benjamin poindexter x reader drabble / masterlist / mdni
dex attempting to knock you up (kind of)
you don’t think dex wants kids, not really. you’ve never actually talked about it, but because of everything, because of your lives, especially his, you always figured it wasn’t something he wanted or was possible. maybe not now, maybe not ever.
but then he’s got you on your back and he’s still fucking you even after he’s already come, thrusting into you with this rough, frustrated rhythm like he’s annoyed by his own orgasm and by the wet, filthy mess of it between your thighs. his cock keeps dragging through his own cum every time he pushes back in, and he just keeps going, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s watching for something. every time his cum leaks out of you, slipping from your swollen pussy and smearing down to your ass, his jaw gets tighter, his brows pull together and his eyes get a little glassier, like he might actually cry. it’s like it pisses him off, seeing it outside of you.
and maybe that’s all it is, maybe it’s just dex wanting every part of himself in you, wanting to feel how full your pussy is with him, wanting to watch his cock disappear into you while his cum is still spilling back out around the base. you think maybe he just likes the sight of it and the slick sound every time he drives back in and fucks the mess deeper, the way you whine when his thrusts get sloppier. but maybe it’s more than that too. maybe that little crease in his forehead every time he sees his seed dripping out of your cunt means something worse.
because a relationship can end. you could get tired of him, sick of him, wake up one day and decide he’s too much work, too obsessive, too broken, too difficult to keep loving.
and marriage is an option too, for sure. in a dark little corner of his mind, maybe that appeals too. not because it’s romantic, but because divorce is such a long, miserable, exhausting pain in the ass that maybe you’d look at the paperwork and lawyers and court dates and just decide it’d be easier to keep him, tolerate him, let him stay, simply because getting rid of him would be more annoying than living with him. it’s sick and irrational, which is exactly why it feels like something dex might actually think.
but a baby would be better. a baby would make it permanent in a way nothing else could. even if you wanted him gone, if one day you couldn’t stand the sight of him, he’d still be there dropping the kid off at your place, standing next to you at recitals, parent-teacher meetings, sports games, graduations. your life would be tied to his in a way that couldn’t be undone.
and maybe that’s why he gets like this, why his hand grips your hip so hard while he stares at your pussy taking him, why he curses under his breath when his cum pushes out of you again. maybe that’s why he drags his cock out to watch it spill from your used hole before he immediately pushes two thick fingers into your cunt and fucks it back inside you with this tense, focused look on his face.
your pussy is already puffy and oversensitive, and he still can’t leave it alone. he has to spread you open with his fingers and press the mess back in, watching it leak over his knuckles, then push it deeper like he can somehow make it stay if he’s stubborn enough. it’s not like he’s stupid. he knows you’re on birth control, but that doesn’t stop some ugly little part of him from thinking he can still make it stick.
not because dex wants a baby in some soft, normal way. he’s not secretly dreaming about cribs and baby names, definitely not right now.
dex just wants in, wants to stay, and wants something of himself buried so deep in your life that you could never cleanly pull him out again. and maybe, in the filthiest corner of his mind, knocking you up feels like the surest way to do it.
a/n: sending you a smooch for reading, thank you:3 and a million dollars if you reblogged (you're literally carrying fanfic writers on your back).
Do you think Dex could bend a truly good love interest’s morals?
Dex Finds Himself a “Good Girl”
TW injury, stalking, moral corruption, suggestive/sexual content, harassment by a Task Force agent, murder, she/her pronouns.
WC 1.4K
You swear you’re a good person.
You help at the food bank when you can. You donate to a wildlife charity every month. You always round up for children’s hospitals at the cashier. You carry reusable bags. You move worms and snails off the pavement after rain because it breaks your heart when pedestrians step on them unknowingly. You say “thank you” to bus drivers, and by now they know you by name. You cry at videos of old dogs getting adopted. You once said “sorry sorry sorry” to a spider before trapping it under a glass and putting it outside.
You swear you’re a good person.
That was all you were trying to be when you found a man bleeding out on your rooftop.
He was slumped against the brick, one hand pressed to his side, blood slipping between his fingers. His suit was a dark blue and black, torn open at the ribs. His face was pale, though his eyes were not.
“No hospitals,” he said.
And because you were a good person, you swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”
You knew first aid, you volunteered in enough community centers not to.
“Do you have a name?” you asked.
His teeth chattered a little. “Dex.”
You swear you’re a good person when you let him inside your apartment.
You swear you’re a good person when you clean the blood from his body and nurture him back to health.
You swear you’re a good person when you let him sleep on your couch, even after you realize the suit is familiar.
Even after you realize he’s familiar.
Even after you realise he’s Bullseye. Even if he’s the kind of man good girls are supposed to run from.
But you look at him, Dex sits on your couch under your blanket, bruised and battered, and says, “I’m one of the good guys now” with absolute conviction and a lopsided grin, as if he was imitating you.
You swear you’re a good person when you believe him.
Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe you decide wanting to believe in him counts as mercy.
You swear you’re a good person when he’s eventually well enough to leave.
You swear you’re a good person when you spend two weeks pretending you’re glad he’s gone.
In truth, your apartment feels empty. You keep looking at the place where he bled on your tiles longingly.
Then, like a lost cat, he comes back through the window.
His hair was streaked with blood, he has blood on his knuckles. His eyes are tired and fixed on you.
“Task Force is crawling my streets,” he says. “Can I stay here?”
You swear you’re a good person when you say yes.
You swear you’re a good person when he kisses you that night.
It happens in the kitchen, under the flickering yellow light, with rain tapping against the glass.
His mouth hits yours hard. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb pressing under the soft flesh of your jaw, holding you still while he kisses you deeper. His body pins yours to the counter, and you know you should be scared.
You swear you’re a good person when you kiss him back.
You swear you’re a good person when you pull him closer by his belt loops.
You swear you’re a good person when he tells you he’s been watching you since he left.
He said he was sure you got home safe. He was making sure nobody followed you. He was sure the man from 4B stopped looking at you like a creep. He was sure you were safe, because he was a good man, right?
You should tell him to leave. Instead, you cup his cheeks and press his forehead to yours.
“Don’t lie to me about it again,” you whisper gently, which is not the same thing as telling him to stop.
You know that. Dex knows that, too.
You swear you’re a good person when you basically forgive him for stalking you.
You swear you’re a good person when he starts staying over.
Suddenly, he has a toothbrush next to yours. His shirts end up in your closet.
You swear you’re a good person when his hands go under your shirt, groping and gripping and touching like he can’t believe you’re letting him. He kisses your neck until you’re whining. He bites your shoulder hard enough to make you arch. He grinds against you, still clothed, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin and into yours.
“Tell me to stop,” he pants.
You don’t. Instead, you drag him down.
You swear you’re a good person when he fucks you. When he gets you naked with desperate, clumsy hands and pushes your thighs apart like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he goes any slower. Your thighs are shaking so hard you have to grab his hair and mewl into his shoulders.
He fucks you deep and messy and stupid, hips pounding into yours, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. The bed hits the wall and nails tear down his scarred back. His mouth drags over your nose, your cheek, your lips, all open-mouthed and frantic.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice wrecked.
You just let out a helpless “hmpph!”
He laughs once against your mouth.
You swear you’re a good person when you let him fuck you silly in your own bed, even though you know what he is.
You swear you’re a good person when Task Force comes knocking three days later, when Dex is out.
The agent at your door is handsome, but not your type.
“Ma’am,” he says. “We’re asking about a Bullseye sighting nearby.”
You blink up at him. “No, sir. I haven’t seen anything.”
You swear you’re a good person when you lie.
He doesn’t leave and steps closer instead, one boot over your threshold.
His gaze drops to your bare legs, and then to the oversized shirt you’re wearing. It was actually Dex’s shirt.
“You live alone?” he asks.
Your stomach turns upside down. “I think you should go.”
He shrugs, “I’m just asking questions.”
His hand catches the door before you can shut it. Then he is inside, too close, fingers brushing your wrist.
You freeze.
He looks at your mouth.
“You sure you don’t know anything?” he murmurs.
You swear you’re a good person when you lie again, this time through gritted teeth. “I said no.”
His hand slides to your waist and you shove him.
He laughs, but he tries to put his hands on you again.
Eventually, you shut the door and get him out.
You wait for Dex.
You swear you’re a good person when you tell him everything, knowing exactly what Dex would do.
“Name,” he says.
You tell him what you saw in the badges.
You swear you’re a good person when you don’t ask where he is going.
You swear you’re a good person when he comes back before dawn dragging the agent by the back of his collar. The man is crying.
His badge is gone, face is bruised, pushed to his knees on your wooden floor.
Dex stands behind him with a gun in his hand.
“Apologise,” Dex says.
The agent sobs through it. He says sorry, says he didn’t mean it. Says he was just messing around.
Dex presses the gun to the side of his head and looks at you. “Can I?”
You swear you’re a good person.
You swear.
You swear.
You swear you think about mercy. You swear you think about laws. You swear you think about the literal human life Dex has put in your hands.
Still, you say, “Yes.”
Dex shoots him in the head. The agent drops, and blood spreads across your wooden floor.
He looks at you as if asking, are you proud of me yet?
You swear you’re a good person when you help him clean up the mess. You swear you’re a good person when you hold the bin bag open. You swear you’re a good person when you help him scrub blood from the floorboards. You swear you’re a good person when you help him bury the body.
What else were you supposed to do? Let him do it alone? After he defended you? After he did what you asked him to do?
You swear you’re a good person when you crawl into bed beside him that night.
You tuck yourself under his chin and whisper, “I love you.”
His arms close around you as he says, “I love you, too.”
You swear you’re still a good person.
Or maybe you’re just in love. Maybe you don’t know the difference anymore.
—
To answer your question anon, yes. If you were so blinded by love, you wouldn’t even notice the goalposts had moved!
again, it truly really matters on how in love you are/you perceive to be, but I’m writing it on the extreme end for the sake of the story!
