit.
He was sitting at the edge of your bed, resting weight on his hands behind him. You sat beside him and opened the kit up on your quilt, grabbing tweezers and a cotton ball.
“Let’s see the damage,” you requested, “probably just needs to be cleaned since you don’t seem to be bleeding through your clothes this time.”
“Sure thing doc.” he murmured sarcastically at your jab.
You watched him unlatch the chest harness and remove his gloves. Unblinking, eyes half-lidded following his hands. Not to watch for the off-chance he might use them against you, though. He realized when he saw how your chest rose and fell a little faster. Your lips parted. This time, you were definitely checking him out.
He lifted his shirt haphazardly with no regard for his injury, tossing it over his head.
You winced at the sight. “You can afford to be more careful, Dex.”
But all he could focus on was the cadence in which you said his name. There was some dried blood underneath the bandages, indicating he had bled a little from the pulled stitches during his mission.
You tutted and shook your head. The sight pleased him and he didn’t bother hiding that on his face, leaning back on his hands again.
With the cotton ball squeezed between the tweezers prongs, you began cleaning up the wound.
“Have I mentioned I hate your job?” you mumbled.
“Didn’t need to.”
He watched your face. How your eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. How your tongue peaked out when you were focusing. Both more than reason enough to crawl to you every time he got hurt from now on.
"Well, I do," you spat. "And I hate how much you don't seem to care what happens to you."
Oh, he realized. So that's what had you so pissed at him.
“How’d you deal with this before me?” you asked, reaching back into the kit for another cotton ball. “Better question, how have you never succumbed to your injuries by now?”
“A lot of luck. And some help,” he hissed when you pulled at his stitches. Maybe on purpose. For some reason his mind went back to that racy photo of yours when you did.
“Yeah, well.” you pulled away and closed the kit. “Good thing you’re so popular.”
A breathy laugh escaped him at that. Then, he leaned down to reach for his shirt and heard you gasp. A horrified, sharp intake of air.
When he turned back to you, brow furrowed, you had your hand over your mouth. It reminded him of your expression when you found him bleeding out on your fire escape.
You motioned with your hand for him to turn his back to you again.
Oh. Right. That.
He assumed you had just wanted to see his scar again out of morbid curiosity. It was pretty gnarly, a crooked red centipede-like line down his back that never healed right.
But then he felt your hand on his back. A warm contrast to the cold that always crept onto his skin there from the cogmium replacing what was once bone and rushing blood.
He let out an involuntary groan when your nails inadvertently met the indent in his skin.
You pulled your hand back quickly. “I-I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
He shook his head. God no. It was the exact opposite.
“No,” he rasped. “First time in a while it’s stopped hurting, if you can believe it."
His eyes fell shut as he anticipated the next touch of your hand now that he had eased your worries. When it came, he let out a deep, pleasured sigh.
Your fingertip traced his scar from between his shoulder blades all the way down to his lower back, stopping just at the waistband of his pants.
“How did this happen?”
Your voice was so small. You weren’t asking about the cause. You wanted to know who did this to him. Who would hurt him like this.
“Same thing that always happens to me.”
His words were intentional. Void of any responsibility. Unwilling to acknowledge his part in any of it. As if nothing was consequence to him. As if things were just done to him with no rhyme or reason.
“I wouldn’t have let that happen to you.”
He had to laugh at your words even though they were far removed from humor. It was an automatic reaction caused by a sudden breathlessness in his chest. A sound akin to a cough, trying to get air back into his lungs while he tried to derive meaning from your simple phrase.
But maybe there was some truth to it. You weren’t just a presence to aspire to, or just a constant he could guarantee in his otherwise out of control life like he thought you’d be to him.
You were more. More than his pain. More than his self-loathing. More than his anger.
He thought this was about getting to know you. Dissecting you. Taking your photos and ripping out diary pages and ordering the same food as you at breakfast to know what you were tasting.
But you were dissecting him, too, and he was too distracted to notice. Taking his knife and leaving it hung on your wall, soaking your hands in his blood, wearing his hoodie to bed so you’d smell his presence beside you.
You craved him just as much as he did you.
And it wasn’t clarity that hit him in that moment. It was a gripping terror that seized him, sinking its claws in deep around his heart. Because everyone who’s ever been close to him has wound up dead, by his own hands or otherwise.
That swarmed in his head mercilessly. His body trembled. He couldn't quiet the onslaught of fear that settled in his mind and blocked him from hearing anything but shrill, unrelenting noise.
Then, soft pressure on his back. Warm and inviting between his shoulder blades. He’d traced the shape of your lips with his gaze enough times to know you had them on his skin. Kissing the ugly scar he had just revealed to you.
A violent shiver ran down his back. But pleasant. Then cold again when you pulled away.
“Again.” he knew it sounded demanding. But really he was begging. “…Please.”
It was unfair how easily you remedied his pain. And now that he had proof that it was you who made all of it better, tangible in the way your lips calmed the chronic ache in his body, and the one in his mind telling him he was broken--he wasn't going to give you another chance to slip away from him.
In a motion so swift it nearly startled you, Dex turned towards you and slid his hand through your hair to grip the nape of your neck. Using the leverage to pull you closer to him as he leaned down to your level, his fingers pressing against your skin where he held you.
You gasped sharply when his nose brushed yours, and he felt your breath on your lips. Quick, uneven. But not afraid. Never afraid.
He swallowed hard, his grip on your nape tightening as if he was trying to hold back. The only thing preventing him from having you was that annoying voice in his head again. Permission.
“Dex…” your lips trembled out his name.
And then he was done for.
His fingers pressed into your nape, guiding your lips to crush against his. You let out a surprised wince at the feeling of your teeth clashing, hands flying to his face so you could fix you both into a softer angle.
But he thought you were trying to pull away, and he let go of you swiftly. If he didn't release you from his grip entirely right then, he wasn't going to have the strength to.
You, on the other hand, weren't done just yet. You weren't going to let him sink into dejection when you so clearly wanted him. Needed him.
So you took his face into your hands, turning his head back towards you and pressing your lips against his in one smooth motion. Only relaxing into it when you felt him kissing you back again with just as much desperation.
With your eyes half-lidded, you caught him watching you. You had only been trying to check for his expression, and it tore you up inside to realize he already had his eyes on you. Wanting to see your face for himself as you both kissed, every micro-expression as you melted between want, fondness, and most prominent in the way your eyebrows scrunched as you bit his lip—greed.
It was a good thing you were both sitting, because your knees weakened when you felt his tongue brush yours. A soft grunt into your mouth from his throat that made your other hand fly to his hair. Pulling on dirty blond strands, tugging roughly just to hear him crumble from how much you needed him. Because you were falling apart at his proof of how much he needed you, too.
His hands reached out to guide you when you shifted onto your knees on the mattress, crawling into his lap without breaking the kiss. Your lungs burned and you could tell his did too when your hands fell to his chest and found it motionless from his lack of air intake.
But you wouldn't part just yet. You were too busy devouring him, tasting the lies he fed you on his tongue and how they unraveled into sweeter truths over time.
And he was just as gone as you were, soft groans leaving his mouth. Possessive, but also frustrated that he couldn't consume you completely. That he couldn't read your thoughts just by kissing you. Something this intimate should let him peer into your mind, he thought. His hands gripped your hips tighter, squeezing over your hipbones and then groping the flesh of your stomach above it in a way that made you shiver and finally break from his lips.
His hand lifted back up to the back of your neck, keeping you there against him. Not letting you stray too far. He wanted you to breathe against him just like that, with his forehead pressed to yours so only he could have the air from your lungs.
Dex's hands then dropped back to your middle, pulling you against him until no space remained. He dropped his head against your chest, no longer panting for air but still trying to get a grip on himself. Your lips pressing a kiss to his head in that same instance both soothed and tortured him more.
He retaliated by gripping your hips again and flipping you both, letting you fall back against your unmade bed with a gentle bounce. He leaned over you, watching your coy smile melt into timidness the longer he stared.
“Have you blinked in the past ten minutes?” you teased, lips stretching into a grin.
Dex, unimpressed by your comment, leaned down to swallow your laugh with another kiss. His teeth sank into your bottom lip as punishment and he delighted in the pained whine from your throat that followed when he bit you harder.
He pulled back to look at you again.
“I let you get away with a lot.” he said. “Not anymore.”
“We’ll see about that,” you hummed gently, your hands around the back of his neck. “And just so you know—if you show up at my door on the brink of death again, I’m making you sleep outside.”
“What, like a dog?” he huffed, leaning down to catch your lips again. But you turned your head, making him press against your cheek instead. “I think a bullet in the side is punishment enough.”
“Dex.”
Your voice came out so stern it made his blood run cold. He pulled back to look down at you.
“I used to have my coffee by myself every morning. Then I’d work all day and come home to my empty apartment, and all I’d think about was how the next day would be the same lonely routine. I'd stay up late just to put it off,” your voice wavered. “But I don't lose sleep anymore. Because you’re always around."
His chest tightened.
“Don’t make me go back to being alone," you pleaded.
Don't go where I can't reach you.
You weren’t mad at him for being away. You were terrified of the very same thing he was—that every goodbye would be the last.
He had people who wanted him dead, and you had…well, him. The man who was cursed to be alone, death tainting every person who ever got close enough to touch him.
If that curse took you next...
“I could say the same to you.”
You gave him a watery smile. “I told you before. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dex believed you, because he wasn’t going to let you out of his sight ever again. He wouldn’t give anyone the chance to take you away from him.
Instead of going to the diner, you both had tea in your apartment. You let the rain be a backdrop as he helped you clean his blood off your sofa that afternoon, music playing from your speaker as you did.
You asked Dex to stay the night. You didn't want to part from him just yet. He didn't tell you that he planned to stay anyway as he accepted your invitation.
And as you lied beside him in your messy sheets, curling yourself into his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat, he made sure not to fall asleep first this time. Observing your face in the moonlight creeping through the curtains as you dreamed away. Stealing a kiss from your sleeping lips before letting you rest.
The page he ripped from your diary was still in his pocket, too. He couldn't wait to read what you'd written about him.
a/n i had this absolutely amazing art in mind when writing part of the kiss. i def believe dex would have his eyes wide open while kissing someone especially for the first time.
feedback always welcomed and appreciated! tysm to everyone in my taglist for following the story so far. and to everyone reading regardless of course!
on your 5th date with dex, you find out he’s never went down on a girl before.
warnings?: oral (r receiving), shy fbi dex, kissing, freaky/confident reader, dex is awfully good for his first time eating someone out.
“never?” you questioned, leaning forward, your mouth left agape.
dex stared down on his lap, suddenly the quarter zip he was wearing was way too tight on him. he shook his head and you scoffed.
“no way dex” you laughed awkwardly.
you met dex through a friend who worked at a local coffee shop. you were just visiting during her shift when dex suddenly entered after a run. interested, you asked your friend and she told you he came in everyday and was overall nice.
skip forward this was your 5th date. usually you opted to go out for dates but the weather was way too cold in new york and you made amazing soup. so there you were in dex’s simple neat apartment.
for the last hour you both conversed in past relationships and sexual encounters, you didn’t mean for the conversation to become so sexual as you sat across from him on his dinner table sipping on soup.
the most you two had done was kiss, and hold hands when he dropped you off to your car after dinners. deep inside a small part of you wanted to go the next step, but dex was also quite shy and reserved and you wanted to make sure he wanted to aswell.
“i havent- been with many women, and they never asked.” he said making minimal eye contact.
you leaned forward on your elbows, “and you never thought about it? not curious or does it not appeal to you?”
dex immediately began to wave his hands, “no absolutely not, i’m not against it….and i guess i am curious? but i would never do something if my girl didn’t want to.”
you folded your hands in your lap and watched dex, who looked back at you.
it was true, dex was inexperienced when it came to sex. he knew the basics and always made a women come. but he was never able to build a long and trustworthy relationship to experiment.
“would you want to? with me?” you quipped.
“yes.” dex blurted out too quickly.
the silence after was loud, were you joking when you said that? no. why were you shy all of a sudden?
dex’s eyes were filled with silent need, now he needed to try.
you rose from your chair, your fingers grazed the table as you rounded the corner, dex pushed his chair back and you came to stand in between his legs.
he was too still, you smiled and grabbed his hands and placed them on your hips. “we don’t have to, dex.”
dex tilted his head looking up at you through blonde lashes, “do you want to?” he asked.
‘yesyeyseysyesyyeysysywsysy’ you repeated in your head.
you nodded and dex got up and placed you on the table, the soft material of your skirt was pulled up revealing your upper thighs.
the energy in the room was unmatched, in that moment it revealed to you how much you craved dex. you hooked your fingers into his quarter zip and dragged him closer to your lips.
dex let out a shaky chuckle and softly kissed you, you tilted your head to get closer and grazed your hands across his back and neck.
it was empty in dex’s mind, he was on autopilot. all he could feel were your soft lips on his and the chills that left wherever you touched him. remembering the target, dex began to kiss down your neck and exposed shoulders.
you helped him take off your top, leaving you in just your lace bra. dex visibly shook at how much he was getting to see you tonight.
soft supple skin and pretty tits he could partially see through the bra had him slowly fall back into his chair. his grip still tight on the bunched up fabric of your skirt.
dark green eyes looked up at you once more for permission to remove your skirt. you helplessly nodded and dex pulled down your skirt and discarded on the floor.
your strappy heels still wrapped around your lower calf, you bent down do remove them but felt a hand stop at your wrist.
“no.”
“what?”
“leave them on. i- they look nice on you..very nice”
“oh.” you giggled.
dex looked down and saw matching lace panties covering the very place he desperately wanted to see. dex lowered himself to the floor, and you followed his every move as his shaking body tried to feel your legs.
his hands were large and rough, his fingers long and thick. they slipped into the waistband of your panties and you placed your hands on his so that both of you could take them off.
the sight of your pussy had dex see stars and vision go hazy, god he was seeing so much of you tonight.
“i don’t know how to start” dex shyly murmured.
you were a bit shy under his watchful eye but the way he was looking at your pussy like it was a prize and a target made you remember you are the experienced one.
“what’s going through your mind, dex? tell me, baby” you sultry whispered.
dex let out a pathetic whine at your tone, “i want to- i want to kiss you…there.”
“then do it.”
dex looked up at you as his lips inched closer and closer to your mound. your body jolted when you felt soft lips kiss tenderly on you mound, he massages your hips as he kissed lower and lower.
your hand flew to your mouth as you felt just the tip of dex’s tongue swipe your clit. you squeeze your eyes shut so hard you saw stars dancing behind your lids.
all dex noticed was the jerk of your hips. he does it again, with a little more pressure and delights in the way your hips wiggle– both trying to get away but also trying to get closer. he continues to do that.
your scent is strong from where he is of course. he drags his tongue down from your clit to your hole as his fingers come to spread your legs. his tongue flattens over your entrance on the way back up, catching way more juice than he was expecting you to be giving.
meanwhile, you are trying unsuccessfully to control your breathing. dex is lapping at your pussy, you're positive he has no idea how crazy he's driving you with his slow exploration of your most intimate parts but he's clearly enjoying your taste.
your fingers tangle in his short hair and you moan- head rolled back as you roll your hips into his mouth. "dex…"
his head follows your motion and he moans himself. this causes you to tug his hair and his nose bumps your clit. it's not enough to make you come but it is getting you there. he gathers the newly gushing slick from your pussy onto his tongue and uses it to create wet circles on your clit.
you call his name again and he grunts away from your pussy. the cold air hits your dripling pussy and its so uncomfortable, you want his mouth back on it.
he picks you up and places you on the table and dex kisses up your thighs, “oh fuck” you cry out as your head hits the table.
dex uses his fingers to spread your labia and kiss you there, your legs wrap around his back, and the pointy heel digs into his back lightly.
"dex," you pant wildly, "use your fingers…"
without hesitation, perhaps he was feeling bold, dex shoves two incredibly long fingers into your tight channel and fucks you with them as he kisses your clit. he follows the rising sounds of your moaning and fingers you faster.
he sucks your clit hard and you come with a scream.
your thighs clamp down around his head and back arches off the table. your head is spinning by the time you come down and you sheepishly release your grip on dex’s hair and head. you are so blissed out you can't even remember where you were. you blinked a couple times and felt a tight hold on your hips.
"dex?"
"no fucking way," is all your hear him mutter before you feel him lick a hungry strip across your soaked pussy. you cry out a moan so loud, and slam your hand on the table.
your clit is sensitive, but dex slips his fingers back inside you and pounds you with them harder than before. your second orgasm is building faster this time and your brain is short circuiting as dex bites the flesh of your thighs repeatedly. hips lifting off the edge of the table and the way he gently licks your clit makes your orgasm longer.
he finally stops ignoring the press of your hand atop his head and backs off. you can comprehend little else besides the sweat dripping down your neck and the hazy vision of your glassy eyes.
dex sits in silence and stands up on shaky legs, he’s hard as fuck in his pants but he doesn’t care.
you lift your head up and rest on your elbows, “you’ve never done this before?” you pant.
dex shakes his head, in awe of you and your fucking pussy. he wants to hear the noise you make when you come his new alarm sound.
he notices your glassy eyes and blushed, sweaty face. “no never- are you okay did i-”
dex is cut off as you lift of the table and slam your lips onto his, you hungrily makeout with him. dex loses his balance before grabbing your face and kissing back just as starved. you taste yourself on his tongue and whine into the kiss.
“you cant get rid of me now, dex” you murmur into his ear.
dex wasn’t supposed to love you and you definitely weren’t supposed to get jealous over the older waitress maybe flirting with him.
warnings?: age gap (both consenting adults), ddba dex, reader is jealous and has dex wrapped around her finger, love confession, lowkey angst, pinv, kissing, licking, the whole works.
it was late, way too late at night. if your parents found out you were locking your front door as silently as possible at 3 am in the morning, your head would be on a stick.
but they weren’t getting fucked by dex, so they wouldn’t get it.
you should be asleep, you had a long day. 2 classes at college, followed by a lunch with your grandparents at a golf course. to end the night, a four hour shift at your local diner. in all honesty, the urge to sleep was strong.
but the ache between your legs was stronger.
your secret fuck buddy lived in the apartment complex right outside your neighborhood, it wasn’t sketchy but you probably should have kept your pepper spray in your purse.
the street was quiet, a street lamp on the end of the street was flickering every 4 seconds. and you felt this eery feeling someone was watching. no matter how many times you scanned the area, you saw nothing.
you turned the street, rows of trees were to your left, at the end of the street was dex’s apartment. as you were walking you felt a hand grab at you from the trees.
a hand muffled the shriek that came out of you, a hard large body slammed you against him and whispered into your ear, “relax sweetheart” “its me” he chuckled.
that voice was all too familiar and your heart went back to its original place. you elbowed the figure behind you and he laughed.
“what the fuck, dex?” you exclaimed.
dex intertwined his fingers with yours and brought them up to his mouth and gave your knuckles a peck. “i couldn’t let my girl walk alone so late at night, wouldn’t be very gentlemen-y” dex smirked.
he dragged you into his embrace, and his addicting scent infiltrated your nose.
“I wouldn’t have to make this daunting walk if you could just sneak into my house” you replied back partially annoyed.
dex clicked his tongue, “and risk being caught in your fancy neighborhood? no way, princess.”
you rolled your eyes, dex tapped you on the ass catching you. “bad girl” he whispered.
by now, the both of you had reached his front door. once the apartment light had turned on, you were able to take in dex.
‘that’s why i do it’ you reminded your self as your gaze fell all over dex.
dex was wearing a black t-shirt which molded around his biceps. his sweatpants hung dangerously low on his waist and with the buldge between his legs you could tell he wasn’t wearing his boxers.
his hair was roughly combed over and his grey stubble was covering the hard sexy jawline and chin cleft he had. the dark green eyes which were checking you out were dilated and filled with need that mirrored yours.
“i missed you” dex whispered, walking closer to you. his hands grabbed onto the coat you were wearing. something told dex you weren’t wearing much inside…
dex smirked as he caught you looking shyly away, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear as you whispered back “i missed you too”
dex stood still momentarily until he wrapped his hands under your ass and threw you over his shoulder. you laughed as you clawed onto the edge of his shirt.
when he placed you back on the bed, his t-shirt came down with you. you suppressed a moan at the sight of his body. he was just muscle on muscle. thick, thick biceps and veiny forearms. his abs were tight and flexed hard. the light dusting of hair all over his chest and arms which felt so good rubbed across your naked body. best part was the prize at the end of his v line.
a pleased sigh left dex’s mouth as he settled on a velvet stool that sat across from the bed, “take it off..” he murmured with a slight smirk. his hands clasped and elbows resting on his thighs.
you shrugged off your purse and uggs. and played with the belt that kept your coat closed. the arousal between your legs grew as you watched dex take in your exposed legs when you placed one leg over another.
“if i don’t.” you asked with a raise of eyebrows.
“i rip it off.”
this time you couldn’t hold back a moan, untying the belt, you paused and looked up at dex. “come.” you coaxed.
dex rose up and grabbed your jaw in his hand, he knelt to the floor and your pussy clenched at the puppy eyes he gave you.
with unwavering precise hands, dex peeled off the coat and let it drop on the bed. he was gifted the sight of the prettiest matching set he had ever seen on you.
the cami was dark navy and the white lace of your bra peaked from the top. matching shorts were tight on your legs, and dex would bet his life that you were wearing matching panties underneath.
dex kissed on your thighs while you ran your fingers all over his head and neck. his lips were chapped and rough against your soft skin. the trail of kisses moved higher up till he was gently making out with your clothed pussy.
he rested his chin on your thigh while his hands wrapped around your lower calfs. you felt like a god, seeing a big strong guy on his knees for you.
you petted his hair and cheek, dex closed his eyes in submission. “i didn’t see you at bel aire this, afternoon” dex asked.
the sudden question made you snap out of your thoughts, “yeah i was at the golf course with my grandparents. took the night shift today.”
“what? did you visit today? oh baby i should’ve told you but it completely slipped my mind. im sorry” you pouted.
dex smiled, “it’s alright, just stopped by. figured you weren’t there when i saw madelyn instead.”
that had your blood boiling, your movement froze and you straightened up. dex obviously noticed, he peered up at you with brows furrowed.
“you saw madelyn?”
“yeah”
“did you talk to her”
dex let out a confused chuckle, “yeah a little bit”
“what’s a little bit?” you ask moving your thigh a bit which led dex to move his chin.
“she asked me if i was looking for someone and wanted a coffee- whats going on” dex asked brushing his hand up your arm.
madelyn cooper was a waitress at the same diner you worked at, she was older than you. more mature, head screwed on tighter, and she was a huge flirt. you remember the gossips, she lured men in like a siren. the type of woman who touched men’s arms when she laughed and leaned too close when taking orders. she worked late shifts with you and somehow always found reasons to mention dex.
you looked at dex, he wasn’t your boyfriend. dex was a guy you were seeing. no one knew about you two, how can they? dex was a vigilante and you were a college girl with a bright future. he was up for grabs by the hands of women like madelyn. in all honesty, you were in love with dex. what started as a one night stand, is now a relationship that you didn’t know you needed.
he was there for you, looked out for you, pleased you in ways no one could ever.
“nothing” you murmer sliding further back into the bed.
dex knew you were inlove with him, it was quite easy given how expressive your eyes were. he felt the same way, but he knows he can’t.
he brought up madelyn on purpose, dex knew how much you hated that women. rightfully so. dex hated that woman too, she laughed obnoxiously loud and was incredibly messy. he hated messes.
“it’s not nothing.” dex joined you on the bed, he moved your legs to rest on his lap as he rested his head on the headboard. your body angled to face him.
you huff and look at dex, needy dex who cant go without touching you in some way. “i think you should stay away from her.” fuck, you dont sound intimidating at all. more insecure than intimidating.
dex smiled, crooked and so fucking sexy, his eyes were smiling too, rough lines around his eyes, god you were sexy when you were jealous.
“you jealous?”
“no.”
“liar…” dex shook his head once.
“she flirts with every man that walks in,” you snapped, removing your legs from your lap “and you’re—”
“what?” dex tested, his grip tight on your legs so you dont move away. you look up at him which was a big mistake because he was staring at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“you know what,” you muttered.
dex leaned closer, his eyes fell to your lips. “say it”
you stayed silent. what can you say? ‘you’re mine’ ‘because i love you’
dex tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was trying to take apart every emotion underneath your skin. he dragged you closer, your ass knudging his lap.
“You think I want her?” he asked softly.
you couldn’t reply, you were scared to lose him, cared too much about him, knew too much about him to let go. dex’s hand suddenly came up, fingers curling under your jaw.
“look at me.”
“you know where I am every night,” he said quietly. “you know who’s in this apartment every night with me?”
your breathing hitched. “me..”
“you, sweetheart” oh, dex was dangerous because for all the awful things dex was capable of, he never lied to you.
“then why do you keep teasing me about her?”
his thumb brushed slowly across your jaw while his other hand grazed the soft skin of your legs.
“because,” he murmured, “you get possessive, and make me feel wanted. i like it.” he admits
heat rushes straight to your face. dex smiles and you fall in love all over again.
“you’re insane.”
“i know.”
his hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. your heart nearly stopped.
“i like it when you care” dex admits once again.
you sarcastically laugh, “maybe that’s my problem”
dex goes still. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
you laughed under your breath, but it sounded sad even to you. “it means i think about you all the time.” your voice cracked slightly. “and i know i shouldn’t.”
the expression on his face changed instantly.
“you think i don’t?” he asked quietly. dex looked down for a second, jaw tense like the words physically hurt to say. “you make me want things i can’t have.”
your chest tightened painfully.
“but i chose this.”
“that doesn’t make it safe.”
“i don’t care.”
“i love you.”
the words slipped before you could even realize what you said.
dex froze, you immediately look down, mortified. “please forget i said that, im sleep deprived.”
but his hand tightened gently against your throat, forcing your attention back to him.
he slowly leaned in, lips an inch away from yours. his pink tongue poked out barely and licked against your lips. his warm breath felt so good against your lips, “say it…again”
you whined, your hands gripping at his shoulders. “i love you”
dex let out a guttural groan of relief and need, he smashed his lips into yours. you fall back on the bed and dex crawls in between your legs to kiss you.
his big naked frame cages you under him and all your problems disappear.
“i love you” he says inbetween pecks against your lips.
your back arches off the bed and you grind up into dex who begins to grow painfully hard.
eyes shut in pleasure he licks down your throat and his fingers pull your cami straps down.
you push him off of you, but dex is too strong and doesn’t feel it. “dex mmmh” you whine trying to get him off.
he snaps out of his daze and leans back. you sit up and remove your cami and shorts.
you look perfect in white, the lace feels so soft against dex’s fingers as he feels up your pussy. his eyes track your face expressions.
“get on ur hands and knees”
you moaned in response and obeyed. dex kisses you on your ass and hooked his teeth into your waistband before letting go with a snap.
he licked and pecked up your lower back and unclasped your bra, he took in the red marks of the bra digging into your skin.
“you don’t have to wear something you dont want to” dex murmured soothing out the skin
“i like to” you reassured softly.
dex placed a hand around your stomach and reeled you in, your back against his chest, he bunched your hair and kissed your shoulders and nape of your neck.
you were losing your shit, his touch leaving fire. his rough hands palmed your breasts while still kissing anywhere his lips could reach.
“dex please” you cried.
you found your self sitting on his lap, his body leaning against his headboard. dex slid his fingers into your panties and took them them, keeping them on his side table. (you were never getting those back)
you pulled his sweats down and pumped his dick in your hand. dex hit his head against the headboard, your soft hands making him think he’s in heaven.
“oh yeah” he panted as your dragged his dick through your wet folds.
dex’s hands grabbed onto your waist, the tight hold definitely leaving bruises. you pushed his dick into your pussy and a shaky sound of relief escaped your mouth.
you cried out his name as you felt him deeper and deeper. he was so big, his big dick, his big hands which were sliding up and down your back.
mouth agaped, dex took the opportunity to shove his thumb into your mouth. you licked and sucked on his thumb, you felt your drool string down your chin and dex’s lips swept it all.
your knees were getting tired, riding dex was so tiring yet rewarding. “dex” you cried.
“come on, you can do it” dex whispered into your neck.
he caught a nipple in your mouth and just let it sit there in his mouth as he felt you ride him.
“please”
“please?” he mocked, his thumb came to run circles on your clit and you drop your head on his shoulder.
you mercifully nod and dex flips you onto your back and thrusts into you throwing your right leg over his shoulder.
this opens you up so much more and his dick reaches places that has you a withering mess beneath him. you tighten your hold on his shoulders, you bite onto his shoulder as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear.
the moans bounce off the walls of dex’s apartment as he spills into you, you come right after with whiny groans of his name.
his heavy weight falls over you and the suffocation feels so good. you both lay there for what feels like hours before dex rolls off of you. immediately missing the touch of you, dex pulls you into his arms.
“i love you” he whispers. “no one makes me as pathetic of a man as you do, sweetheart”
you blush at his words and turn to face him, he’s so close to your face. you take a moment just to take him in. his pretty eyes, rugged sexy scar on his perfect cheekbones. you lean down and kiss him on his chin dimples and dex’s jaw falls open.
“i love you too, dex”
———————————————————————————
ooooo this is T, ugh im so needy for dex im gonna cry :(
hi! could I request a p2 for the jealous reader fic? how dex copes during the sex ban, and maybe how he is when the ban ends?
Night of my Life
Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader
warning: MDNI 18+, smut, creampie, missionary, rough sex
A/N: Karen, thank you for your service. THE WAY DEX WAS LOOKING AT HER DURING THAT SCENE???? That’s all I gotta say to my queen. I finished writing this earlier but tumblr decided to not save it🥲 So I’m sorry if it’s written poorly :(
The past four weeks has been hell for Dex. He never thought you meant it when you told him that he’s on a sex ban.
Every single time he tried to initiate sex with you, you reminded him of this ban. Every. Single. Time.
But the ban itself wasn’t that bad. Even through all he could think about was your sweet pussy drenched in his release.
It was worse.
You teased him.
You were on top of him, dry humping until he let out a soft plead.
You kissed him with so much passion, he internally hoped you forget about the ban and start taking off your clothes.
But that was never the case.
So now he wasn’t going to hold back.
Instead, he will take his sweet time showing you how much he missed fucking you stupid.
“You enjoyed watching me lose my mind huh?” Dex asked you while thrusting deep inside your pulsing pussy.
Your head fell back as soon as you Dex started picking up the speed.
“Sweet pussy forgot how big I am.”
Dex’s tongue dances around your hard nipples which causes you to let out a wet moan.
The Tip of his hard cock kisses your cervix each time he rolls his hips into you with swift, rough and fast movements.
“Oh fuuuuck.” you moan and Dex laughs at how you’re completely crumbling underneath him.
The feeling of his cock entering your warm and wet walls makes you feel euphoric. Your legs spread away any further to let him sink into you deeper until it’s physically impossible for him to get nearer.
His hands dance around your body, holding, playing and softly slapping your body. He doesn’t intend on holding back, no, he wants you to feel what you did to him in the course of over the four weeks.
Eventually, after all the rough thrusts inside your needy cunt, you feel the knot in your lower stomach forming and it becomes impossible to hold it in. Your body is practically screaming at you to let yourself release all while he is still fucking you senselessly.
And when you do, Dex doesn’t stop. No, he keeps fucking you with the same pace. Pushing all your cum back inside your whole.
“Dex!” you scream his name.
“Yes baby! Scream my name.”
If your neighbors don’t come tomorrow and complain about the noise disturbance, then you’re not sure if they’re either deaf or lucky for them, they weren’t home. You hope it is the second option.
Dex cums inside you the third time now but he doesn’t slow down. Caging you in his arms, he continues fucking your pussy with the same pace. Pushing his cum deep inside you. Your walls were now decorated with his white paint and you feel cock drunk. Can’t think of anything anymore. All you feel is how Dex fucks you and how good you feel.
“good girl. Good fucking girl. Taking me so well hmph-.”
His balls start twitching with his cum, begging him to escape into your already cum filled pussy.
You screaming out his name while he fucks you senselessly is music to his ears. The soft moans, whines and whimpers leaving your mouth are enough for him to cum. But your sweet pussy was the cherry on top. Taking his huge size very well, as if designed just for him.
“Missed your pussy so much.” Dex confesses while he rests his forehead against your sweaty forehead.
Your hot breath hitting his face. He finally lets himself loose and cums inside you, mixing with your release.
He stays inside you for a second, breathing for a second.
“Think you can take another round?” he asks you with a stupid grin plastered on his face.
warnings: mean!dex is a warning in himself, stalking, breaking and entering, swearing, dubious consent...
thinking about him escaping from prison, after all the carnage he's caused at the diner, he comes to your place. you haven't moved since he went to prison, and you haven't changed the locks either.
he waltzes in, mask still on, covered in blood as he stands in your kitchen. you're in the shower - he debates walking in to see you again, to surprise you. he decides against it, he can hear you humming to yourself and wants to truly see the look on your face when you realise he's escaped to come home to you. He makes himself at home, sitting on the stools at the kitchen island and eating some strawberries from your fridge.
your relationship with Dex ended incredibly abruptly when you found out about his secret acts before he went to prison. everything he did for the Fisk's, the FBI, everything he had done, everything he took pleasure in doing. it made you feel sick. the relationship ended the night he killed foggy. your friend, foggy. you didn't go to Josie's that night, opting for a quiet night in after work, until Dex stumbled home from the bar covered in Foggy's blood, telling you he had done it for yours and his future. Matt broke into your apartment and continued to fight with Dex until you threw the two of them out and vowed to never engage in anything to do with their "stupid side shit roles" ever again.
"Hey there, sweetheart." The voice startled you. Dex couldn't help himself. how could he when you looked so angelic after just getting out of the shower? smelling of rose scented shampoo, your hair and body still damp, the same shampoo he loved before he went to prison.
"Dex..." You uttered, the mask only showing you his eyes as he rose from his seat on the stool. "Do not come any closer. I have guns hidden all over the apartment and I swear-"
"Attagirl, just like I taught you, huh?" you knew the smug bastard was smirking underneath his mask. "didn't you miss me, sweet girl? I missed you."
"you killed my friend. you had an entire secret life you kept from me. you ruined everything I ever had." you harshly responded as he took a few steps closer to you. "Dex I fucking mean it, stay the fuck back or I swear I'll-"
He raised his hand to pull the mask from his face and you lost any sense that was left in your brain. his hair was longer now, with the grey strands coming through, with his prominent scar next to his lips pulled up into a smirk as he stared at your dumbfounded expression. you had to fight every urge to touch him, to run your hands through his hair, to look down at his lips. do not look down at his lips. "you'll what, huh?" he chuckled to himself. "you could've told me to leave at any point, yet here I am. and you're doing that look." Dex began to step closer to you, your feet itching backwards across your carpet to the wall. "you've got that look in your eye."
"i..." you really didn't know what to say. all you could do was focus on his eyes. they hadn't changed, he still looked at you with adoration and love (in his own fucked up way). "w-well leave then!"
"now you're just saying it because I put that thought in your head pretty girl. you still need me to think for you, huh? can't use that big brain of yours to tell me all the ways ive ruined your life and you hate me?" he laughed, knee raising between your legs.
"I hate you, Benjamin poindexter. I fucking hate you for everything you've ever done." You quipped, seeing him lower one hand to his belt holster and you gulped. "I d-don't need you to do anything. I was fine before you went to prison, I was brilliant while you were in there and I'm perfect now!"
"oh honey, don't lie to me. I know when you're lying, you're so bad at it." he laughed, brushing your hair back as you trembled under his touch. "you need me, pretty girl. you can't have been doing that good, huh? I know you. I know you inside and out, I know you haven't even thought of anyone else whilst I've been gone, let alone acted on it-"
You wanted to play a game, albeit, a dangerous game that would break him before he broke you. "That shows how well you know me, Matt was here last night." You smiled and the smirk dropped from his face, now replaced with a vengeful scowl. "We've got in contact again, all thanks to you. We had a few glasses of wine, watched TV and then he followed me into my room-"
A harsh hand wrapped around your throat quicker than you could react, eyes wide with shock as Dex growled. "Don't fucking test me, sweetheart. You can't lie to me, especially about that, do you understand?" When you didn't answer (more focused on trying to pry his wrist from your throat as you gasped for air), he tightened his grip and held your wrists above your head. "Do you understand huh? or have you become that stupid since I've been gone you forgot who you belong to? Do I have to remind you?"
"D-Dex." you wheezed out, barely making out the words as your vision became blurry whilst he squeezed the sides of your throat tighter. Your feet were no longer touching the ground and the towel that had once wrapped around your naked body was now dropped to the floor. You kicked your legs out in an effort to try and gain some control over the situation but it was no use.
When he thought you had enough, Dex roughly released you onto the floor. You knelt down gasping for breath - panting like an animal who was thirsty for water. Your hands clawed at your throat to try and alleviate the pressure. "Now, sweetheart, let's try this again, huh?" Dex now knelt down to your height on the floor, still towering over you as you focused on the carpet. "Eyes up here, pretty girl, look at me." His fingers gripped your jaw and you winced in fear. "I would never hurt you sweetheart, never ever." He smiled. "Were you lying to me just then, about him?" You stayed silent and he squeezed your jaw once again and you nodded with a quiet whimper. "Now, what do we say?
"'m sorry Dex, I-i didnt mean to!" you exclaimed, looking up at him with glossy eyes as he smiled down at you. "m sorry, promise, didn't mean to hurt you, just wanted to-"
"I know sweetie I know." he smiled, pulling you in for a tight hug as you scrambled closer to him. "you just wanted to make me jealous huh? wanted me to get angry?" you didn't know what to say. Dex was unpredictable, irrational and terrifying all at once. opting to do what seemed best, you nodded sweetly. "I know, honey, it's okay. don't ever, ever do it again. do you understand? and don't ever mention that fuckers name or I'll ruin you so good the only name you remember is mine, huh?"
a/n: this was literally supposed to be a blurb, yet here we are.
ok i’m having some #thoughts… what if fbi!dex and reader were dating before the whole fisk bullshit and when he went to the mental hospital, reader never visited him. he was so confused and hurt bc u told him you’d never leave him, so when he escapes prison, the first thing he looks for is u. he shows up to your apartment and sees a kid standing behind u, the right age for dex to be the father…
Scared of Life
Benjamin Poindexter x fem! Reader
warning: hurt/comfort, angst, depression during the pregnancy, your daughter being a little possessive over you
A/N: WAIT I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCH OMG???? Thank you so much for the request, I hope you like this <333
Dex remembered promises with terrifying precision.
Most people forgot small details over time. Words blurred together. Memories softened around the edges until they became easier to live with. But Dex’s mind didn’t work like that. Every important moments burned itself deep beneath his skin like shrapnel he could never fully remove.
Especially when it came to you. Especially that night.
You had been laying half on top of him on the couch, wrapped in one of his shirts while some terrible late night cooking show played quietly in the background. Dex barely remembered the show itself. What he remembered was your heartbeat against his chest. The warmth of your fingers lazily tracing the scars on body. The way you looked at him like he was still human even after learning all the ugly parts of him.
“What if I get bad again?” he asked quietly. You lifted your head almost immediately after that. Confusion crossed your face first before sadness slowly replaced it. Like the question itself hurt you more than him.
“What do you mean?” Dex shrugged slightly beneath you, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of your face.
“People leave eventually.” His voice stayed flat when he said it, almost detached. “Usually after they realize I’m too much work.”
Your expression tightened instantly. You shifted upward until he had no choice but to look at you. Your hands cupped his face carefully, thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw.
“I’m not people.” you whispered softly. Dex stared at you for several seconds without speaking.
Then quietly:
“You promise?”
Your forehead rested against his.
“I promise.” That promise became the thing that haunted him most after Fisk destroyed everything.
Because you disappeared. Completely.
No visits during recovery. No calls to the hospital. No messages. Nothing.
At first Dex thought maybe you were hurt. He asked about you constantly during the first few weeks until doctors started exchanging uncomfortable looks every time he brought up your name. Eventually one nurse admitted nobody matching your description had visited him once.
That answer hollowed something inside him immediately. Still, he made excuses for you.
Maybe Fisk threatened you. Maybe the FBI forced you away. Maybe you thought he hated you now after everything that happened.
But as weeks turned into months, the silence became impossible to explain away. Dex sat alone in sterile hospital rooms replaying every conversation you ever had together until it drove him half insane. Every memory became evidence against himself.
Maybe he scared you too much. Maybe you saw what he really was. Maybe loving him finally became exhausting.
Eventually the worst possibility settled heavily into his chest and refused to leave. You abandoned him.
Just like everyone else always did.
The realization destroyed him more thoroughly than Fisk ever could. Because Dex loved catastrophically. His body craved you like oxygen. He was utterly miserable and obsessed with you. Once someone mattered to him, they became stitched directly into his nervous system. Losing them didn’t feel emotional.
It felt physical. Like skin being ripped apart. Like he was told to stab himself over, over and over again.
So when Dex finally escaped months later, bruised and angry and barely holding himself together beneath layers of violence and betrayal, there was only one thing he needed before anything else. You.
He found your apartment just after midnight.
The building sat in a quieter neighborhood than your old place. Smaller too. Safer. Warm yellow light glowed faintly through the curtains while flower pots rested carefully beside neighboring doors.
Dex hated how normal it looked.
You used to talk about wanting normal someday. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere without constant sirens and blood and fear clinging to every street corner.
Apparently you built that life without him. The thought twisted sharply in his chest. Dex stood outside your apartment door listening carefully before moving closer.
Two heartbeats. His expression darkened instantly.
You moved on???
His jaw tightened hard enough to ache before he reached for the lock. The mechanism clicked softly beneath practiced fingers. The door opened silently.
The apartment smelled exactly like you. Vanilla candles. Laundry detergent. Coffee. And your parfum in the air made it worse.
For one dangerous second, Dex nearly forgot why he was angry.
His eyes moved carefully across the room. A blanket tossed over the couch. Crayons scattered across the coffee table. Tiny shoes abandoned near the kitchen.
Tiny shoes? Dex frowned slightly.
Then he heard your voice somewhere deeper inside the apartment.
“Lily, if you’re still awake, I swear to god-” Small footsteps thundered instantly through the hallway. A child’s laugh followed.
Dex froze completely.
You appeared seconds later wearing oversized sleep clothes, hair messy like you’d been trying unsuccessfully to get someone into bed for the last hour. The second your eyes landed on him, every bit of color drained from your face instantly.
The air left your lungs so sharply he heard it.
“Dex.” His name sounded fragile coming from you. Emotional enough to make something ugly twist inside him all over again. You stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. Dex stared back just as hard.
You looked tired. Not physically exhausted exactly.
Just worn down around the edges in ways he didn’t remember. Softer somehow too. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, old stress lines near your mouth, and despite everything crashing violently inside him, Dex still thought you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Then anger surged back hard enough to choke him.
“You left.” The words came out rougher than intended. Your expression cracked immediately after hearing them.
Before you could answer, another figure peeked around the hallway corner behind you.
A tiny human, a little girl. Maybe five years old.
Dark curls slightly messy from sleep. Big eyes narrowed suspiciously at the stranger standing inside her apartment.
Dex’s breathing stopped instantly.
Because she looked like him.
The eyebrows. The cheekbones. The expression.
Even the way she tilted her head while assessing him looked painfully familiar. The little girl blinked once before gasping dramatically.
“MOMMY!!!!!!” Dex barely had time to process what was happening before the child suddenly shoved herself directly in front of you with shocking determination.
“MOMMY GET BEHIND ME!!!!!” she yelled loudly. “THERE IS A MAN HERE.”
Dex stared blankly. The tiny girl spread both arms protectively in front of you like she genuinely planned on fighting him herself if necessary.
You looked one stress induced headache away from collapsing entirely.
“Lily, sweetheart-”
“No!” she shouted. “I saw this happen on the big screen.”
Dex blinked slowly. The child pointed accusingly toward him.
“You cannot break into our house.”
Dex frowned slightly. “Technically I already did.”
“THAT’S WORSE.” You made a strangled noise beside her that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
Dex looked deeply offended instead. The little girl squinted harder at him.
“You look sus… uh… susbizi- Mommy what was the word for weird dangerous looking people.”
“Suspicious, baby. Suspicious.”
“YOU LOOK SUSPICIOUS!!”
“I look suspicious.”
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes critically. “And your face is weird.”
Dex actually looked wounded by that statement.
“My face is normal.”
“No it’s not,” she argued immediately. “You look like a sad potato.”
You physically turned away to hide your laughter. Dex stared at the child in complete disbelief. Then suddenly her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed further.
“Oh my god.” Your face lost every remaining trace of color.
“Lily-”
“You have my eyebrows.” Silence filled the apartment instantly. The little girl looked between both of you several times before gasping loudly enough to wake the entire building.
“MOMMY.” You covered your face with both hands immediately.
“IS THIS THE GUY YOU SAID WENT ON VACATION WITH PEPPA?”
“Yes, Lily. That’s him.” honestly? what were you supposed to tell her when she asked you where her dad is. So you came up with the excuse that her father is on vacation with… peppa the pig.
“So… that’s your secret husband?” she asks innocently.
“What? No!”
Dex looked equally alarmed. “Absolutely not.”
The little girl pointed directly at him again.
“You’re the daddy my mommy told me about.” Dex forgot how breathing worked. You looked ready to die on the spot.
Lily marched directly toward Dex after that with terrifying confidence before stopping directly in front of him. She planted both tiny hands on her hips while staring up at him with the exact same intense focus he’d seen in mirrors his entire life.
“Okay,” she announced seriously. “Here are the rules.”
Dex blinked once. “Rules.”
“Yes.” She pointed between herself and you. “Mommy is mine first.”
You made another choking noise somewhere behind her.
“I’m not sharing,” Lily continued firmly. “Even if you are my dad.”
Dex stared at the tiny child standing in front of him issuing territorial warnings like a mob boss. Then very seriously:
“You don’t wanna share your mother.”
“No.” She crossed her arms harder. “She’s my favorite person.”
Something inside Dex cracked slightly hearing that. Because he understood immediately. Because you’re his favorite person, too.
Unfortunately for him, Lily apparently inherited every protective instinct he ever possessed. It was as if your genes didn’t even try other than her getting your eyes.
“You can stay!” she decided after several seconds. “But if you make mommy cry, I bite.”
Dex nodded solemnly. “Understood.”
“She actually bit a pre school teacher once.” you admitted weakly.
“He was rude to you!” Lily defended instantly. Dex nodded again like this was perfectly rational behavior. Honestly, the fact that he seemed proud should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The next hour passed in complete emotional chaos.
Lily interrogated Dex like an FBI agent while simultaneously climbing all over you possessively anytime he sat too close. She demanded answers to increasingly bizarre questions while Dex answered every single one with complete seriousness.
“Do you know dinosaurs?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Velociraptor.”
Lily gasped dramatically. “That’s mine too.”
Dex looked absurdly pleased by this information.
Meanwhile you sat frozen on the couch trying unsuccessfully not to emotionally collapse watching them interact.
Dex looked at her like she hung the moon itself.
Eventually Lily began falling asleep curled against your side while still glaring suspiciously toward Dex anytime he moved too suddenly.
Her tiny hand clutched your shirt tightly even half asleep. Dex watched her carefully from the opposite side of the couch.
Memorizing every detail about her. About his daughter.
Then Lily’s sleepy eyes slowly lifted toward him one final time.
“You better not go on vacation again.” she mumbled quietly. The room fell completely silent. Dex froze instantly. Lily yawned softly before curling closer against you.
“Mommy gets sad sometimes.” she whispered sleepily. “She cries when she thinks I’m sleeping.”
Dex looked at you immediately. And the pain on his face nearly destroyed you. After carrying Lily carefully into bed together, the apartment finally fell quiet.
The second her bedroom door clicked shut, all the tension both of you had been avoiding rushed back violently.
Dex stood near the kitchen counter while you lingered several feet away uncertainly. Neither of you knew how to begin unraveling five years of grief.
“She’s five.” you said softly. Dex nodded once.
“She likes dinosaurs. Hates cherries. Talks a lot about wanting to build an animal farm. Thinks every stray cat belongs to her.” His expression softened briefly before tightening again.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There it was. The question he keeps asking himself the whole time.
You looked down immediately because suddenly meeting his eyes felt impossible.
“Because I was terrified.” you admitted quietly. Dex stayed completely still.
“After Fisk.” you continued shakily, “people watched everything connected to you. Hospitals. FBI contacts. Your apartment.” Your throat tightened painfully. “Then I found out I was pregnant.”
Dex looked physically unable to breathe.
“I kept thinking if anyone found out about her…” Your voice cracked slightly. “They’d use her against you. Against me.”
Tears blurred your vision.
“So I disappeared.” Dex’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“I wanted to visit you,” you whispered. “God, Dex, I wanted to so badly.”
His breathing became uneven instantly.
“But every time I thought about bringing her near any of that…” You shook your head weakly. “I couldn’t do it.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too small for all the pain sitting between both of you.
“The pregnancy was horrible without you.” you admitted softly after a moment. Dex closed his eyes briefly.
“Not because of her,” you said quickly. “She was an angel. Felt like she knew I wasn’t doing well and tried to not give me a even harder time.” A weak laugh escaped you through tears. “But because every scary part of it made me want you.”
His face crumpled slightly.
“I wanted your arms around me when I got sick.” Your voice shook harder now. “Wanted to tell you when she kicked for the first time. Wanted you there during ultrasounds.” Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now. “I wanted to lay against your chest and hear you tell me everything would be okay.”
Dex physically flinched. Like every word hurt him. Like you just stabbed him in his heart.
“I needed you,” you whispered brokenly. “And I couldn’t have you.”
For several seconds, Dex said absolutely nothing. Then suddenly he crossed the room. His hands cupped your face carefully. Like he needed physical proof you were still real.
“You protected our daughter.” he said fiercely. You cried harder instantly.
“You should hate me.”
“No.” The answer came immediately.
“I thought you abandoned me,” Dex admitted quietly, eyes burning into yours. “But you were protecting her.”
Your chest hurt painfully.
“I waited for you every day,” he confessed. “Every single day.”
Something shattered inside you hearing that. You wrapped your arms around him instantly.
Dex made a quiet sound against your shoulder that almost didn’t sound human at all. Relief hit him so hard it physically shook through his body. His arms locked tightly around your waist while his face buried against your neck like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
“I will never leave you again.” he whispers loud enough for you to hear.
I love your dex stuff truly it makes me giggle!! You add a humorous side to your writing that other dex writers miss, they make him too serious! I have a request.. you’ve done jealous Dex but how would jealous reader look like?? Thank u!! <3
Cry Baby!
Benjamin Poindexter x gn! Reader
warning: jealousy, dex kinda ragebaiting you, sex ban (he deserves it)!!, fluff
A/N: AHHHH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU🥹🥹 The compliments I get mean so much to me <33 I hope you enjoy this 💘 Had so much fun writing this :))
Dex noticed something was wrong the second you stopped talking in the car.
Usually after going out somewhere, the two of you always ended up talking about something stupid on the drive home. You’d complain about people, make fun of strangers together, tease him for glaring at somebody too hard. There was always noise.
Tonight? Nothing. You just stared out the window while the city lights passed across your face.
Dex glanced at you briefly from the driver’s seat. “You tired?”
“Mhm.” Short answer. Definitely annoyed. He noticed immediately.
The problem with dating Dex was that he observed people for a living. Tiny changes in breathing, posture, eye movement: he caught all of it without trying. So the second you started acting quieter after that woman approached him at the bar, he already knew something was up.
He just didn’t know how funny it was yet.
By the time you got back to the apartment, you were still visibly irritated. Not dramatic about it. Just… off.
You dropped your keys onto the kitchen counter harder than necessary before heading for the fridge. Dex leaned against the doorway silently watching you.
There it is. The little tension in your shoulders. The avoiding eye contact. Oh this was jealousy.
Dex bit back a smile immediately.
“You mad at me?” he asked casually.
“No.”
“Okay.” You grabbed a water bottle aggressively. Dex was absolutely certain now. Even worse is that this was adorable for Dex.
He walked over slowly, stopping beside you at the counter. “You sure?”
“Yes.” Another short answer. Dex had to physically stop himself from laughing. Because you looked genuinely upset while also trying so hard not to show it.
“Baby,” he said softly. “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m just tired.” You twisted the water bottle cap open while avoiding looking at him. Dex tilted his head slightly, studying you for another second before realization fully clicked into place.
This was about the woman from earlier. The one who practically threw herself at him while you sat right there beside him at the bar. The interaction lasted maybe two minutes total.
She walked over smiling, touched his arm twice, and asked if he was single while very obviously pretending not to notice you sitting next to him.
Dex barely even looked at her.
“No,” he told her flatly. “I’m happily taken to this wonderful person in front of me.” Then he immediately turned back toward you and continued your conversation like nothing happened.
That should’ve been the end of it. Apparently not.
“You’re jealous.” Dex said suddenly. He knows that this is about this woman from the bar. 100%
“I’m not jealous.” Your head snapped toward him immediately. You were absolutely jealous.
Dex felt something warm spread through his chest instantly. Because this was new. Usually he was the insane jealous one between you two. He was the one glaring at strangers for looking at you too long. He was the one spiraling because somebody touched your arm while talking.
But you? You almost never got possessive. Which meant this was incredibly entertaining for him. Maybe now he can understand how you feel when he gets jealous.
“You are.” he said, visibly amused now.
“I’m literally not.” you raise one eyebrow and look at him weird.
“The girl at the bar bothered you.”
“She didn’t bother me.”
“You’ve been mad for forty minutes.”
“I am NOT mad.” Dex finally smiled fully at that. And unfortunately for you, once he found something funny, he became the most annoying person alive.
“Awww.” he cooed softly. Your eyes narrowed immediately.
“What.” you ask him, completely confused why he just cooed.
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” you repeated through clenched teeth.
“Cry baby.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
Dex walked closer with the most irritatingly soft expression on his face. “It’s okay.”
“…What is okay?”
“You being jealous.”
“I’m not-” he doesn’t let you finish speaking and interrupts you instead.
“My poor little cry baby.”
You stared at him in genuine confusion now. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
Dex looked way too pleased with himself. “Because you look upset.”
“I don’t look upset enough to be called a cry baby.”
“No?” He tilted his head slightly. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Awww.” He reached over and pinched your cheek lightly. “Don’t cry. It’s okay to be a cry baby.”
Your jaw dropped slightly. “Dex.”
“There it is.”
“What.”
“That offended look.” He grinned. “Cute.” You were genuinely getting annoyed now while Dex looked like he was having the time of his life.
“You’re actually insufferable.”
“And you’re jealous.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Unfortunately, he said it with complete confidence. Because he knew you too well. Dex leaned against the counter beside you, still smiling faintly while watching your increasingly irritated expression.
“You know what’s funny?” he asked casually.
“What.”
“I didn’t even talk to her.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted. “So what is the point?”
You crossed your arms tightly. “She was practically in your lap.”
“She touched my arm twice.”
“She was flirting with you right in front of me.”
“And?” You stared at him in disbelief.
“And??” Dex looked way too entertained now.
“I told her I was taken.”
“You seemed very calm about it.” That made him laugh quietly under his breath.
“You wanted me to what? Bite her?”
“Maybe a little.” Dex’s entire expression softened instantly at that answer. God, you were cute when you were jealous. Especially because you clearly hated being jealous. You looked genuinely annoyed with yourself for caring this much. Meanwhile Dex felt almost smug about it.
“You know,” he murmured, stepping closer again, “I kinda like this.”
“Of course you would.” you let out a dramatic and long sigh. Is this how he feels when he gets jealous?
“You get all grumpy.”
“I am not grumpy.”
“Baby, you’ve been glaring at your water bottle for ten minutes.” You looked down immediately like the bottle personally betrayed you. Dex almost laughed again. Then he made things worse.
“You know she called me handsome?” Your head whipped toward him so fast he nearly lost composure completely.
“Benjamin Poindexter.”
“Full name now?” He looked innocent. “But she did call me that.”
“I don’t care.”
“Mhm.”
“She looked fake anyway.” That fully broke him. Dex laughed openly now, leaning forward against the counter while you glared at him harder.
“Oh my god,” he said through laughter. “You were judging her too?”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Unfortunately he’s right. You don’t hate his annoying ass.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am.” You stared at him for another long second before your expression flattened completely. Dex immediately got suspicious.
“What.” You took a sip of water calmly.
“Nothing.”
“No, what was that look?”
You shrugged. “Just thinking.”
Oh if only he knew what you’re gonna say next.
“About?” Then you looked him dead in the eyes and said completely blankly:
“You’re on a sex ban for two weeks.” Silence. Dex blinked once. You visibly see that he’s trying to process what you just said.
“…What?”
“Two weeks.” His smile vanished instantly.
“Wait no.”
“Yes.” you reply calm.
“Baby.”
“Nope.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I absolutely can.” He stared at you in genuine horror now while you calmly screwed the cap back onto your water bottle.
“Two weeks because you’re annoying.”
“That’s not fair.” he whines and you’re trying your absolute best to not start laughing at his face.
“You called me a cry baby three times.”
“You were acting like one!”
“Now it’s three weeks.”
“Okay wait hold on-” Dex immediately pushed himself off the counter. You walked past him toward the bedroom looking way too satisfied with yourself. He followed right behind you in actual distress.
“You’re joking.” You said nothing.
“Baby.” Nope. Still nothing. Dex grabbed your wrist gently before you could disappear into the bedroom, pulling you back toward him with a deeply offended expression.
“You can’t weaponize affection. You know how much I love makin love to you. ”
“You rage baited me.”
“You started it.”
“You continued it.” Dex stared at you for another second before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“…One week.”
“Three.”
“Baby please.” he starts begging you at this point. You’re enjoying this more than you should.
Are requests still open? If yes, would you consider writing about rage baiting dex hehe. Something that makes him jealous or something. Reader just wants to get reactions out of him lol
Just a joke, right?
Benjamin Poindexter x gn! Reader
warning: ragebaiting, jealousy, fluff
A/N: LMAO I had so much fun writing this. He’s definitely falling for the ragebait. Like imagine telling him a guy is waxing you. There is just no way he is staying calm😭😭 Hope you enjoy this<33
Dex was terrifyingly smart in almost every situation. He could predict someone’s movements before they even made them. He noticed little details nobody else would ever catch. His instincts were sharp enough to make most people uncomfortable after five minutes around him.
But somehow, the second jealousy got involved? All intelligence disappeared. And you loved it.
The two of you were sitting on the couch in his apartment late at night, your legs thrown over his lap while some boring movie played quietly in the background. Dex wasn’t even watching it. He kept absently dragging his fingers up and down your calf while staring at the screen with that distant look he got whenever he was too focused on you to process anything else around him.
You noticed it immediately.
The slight tension in his jaw every time you shifted closer. The way his hand tightened automatically whenever you laughed at something. Dex always acted calm on the outside, but once you learned him, really learned him, it became almost too easy to tell when he was spiraling internally.
Which unfortunately for him made teasing him way too fun.
You looked down at your phone. “Ugh. I forgot I have that appointment tomorrow.”
Dex hummed distractedly. “What appointment?”
“The waxing one.”
His hand paused against your leg for half a second before continuing again. “Thought that was next week.”
“It got moved.”
“Mhm.” You bit back a smile already. He sounded normal now, but you could practically see the gears turning in his head. Dex noticed details like dates and schedules without even trying. It was honestly terrifying sometimes.
You kept your tone completely casual. “I just hope I don’t get the same guy again.”
This time his hand stopped completely. Slowly, he turned his head toward you.
“The same what?”
You looked up innocently. “The same guy.
Complete silence.
The movie kept playing in the background while he stared at you with an expression that could only be described as deeply concerned.
“What guy?”
“The waxing guy, Dex.” His entire face changed immediately. Not dramatic at first. Just subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t catch it. His shoulders stiffened slightly. His eyes narrowed a fraction. His jaw locked.
But you noticed. Oh, you definitely noticed.
“A man does that?”
You shrugged. “Yeah.” Dex blinked once like his brain physically rejected the information.
“A man…” he repeated slowly.
“Yeah?”
“Waxing you.”
You almost laughed already at the disbelief in his voice. “That is generally how appointments work, yes.”
Dex looks at you for another long second before leaning back against the couch cushions with an expression that looked genuinely offended on your behalf.
“No.”
You bit your lip. “No what?”
“No man should be doing that.”
“Oh my god.” you let out a small and quiet laugh. Oh he’s definitely falling for it.
“I’m serious.”
You turned more toward him now, fully entertained. “Dex, it’s literally his job.”
“I don’t care.” The immediate response made your stomach hurt from trying not to laugh.
He ran a hand through his hair roughly looking back at you again, visibly irritated now.
“Why would you even book that?”
“Because I wanted to?” you ask him, acting like he just asked you why the solution of 1+1 is 2.
“With a man?”
“Yes, Baby. Society survived.” He looked personally attacked by your sarcasm. Then you made the fatal mistake.
“Well, his name’s Daniel, and he’s actually really sweet.” The room went dead quiet. Dex stared at you.
“You know his name.”You lost it a little at the way he said it. Like you betrayed him.
“Yes?”
“You know his NAME?”
“He’s a person, Dex.” duh…
“No.” You laughed harder while he sat there looking genuinely disturbed by this information.
“He talks to you?”
“Yes baby, I’m not sitting there in silence like I’m being interrogated by the FBI.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “What does that mean?”
“It means we have conversations.”
“Oh my god.” You could physically watch the jealousy spread across his face now. It was incredible. Dex looked like he was trying to calculate how acceptable murder would be in this situation.
“He sees you naked and talks to you?”
“Mostly he complains about traffic.”
“That’s not helping.”
You grinned innocently. “He says I’m one of his favorite clients.”
His head snapped toward you so fast you almost laughed again. “He said that?”
“Mhm.” His jaw clenched visibly. You could practically hear his internal screaming. The funniest part was that he genuinely didn’t realize you were doing this on purpose yet. He was completely falling for it.
“Interesting…” you hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe he just likes seeing me.”
Dex sat up immediately. “Okay, no.”
You finally burst into full laughter at that.
“No?”
“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh my god, your face right now-”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”You were, actually. Mostly because he got so weirdly possessive without even meaning to. He tried so hard to act composed, but the second another person, another man, got involved where you were concerned, he completely unraveled.
You leaned back into the couch cushions with a smile. “I mean, if you were flexible enough, you could do it.”
That sentence broke him. Dex froze for one long second before narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously.
“What does that mean?” You shrugged casually. “Nothing.”
“No, explain.”
“You just don’t seem very flexible.” He looked offended immediately. You both know exactly that he is the quiet opposite.
“I am flexible.”
“Oh really?” you ask teasingly.
“Yes.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Can you even touch your toes?”
His expression darkened instantly. “That’s not the point.”
“Sounds like somebody can’t touch their toes.” oh my god he is the perfect candidate to ragebait.
Dex leaned forward suddenly, grabbing your ankle and pulling you closer until your legs tangled with his.
“I can absolutely touch my toes.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“Maybe.” He stared at you for another second before realization finally hit him. A slow dangerous look crossed his face.
“Your smile gave you away instantly. Dex groaned loudly, dropping his head back against the couch dramatically while you laughed beside him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You make it too easy.”
“I was genuinely considering hunting this man down.” That only made you laugh harder. Dex turned toward you again, still annoyed, but now there was amusement underneath it too. His hand slid around your waist automatically, pulling you against his side.
“You know…” he muttered, “normal people don’t psychologically torture their partners for entertainment.”
“I think it’s cute when you get jealous.”
“I don’t get jealous.” You gave him a look. Be so forreal now..
He sighed heavily. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
“A little?” you repeated.
“You said another man was looking at you naked. What reaction did you expect from me?”
“The exact one you gave me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re evil.”
“But you like me.” his expression softened immediately despite himself. That happened every time. No matter how irritated or jealous or grumpy he got, the second you smiled at him like that, he melted a little.
“You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.” he muttered.
Your grin widened. “Obsessed?”
The second the word left your mouth, he realized what he said. His ears turned slightly pink immediately.
“…Don’t start.”
“Oh my god.” you laughed. “Benjamin Poindexter, THE Bullseye, has a crush on me.”
summary : it was a meaningless task. one frank had told you he would do. but after days of it going untouched, you took matters into your own hands.
word count : 3.8 k
warnings : mentions of injuries, protective!frank, angst, worried!frank, soft !frank, mentions of canon level violence
a/n : this is my official application to be the certified frank castle angst ™️ writer... anyways this isn't proofread and based on this request
It was such a stupid thing to get hurt over.
Not a mission.
Not some dangerous situation.
Not anything remotely worthy of the way Frank Castle was eventually going to react to it.
Just a loose cabinet door in the kitchen.
That was it.
The hinge had been hanging crooked for almost a week now, making the stupid thing sag every time you opened it. Frank had noticed immediately, of course. He’d muttered something under his breath, grabbed a screwdriver from the junk drawer, then gotten distracted by three different emergencies before he could actually fix it.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he’d promised absentmindedly two days ago, kissing the top of your head on his way out the door. Tomorrow became another day. Then another.
And honestly? It wasn’t even bothering you that much anymore.
It just became one of those tiny things that sat in the back of your mind every time you walked into the kitchen. The loose hinge. The crooked door. The unfinished task. So when Frank left that afternoon to meet Micro for “an hour, tops,” you figured you’d just handle it yourself.
How hard could it be?
Turns out: harder than expected.
Because apparently the tiny metal spring inside the hinge was under enough tension to become a literal weapon.
You sigh dramatically as you crawl onto the kitchen counter, cracking your neck.
"Okay.." You hum, reaching up into the cabinet. You brace one knee carefully against the marble counter, tongue poking slightly between your teeth as you squint up at the crooked hinge. The cabinet door hangs open awkwardly beside your head, swaying every time you move.
“Frank literally said this would be easy,” you mutter. In hindsight, that probably should’ve been your first warning sign. You reach deeper into the cabinet with the screwdriver clenched in one hand, trying to line the hinge back into place while simultaneously holding the stupid door steady with your shoulder. Immediately impossible.
“Okay, no, that’s fine,” you mumble to yourself as the cabinet door slips sideways again. “Didn’t need both hands anyway.” You awkwardly adjust your balance higher onto the counter. The hinge suddenly shifts.
There’s a loud metallic snap. Then—
“Fuck—!” Pain explodes across your palm. Bright. Sharp. Immediate. You jerk backward instinctively as the screwdriver slips clean out of your grip. The cabinet hinge springs loose like a trap, one jagged metal edge slicing straight across the center of your hand. For one stunned second, all you can do is stare at it. The cut opens slowly. Then blood pours out.
“Oh my God—” Your stomach lurches instantly. The pain hits all at once now, white-hot and throbbing hard enough to make your fingers spasm. You clutch your injured hand automatically, which is unfortunately the exact moment you realize you are still balanced precariously on the kitchen counter.
“Oh, shit—” Your foot slips. The world tilts violently sideways. And then you’re falling. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the air straight out of your lungs. Your shoulder slams into the cabinet first. Then your hip. Then the back of your head bounces lightly against tile with a painful crack.
“Jesus Christ—” The cabinet door comes down with you. It smashes beside your leg in a horrible explosion of wood and metal. For a second, you just lie there spread across the kitchen floor in complete silence, staring at the ceiling while pain radiates through approximately every inch of your body. Your hand throbs violently against your chest. Something warm drips down your wrist. You slowly sit up with a groan—and immediately regret it when dizziness washes over you.
Blood.
So much blood.
It’s running down your palm fast now, dripping off your elbow onto the tile in fat red splatters. Your shoulder aches where you hit the cabinet, and there’s already a nasty pulse forming at the back of your skull.
You stare at the demolished cabinet door lying beside you.
Then at your bleeding hand. Then at the streak of blood now smeared across the kitchen floor.
Your hand pulses violently in time with your heartbeat. The cut is deep enough that every movement sends fresh blood spilling between your fingers, hot and slick and impossible to ignore. You press the sleeve of your shirt against it with a shaky hiss You push yourself upright using the counter and nearly crumple again when your hip screams in protest. Apparently you landed harder than you thought. Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. The kitchen looks like a crime scene.
The cabinet door is snapped clean off one hinge.
There’s blood on the tile.
Blood on the counter.
A suspicious streak on the fridge somehow.
You stumble toward the sink, dizzy enough that your shoulder clips the counter on the way there. The impact makes pain spark behind your eyes.
“Motherfucker—” The second cold water hits your hand, your knees almost buckle. The cut burns so viciously you actually gag a little. Blood swirls pink down the drain in endless ribbons no matter how hard you try to rinse it away.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring in horror. “Why is there so much?” You grab paper towels with your good hand and wrap them frantically around your palm. Within seconds, red blooms through all the layers.
Cool. Cool cool cool.
Your breathing’s getting too fast now. Panic mixing with adrenaline and pain until your thoughts feel slippery. Frank is gonna freak out. Not angry freak out—worse. That terrifying quiet kind where he looks at you like you’ve been shot in front of him. You cannot deal with that right now. So instead, you start cleaning. Which would maybe be more convincing if you weren’t actively swaying on your feet. You wipe down the floor first, crouching carefully while your injured hand throbs hard enough to make your vision pulse. Every time you move your fingers, fresh pain shoots up your wrist.
“Stupid,” you hiss at yourself, scrubbing another streak off the tile. “So stupid.”
Your shoulder aches.
Your head aches.
Your hip definitely feels bruised already.
And your hand— Your stomach turns every time you accidentally glimpse it beneath the blood-soaked paper towels. You should probably get stitches. That realization lands heavily in your chest.
“No,” you say out loud immediately. “Absolutely not.” Because stitches would require a hospital. And a hospital would require explaining. And explaining would require Frank finding out. You look toward the clock. Forty minutes until he gets home. Panic spikes fresh and hot. You force yourself upright again and immediately have to grab the counter when dizziness crashes over you hard enough to tilt the room sideways.
“…Okay maybe concussion-adjacent,” you mumble. Your reflection in the microwave startles you a little. Pale. Sweaty. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy with pain. Frank is going to know something’s wrong instantly. You rush to the bathroom anyway. By the time you’re done wrapping your hand in gauze from the first aid kit, it looks bulky and suspicious as hell. You stare at it miserably.
“Maybe if I just keep my hand behind my back the entire night.” Even you don’t buy that. You try to fix your hair next. Wash the blood off your arms. Change your shirt. Halfway through pulling the clean shirt over your head, pain slices through your shoulder so sharply you gasp and nearly pass out again.
“…Jesus Christ.” You lean heavily against the bathroom sink breathing through it. This has officially become the worst decision you’ve made all month. And somehow—somehow—the thing making you most emotional right now is the stupid broken cabinet. Because Frank said he’d do it. And instead of waiting, you made everything worse. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Oh, come on,” you whisper miserably. “Don’t cry. That’s pathetic.” The lock clicks at the front door. Your entire body freezes. Then Frank’s voice echoes through the apartment.
“Baby?” A pause. “Why’s it smell like bleach in here?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Your stomach drops straight to your feet. You stare at yourself in the mirror one last time—pale face, pupils blown a little too wide, gauze already spotting pink through the bandage—and try desperately to look normal.
“Coming,” you call, and your voice comes out weirdly breathless. Too high. Frank notices immediately. You hear his boots stop moving in the other room. A beat of silence. Then slower:
“…You okay?”
“Yep!” you answer way too fast. Oh, fantastic. You close your eyes briefly against the wave of dizziness rolling through your skull, then push yourself off the sink before you can think too hard about it. Your knees wobble the second you step into the hallway. Frank’s standing near the kitchen when you finally emerge. And immediately - immediately - his expression changes.
Not dramatically. That’s the scary part. Frank goes still in the way predators do. His eyes flick once over your face. Your posture. The too-careful way you’re holding your arm. The damp little flyaways around your hairline from sweat. The fact that you won’t quite meet his eyes.
“…Baby,” he says slowly. You smile so hard it hurts.
“Hi.” Frank doesn’t move.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Instantly:
“Bullshit.”
“It’s literally nothing.” His gaze drops. Right to the trash can beside the bathroom door. Stuffed full of blood-soaked paper towels.
Shit.
Frank’s head lifts very slowly. And the look on his face makes your stomach turn over.
Not anger.
Worse.
Fear.
Pure, cold fear already blooming behind his eyes. He crosses the apartment so fast you barely process it before he’s in front of you, hands hovering at your waist like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch yet.
“What happened?” he asks again, voice lower now. You instinctively tuck your injured hand behind your back. Frank notices that too. Of course he does.
“Baby,” he says carefully, “show me your hand.”
“It’s fine.”
“Show me.”
“I said it’s fi—” The room tilts. Hard. You stop mid-sentence, grabbing blindly for the wall as nausea crashes through you in one violent wave. Frank catches you before your knees fully buckle.
“Whoa—hey, hey—” You hear his voice go sharp with panic as his arms lock around you. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m okay,” you mumble automatically.
“You are visibly not okay.” The words come out rough and frightened. Frank half-carries you toward the couch, one arm braced around your waist while the other cups the back of your neck. The movement jostles your hand and pain shoots all the way up your arm. You hiss. Frank freezes instantly. His eyes snap to the bulky gauze wrapped around your palm. Then to the blood slowly soaking through it. His face drains completely.
“…Oh, baby.” That tone almost makes you cry on the spot.
“It looks worse than it is,” you whisper weakly. Frank just stares at your hand for one awful second before very, very carefully taking your wrist.
“You’re bleedin’ through the bandage,” he says quietly.
“I tried to fix it.”
“You what?”
“The cabinet,” you mumble, suddenly unable to look at him. “I just wanted to fix the stupid hinge because you kept forgetting and then the spring thing snapped and I fell and—”
“You fell?” Okay. Apparently that was the wrong detail. Frank goes pale under the stubble.
“You hit your head?” he asks immediately. You hesitate. Frank’s voice sharpens.
“Baby. Did you hit your head?”
“…Maybe a little.” His entire body tenses. He looks back at the cabinet, then back at you, his fists clenched.
"I told you I would handle it."
“I know,” you say quietly. “I just thought—”
"This is exactly what I was afraid of. Fuck !" He yells, shaking his head. The shout cracks through the apartment so suddenly you flinch. Not because you think he’s angry at you. Because Frank sounds terrified. He turns away sharply, dragging both hands over his face before pacing two steps into the kitchen like he physically cannot contain the panic burning through him. His chest heaves once. Twice.
“You’re bleedin’ all over the damn apartment, you hit your head, you almost passed out, an’ you’re tellin’ me it’s nothing?”
“I didn’t want you to freak out.” Frank actually laughs at that. One short, wrecked sound.
“Little late for that, sweetheart.” He turns back toward you immediately after, anger already collapsing into something rawer the second he sees the way you’re shrinking into yourself on the couch. His expression crumples a little around the edges.
“Hey,” he says quieter. “No, c’mere. Don’t do that.” You hadn’t even realized your eyes were watering again until his voice softened.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just wanted to fix it before you got home.” Frank’s face twists like the words physically hurt him.
“Baby, I don’t give a shit about the cabinet.”
“You said you’d handle it and I know you’ve been stressed and busy and I thought maybe if I just fixed one thing—”
“Stop.” He’s back in front of you instantly, crouching down between your knees. “Stop talkin’ like you did somethin’ wrong.” Your injured hand throbs violently in your lap. Frank notices the way you flinch and immediately gentles further, like someone turning down the volume on a storm.
“Lemme see,” he murmurs. You reluctantly hold your hand out. The second Frank carefully unwraps the blood-soaked gauze, he goes white.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“It’s not that bad—”
“It is that bad.” His voice shakes. Actually shakes. “Honey, you can see how deep this is, right?” You look away immediately. Frank exhales hard through his nose, visibly trying to get himself under control. Then he reaches up and cups your jaw carefully.
“Look at me.” You do. And God, he looks devastated. Not annoyed. Not frustrated. Just scared out of his mind. Guilt crashes through you so hard it almost hurts worse than the injury itself.
“I’m sorry.” You hum. He sighs, shaking his head.
"S'alright. S'alright, just stay there, kay ?" He darts off to the bathroom, thudding and clattering echoing from the room. You hear him ripping drawers open before he comes back with the first aid kit clutched in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. His face is still pale. Jaw tight enough to crack teeth. But the second he kneels in front of you again, every movement turns painfully gentle.
“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “Okay, sweetheart, lemme clean it up first.” You nod weakly. Frank sits beside you instead of staying on the floor, close enough that one of his thighs presses against yours the entire time. Like he needs constant proof you’re upright and breathing. He carefully lifts your injured hand into his lap, holding it so delicately it almost hurts worse.
“You dizzy right now?” he asks immediately.
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“…Yeah.” His mouth flattens.
“Probably got a concussion,” he mutters darkly. “Jesus Christ.” Then, softer: “You shoulda called me, baby.”
“I didn’t wanna bother you.” That gets a reaction. Frank’s head snaps up so fast it startles you.
“Don’t ever say that again.” Your chest tightens instantly.
“You are never a bother to me,” he says firmly, eyes burning straight through you. “You call me. Every time. I don’t care if it’s a broken nail or the damn apartment’s on fire, you hear me?” You swallow hard and nod. Frank exhales shakily, calming himself back down before looking at your hand again. The washcloth turns pink almost immediately when he starts carefully wiping blood away. You hiss through your teeth.
“I know,” he whispers instantly. “I know, honey. I got you.” His thumb rubs absently against your wrist while he works. Grounding you as much as himself. “Just gotta clean it up.” The cut looks even worse properly cleaned. Deep across the center of your palm, angry and red and still slowly bleeding. Frank goes quiet. Not detached quiet. Scared quiet. You watch his throat bob once before he reaches for antiseptic.
“This’s gonna sting,” he warns softly.
“It already stings.”
“Yeah, well.” He gives you a tired little look. “This part’s gonna sting disrespectfully.” Then he pours the antiseptic over the cut. Pain detonates through your hand.
“Oh, fuck—Frank—”
“I know, baby, I know, I know.” He catches you automatically when you jerk toward him, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other keeps hold of your hand. “Breathe. C’mon. Look at me.” Your eyes burn instantly. Frank presses his forehead briefly against yours while the antiseptic drips pink into the towel beneath your hand.
“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay. Got you.” The tenderness in his voice almost makes you cry harder than the pain does. Once the cut is finally cleaned and bandaged properly, Frank sits back just enough to inspect his work with a deep frown.
“You probably need stitches,” he mutters. Your face immediately falls. Frank notices instantly.
“…You really don’t wanna go to the hospital?”
“No.” Normally he’d argue. You can see it on his face—that instinct to drag you somewhere safe and medically supervised whether you liked it or not. But then he looks at you again. The exhaustion. The dizziness. The tears you’re trying not to cry. And he softens immediately.
“Okay,” he sighs quietly. “Okay. We monitor it tonight. But if you pass out again or start throwin’ up, I’m carrying you into an ER whether you like it or not.” He carefully rewraps your hand with fresh gauze from the first aid kit, movements painfully gentle for someone with hands that rough. Every time you hiss, his jaw clenches harder.
“There,” he mutters after tying it off carefully. “Pressure’ll help a little.” You watch him quietly. Frank avoids your eyes while he cleans the blood off your wrist with a damp cloth, expression thunderous and miserable all at once.
“…You were cleanin’ it up.” The realization lands suddenly in his voice. You swallow.
“I didn’t want you to come home and panic.” His head snaps up.
“Baby.” The word comes out shattered. “You were bleedin’ bad enough t’pass out and your priority was makin’ sure I didn’t panic?” Your eyes sting again immediately. Frank looks like he might actually lose his mind.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He puts the cloth down instantly and crowds closer, big hands settling carefully at your waist. “C’mere.” You practically fall into him. The second your forehead hits his shoulder, Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly it almost hurts. Like he’s trying to physically hold you together.
“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I got you now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizin’.”
“But you were right and I should’ve just waited and now the cabinet’s broken and—”
“Baby.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes fierce suddenly. “Listen t’me real careful right now.” One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head with unbelievable gentleness.
“I do not care about the cabinet.”
“…You don’t?”
“I’d rip every damn cabinet outta this apartment myself if it meant you didn’t end up hurt.” His voice breaks slightly around the edges. “You think I care about wood an’ screws right now?” That finally breaks you a little. Your face crumples instantly. Frank’s expression softens so fast it’s almost painful.
“Oh, honey. Hey, no.” He kisses your forehead immediately. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye. “Don’t cry.” You curl into him, your head pounding.
"I should've listened to you." Frank exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to physically push the panic out of his body before it turns into something sharper.
“Yeah,” he says at first—and you tense immediately—but then he shakes his head. “No. No, that ain’t it.” His hand stays steady at the back of your neck, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.
“You don’t get to turn this into somethin’ you did wrong,” he says quietly. “You hear me?” Your throat tightens.
“But I—”
“Hey.” A little firmer now. Not angry. Just absolute. “No.” You go quiet. Frank watches your face for a second like he’s making sure the point actually landed, then his expression softens again—like something inside him physically deflates when you stop arguing. “That cabinet?” he says, voice lower. “That’s on me. I said I’d fix it. I didn’t. That’s it.” You blink at him through the haze in your head.
“Frank, that’s not—”
“It is.” He cuts in gently, but firmly. “And you hurt yourself because you were tryin’ to take care of somethin’ in this place I should’ve already handled.” His jaw tightens for a second, like even saying it costs him something.
“That’s on me,” he repeats, quieter. The words don’t sit right in your chest either. Too heavy. Too unfair.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head a little too fast—then immediately regretting it as your skull throbs. “No, it’s not like that. I just… I didn’t think it would—”
“I know.” Frank’s thumb brushes your cheek, catching a fresh tear before it falls. “I know you didn’t.” Silence stretches for a beat. Then his voice drops softer than before. “But you’re hurt,” he says. “That’s the only part I care about right now.” You swallow hard. Frank shifts closer without thinking, like gravity just decided you belong in his space and he stopped arguing with it. His forehead touches yours again, careful this time—no pressure, just contact.
“I need you to do somethin’ for me,” he murmurs. You let out a shaky breath.
“Okay.”
“No more fixin’ things when I’m not here.” A pause. “No more climbin’ on counters. No more ‘I got it’ when it’s somethin’ that can wait.” You almost protest out of instinct, but his hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck—not restricting, just anchoring. “Can you do that?” he asks. It isn’t a command. It’s… fear, shaped into a question. So you nod.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, okay.” Frank lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.
“Good,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, his mouth quirks just a little—barely there, but real. “‘Cause if you try to give me a heart attack again over somethin’ that dumb, I’m gonna start boltin’ every cabinet shut in this place.” Despite everything—your head pounding, your hand throbbing—you let out a weak laugh.
“That’s insane.”
“Mhm.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Welcome to bein’ married to me.”
“I’m not married to you.” Frank pauses.
“…Not yet.” That gets another small, broken laugh out of you, and he visibly relaxes at the sound of it, like it’s the first real sign the world is righting itself again.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Stay with me, yeah?” His hand slides down to your shoulder, steadying you as he shifts to lie beside you on the couch, pulling you carefully against his chest like he’s trying to replace every shaky part of you with himself.
“Oh my God.” His voice muffles against your shirt. “I’m never lettin’ you hold a screwdriver again.”
summary : reader gets snowed in with spencer while being away on a case. good thing the bau sent out its two favourite agents!
warnings : forced proximity (only one bed hehe), reader is anxious and tired, hurt/comfort, spencer being a softie
you’re in oregon for a case, just in time before the snowstorm hits. the shitty motel also happens to offer one room (with a king sized bed, hello) for you and spencer - because of course, of course everything else has been taken.
if jj or emily were here they’d surely tease the hell out of you.
glad the rest of the bau stayed in quantico, you can’t help but frown as the lovely lady gives you the key to the room.
spencer is hardly phased by it. or you think he is. you can’t really tell between his babbling about the snow and how unfortunate it is that the bau sent out its youngest agents out here.
you barely manage to open the door, when spencer cuts in, saying -
“i’ve read that um-” he starts, too fast too casual - “sharing a bed in cold environments improves sleep due to shared body heat”
you blink at him. once.
spencer swallows.
“are you suggesting anything?” you ask, one eyebrow raised.
“just data”
right. yeah right. cool of him to say such things when you can’t stop thinking about two things.
one, how the hell you’re gonna get through the next three days. two, sleeping in the same bed with spencer reid. someone you like. someone you’ve had a crush on since… day one probably?
just data spencer, yeah.
you step into the room first, dropping your bag by the chair, suddenly very interested in anything that isn’t him.
behind you, spencer is hovering for a second too long before closing the door.
you can swear that the click echoes.
neither of you moves to the bed.
“i can take the floor” he suggests.
“no, please don’t” you immediately shake your head. “we can- we can share the bed?”
“yeah if you’re- if you’re okay with it?” spencer says, scratching the back of his neck.
morning fades into night - and the next thing you know is that you can’t go to the police precinct.
warnings about a heavy snow storm, and not being able to go out for the next twenty four hours is what spencer can only offer you when you’re hunched over the tiny desk of your tiny motel room.
great. twenty four hours with spencer reid.
“we’ll figure something out.” he says, hoping to cheer you up.
you can only nod, dragging your tired feet to the bed. spencer does one thing that makes you melt in this state.
he pulls the covers, tucking you in. all while murmuring something about the case.
you’re already falling asleep when he asks -
“you’ve been quiet all day”
his voice is softer now, careful.
you just hum, pillow pressed into the pillow. “m just tired, spence”
there’s a pause. you can feel him watching you - you can feel his hand near you.
“that’s not it” spencer says.
you almost smile.
“damn you profilers” you mumble, eyes closed.
“don’t have to be one to realise something’s off with you”
oh.
you shift under the covers, suddenly wide awake. aware of how close he is. of how easy it would be just to… say it.
“it’s nothing, really” you push, weaker this time
“you don’t have to tell me- i just-” he stops.
you open your eyes, wishing you could stop the tremble of your lips.
“i don’t like it when you’re not okay”
that surely does it.
spencer can physically feel his heart breaking when your lips press into a thin line - eyes visibly glossy and holding back tears.
and it’s stupid, it’s really stupid. nothings even happened. you’re just cold, tired, stuck, and too aware of him - of the silence, of how close all this feels.
but your throat tightens anyway.
“i’m okay” you say again, and this time your voice gives you away.
spencer goes still.
“hey” he shifts closer, a tentative hand on your cheek as you press your face against the pillow.
you try to wave him off, you really do. turn to your side so you can sleep and forget about it. that all stops when a sob falls past your lips.
spencer doesn’t hesitate this time.
“come here” it’s so simple. gentle. like the most obvious thing in the world.
you hesitate. just for a second. and then you turn.
he’s warm. warmer than the room, warmer than the blankets, warmer than you ever expected.
his arms wrap around you carefully at first, giving you a chance to pull away.
you don’t, of course.
so he pulls you closer.
the second you press into him, another sob comes out. muffled this time - against his sweater.
“hey, hey” he murmurs, softer now - one hand coming to cradle the back
of your head. “it’s okay, you’re okay sweetheart”
you shake your head against him, fingers curling weakly into the fabric at his chest.
“i know” he says, even though you hadn’t explained anything. “i know, it’s a lot right now”
that also does something to you. despite trying to distance yourself from spencer, you found it hard to believe how he’d understand you - without you having to say anything out loud.
the storm hums faintly outside, wind brushing against the windows, but in here - in this room, it’s just his voice.
the soft circles he’s drawing on your back don’t stop - not when you flinch due to the storm, not when you pull away slightly to steady your breathing - especially then.
you try to collect yourself, breathe normally. but it comes out uneven, catching on the last few tears.
“shh” he murmurs, thumb brushing against your temple. “it’s alright, i’m here. i’ve got you”
and you believe him.
your body begins to loosen in his hold, the tension melting away piece by piece. like the way your fingers stop clutching at his sweater so tightly.
his hand keeps moving against your back, like he’s giving you something to hold onto.
outside, the wind hums against the windows. but inside?
inside it’s warm. quiet.
it’s just him and you.
your breathing evens out eventually, matching the slow rise and fall of his chest. you can feel your eyes growing heavy.
and for the first time all day - your mind goes quiet. no more thoughts about the case, about the storm. or about how spencer saw this version of you.
tomorrow you’ll be able to get the hang of this awful case.
but now?
spencer’s soft “i’ve got you” is the last thing you can hear before sleep pulls you in.
DAMN THIS IS LIKE ACTUAL CRACK HELLO- ooooghh well written hurt comfort with tension and reassurance and hugs and crying and ohohohoho what you do to me. [author this was insane of you and very very personal to me this is so good im obsessed]
summary: a little teasing always leads to something more!
warning: established relationship, smut (18+!! MDNI!), fingering, creampie, multiple rounds, rough sex, he lowkey chokes you with his biceps, not proofread!
It started out small but no so innocent. You were teasing Dex a little just for fun. Sitting on top of him, you started to move your hips a little just for fun. His veiny hands held your hips in place and his eyes turned dark and serious, warning you.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” he warned you. You smirked and leaned down to kiss him. The kiss was messy and painfully passionate. But it wouldn’t be more fun if you started moving your hips against him again. At this point you were asking him to handle you.
“Alright.” he whispers into the kiss and with one swift motion, you were trapped under him. Dex continues kissing you passionately while removing your panties and his boxers.
With one swift he pushed two of his fingers inside you. Your needy cunt immediately swallowing his fingers whole.
Dex breaks the kiss and there was a smirk on his face. He lowers him slowly down to your cunt and starts to work on you with his mouth aswell. As if his fingers weren’t already enough…
The sight underneath is enough to make you cum. Fuck, his tongue working inside you with his fingers doing the same thing.
Your hands rest on the back of his head and as soon as he starts fucking his finger inside you a little faster, you can’t help but take his hair into your first.
You feel a knot forming in your stomach and it’s just a matter of time before you drench his mouth and fingers with your cum.
“Dex, please, I’m close.” you moan out and you feel him smiling into your pussy. This cheeky bastard…
“Do it.” he tells you while his face is still eating you out like you’re his last meal. His fingers exit your pussy and now it’s just his tongue inside you. It doesn’t take long until you let yourself cum on his face.
Still with a smirk on his face, he puts himself on top of you. His hands parting your thighs a little further apart so he can fit just between you.
“Want me to make you feel good?” he whispers loud enough for you to hear and you nod at him.
There is no need to tell him twice. With a swift motion he positions his cock over your pulsing heat and enters you with his full length causing your mouth to fly open and your eyes to close.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? Still not adjusted to me?” he asks even though he knows the answer to that question. His cock is just too big to adjust on.
He doesn’t waste any time until he starts moving in and out of you. His lips connect with your forehead as he moves fast inside you. Your hands move on his back and you dig your nails deep into his back, leaving love marks.
“Such a good girl. Taking me so well.” he whispers while leaving kisses on your forehead. You can feel the tears slowly forming in your eyes. But not because he’s hurting you. It’s more because of the pleasure he’s giving you.
“hmph- look at you baby. You look very pretty under me.” he groans and his lips travels down to reconnect with your open mouth. The kiss is very sloppy and heated. The only problem… your brain is way too overstimulated which makes it hard for you to continue kissing him with the same passion as him.
Dex knows exactly what is happening. Your brain is too overstimulated with the deep thrust of his cock inside you. You clench around him which causes him to get a little weak on his knees.
“I‘m close baby.” he says breaking the kiss. You feel yourself getting closer aswell. “Cmon baby, say something.”
“I’m hmph I’m also close. Dex please.” you beg him to not stop and let you finish. Because he had this habit of edging you until you’re a sobbing mess. But today’s your lucky day. He will make you cum more than once.
“Can I cum inside you?” he asks and you nod. Without hesitation, you feel him coming undone inside you causing you to cum just seconds later.
But the night doesn’t end here.
“Turn around for me baby.” he says and you do as he says.
Now you’re flat on your stomach. Dex positions himself between your legs.
“Take deep breaths.” he tells you as he slowly enters your wet cunt from behind. He stays inside you for a second and you hear him taking deep breaths behind you aswell.
His beefy arms cage around your face.
“I want to hear you moan my name.”
Without a warning he starts moving roughly inside you. You bite on his beefy biceps due to pleasure. His cock hits your cervix which makes you roll your eyes. Your hands fisting the bedsheets underneath you.
“Dex!” you cry out his name which only makes him pick up the speed and thrust as deep as possible inside you, your pussy swollen now.
You moan out his name a few times more and you feel your brain dumbing down. Seems like the only thing you can think about right now is how good your boyfriend is fucking your needy cunt and giving you exactly what you need. Feeling so high from his cock.
“Good girl. hmph- you‘re my good girl. Taking me so well. Making me feel so good.” you hear him say from behind you. His face buries in the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking your soft skin. When you wake up in the morning, you will definitely find your neck covered in love marks.
“It’s your fault for being so stupid and teasing me.” he laughs against your sensitive skin. “Told you to not start something you can’t finish.”
You feel the familiar knot forming again in your stomach. You close your eyes as tears threaten to flow down your face.
“I‘m close. Please. Please let me cum.” you beg him and he laughs. Why is he laughing.
“Do it baby. Cum all around me.” his cock twitches inside you. And you come undone.
Just as you thought this would be it, you hear him say, “One last round and then you’re done baby.”
You let out a whine as he pushes you back on your back and push back inside your throbbing and pulsing pussy, pushing the cum inside you again. This only makes you bite your bottom lip. His Hands rest on your waist as he fucks you dumber than before. You whine out his name and you pur your hands on his abs.
“So good. Always so good for me.” he whines and pushes his lips onto yours. His hands now cup your ass, giving you a little squeeze.
The kiss is slow and passionate. You bite his bottom lip and he lets out a little moan at that. He breaks the kiss with a string of saliva connected to your lips.
“Tell me how bad you want to cum again baby.” you feel the tip of your cock hit your cervix again. Your nails dig into his abs and you close your eyes for a brief second because you could swear you’re starting to see stars.
“Please. Make me cum baby, please!” you whine out needy. He nods frantically and sends the last deep pushes inside your cunt.
And you both cum, creating a whole mess around each other. Dex slowly pulls out and you let out a little cry at that, feeling empty now.
“You did very good my pretty lady.” he whispers into your ear. With a swift motion he picks you up bridal style and carries you into the bathroom so he can clean you up.
fem! reader, mdni. 850 words. cw: kinda mean dex, use of vibrator, dex being dominant, dex restricting readers arms, mentions of control, slight degradation, pinv, throat holding, finger sucking, mentions of orgasm denial, general filth
he's far bigger now, dex. though it's not like he was never small in the first place, rather now, he's just big. everything about him the same, only bigger.
you like it. you like how beefy he's become, how broad and wide he feels when he's behind you. above you, more specifically. the way he now appears to take up significantly more space than you has become something that creates a short circuit in your brain.
with these meetings you've had with dex over the years, you've noticed a stark difference in his body. it was a striking change with those large biceps and expansive shoulders of his that just seem to agitate every little want within you. it's always been the case with these mindless fuckings you shared, but there was something about him more recently that did it more for you than it had ever done before.
it made you feel deranged. made you act it too.
he's above you, chest to your back — near full weight of him keeping you in place. keeping you exactly where he wants you. where you need.
he's close, hands wormed around you beneath him; elbows anchored beside your head for his own support, fingers snaked around your face between. his hold on you is firm, grasp possessive with the way he manipulates it. you.
you're almost bound, in a position like this. with your own arms sandwiched under your weight, dex's too, you're utterly restricted. forced in place, unable to rid your clit of that dull, tedious, slow speed vibrator you've been made to hold against it. it's almost agonising, the low pace not one that you typically favour.
it's all part of the control he craves, you believe. anything he can possibly govern, he will. even if it meant what you can feel in your own body.
his hold on your face shifts slightly, each moving from either cheek and instead to the upper of your throat, the inners of his hands perfectly nestled in the space like it was made for them specifically. his first two fingers follow with the change in placement and they soon find themselves worming between the gap of your slightly agape mouth.
"suck on them, baby," he husks into your ear, voice low and sort of sinister. "wrap your lips around 'em… yeah there we go, that's it. attagirl… you like that, don't you?"
you hum, pleased noise sort of muffled.
"god, you're so dirty," he nips at the lobe of your ear, holding the squishy flesh between each set of teeth — tone now gritted ever so slightly. "my dirty girl."
it's all so deliberate, how he moves. the winds of his hips into you below are meticulous, each one slow and timely in a way that's calculated. while they're near full pumps of his cock, they're not nearly as satisfying as what they usually are. and it's almost as if he's being purposely withholding, like he's not giving you exactly what you want.
with the lack you get from the vibrator betwixt your pussy's lips and the pittance you get from his cock, you can't help but make a discontented whine, a sound so desperate that dex can't help but take pity on you.
"aw," he coos behind your ear, mocking sympathy in a way that shouldn't turn you on as much as it does. "poor thing," he adds, lips brushing at your skin from the closeness.
his inconsistent grunts hit at your cheek and you're not sure how long you can manage teetering in this directionless void of bliss. it grows too much with the lack he allows you to fully feel. his hold around your throat tightens, just slightly, and it's with that pulse-like squeeze that he lifts it carefully. he elevates the position of your head, in turn bringing you that bit closer to him.
dex licks a stripe along the upper bone of your cheek and his lips hover above the streak of saliva. he keeps himself there, furthering the territorial marking act.
"can you wait?" he teases, hinting at the release you've yet to be granted with.
you shake your head.
"can't hear you, baby," he tuts, fingers worming that bit further into your mouth.
"no," you muffle around his two fingers, word just about audible. though not enough.
the amusement of his is evident in that slight chuckle beside your ear. he slips his fingers from between your lips and grabs a hold of your cheek — wiping his wet spit fingers across your skin just seconds before he hooks his hold onto the side of your face.
"go on, one more time for me."
"no."
"no?"
"no," you whine, the noise kind of pathetic.
"I didn't think so."
those sporadic winds of his hips become something slightly more consistent, each one picking up until an almost pattern forms. one you've been desperately chasing.
if you carry on being good, he might let you change the setting on the vibrator. you'll have to be good though.
but even then, he still might not permit your release.
summary: Your boyfriend comes to the apartment with Dex in tow—except Matt says that some test tubes broke during their fight, and now they're infected with a mysterious airborne substance. And now you're starting to feel it too...
word count: 19.7k+ (pls don't shoot idk how that happened)
pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader x dex poindexter
notes: yeah so... this got... out of hand. i spent weeks on this, whenever i had the *horny urge* i wrote a short scene and i kept doing it for weeks. that's what i get for getting my period every 2 weeks, my hormones like to fuck me just like all the fucking in this
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, established relationship (matt and you), sex pollen, EVERYONE IS CONSENTING!!!, threesome (mmf), fingering (f!receiving), handjob(s), oral (f&m!receiving), unprotected piv, cum play (idk kinda? there's a lot of orgasms in this lol), creampie(s), headlock by dex yes plsss, one use of the word 'slut', a little bit of biting, i meant it when i said a lot of orgasms there's so many omg, grinding, honestly dex is a third wheel, teasing, dex kinda has a humiliation kink honestly, you and matt use dex as a table (?), choking - as in matt chokes dex bc i said so, fingers in mouth (or rather dex sucks ur fingers), a lot of kissing (sadly no dexmatt kiss i'm so sorry y'all i'll make up for it next time), slight edging, dex has a praise kink (he just wants to fuck you good!), 69ing with some pizzazz, kinda cum eating?, bratty!dex, dom!matt, sub/switch!dex, it's kinda a competition to see who can fuck u better, lightly proofread
The lock clicks, then the door shoves open like somebody hit it with a shoulder instead of a key, and the first thing you hear is a breath that doesn’t belong in your quiet apartment. It’s too rough, too fast, the kind of breathing that comes after a sprint or a fight, and then there’s the scrape of boots on the wood floor as someone drags weight over the threshold.
You sit up against your pillows, nightgown twisted around your thighs, skin warm from sleep, and you blink hard at the clock because your brain tries to insist this is a nightmare before it accepts that Matt is actually home, and he didn’t come home alone. “Matt?” Your voice comes out husky, still fogged with sleep, and you swing your legs over the side of the bed as your pulse starts climbing. “What the hell is going on?”
“Stay in the bedroom,” Matt says immediately, and the way he says it makes your stomach tighten because it’s not a suggestion. It’s his command-voice—his Daredevil-voice—the one he uses when something is wrong, and he doesn’t want you anywhere near it.
You ignore him anyway, because you always do when it’s your apartment and your life, and you can hear him struggling to keep somebody upright. You move down the hall barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and you catch the shape of him in the living room by the dim kitchen light. He’s still in his suit, mask off, shoulders rising and falling too hard. One of his hands is clamped around an arm that doesn’t belong to him, hauling a second man forward like he’s refusing to let him hit the floor.
The second man stumbles, catches himself at the wall with a palm, then tilts his head toward you with a lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t match how unsteady he is. He’s dressed in blue gear that looks expensive and ruined at the same time, and the second his eyes land on you, his mouth curls like he just found something amusing. “Well,” he says, drawing it out like he’s tasting the word. “Hi.”
You stare at him, then back at Matt, and you don’t bother lowering your voice. “Why is there a stranger in my apartment, and why does he look like he crawled out of a fire?”
Matt’s head turns in your direction with that pinpoint focus he always has when he’s tracking your voice. “He’s not a stranger to me,” he says, and you can hear how carefully controlled he’s being. “He’s hurt and I didn’t have another choice.”
Dex laughs under his breath like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week. “You make it sound like you rescued a kitten. I’m touched.”
Matt’s grip tightens on Dex’s arm, and Dex hisses like it actually hurts. “Watch your mouth,” Matt snaps, then forces his voice back down when he speaks to you again. “We ran into each other on a call. There was a lab. Something broke. There were… containers.”
“Containers,” you repeat, flat, because it’s absurd and vague and you can see the way Matt’s suit is flecked with something that might be dust or dried chemical residue. “You’re bleeding?”
“I’m fine,” Matt says too fast, which is how you know he isn’t, and his shoulders hunch like he’s bracing against heat or pain. “It’s not bad.”
Dex slides down the wall like he’s trying to sit without admitting he needs to, then he looks at you again with that same sharp interest that makes your skin crawl. His gaze drags, slow and deliberate, from your face to the thin fabric of your nightgown and back up, and he doesn’t even pretend he’s being subtle.
You fold your arms over your chest and let your expression go cold. “Can I help you?”
His smile widens a fraction. “You’re prettier than I pictured.”
Matt’s head snaps toward Dex so sharply it’s almost violent, and for a second you see the exact moment his restraint threatens to split. “Don’t,” Matt says, low and dangerous.
Dex’s eyes flick up, mocking. “Don’t what? Look? Talk? Breathe in her general direction?”
You step closer without thinking, because you hate the way Dex is taking up space in your living room like he belongs here, and you hate even more that Matt is shaking with something that looks like exhaustion mixed with anger. Up close you can see the sweat at Matt’s temples, the damp hair stuck to his forehead, and the way his chest rises like he’s struggling to pull air deep enough.
“Matt,” you say, softer now, because whatever this is, it’s making him feel wrong in his own body. “Talk to me. What happened?”
Matt swallows, and his jaw flexes. “We fought,” he admits, like it costs him to say it with you standing there. “He showed up where he shouldn’t have been. We went through a glass enclosure, and there were test tubes inside it. They shattered.”
Dex shifts, his voice turning conversational like he’s discussing the weather instead of the aftermath of a fight. “You should’ve seen his face when the thing popped. Real dramatic. Whole room went sparkly.”
“You’re enjoying this,” you say, and you don’t bother hiding how much you dislike him.
Dex tips his head. “I enjoy most things.”
Matt exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to say something that would turn this into an even bigger disaster. “There was a chemical. I don’t know what it was. I just know the heat hit fast, and then we both went down for a minute.”
He shifts his grip, reaches into his suit with his free hand, and you instinctively lean forward because the motion looks clumsy, like his hands don’t want to cooperate. When he pulls his fist back out, he’s holding a broken length of glass, the snapped end jagged and cloudy like something coated the inside.
“I kept a piece,” Matt says, and his voice is tight with the kind of practicality that always kicks in when he’s scared. “I didn’t want to leave without something. If we can figure out what it was—”
“Matt,” you cut in, because the glass makes your stomach drop. “Why are you holding that with your bare hand?”
“I’m not cut,” he says, and you can tell he’s telling the truth, because his voice doesn’t hitch the way it does when he lies to you. “It’s not sharp on this end.”
Dex snorts. “Sure. He’s very careful, your boyfriend. Extremely careful. That’s why he dragged his enemy into your apartment at midnight, wearing his murder pajamas.”
Your eyes cut to Dex. “Stop talking.”
Dex’s grin turns delighted. “Aw. You tell him what to do too? That’s cute.”
Matt’s patience finally cracks in a way that has nothing to do with you. He yanks Dex’s arm up, not enough to dislocate anything, but enough to remind Dex who’s stronger, then he shoves him toward the couch with a controlled kind of force. Dex stumbles, catches himself on the back cushion, and laughs again like it’s foreplay.
“Sit,” Matt says, clipped. “And if you say one more thing about her, I’m putting you through the wall.”
Dex settles onto the couch with exaggerated ease, stretching his legs out like he’s in a waiting room. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
Matt turns back to you, and the aggression falls away from his face like it was never there, replaced by something strained and urgent. He holds the broken tube out in your direction, and you take it because you don’t want it in his hand anymore, even though you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with it.
The glass is warm, warmer than it should be, and the cloudy residue inside catches the light faintly. You angle it away from your body on instinct, then look up at Matt. “Okay. You brought me… a dirty shard of a test tube.”
“I know,” Matt says, and he sounds frustrated with himself, like he can hear how ridiculous it is. “I didn’t think. I just—I wanted it here. Safe.”
“You couldn’t have put it in a bag?” you say, and you can’t help it, because your nerves are trying to get relief through sarcasm. “Or a sock? Or literally anything that isn’t my bare hands?”
Matt’s mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile, not really. “I’ll clean up after. I just need you to—” He cuts himself off, breath stuttering like the heat is spiking again. “I need you to help me keep a clear head.”
You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is that he doesn’t look like he has one right now. Instead, you lift your chin toward the bathroom. “Both of you need to change, shower if you can. At least get those suits off, because whatever this was, it’s on you.”
Dex’s voice floats over, bright with amusement. “Oh, yeah. Tell him to take it off.”
Your eyes flick to him again, and you don’t bother masking the disgust. “You can shut up and do as you’re told too.”
Dex raises an eyebrow. “Bossy. I like it.”
Matt takes a step toward him like he’s about to make good on the wall threat, but you touch Matt’s forearm before he can. “Matt,” you say, grounding him, and his head turns back to you immediately. “Bathroom. Now.”
His throat works, and he nods once, sharp and obedient, because he trusts you. “Dex first. I’m not letting him wander.”
Dex pushes himself up with a lazy stretch, then pauses just long enough to look you up and down again, slow as he pleases. “Your nightgown’s a nice touch,” he murmurs.
Matt’s hand shoots out and clamps on Dex’s shoulder, and Dex makes a sound that’s half laugh, half choke. “Move,” Matt growls.
Dex lifts both hands like he’s surrendering, but the grin never leaves. “Okay, okay. Lead the way.”
You step back to give them space, holding the broken glass out away from your body like it’s something that might bite you. Matt herds Dex down the hall, and you watch them disappear into the bathroom, the door shutting with a firm click that sounds like Matt trying to lock his temper away in the same place.
For a second, the apartment is quieter, except for the muffled sound of water turning on and the rough edge of Matt’s breathing bleeding through the door. You look down at the test tube shard in your hand, then at your nightgown, then toward the kitchen where you keep plastic bags and gloves under the sink, and you mutter to yourself because you can’t believe this is your life. “Okay,” you say under your breath, moving toward the kitchen. “Cold water. Towels. Gloves. Something to cool them down. Then we figure out what the hell you two brought home.”
From the bathroom, Dex’s voice carries, too clear, too smug. “So, this is the girlfriend.”
Matt’s reply is low and sharp enough that even through the door you hear the warning. “Don’t.”
Dex laughs again, softer this time, like he’s savoring it. “God, you’re fun.”
You grab a roll of paper towels with one hand, dig for a plastic bag with the other, and you tell yourself you’re not going to let Dex get under your skin, because you’ve dealt with Matt’s stubbornness, his bruises, his secrets, and the way he tries to carry the whole city alone, and you can handle one sarcastic asshole on your couch.
Then the warmth hits you, subtle at first, like your apartment suddenly got too hot even though the thermostat hasn’t changed, and you pause with your fingers still in the cabinet because your skin prickles in a way that makes no sense.
You take a breath, then another, and the air feels thick in your lungs, not choking, just… heavy, like it’s carrying something you didn’t notice before. “Matt,” you call, raising your voice toward the bathroom. “How sure are you that stuff wasn’t airborne?”
There’s a pause, water still running, and then his voice comes back through the door, tight with a kind of grim certainty. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “But I think it was.”
Your stomach drops, and you stare down at the glass shard in your hand like it just turned into a live wire. You shove it carefully into the plastic bag, seal it with shaking fingers, and tell yourself you’re being dramatic, because you’re fine, you’re just warm, it’s probably stress, it’s probably adrenaline—
Except your nightgown suddenly feels too soft and too clingy, and your thighs press together on instinct like you’re trying to get friction from nothing. You swallow hard, forcing your hands to keep moving, forcing your brain to stay on the list of practical tasks you can control.
Cold packs. Water. Clothes. Get them out of the contaminated suits.
You grab two bottles of water from the fridge, then a third, because Dex can suffer but dehydration is still dehydration, and you yank the freezer open for ice packs. The cold air hits your face, and it should feel good, but it only makes the heat under your skin feel sharper by contrast.
You stand there longer than you mean to, letting the freezer’s cold wash over you while your pulse kicks harder for no reason you want to name. Your nipples tighten under the nightgown, your stomach flips, and you force your mouth into a hard line because this cannot be happening, not tonight, not with Dex in your living room and Matt barely holding himself together.
The water shuts off and then there are two sets of footsteps. One steady, one dragging with theatrical exaggeration.
You straighten up, slam the freezer closed, and turn with the water bottles in hand like you’re about to run a triage station, because if you keep moving, you can pretend your body isn’t suddenly acting like you’re the one who came home from a fight covered in whatever the hell was in that lab.
You hand them the water bottles like you’re running a field hospital out of your kitchen, and the second Matt’s fingers brush yours you feel how hot he is, like his skin is holding heat instead of just warming you the way it normally does. Dex takes his bottle without a thank you, of course, twisting the cap with a lazy flick and drinking like he’s trying to look unbothered, even though sweat is still beading at his hairline.
“Sit,” you tell them, nodding toward the couch and the armchair like you’re assigning stations. “Both of you. If either of you falls over, I’m not catching you.”
“I’m not going to fall,” Matt says, and he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. He’s in a dark t-shirt and sweatpants now, hair damp from the quick rinse, suit shoved somewhere in the bathroom, and he’s still breathing like his lungs are running behind his body. He stands there for a second, head slightly tilted, listening to the room like he’s trying to find the chemical in the air by sound alone.
Dex drops onto the couch and sprawls like he lives there, one arm slung over the back cushion. Matt doesn’t sit, not yet, and you can tell he’s vibrating with it, the need to keep moving, to keep control, to not let his body win.
“You said you don’t know what it was,” you say, and you keep your voice even because if you let yourself sound scared, you’ll make Matt spiral. “Did you see labels? Any markings? Anything at all?”
Dex snorts into his water bottle. “He didn’t see shit.”
Matt’s jaw tightens hard enough that you can see it. “There were racks. Glass. It was like a display enclosure more than storage. Maybe a demonstration.” He pauses, then adds like he hates the words, “there was a sweet smell. Like… hot metal and sugar.”
“That’s helpful,” you say automatically, even though it isn’t, and you can feel your own skin prickling again, that wrong warmth spreading across your chest and down your stomach. You shift your weight, trying to ignore it, trying to treat it like the apartment just got stuffy because two overheated men dragged themselves in and your adrenaline is still high.
Dex’s gaze drifts to you again, and this time it lingers longer, sharper. “You’re sweating,” he says, like it’s an observation and a victory at the same time.
“I’m fine,” you snap without thinking, and it comes out too fast, too defensive, which is annoying because it makes it sound like you aren’t fine.
Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, and his voice drops into that careful calm he uses when he’s trying not to panic. “You’re sweating?”
“Matt,” you say, trying to laugh it off, but it sounds thin. “It’s late, my boyfriend came home half-dead with a lunatic, I’m running on caffeine and anxiety. I’m allowed to sweat.”
Dex’s mouth curls. “He’s not your boyfriend right now. He’s a furnace.”
“Okay,” you say, too bright, already done with him. You point toward the hallway. “No more commentary from the peanut gallery. You’re sitting there, you’re drinking water, and you’re shutting up.”
Dex lifts his hands in fake surrender again, then settles back with an obnoxiously pleased look on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
Matt finally lowers himself into the armchair, but he doesn’t relax into it. His hands stay on his thighs like he’s bracing, and when he exhales it’s rough, like the air drags. You set the ice packs on the coffee table and slide one toward him, and another toward Dex, trying to keep this practical because practical means you’re not thinking about the heat crawling under your nightgown.
“Put those on your neck,” you tell them. “Or your wrists. Something.”
Dex picks his up, presses it to his throat, and groans like he’s being dramatic on purpose. “Oh, that’s nice.”
Matt takes his, but he doesn’t immediately put it on. He lifts it, then pauses like he’s listening again, and his head tilts toward you in a way that makes your stomach drop because he’s noticed something, and Matt noticing something is never casual. “You’re breathing differently,” he says.
You stare at him. “What?”
“You’re breathing differently,” he repeats, steady, like he’s trying to keep it neutral. “It’s… faster.”
Dex’s eyes flick between you and Matt, and his smile turns sharp, like he’s watching a show start. “Uh-oh.”
“I’m fine,” you insist again, and you hate how your voice shakes at the end, because it makes Matt’s posture go even tighter.
Matt’s hands curl around the ice pack, and he forces himself to stay seated. “Tell me if you feel anything,” he says, and there’s a hard edge beneath the calm. “If it’s airborne, you’re exposed too.”
“I know,” you say, and you hate that the admission makes the warmth in your body flare like it’s responding to being acknowledged. You swallow and shift again, rubbing your thighs together without meaning to, then stopping when you realize you did it. “I’m going to look it up. Something has to match those symptoms.”
Dex’s gaze drops to your legs like he’s cataloging the movement, and your cheeks go hot in a way that isn’t just temperature. You pick up your phone before you can think too hard about that, because thinking too hard about Dex watching you is a problem you don’t want tonight.
You walk into the kitchen with your phone in hand, because if you stay in the living room with both of them staring at you in different ways, you’re going to lose your mind. You type fast, thumbs slipping a little because your hands feel clammy.
You stare at the results like they’re in another language, and you scroll anyway, because you’re stubborn and you need something concrete. Your mind keeps snagging on the words sweet smell, heat, exposure, and every time you try to force it back onto “poison” or “irritant” your body does something else entirely, like it’s dragging you toward a different conclusion. Your nipples ache against the thin fabric of your nightgown, your stomach tightens low, and the slick heat between your thighs becomes impossible to pretend is stress.
You type again, more frantic.
Your phone gives you a bunch of useless articles, clickbait and vague warnings and the word aphrodisiac showing up in places that make your pulse jump. You read half a sentence, then realize you’re not reading at all because the heat in your body is swallowing your attention. You grip the counter and try to breathe slowly like that will fix it, but the second you inhale, the air feels thick again, and the warmth in your lungs makes your thighs clench.
From the living room, you hear Dex’s voice carrying, casual and taunting. “So, how long you think before she starts climbing you like a tree?”
Matt’s voice is low, dangerous. “Don’t talk about her.”
Dex laughs, and you hate that the sound makes something flutter in your stomach, like your body is reacting to the idea before your brain can slam the door on it. You squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to think about anything else. Cold water. Ice packs. Gloves. Cleaning supplies. Bag the glass shard. Call someone. Call—
You realize you’re holding your breath, and when you exhale it trembles.
Your nightgown clings to your stomach and thighs, damp where you’re sweating, and the sensation is suddenly unbearable, too soft, too much. You tug at the fabric like it’s suffocating you, then stop because your hands shake, and you’re not sure if it’s fear or need. Your phone is still in your hand, screen glowing with the word arousal, and you want to throw it across the room.
Instead, you set it down on the counter, hard, like you can punish it into giving you a better answer. “Okay,” you mutter to yourself, voice tight. “Okay. I’m not doing this. I’m not—”
You walk out of the kitchen, meaning to go back to the living room, meaning to keep control of the situation, meaning to tell Matt what you found and keep Dex from running his mouth. Halfway down the hall, the heat spikes again, sharper, and you stop like you ran into a wall.
Your skin feels too sensitive, like every brush of air is a touch. Your panties suddenly feel like a cruel joke, a thin strip of fabric that’s rubbing exactly where you can’t stand it, and you press your thighs together hard enough that it almost hurts. You try to keep walking, you really do, but your knees go a little weak and your breath catches, and you end up turning into the bedroom without making the decision out loud.
The room is dim and familiar and smells like you and Matt, clean sheets and laundry detergent and something warm underneath, and that makes it worse, because it makes the need feel safe enough to bloom.
You shut the door halfway behind you, not all the way because you don’t want to look suspicious, and you stand against the wall with your back against it like you’re steadying yourself. Your nightgown rides up when you shift, and the cool air hits your thighs, and your body reacts so hard you actually gasp.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
You try to be rational again, you try to talk yourself down like you’ve never been turned on before in your life, like this is just horny and not chemical and not dangerous. You tell yourself you can take a cold shower, you can drink water, you can breathe it out, and then your fingers slide under the hem of your nightgown anyway, because your body is done waiting for your permission.
Your hand slips into your panties, and the second your fingertips find your slick pussy you go still, eyes squeezed shut, because the relief is immediate and dizzying. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, because the sound that wants to come out of you is not something you can let Dex hear from your bedroom, not when he’s sitting on your couch like a smug parasite.
You circle your clit carefully at first, trying to keep it quiet, trying to keep it controlled, and it doesn’t work. Your hips rock into your hand without you telling them to, and the wet sound of your fingers moving makes your cheeks burn. You press your head against the wall, breathing through your nose, trying to keep your mouth shut, but the heat keeps climbing, building like pressure under your skin.
“Come on,” you whisper to yourself, harsh and frustrated, like you can bully your body into settling down. “Just—just calm down.”
You don’t calm down. Your fingers slide lower, two of them pushing into your cunt with a slow, shaking thrust, and you have to clamp your other hand over your mouth momentarily because the moan nearly spills out anyway. The stretch makes your stomach flip, makes your thighs tremble, and you can’t decide which is worse: the relief or the fact that it’s making you want more instead of fixing anything.
You pull your fingers out, then push them back in again, deeper this time, and your knees flex like you’re about to sink to the floor. You grip the fabric of your nightgown at your waist with your free hand, bunching it up so you can spread your legs wider, because you’re chasing friction now, chasing anything that makes the burning need feel like it has a direction.
The thought of Matt flashes through your head, automatic, grounding and devastating. Matt’s hands. Matt’s mouth. Matt’s voice telling you what to do when you can’t think straight.
Then Dex’s voice flashes too, the way he looked at you, the way he said you’re sweating, the way he keeps pressing at Matt like he wants a reaction. The idea of Dex hearing you through the wall makes your stomach clench again, and it’s not all disgust, and that realization pisses you off so much that you shove your fingers in deeper like you can punish yourself back into sense.
You’re panting now, sweat slick on your back, nightgown twisted up around your ribs, and you can’t get enough air. Your clit throbs under your thumb, oversensitive, and you move faster even though you’re trying not to. The sound of your own wetness fills your ears, and you tilt your head back like you’re trying to keep your mouth away from the urge to moan.
From the living room, you hear a muffled sound, probably Dex shifting, maybe Matt saying something sharp, and you freeze for half a second, panic jolting through you. You listen hard, holding your breath, fingers still buried in your cunt.
No footsteps yet.
You swallow, shaky, and start moving again because stopping feels like dying. You bite your lip again, harder, and the sting makes your eyes water, but it keeps you quiet. Your body builds toward the edge anyway, tightening and tightening until it feels like your skin is going to split open with it.
“Fuck,” you breathe, almost silent, and you chase the pressure harder because you need it to break. Right as you feel your orgasm start to crest, the sound of footsteps hits the hallway, steady and purposeful, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been caught doing something criminal.
Matt’s footsteps.
They’re careful, controlled, and they stop outside your bedroom door for half a beat like he’s listening, like he already knows exactly what you’re doing, because he always knows. Matt’s footsteps stay outside the door for a beat too long, and you can feel him there the way you always can when he’s focused, like the air in the room shifts around his attention. You freeze with your hand still in your panties, fingers slick, thighs trembling, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls that you’re trying to force quieter.
The door nudges open, not hard, just enough that it moves on its hinges with a soft click, and Matt’s voice follows immediately, low and careful like he’s holding himself back by the teeth. “Sweetheart… are you okay?”
You swallow, throat tight, and you try to make your face normal even though you can’t stop shaking. Your fingers twitch against your cunt, and the tiny movement shoots a hot jolt straight up your spine. “Yeah,” you say too fast, and it comes out wrecked anyway, breathy and cracked like you’re already begging. “I’m fine. I just—I’m hot. I’m just—”
Matt steps in and closes the door behind him with the gentlest touch, like he doesn’t want the sound to carry, and then he stops again, head tilted, listening to you the way he listens to everything. You know he can hear your pulse slamming in your throat, can hear how wet you are, can hear the way you’re trying to keep your breathing from turning into moans.
“You’re not fine,” he says, and it isn’t accusing, it’s steady, like he’s naming a fact. “Talk to me.”
You laugh once, short and sharp, because it’s either that or cry. “I tried to look it up. I tried to be normal about it. I—” You cut yourself off when your hips rock into your own hand again, helpless, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Matt, I can’t—I can’t think.”
He crosses the room fast, but not frantic, and the difference matters because it’s Matt; even when he’s losing control, he tries to make you feel safe first. His hand finds your wrist unerringly, gentle but firm, stopping your movement for a second, not taking it away, just holding you still long enough that you have to breathe.
“Hey,” he murmurs, closer now, and his other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s checking if you’re real. “Look at me.”
You do, because you always do, and the sight of him in the dim light makes something inside you twist. He looks wrecked too, sweat still at his temples, hair damp, t-shirt clinging to his chest, and his mouth is set in this tight line like he’s trying to be your anchor while his own body is on fire.
“You don’t have to lie,” he says softly, and his thumb drags across your lower lip, slow and grounding. “Do you want help?”
Your throat bobs, and you try to answer like a normal person instead of somebody with their panties soaked through, but it comes out raw. “Yes.”
Matt doesn’t move right away. He holds your face, keeps his thumb at your lip like he’s keeping you from spinning out, and his voice drops even lower. “Say it again.”
Your breath shudders, and you nod even though you know he doesn’t need the nod, he needs the words. “Yes, Matt. I want help.”
His jaw flexes. His shoulders rise and fall once like he’s pulling himself together on purpose, and then he asks you the question that always matters more than anything else, even now, even like this. “Tell me what you want,” he says, and his voice is steady enough that it makes your eyes sting. “Use words.”
You wet your lips, and your cheeks burn because it feels too explicit to say out loud when he can already hear it, when he already knows, but he makes you do it anyway because that’s how he keeps you safe in the middle of chaos. “I want your fingers,” you manage, breath shaking. “I want you to make it stop—or make it better, I don’t know, just… please.”
Matt makes a sound in the back of his throat like the words hit him in the gut, and then his grip on your wrist loosens. He slides your hand out of your panties and brings it up, pressing your slick fingers to his mouth in a way that makes your stomach flip so hard you almost lose your balance.
He kisses your fingertips, slow and wet, and then he licks them, once, deliberate, like he’s tasting exactly what you need. His breath is hot against your skin, and he exhales through his nose like it hurts. “Okay,” he says against your fingers, voice rougher now. “I’ve got you.”
You barely have time to nod before his hand replaces yours, sliding down into your panties like he belongs there, like he owns the space because you gave it to him. He moves slow at first, two fingers brushing through your wetness, spreading it, teasing your entrance like he’s forcing himself to be careful even though your hips buck toward him immediately.
“Fuck,” you whisper, and it’s tiny, but Matt hears it anyway. His mouth finds yours, messy and hungry, like he’s starving and trying not to scare you with it. The kiss turns into something hot and open-mouthed almost instantly, your lips parting because you can’t do anything else, your hands grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself upright.
Matt’s fingers sink into you, steady and deep, curling just right, and you make a strangled sound into his mouth because it’s too much relief and not enough at the same time. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to swallow your noises, and the way he breathes tells you his control is fraying too, his exhale stuttering against your cheek.
“Good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, then kissing you again before you can answer. “That’s it. Let me.”
You whine, hips chasing his hand, and your back hits the wall harder as you try to grind into him. Matt adjusts instantly, stepping closer, pinning you with his body without crushing you, and it’s the best kind of pressure because it keeps you from sliding apart.
Your hands are everywhere, grabbing at him like you need proof he’s here, and then your palms find the front of his sweatpants and you can feel him through them, hard and thick, and it makes you gasp into his mouth.
“Matt,” you breathe, half warning, half plea, and you rub him without thinking, dragging your hand over his cock through the fabric because the friction makes your whole body light up. He shudders, and his fingers thrust deeper like his restraint slipped a notch.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing hard enough that you feel it. “Jesus,” he mutters, and it’s the closest you’ve ever heard him come to sounding undone. “You’re soaked.”
“I can’t—” you start, and your voice breaks when his thumb finds your clit and presses in firm, circling just right. “I can’t, I’m gonna—”
“Go on,” Matt says, and his tone turns quietly possessive, not harsh, just certain. “Come for me.”
Your body snaps tight, knees shaking, and you clamp a hand over your mouth too late because the sound still leaks, broken and desperate. You grind into his hand, rubbing his cock harder because you can’t help it, and Matt’s breath turns ragged as he holds you steady and keeps working you through it.
You come fast, like your body was right at the edge already and he just pushed you over, shaking so hard your shoulders hit the wall again. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, wet and tight, and you moan his name into your palm like it’s a prayer and a plea all at once.
Matt doesn’t stop when you finish. He slows down, but he keeps moving, stroking you through the aftershocks with a tenderness that’s almost cruel because it drags the sensation out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, hips twitching away and then back again because you don’t want it to end.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, mouth at your cheek, kissing the corner of your jaw, then the side of your throat. “That’s my girl. Breathe.”
You try to, but every breath comes out shaky, and you can feel him shaking too. His chest rises hard against yours, his heart hammering so loud you can feel it through the thin fabric of his shirt, and his hand at your clit presses a little firmer like he’s fighting his own need by pouring it into you instead.
“Matt,” you whisper, voice ruined, and you tug him closer by the shirt like you need him to anchor you. “You’re… you’re not okay either.”
“I’m fine,” he lies automatically, and then exhales like he hates himself for it. His thumb keeps circling your clit, his fingers still inside you, and his hips jerk once when you brush his cock again through his sweats. “I’m managing.”
“You’re breathing like you ran a marathon,” you say, a shaky attempt at normal that falls apart when his hand hits a spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. “And you’re hard.”
Matt lets out a rough laugh that doesn’t sound amused. “Yeah,” he admits, and his voice goes lower, tighter. “I noticed.”
You slide your hand over him again, slower this time, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, and Matt’s fingers stutter inside you like he lost the rhythm for a second. He pulls his mouth away from yours just enough to speak, and the words come out controlled only by force.
“Tell me you want me to keep going,” he says, because even now he needs it said. “Tell me.”
Your stomach flips, your cunt clenches around his fingers, and you nod too hard before you remember he wants words.
“I want you to keep going,” you say, breathless and shameless. “Don’t stop. Please, Matt, don’t stop.”
His hand flexes inside you again, and you feel him shudder against you like the fever is chewing through his restraint. He kisses you hard, messy, and keeps fingering you like he’s trying to chase the chemical out of both your bodies one orgasm at a time, even though you can hear it in his breath that he’s right on the edge of losing control too.
“You guys gonna do that all night, or are we sharing?”
Dex’s voice carries through the door like he’s leaning right up against it, like he wants you to know he’s listening on purpose, and it makes your whole body clench around Matt’s fingers.
Matt doesn’t flinch the way a normal person would. He goes still in that specific way he does when he’s deciding whether to be a man or a weapon, and his hand doesn’t stop moving even while his head turns toward the sound like he can see Dex perfectly through the wood. “Get out,” Matt says, and his voice is calm enough to be terrifying.
The doorknob turns anyway, and then the door opens just enough for light from the hallway to cut across the room, and Dex fills the gap with a grin and a body language that screams entitlement. He’s in Matt’s clothes like it’s a joke he’s telling with his whole presence, sweat darkening the collar of the t-shirt, hair damp, cheeks flushed. His eyes flick right to Matt’s hand between your thighs, then slide up your body, lingering on your bunched nightgown and your bare legs like he’s taking inventory.
“Wow,” Dex drawls. “And here I was thinking we were gonna be civilized about it.”
Matt’s hand tightens at your jaw, thumb still at your lip like he’s anchoring you there, and his other hand stays inside your panties like it belongs. “I said get out,” he repeats, and it’s not louder, it’s just sharper.
Dex leans on the doorframe like he lives there, like this is his apartment too and he’s just wandered into the room for a snack. “What, you gonna hit me? You gonna throw me out with your big righteousness routine?”
“Dex,” Matt says, and the warning in his tone is the same one you’ve heard on rooftops when he’s cornered someone and hasn’t decided yet how merciful he’s feeling. “Leave.”
You should say it—you should tell Dex to fuck off. You should tell Matt to shut the door, lock it, and keep taking care of you like he was. You can feel your body screaming for that simple outcome, begging for just Matt’s hand and his mouth and no complications.
Instead you hear yourself say, breathless and wrecked, “don’t leave.”
The words hang in the air for a beat, and it’s so quiet you can hear your own pulse thundering. Matt freezes like somebody stabbed him with the sentence, and Dex’s expression changes instantly, the grin turning sharp and delighted like you just handed him a key.
Matt’s head turns back to you, and his thumb presses at your lower lip, a soft demand. “Sweetheart,” he says carefully, “tell me what you mean.”
Your throat works, and your cheeks burn because you know how it sounds, you know how this looks, you know you’re standing here with Matt’s fingers inside you and your panties soaked and your nightgown twisted up like you got caught doing something you shouldn’t. You still say it anyway because the heat in your body doesn’t care about dignity, and because Matt asked you for words.
“I mean,” you manage, voice shaking, “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want him—” You swallow hard, and your hips twitch against Matt’s hand like your body is trying to talk for you. “I don’t want him to leave either.”
Matt’s jaw flexes, and his fingers don’t move for a second, like he’s forcing himself to prioritize the conversation over the way you’re clenching around him, and then he speaks like he’s laying down law in his own bedroom.
“You don’t touch her,” Matt says to Dex, voice flat. “You don’t come near her unless she says so again while you’re standing right here and I can hear her say it. You understand me?”
Dex’s smile turns almost polite, which is somehow worse. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Consent. Boundaries. Gold star, counselor.”
Matt doesn’t look at him, but his hand at your jaw tightens a fraction. “Tell me,” Matt says to you, slow and steady, “if you want him involved right now. Say it clearly.”
Your lungs pull in a shaky breath. You can feel Dex’s eyes on you like a physical pressure, and you can feel Matt’s body heat pressed close, the steady weight of him holding you upright. You don’t want Dex to have power over this, you want it to be yours. You nod, then force the words out because Matt needs the words. “I want him,” you say, and it comes out filthy in a way that makes you shiver. “I want… both of you. I want it to feel good. I want it to stop feeling like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin.”
Matt inhales through his nose, the sound tight. “Okay,” he says, like he’s agreeing to something dangerous because you asked. “Then it happens my way.”
Dex pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room like he’s been invited to a party he already planned to crash. “Your way,” Dex repeats, amused, and his gaze drops again to your thighs, to the wet line at the edge of your panties. “Sure. I’m flexible.”
Matt’s hand slips out of your panties, and you make a small, involuntary sound because the sudden emptiness is almost painful. He immediately replaces it with his palm over your cunt through the fabric, pressing firm enough to keep you from chasing him, and he leans in close to your ear. “We’re moving,” he murmurs. “Bed. Hold onto me.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and Matt lifts you like it’s nothing, like your body is just another thing he knows by weight and balance and memory. He carries you the few steps to the bed, guiding you down onto the mattress with a gentleness that doesn’t match the heat burning through the room. The sheets are cool for half a second before your skin turns them warm.
Dex circles closer, eyes bright. “This is adorable,” he says, and the sarcasm doesn’t hide the hunger in his voice.
“Shut up,” you tell him, and it comes out breathless, half a laugh and half a warning, because your body is already arching for touch again.
Dex’s grin widens. “Yes, ma’am.”
Matt kneels on the bed beside you, then over you, and the way he positions himself is so Matt it almost makes you dizzy. His palm slides up your thigh, fingers splaying like he’s mapping you, grounding you. He hooks a finger under the strap of your nightgown and drags it down your shoulder just to kiss the skin there, slow and possessive, like he’s reminding you whose mouth you’re about to be moaning into.
Dex reaches for you, and Matt catches his wrist without even looking, grip iron. “Ask,” Matt says.
Dex holds your gaze, and his voice drops just enough to feel more real. “Can I?”
You swallow. You’re still trembling, still slick, still aching in a way that feels endless, and you nod once before forcing it into words, because Matt made you do that, and it matters. “Yes,” you say.
Dex exhales like that was the only permission he needed, and then he’s climbing onto the mattress like he belongs there, pushing your knees apart with hands that are firm and unashamed. His grip isn’t rough enough to hurt, but it’s controlling, pinning you open like you’re something he’s been hungry for since the moment he saw you.
“You’re gonna hate how much you like this,” Dex murmurs, and then he tugs once, hard, and your panties tear with a quick rip that makes you gasp.
“Dex!” you start, half shocked, half turned on by the audacity, and Matt’s hand slides up your throat at the same time, not choking, just holding you steady, thumb under your jaw like he’s keeping you anchored in your own body.
“Breathe,” Matt says against your mouth, then kisses you before you can say anything else.
Dex doesn’t waste a second, he grabs your thighs and drags you closer, burying his face between your legs like he’s trying to inhale you. His mouth is hot and wet and mean about it, tongue flattening and pressing hard against your clit like he wants you to break fast. The sound is obscene immediately, loud enough that you jerk and try to clamp your legs shut on instinct.
Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs and hold you open. “Nah,” he mutters into you, voice vibrating against your pussy. “Not running.”
Your back arches off the bed with a strangled noise, and Matt is there instantly, crowding your space above, one hand still at your throat and the other sliding up under your nightgown to cup your breast. His thumb circles your nipple slow at first, then harder when you whimper, and he kisses you like he’s stealing your breath on purpose.
“Put your hand on me,” Matt says, guiding your wrist down to the front of his sweatpants. His cock is hard and heavy under the fabric, and the second your fingers curl around him you moan into Matt’s mouth like you can’t help it. “Slow,” Matt warns, voice rough. “Touch me slow. Keep breathing.”
Dex hears Matt directing you, and he gets worse on purpose. His tongue pushes deeper, his mouth noisier, suction turning brutal on your clit until your hips buck hard enough you nearly slide up the bed. Dex holds you in place like he’s built for restraint, palms on your hips now, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel it.
Matt makes a sound in his throat that you feel against your lips more than you hear, and his hand at your breast squeezes like he’s fighting the urge to grab Dex by the hair and drag him off you. Instead he uses it, and the fact that he uses it makes your stomach flip.
“What do you think it is?” Matt asks, voice low against your mouth.
You try to answer, you really do, but Dex sucks harder on your clit like he’s punishing you for even attempting to talk, and Matt kisses you again like he doesn’t want the words out of you either. You break the kiss with a gasp, trying to speak, and Dex shifts his mouth just enough to drag his tongue along you in a slow, vicious stroke that makes your eyes roll back.
“Matt,” you choke out, voice fractured, “I—I don’t—”
Matt’s thumb presses under your jaw, steadying your head. “Use your words,” he says, and his tone turns gentle in the middle of all this like he’s still your anchor. “Tell me.”
Dex’s mouth goes back to your clit, relentless, and you clutch at Matt’s shoulder and stroke his cock through his sweats harder just to keep yourself from losing it. Matt’s hips jerk once into your hand, and his breath turns ragged, but he doesn’t stop you. He wants you to feel how much you’re getting to him.
You force your eyes open, force your brain to drag itself back from the edge. “It’s—it’s gotta be an aphrodisiac,” you gasp, and Dex growls into your thigh like he approves. “Airborne. It’s—it’s making us… like this.”
Matt hums like he already knew, mouth brushing your cheek. “And?”
You swallow, shaking, because your orgasm is building again, fast and merciless, and Dex is not giving you a single second to calm down. “And I think—” you try, then choke when Dex’s tongue hits exactly right and your whole body jolts. “I think it needs… multiple… releases. To burn off. To… feel normal.”
Dex mutters something into your thigh, words you feel more than hear, and his grip tightens like he’s proud and furious at the same time. Matt’s hand slides from your breast down your stomach, then between your legs, and for a second you think he’s going to push Dex away.
He doesn’t—Matt’s fingers slide into you from above while Dex keeps working your clit, and the double sensation is so sharp you make a broken sound that you can’t hide. Matt’s palm presses to your lower belly like he’s holding you in place, and his other hand returns to your throat, steady, not choking, just making you feel owned and safe in the same breath.
“That’s it,” Matt says, mouth at your ear now, voice so low it feels like a secret. “Let it happen. I’ve got you.”
Dex’s mouth doesn’t let up, and you can’t stop your hips from bucking against him. Your hand clenches around Matt through his sweats, stroking him in short, desperate movements, and Matt’s breath stutters like he’s right there with you, trying to hold control and failing.
You come hard, the orgasm ripping through you so fast your vision goes white at the edges. Your cunt tightens around Matt’s fingers, your thighs shake against Dex’s hands, and the sound that finally comes out of you is loud and wrecked and absolutely not quiet enough for anyone to pretend this isn’t happening.
Matt keeps you steady through it, hand firm at your throat, mouth on yours, kissing you messy while you shake. Dex stays between your legs like he’s starving, licking you through the aftershocks with a stubborn, hungry intensity that makes you twitch and try to squirm away.
“Don’t,” Matt warns softly, and the word isn’t a reprimand, it’s an instruction. “Breathe. Stay with me.”
Dex lifts his head just enough to look up at you, lips wet, chin shining, eyes bright with something sharp and satisfied. He smirks like he’s won a round, then glances toward Matt like he wants a fight. “See?” Dex says, voice rough. “Sharing. We can all be adults about it.”
Matt’s hand tightens on your throat just a fraction, enough that you feel the threat and the control. “Don’t push it,” he says, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes people smarter.
Dex’s smirk only widens, because of course it does, but Matt doesn’t let Dex’s little victory sit in the air for long. His hand stays firm at your throat as you ride out the aftershocks, thumb resting under your jaw like a reminder that you’re still right here with him, still safe, still his responsibility even when you’re begging for things that make him grit his teeth. “Up,” Matt says, voice low, and his palm slides over your hip, guiding you before your legs can decide to give out. “Come here.”
Dex makes a sound like he wants to argue, like he wants to make a joke about being ordered around in another man’s bedroom, but Matt doesn’t give him the space. Matt doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t have to, and the stillness in his posture makes Dex go quieter in the way predators do when they realize they’re not the only one in the room.
Matt shifts back against the pillows, bracing himself with one hand behind him while the other finds your waist again. He pulls you up by feel, thumbs digging in just enough that it grounds you, and you end up straddling him before you can overthink it. Your nightgown is still bunched up around your hips, your thighs are slick from Dex, your pussy is swollen and oversensitive, and Matt’s sweatpants are a problem you can’t ignore.
Dex stays close, kneeling behind you on the mattress, crowding your back without touching yet, like he’s waiting to see what Matt allows. He’s breathing hard too, the heat in the room making everything feel too close, too intimate, too dangerous.
Matt’s hands map you like he’s memorizing all over again. He starts at your hips, then your waist, then slides up your spine with a slow drag of his fingertips that makes you shiver. He cups the back of your head, and he angles your face down so he can take your mouth the way he wants, slow at first, then deeper when you whimper into him. “Tell me you’re with me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it isn’t poetic, it’s practical. It’s Matt making sure you’re still choosing.
“I’m with you,” you breathe, and your voice shakes because the need keeps pulsing through you like a fever.
“Good,” Matt says, and his thumbs press into your hips, guiding you forward. “Now take it.”
He tugs his sweatpants down just enough, and you do the same motion with clumsy fingers, because your hands don’t feel coordinated anymore. His cock is hot in your palm, heavy and hard, and the second you brush the head you feel him flinch under you like he’s been holding back since the moment he walked into the apartment.
You line yourself up and sink down, slow because your body is already wrecked, but you still gasp when he fills you. Matt’s hands lock in on your hips, steadying you, and he exhales like it hurts and feels good at the same time.
“Fuck,” you whisper, and your forehead drops to his shoulder, because the stretch is perfect and too much, your cunt fluttering around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.
Matt kisses the side of your head, mouth rough and greedy now that he’s inside you. “That’s it. Slow. Let me feel you.”
You rock your hips on instinct, searching for the angle that makes your nerves light up, and Matt gives it to you without you even having to ask. He shifts his grip, thumbs digging in, guiding you into a steady rhythm, easing you up and down on him like he’s taking control so you don’t have to.
Dex leans closer behind you, breath hot at your ear. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice thick, and you can hear the way he’s trying not to sound needy. “He gets to sit there and you just… slide right onto him.”
Matt’s head turns slightly, attention flicking toward Dex without his face changing. “Keep your mouth under control,” Matt says, quiet and deadly. “Or I’ll remind you whose bed you’re kneeling on.”
Dex lets out a low laugh, but it comes out strained, like the chemical has him by the throat too. “Yeah, yeah. Big scary—”
You gasp because Matt’s hips buck up, suddenly deeper, catching a spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble and your pussy clamp around him. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you down so he can kiss you again, messy and hungry, like he’s using your mouth to keep himself from snapping at Dex with his fists.
Dex’s fingers sneak around your front like he can’t help himself. His hand slides between your thighs, finding your clit with a practiced ease that makes you jerk. His touch is rougher than Matt’s, more impatient, rubbing hard enough that it makes your nerves spark and your stomach tighten.
“Dex—” you start, voice breaking, and your hips stutter.
Matt’s grip tightens on your hips, keeping you steady on his cock. “Breathe,” he tells you, and he says it like an order because your body needs one. “Stay on me.”
Dex’s fingers keep going, rubbing your clit faster, and he presses his mouth to your shoulder like he wants to bite but settles for breathing you in. “You’re gonna come again,” Dex whispers, too pleased with himself. “You’re gonna come on his cock and he’s gonna feel it, and I’m gonna—”
“Dex,” Matt says, and the warning in his voice makes the air feel sharper.
Dex doesn’t stop, he can’t. He’s too much of a problem, too much of a little shit, and the heat is making him reckless. “What?” he taunts, rubbing your clit harder like he’s trying to make you cry. “You want her to beg? She’s already—”
Matt’s hand slides up from your hip to your jaw, and he tilts your face toward his, kissing you hard enough that it steals your breath. When he pulls back, his voice is low, controlled, and it lands like a line drawn in ink. “Shut him up.”
You blink, dazed, and your lips part on a shaky inhale. “Matt…”
Matt’s thumb presses at your chin, guiding, not forcing, and the look on his face—tight, heated, possessive—makes your whole body clench around him. “If you want him here,” Matt says, “then you listen. Shut him up.”
Dex makes a pleased, ugly sound behind you, like he’s thrilled to be included and furious that it’s on Matt’s terms. “Go on,” Dex murmurs, leaning in closer. “Do what he says.”
You reach back with shaking hands and grab Dex by the collar, yanking him forward. His breath hits your mouth, and then you kiss him, rough and immediate, because you’re too hot for hesitation and because Matt told you to.
Dex melts into it in a way that’s almost shocking, mouth opening for you like he’s starving, kissing you like he wants to prove something with his tongue. There’s anger in it, too, a bitter edge that feels like he’s biting down on his own resentment just to keep kissing you anyway.
Matt fucks up into you while you’re kissing Dex, slow at first, then harder when you whimper into Dex’s mouth. The movement jolts your whole body, makes you cling to Dex’s collar tighter to keep from falling forward, and Matt’s hands keep you anchored on his cock like he refuses to let you slip away into the haze.
Dex’s fingers never stop rubbing your clit. He’s using you and being used at the same time, and you can feel him shaking behind you like he hates how much he wants it.
Matt’s mouth finds your throat, kissing the skin there, and his voice drops against you. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Who do you belong to?”
Dex goes still for half a second behind you, like the words hit him in a place he didn’t want exposed. His kiss turns sharper, almost punishing, like he wants to keep you from answering.
Matt’s hand cups your skull, steady, guiding you through it. “Say it,” he repeats, and it’s quiet, certain.
You pull back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes unfocused. Dex’s hand keeps rubbing your clit like he’s trying to make you forget language entirely, but you force it out anyway because the control in Matt’s voice is grounding in the middle of all this.
“I belong to you,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Matt. I belong to you.”
Dex shudders behind you like it physically hurts, and the sound he makes is torn between a growl and a laugh. He kisses you again anyway, swallowing the words like he’s furious you said them and even more furious he liked hearing you say them.
Matt’s hips snap up, deeper, harder, and you cry out into Dex’s mouth because the pressure hits perfectly. Your cunt clenches around Matt, slick and tight, and Dex’s fingers press your clit in relentless circles until your nerves feel like they’re sparking.
You break the kiss with a gasp, head falling back onto Dex’s shoulder, and Dex grabs your jaw, possessive and mean, forcing you to look at him while Matt keeps thrusting up into you.
“You hear her?” Dex mutters, voice low and rough. “She said it. She’s yours. Doesn’t mean I can’t make her come, though.”
Matt’s hands clamp on your hips, and he takes control of the pace fully now, rocking up into you in a steady, relentless rhythm that makes your breath stutter. His mouth is at your ear, and you can hear the strain in his control finally cracking.
“That’s it,” Matt murmurs. “Hold on. Don’t you dare stop.”
Dex’s fingers go faster, brutal on your clit, and your body tightens like it’s being drawn into a knot. You grab at Matt’s shoulders, nails digging through his t-shirt, and you feel your orgasm build fast, almost too fast, the chemical making it sharp and unavoidable.
“I’m gonna—” you gasp, and you don’t even finish the sentence because your body does it for you.
You come hard on Matt’s cock, shaking, pussy clenching tight around him, and the way Matt groans is low and wrecked, like your orgasm pulled him right to the edge. Dex’s hand stays on your clit through it, not letting you escape the sensation, and you cry out again, broken and breathy, head tipped back against Dex’s shoulder.
Matt keeps thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own, breath turning ragged. His hands hold you in place like he refuses to let you slide off him, and his mouth finds your throat, biting lightly, then kissing the spot like an apology he doesn’t have time for.
“Fuck,” Matt groans, and then his whole body tenses under you. His hips snap up once more, deep, and he comes hard, spilling inside you with a rough sound that turns into your name against your skin.
He doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays braced, arms around you, holding you chest-to-chest like he needs to keep you there, keep you claimed, keep you safe while the heat still burns. His breathing is too fast, his hands still tight on you, and you can feel the way his body is already refusing to settle, like one release didn’t fix anything.
Dex’s fingers finally slow on your clit, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays behind you, crowding your back, mouth at your shoulder, and when he speaks his voice is low with something sharp and pleased. “Damn,” Dex murmurs. “He came in you. That’s… cute.”
Matt’s head turns toward him, and the calm in his expression is the kind that makes your skin prickle for a different reason. “Don’t,” Matt says, voice even. “Not right now.”
Dex smiles against your shoulder like he can’t help himself, like he’s already planning the next push, and your body is still too hot, still too needy, still trembling on the edge of another want you haven’t even named yet. Dex’s fingers hook under the hem of your nightgown, and he doesn’t ask permission with words this time because he already did, because you already told him yes, but he still looks at you first anyway, eyes bright and sharp. “Still want it?” he murmurs, voice rough. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” you manage, and it comes out small and wrecked, because you’re still trembling on Matt’s cock and everything feels too sensitive. “I want it.”
Dex yanks the nightgown up and off in one impatient motion, tugging it over your head like it’s in his way, then tosses it somewhere behind him. The air hits your bare skin and you shiver hard, goosebumps rising and then flattening instantly under the heat. Matt’s hands spread over your ribs and stomach like he’s making sure you’re steady, like he’s keeping track of you the way he always does, and then he shifts you carefully off his lap because he isn’t going to let you fall in the middle of this.
“Easy,” Matt murmurs against your jaw, kissing you once, slow and grounding. “I’ve got you.”
Dex doesn’t wait for you to fully settle before he’s pulling you back into him, knees on the mattress behind yours, his chest pressed to your back. He loops an arm around your neck in a headlock hold that’s controlled, not crushing, forearm across your collarbone, hand braced at your shoulder so he can keep you upright and close. The position is meant to make you feel pinned, meant to make you feel owned, and your body answers with a violent clench that makes you gasp.
Matt’s head turns toward the sound immediately, like the gasp is a flare he can’t ignore. His hand slides to your hip and stays there, thumb rubbing slow circles into the skin like a quiet claim. “Breathe,” he says, calm and firm. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not,” you breathe, and your voice shakes anyway. “It’s not too much.”
Dex laughs softly against your ear, the sound more bite than humor. “Of course it isn’t,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking soaked.”
He frees himself from his sweatpants with a quick, impatient shove, and you feel the blunt heat of him press against your ass, then slide down between your thighs. The second his cock drags through your slickness, you whimper and your knees flex like you’re going to collapse forward, but Dex tightens his arm and holds you in place. He doesn’t thrust in right away; he grinds against you first, spreading you open, pushing the mess around, making it obscene on purpose, like he needs you to feel exactly what’s still inside you.
“You feel that?” Dex whispers, mouth brushing your ear, and his tone turns mean in a way that makes your stomach flip. “That’s him. Still in you. Still there, even when it’s me.”
Matt’s thumb stops for a second against your hip, then starts again, slow and steady like he refuses to react the way Dex wants. “Dex,” Matt says quietly, warning without raising his voice. “Don’t.”
Dex ignores him, because of course he does, because he can’t help digging for the bruise. He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard, deliberate thrust that knocks the breath out of you. You cry out, sharp and broken, and Dex’s arm around your neck keeps you upright while his hips press tight to your ass, burying himself deep like he’s trying to overwrite what Matt just did.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for something to hold, and Matt’s hand catches yours immediately, fingers lacing with yours so you don’t have to search. The touch is steady and warm, anchoring you even while your body is being pulled in two directions.
“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, lips near your cheek, voice close enough that you feel the air of it. “Take what you need. Keep breathing.”
Dex starts to move, slow at first, grinding deeper on every thrust, making sure you feel the drag of him against your swollen cunt. The mess inside you turns it slicker, filthier, and you can feel it in the obscene sound of it, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the way your body takes him like it’s desperate for anything that pushes back against the heat.
Dex’s mouth finds your shoulder and he bites down, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make you gasp again. “Listen to you,” he mutters, voice low and sharp. “You sound like a fucking slut when you’re full.”
Matt’s hand tightens around yours, and his other hand slides up your side to your jaw, tilting your chin slightly like he’s guiding you back from the edge. “Hey,” Matt says, calm and deadly at the same time. “Watch your mouth.”
Dex’s thrusts get harder, like the warning turned him on or pissed him off or both. He keeps talking anyway, because he wants Matt to hear it, wants Matt to hate it, wants to provoke something ugly. “She’s taking me so fucking easy,” Dex whispers, breath ragged at your ear. “Like she’s made for it. Like she wants it dirty.”
You try to pull air in through your nose, but every time Dex drives into you your breath breaks, the sound spilling out of you in helpless little moans. Your cunt clamps around him, slick and tight, and Dex makes a rough noise like he’s losing control faster than he wants to admit.
Matt doesn’t insult him, he doesn’t even rise to it with words. He corrects Dex with touch, the way he always does when he’s angry and refusing to show it. His fingers slide to your chin and guide your face toward him, and his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s slow and possessive, claiming without needing to look at Dex at all. His lips are warm, firm, steady, and it makes you melt even while Dex is fucking you hard from behind. “Say my name,” Matt murmurs into your mouth, barely audible. “Let me hear you.”
Dex’s arm around your neck tightens just enough to remind you he’s there, and he thrusts harder like he’s punishing you for obeying. The sensation spikes sharp, makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your pussy clench around him so hard he stutters.
“Matt,” you moan, the name spilling out as a broken sound against Matt’s lips.
Matt kisses you deeper, like he’s swallowing it, like he’s keeping it. “Good,” he murmurs, and his thumb strokes your jawline, calming and possessive all at once. “That’s it.”
Dex makes a furious, ragged sound behind you and snaps his hips faster, chasing his own relief in hard, brutal thrusts. “Say it again,” Dex growls into your shoulder, and you can hear the ugly need in it, like he wants you to say his name and hates that Matt’s making you say something else.
Matt doesn’t change his tone. He doesn’t have to. “Breathe,” he tells you, then kisses your mouth again, slower, and it makes your whole body soften into him even while Dex is trying to wreck you from behind. “Stay with me.”
Dex’s thrusts turn frantic, the heat and the jealousy and the chemical all smashing together into something that makes him reckless. His arm holds you pinned upright, cock driving deep, and the mess inside you makes every shove obscene, slick and loud. Your legs start to tremble, not from fear, but from overload, your cunt tightening and fluttering like it’s trying to drag both men into the same spiral.
Dex bites your shoulder again, harder this time, and you hiss at the sting. “Fuck,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “You feel so good it makes me fucking mad.”
Matt’s hand slides down to your hip again, thumb rubbing slow circles, calm and steady, and you hate how much you love the contrast. Dex is all sharp edges and spite, Matt is quiet control, and your body is greedy enough to want both.
Dex’s breathing goes ragged, and his thrusts turn brutal for a few seconds like he’s trying to force his orgasm out of himself. He jerks once, then again, hips stuttering, and you feel him go rigid behind you. He clamps his teeth into your shoulder, not as a threat this time but as a way to stop himself from making a sound he’d hate, and his whole body shakes as he comes hard inside you, hot and thick, filling you in messy pulses that make you gasp.
He stays buried for a second, trembling, arm still around your neck, forehead pressed to the side of your head like he can’t pull away yet. Matt’s hand remains on your hip, thumb still moving, and his lips brush your cheek in a kiss that feels like reassurance and possession at the same time.
“That’s it,” Matt murmurs in your ear, steady. “Good. Breathe.”
Dex finally loosens his hold, just enough that you can take a fuller breath, but he doesn’t move away. He’s still behind you, still crowding your back, still panting like he ran a mile. When he lifts his head, his eyes flick to Matt with something sharp and furious, like he hates that Matt is still calm, still in control, still close.
Dex swallows, voice rough and bitter when he finally speaks. “Happy now?” he mutters, not really to you, not really to Matt, just to the room.
Matt’s hand stays on your hip, thumb still moving in slow circles like he’s keeping you anchored while your body tries to float right out of itself. Dex is still inside you, still trembling from his release, still crowding your back like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he got what he wanted and it didn’t fix the burn.
Matt shifts first, practical even when he’s wrecked. He eases Dex out of you with a controlled pull of your hips, not yanking, not careless, and you whine at the empty feeling because your cunt is greedy and overstimulated and already angry about losing the pressure. Dex makes a sharp sound behind you, half frustration, half hunger, and he starts to reach like he’s going to drag you back.
“On your back,” Matt tells him, and it’s not a suggestion.
Dex laughs breathlessly, but he listens, because even he can hear the edge in Matt’s voice. He drops onto the pillows with a rough exhale, legs spreading a little like he’s trying to pretend it’s his idea, cock already hard again and shiny with slick. His eyes track you the whole time, bright and feral, like he’s daring either of you to deny him.
Matt guides you forward with both hands on your waist, turning you and pushing you down until your knees sink into the mattress. He nudges you back so you’re over Dex, straddling him, your pussy hovering over his cock. You’re slick enough that the slide of your cunt over him feels obscene even before you take him, wetness smearing over his shaft with every tiny shift.
Dex’s hands clamp onto your hips immediately, grip firm, thumbs digging into the soft skin like he’s marking where you belong right now. “Yeah,” Dex mutters, voice rough. “Right there. Don’t be shy.”
You try to roll your hips, trying to find friction, and Dex helps, guiding you in short, grinding strokes so his cock drags against your clit and the swollen lips of your cunt. You’re not fully taking him yet, just teasing, just rubbing, and it still makes you gasp because everything is too sensitive. Your thighs tremble as the wet, hot slide keeps building pressure that you can’t relieve.
Matt kneels behind you, close enough that you feel his heat at your back before he touches you. His hands land on your hips over Dex’s, and the difference between them makes you shiver. Dex is possessive and impatient, Matt is steady and precise, and you’re trapped between them like a bad decision you can’t stop making.
“Stay right there,” Matt murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “I’m going to fuck you from behind.”
Your breath stutters, and you nod too fast. “Please,” you whisper, because you’ve lost any ability to pretend you’re in control.
Matt lines himself up behind you, guiding you back onto him. The first press of his cock at your entrance makes your whole body clench, and Dex’s grip tightens like he’s furious that Matt is taking what Dex wants. Matt doesn’t rush. He slides in slow, inch by inch, making you take him fully, making you feel him again after Dex, and the stretch turns sharp and perfect.
“Fuck,” you choke, hands flying to Dex’s chest because you need something to hold. Dex’s skin is hot under your palms, his heartbeat too fast. He glares up at you like he wants to bite, like he wants to pull you down and ruin you, but he stays still because Matt’s hands are on your hips and Matt is in charge.
Matt sinks all the way in and stills for a beat, pressed tight to your ass. He leans forward until his chest meets your back, his mouth at your ear again, voice low and commanding. “Moan my name,” Matt says. “Right there. Into his shoulder.”
You make a helpless sound, and your body obeys before your brain catches up. You lean forward, mouth landing against Dex’s shoulder, and the next breath that leaves you is Matt’s name, broken and desperate like you’re confessing something you can’t take back.
Dex snarls, half-laughing, half-livid. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Matt starts to move, slow at first, deep thrusts that use the angle of your body to hit exactly where you’re already trembling. Every push drives you forward onto Dex, and every pull drags Matt’s cock through your soaked cunt in a way that makes your vision blur.
Dex’s hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bruise later. “You’re using me as furniture,” he growls, then his voice goes strained because the grind of your pussy over his cock is driving him insane. “And it’s—fuck—it’s working.”
Matt leans over you more, pressing his weight into your back, pushing your chest closer to Dex until your back arches. His hands slide from your hips up your sides, then one of them reaches forward and clamps around Dex’s throat. Not choking him out, not cutting off air, just holding him there, forcing him to stay still and feel it.
Dex’s eyes widen, then narrow, the rage and the thrill mixing into something ugly. “Touchy,” he spits, but his cock jumps under you anyway.
“Shut up,” Matt murmurs, calm as sin. “Take it.”
Your hips stop grinding on their own because Matt’s hold and the arch of your back locks you into the position he wants. Now all you can do is take Matt’s thrusts from behind, feel the deep roll of him in your cunt, and feel Dex under you getting more desperate with every movement.
“Matt—” you gasp, cheek pressed to Dex’s shoulder now, lips dragging over the skin because you need something to do with your mouth besides scream.
Matt’s pace picks up, still deep, still controlled, and his breath turns rough against your ear. “Good,” he says, like he’s praising you for falling apart exactly the way he wants. “That’s it. Stay open.”
Dex’s hands shift, one sliding down your thigh like he’s about to pull you down onto him properly, and Matt’s grip at his throat tightens just enough to stop him.
“You get what I give you,” Matt says softly, and it’s the kind of possessive that makes your cunt clench hard around him.
Dex laughs through his teeth, breathless and furious. “You’re insane.”
Matt doesn’t argue, he just fucks you harder, using you like you’re his, and every thrust makes your pussy flutter and drip, wetness smearing over Dex’s cock underneath you. The sound is filthy, slick and loud, and it makes Dex jerk under you like he’s about to lose it again.
Your hand moves between your bodies and you push two fingers into Dex’s mouth, because you need leverage and because the idea hits you like a spark. Dex’s lips part instantly, tongue sliding over your fingers with a hungry, spiteful eagerness. He sucks like he’s trying to prove a point, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on yours as if daring you to flinch.
You pull your fingers out shining with spit and use it to stroke Dex, slow and cruel, palm sliding down his shaft, thumb smearing over the head. Dex’s head falls back into the pillow with a broken sound, eyes rolling, hands tightening on your hips like he’s trying not to buck.
“Fuck,” Dex breathes. “You’re—you’re doing that on purpose.”
“Yeah,” you manage, voice shaking, because Matt’s cock keeps hitting that spot inside you and you can’t think straight. “Shut up.”
Dex’s gaze snaps back to you, bright and pissed and turned on. He drags you down by the hips just enough to steal your mouth, grabbing your jaw with one hand and forcing a messy tongue kiss that tastes like heat and spit and something too sharp to be sweet. You whimper into it, and the sound gets swallowed between you.
Behind you, Matt’s breath catches like the sight and the sound hits him somewhere deep. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you from behind, hand still around Dex’s throat, using the hold to keep Dex right where he wants him while you fall apart on top of him.
“Eyes on me,” Dex mutters against your mouth, possessive and mean.
Matt’s mouth brushes your ear again, and his voice is quieter, steadier, like a blade. “Say my name.”
Your body clenches hard, and the next moan that spills out is Matt’s name again, muffled into Dex’s mouth. Dex shudders like it hurts, like it makes him want to bite, and he kisses you harder anyway. Matt’s thrusts turn relentless, hips snapping in tighter rhythm, and you feel his control thinning. His hand at Dex’s throat tightens, then loosens, then tightens again like he’s gripping the last thread of restraint.
You stroke Dex faster now, spit making it slick, your fist sliding up and down his cock while your cunt takes Matt from behind. Dex’s breath turns ragged, hips twitching under you, and his hands clamp down like he’s trying not to shove you down and take what he wants.
“Jesus—” Dex gasps. “You’re gonna make me—”
“Not yet,” Matt says, and it isn’t loud, but it lands like a command anyway. “Hold it.”
Dex’s eyes flash, furious, and he trembles through it. “Go to hell.”
Matt’s answer is a hard thrust that makes you cry out and clench around him so tight his breath breaks. You feel his cock pulse, feel his whole body go rigid behind you, and then Matt groans low against your back as he comes again, deep and hot, holding you still with both hands while he rides it out. One hand stays on your hip, the other keeps Dex pinned by the throat, and the control in it makes your whole body melt even while you shake.
Matt doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays pressed to you, chest to your back, breathing hard, lips at your shoulder like he needs to keep contact. His grip loosens slowly, like he’s easing himself back from the edge by inches.
“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, voice rough, thumb stroking your hip again. “Breathe. Stay with me.”
Dex is staring up at you like he wants to kill someone and kiss you at the same time, cock twitching in your hand, frustration and need making his jaw clench. He swallows, then drags his thumb across your lower belly like he’s claiming a piece of you he doesn’t have the right to claim.
“You two are disgusting,” Dex mutters.
Dex doesn’t wait for Matt to answer, because Dex isn’t actually asking. He’s already moving, already reaching, already turning that restless, hungry energy into action like he can’t stand sitting in the aftermath for even one more second.
He hooks an arm under your thigh and drags you off him with a sharp pull, flipping you onto your back in one quick motion that knocks the air out of you. The mattress dips hard, sheets bunching under your shoulders, and your head ends up near the edge of the bed, slightly hanging off. Dex climbs over you immediately, sweat shining on his throat, eyes wild and focused like you just became his target.
“You think you’re done?” Dex mutters, and his hands clamp down on your thighs, spreading you open like he owns the right to. “You’re not done. I’m not done.”
Matt is close enough that you can feel him shift, and you can hear his breathing change, sharper, more controlled. He doesn’t grab Dex off you, but his hand lands on your ankle for a second, thumb pressing into your skin like a quiet check-in. It’s Matt’s way of asking without interrupting, and you answer the same way, flexing your foot gently against his touch because you’re too wrecked to form a full sentence without it turning into a moan.
Dex lines himself up and pushes back into you with a rough thrust that makes your whole body jolt. Your cunt takes him easily because you’re soaked and overstimulated, and the obscene slick sound that comes with it makes Dex’s mouth twist like he’s pleased and pissed at the same time.
“Fuck,” you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders because you need something to hold while he starts moving. Dex doesn’t build slowly, he drives into you like he’s determined to make you forget how Matt felt, like he’s trying to pound the comparison out of your body with brute force.
Matt moves to your head, not away, not sulking, just repositioning like he’s doing damage control the way he always does. He sits beside you on the bed and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then your lower lip. His voice is low and steady, close enough to be private even with Dex right there.
“Breathe,” Matt murmurs. “You’re okay. You tell me if you need anything.”
Dex hears it and gets worse on purpose. He leans down and kisses you mid-thrust, mouth hot and messy, swallowing the sounds you can’t keep back. His tongue pushes in like he’s trying to claim your mouth the same way he’s claiming your cunt, and you whine into it because the pace is brutal and the heat in your blood makes it feel too good.
When Dex pulls back for air, he keeps one hand on your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you look at him. “Look at me,” Dex demands, voice rough. “Say it. Say my name.”
Your eyes flutter, unfocused, and you try to glare at him because he’s being an asshole, but your body betrays you immediately. Dex thrusts deep again, hitting a spot that makes your thighs shake, and the sound that breaks out of you is helpless. “Dex,” you gasp, and his grin turns sharp and satisfied like he just scored a hit.
“Again,” he says, and he thrusts harder, making the bed creak, making your breath break. “Come on. Louder. I want him to hear it.”
Matt’s hand slides down to your shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle like he’s keeping you grounded. He doesn’t argue with Dex, he just stays there, close, letting you hold onto him, letting you decide what comes out of your mouth.
Dex keeps driving into you, rhythm turning relentless, and you grab Matt’s wrist with shaking fingers because you need something solid. Matt’s palm flips and catches your hand, squeezing once, and you feel your stomach flip because even with Dex fucking you like he’s trying to win, Matt’s touch still feels like home.
Dex’s eyes flick to Matt’s hand holding yours, and something mean flashes across his face. He leans down again, kissing you hard, swallowing your moans, then breaks the kiss just to speak right at your mouth. “You like me?” Dex spits, like it’s an insult. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me.”
“Fuck, yes,” you choke out, because you’re too hot to lie and too far gone to be polite. Dex’s thrusts stutter for half a beat like the answer hit him hard, then he snaps back into a faster pace that makes you see stars.
Matt shifts slightly, moving closer to your head, and you turn into him automatically. His mouth brushes your forehead, then the corner of your lips, and you can tell he’s holding his restraint by force, breathing too hard for someone who’s “fine.”
“You can hold onto me,” Matt murmurs, voice rougher now. “Do what you need.”
Dex hears that too, and it makes him furious. He grabs your thigh and hikes it higher over his hip, angling you so he can go deeper, harder. The change punches a sharp moan out of you, and Dex makes a satisfied sound like he’s collecting it. “There,” Dex says, grinning. “There you go. That’s what I want. That’s mine.”
Matt’s thumb slides along your cheek again, and his voice stays calm even if the tension in it is obvious. “Don’t,” he warns quietly, like he’s reminding Dex he’s allowed to be here but not allowed to claim.
Dex doesn’t care, he leans down and kisses you again, filthy and hungry, and the way he thrusts turns almost frantic. He’s chasing something now, not just relief, but proof, and he wants it so badly it’s making him reckless.
Your hand slips down between your bodies, reaching for Dex’s wrist like you’re trying to steady him, and he catches it, pins it above your head with one hand while the other stays on your jaw. You’re spread wide, legs shaking around his hips, pussy clenching and fluttering around him like you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm you can’t control.
“Say it,” Dex demands again, breath ragged. “Say my name. Please me. Come on.”
“Dex,” you moan, and then it turns into a breathless string of it because he won’t stop hitting that spot. “Dex—fuck—Dex—please—”
Dex’s eyes blow wide, and his mouth twists like he hates how good it feels to hear you beg. He thrusts harder, faster, the slick sound turning obscene, and you feel his control shredding.
Matt’s hand tightens around yours at your side, a steady squeeze that keeps you from floating away completely. He doesn’t interrupt, but his mouth brushes your temple, and his voice is low enough that only you can catch it. “I’m here,” Matt murmurs. “Stay with me.”
Dex’s breath turns jagged, and he makes a harsh sound like a laugh that got twisted into a groan. “Yeah, yeah,” he grits out, then thrusts deep and holds it there, shaking. “Fuck—”
Dex comes hard, angry and shaking, cock pulsing inside you in thick, hot spurts that make your body clench around him. He squeezes your jaw, then releases it like he just realized he was holding too tight, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder with a rough exhale that sounds like he wants to scream and refuses to give anyone the satisfaction.
He stays there for a second, still buried, breathing like he’s furious at his own body. Then he lets out a low, bitter laugh under his breath, the kind that doesn’t sound happy at all. “God,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “That felt… so fucking good.”
Matt doesn’t let the silence after Dex’s last laugh turn into another round of posturing. He’s breathing hard, his palm still warm against your skin, and you can feel the difference now that the worst of the chemical spike isn’t clawing at your throat anymore. The heat is still there, still sticky under your ribs, but it isn’t as sharp as it was ten minutes ago, and that almost makes it worse because you can think again just enough to realize how fucking wrung out you are.
Dex shifts off you with a rough exhale, rolling onto his side like he’s trying to hide how shaky he feels. He looks at you like he wants to say something clever, something mean, something that puts him back on top of the moment, but the words don’t come as easily now. He settles for a tight smile and a hand on your thigh, thumb pressing into your skin like he’s reminding you he’s still here.
Matt’s voice cuts in, low and steady. “We’re close.”
Dex scoffs, but it’s weak. “Close to what, the end of your little domestic nightmare?”
“Close to it wearing off,” Matt says, and he shifts closer by sound and feel, his hand finding your hip like it always does. His fingers spread, grounding, and his thumb starts that slow circle that’s become the rhythm of the whole night. “You’re not shaking as much. Your breathing’s different.”
You swallow and nod even though he can’t see it, then force the words out because that’s how you’ve stayed sane through all of this. “It’s not gone,” you say, voice raw. “It’s still there. It’s just… not screaming.”
Matt hums once, like he agrees. Dex drags the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes flicking between you and Matt like he’s trying to decide if he hates the idea of it ending more than he hates the fact that Matt’s right about it.
“We finish it,” Matt says, simple as that.
Dex’s smile sharpens. “We?”
Matt turns his head slightly toward him, and even without eye contact it’s obvious who’s in control. “You’ve been in my apartment for hours,” Matt says, tone flat. “You can handle ten more minutes without trying to start a fight.”
Dex opens his mouth and then closes it again, jaw working like he’s biting down on the urge to run it. His gaze drops to you, then to Matt’s hand on you, then back up to your face like he’s looking for the crack he can wedge himself into.
You breathe in, slow, then say it before Dex can poison the moment. “If it’s fading, I want the last part to… end. Like, actually end.”
Matt’s hand slides from your hip up your side, his palm flattening over your stomach for a second like he’s checking you’re steady, then he kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and grounding. “Alright,” Matt says, and his voice drops into that calm command that makes your body settle even while it’s on fire. “Dex. On your back. Head on the pillow. Hands where I can find them.”
Dex stares at him for a beat, then smirks like he’s about to refuse on principle, but he doesn’t. He flops back onto the pillows with exaggerated ease, arms spreading out like he’s presenting himself for inspection, cock already half-hard again and twitching like the chemical is refusing to fully let go. “Bossy,” Dex mutters. “Thought you were the Catholic one.”
Matt’s answer is quiet. “Keep talking and you don’t get anything.”
Dex shuts up immediately, which would be hilarious if it wasn’t also obscene. Matt guides you by your waist, turning you carefully, helping you get your knees under you again because your legs are still shaky from everything. He doesn’t look at Dex to place you, he doesn’t need to; he uses touch the way he always does, hands firm on your hips, moving you inch by inch until you’re positioned over Dex’s face.
Dex’s eyes go bright, and his hands lift like he can’t help himself, then he freezes when Matt’s fingers press into his wrist as a reminder. Dex’s mouth opens slightly, tongue visible, and he looks up at you like he’s about to ruin you just to prove he can. “Sit,” Dex murmurs, voice rough. “C’mon.”
Matt’s hands tighten on your hips. “Slow,” he tells you, close to your ear. “You tell me if you get dizzy. You tell me if you can’t breathe.”
“I can breathe,” you manage, and you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, because the position alone makes your cunt throb. “I’m good.”
Matt helps you lower, guiding you down until you’re hovering right above Dex’s mouth, then another inch, until Dex’s lips brush your slick skin and you jerk with a gasp. Dex’s hands clamp onto your thighs immediately, holding you open, and he moans into you like he’s been denied air for hours.
“Fuck,” Dex breathes against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble. “That’s—yeah. That’s it.”
He starts eating you out like he’s making a point. His tongue is flat and heavy, pressure too much and perfect, and you have to grab Matt’s forearm to keep from collapsing forward. Matt steadies you instantly, one hand on your waist, the other sliding up your back, holding you upright while Dex’s mouth works you open and greedy.
Your head ends up near Dex’s cock, and the sight of it—hard and flushed, twitching—makes your stomach flip. Dex notices, of course he notices, and his fingers squeeze your thighs like he’s trying to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“Go on,” Dex says, voice muffled against your cunt. “Use your mouth.”
You lean forward and wrap your lips around him, and Dex makes a harsh sound that turns into another groan into your pussy. The combination is instantly overwhelming: Dex’s mouth on your clit, your mouth on his cock, and Matt behind you, hands steady on your hips like he’s preparing to do the last thing your body needs to finally stop buzzing.
Matt shifts behind you, and you feel him press in close, his breath hot at your shoulder. His fingers slide down your spine, then to your hips again, and he nudges you forward just enough to get the angle he wants.
“Breathe,” Matt murmurs, and he kisses your shoulder once, slow.
You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound vibrating, and Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs like he’s losing patience. Matt pushes in slowly, stretching you in a way that makes your eyes water, and the moment he’s inside you, the world narrows down to sensation again. It’s not the frantic, desperate edge from earlier; it’s heavy and deep, like you’re so sensitive that every inch feels doubled.
Dex’s tongue goes meaner the second he feels Matt moving inside you. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to pull your orgasm out of you first, like he’s trying to prove he can still win something even in a setup Matt arranged.
You pull off Dex’s cock just long enough to gasp, “fuck—Dex,” then you take him again, because the heat is still there and the only way through it is more. Dex’s cock jerks in your mouth, and his groan turns into another muffled sound against your pussy as he eats you out harder.
Matt sets a pace behind you, steady and controlled. His hands stay on your hips, guiding the motion when your body tries to squirm away from the overstimulation, and every time you wobble, he corrects you with touch instead of words, keeping you upright, keeping you open, keeping you from falling apart too early.
Dex tries to talk again, of course he does, and it comes out broken between breaths. “You taste—fuck—you taste so good,” he mutters against your cunt, loud enough that Matt can hear it. “You’re gonna—yeah, you’re gonna come all over my mouth.”
Matt leans closer and his mouth brushes your ear. “Stay with me,” he says, and his voice is calm even though his thrusts get a little deeper, a little firmer. “Don’t rush it. Let it build.”
Dex’s hands slide up your thighs like he wants to drag you down harder onto his face. Matt’s grip on your hips tightens, and he pushes you down just enough that Dex’s mouth is fully buried, your pussy pressed into his face. Dex groans into you like he’s in heaven and hell at the same time, and the vibration nearly makes you lose your grip on his cock.
You gag slightly when Dex twitches hard in your mouth, and you pull back for air, spit shining on your lips. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your head immediately, not forcing, just guiding, and his voice turns low and firm. “Back on him,” Matt murmurs. “Just like that. Take what you need.”
You do it because you can’t not, because the structure is the only thing keeping you from going dizzy. You take Dex again, sucking him slow and deep, and Dex makes a strangled noise that turns into a growl into your pussy. His tongue keeps working your clit with brutal, perfect pressure, and his fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying to hold you still while his whole body wants to buck.
Matt’s thrusts deepen, steady and relentless, and the way his cock hits inside you makes your entire body tighten. You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound wet and obscene, and Dex shudders under you like that noise just tipped him closer to the edge.
“Fuck,” Dex gasps into you. “Matt—stop—she’s—”
Matt doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even acknowledge the plea with words. He simply changes the angle, lifting your hips slightly with his hands and driving into you a little harder, and the shift makes Dex choke on a groan because your pussy grinds down on his tongue in a way that feels like punishment and reward at the same time.
You can’t keep quiet anymore. The orgasm builds fast and heavy, not the sharp frantic spike from earlier, but a thick wave that keeps rising, and you’re trapped between them—Matt filling you, Dex swallowing you—until your whole body starts trembling.
“Matt,” you gasp, pulling off Dex’s cock just long enough to say it, voice broken. “I’m gonna—”
“I know,” Matt says immediately, and his voice turns softer even while he keeps thrusting. “Let it happen. Breathe.”
Dex doesn’t give you time to breathe. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to make you black out, and your thighs shake around his head as your orgasm hits. You come hard, cunt clenching around Matt, hips jerking downward onto Dex’s face, and the sound you make is messy and loud and completely uncontrolled.
Matt holds you through it, hands locked on your hips to keep you from collapsing. His thrusts turn shorter and tighter, chasing his own edge as your pussy clamps around him, and you feel him go rigid behind you. His breath breaks against your shoulder, and he groans low as he comes, deep and hot, holding you still while he rides it out.
Dex’s cock twitches in your hand as he hears Matt lose control, and Dex makes a furious, needy sound like he hates that it turns him on. You take him back into your mouth without thinking, sucking him through it, and Dex’s hands squeeze your thighs hard enough to leave marks.
You don’t. You keep sucking him, spit slick, rhythm steady even while your body is still shaking from your orgasm. Dex’s mouth is still on your pussy, tongue slower now but stubborn, like he refuses to give up the contact. The chemical is fading, but Dex is greedy and spiteful and desperate to get his last release before it fully lets him go.
Dex bucks once under you, hard, and Matt’s hands tighten on your hips again to keep you balanced. Dex’s cock throbs in your mouth, and he comes with a rough, broken groan that he tries to swallow, but fails. His orgasm makes him tremble under you, hands clamping down like he’s trying to hold onto something while it slips away.
For a few seconds none of you move. You’re panting, slick, shaking, and the heat in your body finally starts to ebb in a way that feels real, like the pressure is draining out instead of building again.
Matt stays behind you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard but slower now. His hands soften on your hips, turning from control into support.
Dex lies under you with his eyes half-lidded, still flushed, lips wet, chin shining, and he looks up at you like he wants to say something cruel just to prove he can. What comes out is a rough exhale and a bitter, shaky laugh. “Holy shit,” Dex mutters, and he sounds like he hates that he means it. “I think it’s actually… wearing off.”
Matt’s hands stay on you for a while after, not gripping anymore, just steadying, like he’s making sure you’re actually present and not drifting. He shifts carefully to get you off Dex, guiding you by the waist and shoulders so you don’t topple on shaky legs. The second your feet touch the floor your knees threaten to give, and Matt catches you like he’s done it a thousand times, one hand at the back of your neck, the other braced at your hip.
“Slow,” Matt murmurs, mouth near your temple. “Breathe for me. In and out, don’t rush it.”
“I’m breathing,” you rasp, then immediately prove you’re not by sucking in a short, shaky inhale that turns into a laugh because it’s either that or cry. Your skin feels too warm, tacky with sweat, and the air in the room feels thick even though the worst of the fever is finally fading.
Matt steers you to the edge of the bed and sits you down, then disappears for a second. You hear the faucet run, cabinets opening, the muted clink of a glass, and then he’s back with water and a cold washcloth. He presses the cloth to the back of your neck first, then your forehead, then your cheeks, gentle and methodical.
“Drink,” he says, and he guides the glass into your hands like he’s worried you’ll spill it.
You take a few sips and immediately realize how dry your throat is. “Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing again. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”
“You kind of did,” Matt says, dry but not teasing. His thumb drags over your pulse point at your wrist in a small check, then his palm settles there like he wants to feel you steady. “Any dizziness? Any nausea?”
“No,” you say, then pause because your stomach flips once as the room tilts slightly. “Okay, maybe a little dizzy.”
Matt’s hand tightens lightly on the back of your neck. “Then you sit,” he says, calm and firm. “You don’t try to be brave right now.”
Across the bed, Dex is quieter than he has been all night, which is almost unsettling. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the mattress, head tipped back, forearm over his eyes like he’s trying to hide the fact that he needs a minute. His breathing is still too fast, but it’s not frantic anymore, and the sharp edge of him looks blunted, like somebody finally turned the volume down.
He lifts his arm just enough to peer at you and Matt, and even now he can’t help himself. “You always this domesticated?” he asks, voice rough. The line is clearly meant to be snarky, but it lands thin, like he didn’t have the energy to sharpen it.
Matt doesn’t take the bait. He wipes your cheek with the cloth again, then sets it on your shoulder and keeps his hand there. “You’re leaving as soon as you can stand without falling,” he says, like he’s reading a grocery list.
Dex’s mouth quirks. “So romantic.”
“You’re still in my apartment,” Matt replies, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes the room feel smaller. “Don’t make me regret letting you walk out instead of dragging you.”
Dex’s eyes flick up toward Matt’s face, then down to Matt’s hand on your shoulder like he’s cataloging the claim again, even if he’s too wrung out to argue with it. “Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not staying for brunch.”
You take another sip of water, then set the glass down on the nightstand with a careful clink. Your muscles feel heavy, and your skin feels too sensitive in that post-overload way that makes the idea of putting on clothes feel like work. You grab the sheet and pull it over your lap because you need one normal human action to latch onto. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “We’re not doing the ‘stand around and glare at each other’ thing. We need to clean. We need air. And we need to get rid of anything that might still have that chemical on it.”
Dex makes a noncommittal sound, but he pushes himself upright with a small wince, like his body is protesting. Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, attentive. “You want windows?” Matt asks.
“Yes,” you say. “All of them. Bedroom, living room. And we need trash bags. Gloves. Anything that touched your suits needs to get bagged.”
Matt nods once and stands, moving with that careful efficiency he slips into when he’s trying not to think about what just happened. You hear the bedroom window slide up, then the living room windows. Air drifts in, cool and city-dirty, and it helps. It doesn’t erase the heat in your blood, but it takes the edge off the room.
Dex gets to his feet and stretches like he’s trying to shake out the last of the chemical from his bones. He looks steadier now, but his gaze keeps drifting to you like he’s trying to memorize the situation and file it away for later. You point at him. “Bathroom. Wash your hands. Like, actually wash them.”
Dex’s brows lift. “Bossy.”
“Not negotiable,” you shoot back, and you’re proud your voice doesn’t wobble.
Dex’s smile twitches, then he actually goes, disappearing down the hall. You hear the faucet turn on and, shockingly, soap.
Matt comes back in with trash bags and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll bag the suits,” he says, and you can hear him trying to keep it neutral, trying to turn it into a task so he doesn’t have to sit in the reality of having Dex here at all.
“I’ll wipe down surfaces,” you say, already standing carefully, sheet clutched at your waist. “Coffee table, counters, doorknobs. Anything you two touched.”
Matt’s hand finds your elbow immediately, steadying you without smothering. “If you start to sway, you sit,” he says quietly.
“I will,” you promise, then add, because you know he needs to hear it, “I’m okay.”
He pauses like he’s listening to your heartbeat, then leans in and presses his forehead lightly to yours. “Okay,” he says back, softer than he’s been all night.
You move into the kitchen and find the plastic bag with the broken test tube shard where you left it. Seeing it again makes your stomach tighten, because it’s a stupid little piece of glass that caused all of this, and it feels unreal that it’s still sitting there like any other mess.
Dex comes back from the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel he definitely didn’t ask permission to use. He stops when he sees the bag on the counter, eyes narrowing slightly like his brain is finally catching up to the mission part of the night.
“That the souvenir?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, and you keep your tone flat. “And you’re not touching it.”
Dex gives you a look that says he’s annoyed you clocked him so easily. “Wasn’t going to.”
Matt’s voice comes from the hallway, calm and cold. “You were.”
Dex turns his head toward the sound with a sharp little grin. “You can’t prove that.”
Matt doesn’t move closer, doesn’t raise his voice. “Try it,” he says simply.
For a second the room feels like it’s on the edge of snapping again, not chemical this time, just old hatred and pride and the fact that Dex is Dex. You step between it before it can happen, because you’re done with men trying to make your apartment a battleground.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you say, and you make your voice firm enough that it cuts through both of them. “Dex, you’re leaving. Not later when you feel like it—when you can walk straight, which looks like it’s basically now. You don’t take anything from this apartment. You don’t touch that bag. And you do not come back.”
Dex’s eyes flick to you, then soften into something sharper. “Aw,” he says, quiet and ugly-sweet. “You’re making rules.”
“Yes,” you say. “Because you clearly don’t know how to exist without someone making them for you.”
Dex’s jaw flexes, and you can see the irritation, the spite, the obsession all mixing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something cutting, then his gaze flicks past you to Matt. “You hear that?” Dex says, voice low. “Your girl’s got a spine. I like that.”
Matt’s answer is immediate and controlled. “Leave.”
Dex takes a step backward toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “This isn’t over,” he says, and it’s not even a threat that’s trying to sound cool. It’s just a fact in his tone, like he’s already decided he gets to stay in your orbit.
You stare at him, letting your expression go flat. “It is for me.”
Dex’s smile twitches like you slapped him. He looks at you too long, then turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam the door; he lets it click shut behind him like he’s leaving on purpose instead of being thrown out.
Matt locks it immediately. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is the first thing all night that makes your shoulders drop. Matt stands there for a second with his hand still on the lock, head bowed slightly like he’s listening for Dex’s footsteps in the hall, for the elevator, for proof he’s actually gone.
Then Matt turns and comes back to you, and the moment he reaches you he cups the back of your neck and leans his forehead to yours again, breathing like he’s finally allowing his lungs to work.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“You can apologize later,” you murmur, and you squeeze his wrist. “Right now, I want a shower and clean sheets and, ideally, a world where nobody ever breaks a glass cage full of mystery chemicals again.”
Matt lets out a strained laugh that sounds like relief more than humor. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
---
Two weeks later, the apartment feels normal again in the way it always does after something violent tries to stain it. The sheets are clean, the couch has been scrubbed, the trash bags are long gone, and you’ve managed to file the whole night into that mental drawer labeled “never talk about this unless you absolutely have to.”
Matt comes home with groceries and bruises and a tired kiss that makes you feel like your body belongs to you again. You make dinner, you argue about whether he needs more sleep, and you pretend you don’t flinch when you hear sirens outside.
On a Tuesday afternoon, you bring the mail upstairs in a messy stack, flipping through the usual junk with your thumb. Matt’s at the kitchen counter, rinsing fruit, head tilted toward you like he’s listening for the tone of your voice more than the words.
“Bills,” you mutter. “Ads. Something for you from the bar association.” You pause, because one envelope doesn’t match the rest. It’s a plain envelope with no return address, and your name printed neatly on the front like somebody took their time. “Matt,” you call, trying to keep your voice casual and failing.
“What is it?” He asks, turning off the faucet.
“There’s… a letter,” you say, and you pick it up carefully, like it might bite. “No return address.”
Matt’s footsteps are quiet, controlled, and he stops close enough that you can feel him beside you. “Don’t open it yet,” he says, and his voice goes tight in that way it does when his instincts are screaming.
You don’t, not until he’s right there, one hand hovering near your wrist like he’s ready to pull you back if something goes wrong. You slide a finger under the flap and open it slowly, trying not to tear the paper. Inside is a single card, thick and clean, like it came from a nice stationery shop.
There’s no long message; no rant, no explanation. Just a small circle drawn in black ink, and inside it, a clean bullseye.
Your stomach drops.
Matt’s hand closes around your wrist gently but firmly. “What is it?” he asks, already knowing it’s bad from your breathing.
You swallow and slide the card toward him even though he can’t see it. “It’s… a symbol,” you say, voice tight. “A bullseye.”
Matt goes very still. His jaw clenches. His thumb presses once at your pulse point, not to calm you, but like he’s grounding himself too. “Is there anything written?” he asks, voice low.
You flip the card over with shaking fingers. There’s one line in the same neat print as the envelope:
Thanks for the hospitality.
You look at Matt, and his face is calm in the way it gets right before violence, right before he turns into Daredevil instead of your boyfriend.
“Was he here?” you whisper.
Matt’s hand slides from your wrist to your cheek, warm and steady. “No,” he says quietly. “He wants us to think he was.”
You stare at the stupid little card, anger and fear twisting together in your chest. “He’s not done.”
Matt’s mouth tightens, and he leans in until his forehead touches yours again, voice low enough that it feels like a promise. “Neither am I.”
extra notes: look, all i'm gonna say is, i prob will come back to this as my horny release, lol. mostly because i feel betrayed by myself and really want to write a dexmatt kiss. like could you imagine them fucking you from each end while kissing over you?????? yeah can't believe i didn't write that
