𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : a bunch of sfw & nsfw / dubcon head canons about our beloved stalker!dex
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : stalker!dex x fem!reader
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : DUBCON || NSFW || MDNI :fully deviant behaviour , obsession and psychosis , handjob (dex is such a freak okay ?) , mutual masturbation , heavy somnolphilia ,mentions of nudes , DEX IS A STALKER ( that’s the fattest warning )
stalker!dex has a strict program about your surveillance , as he calls it ; this is not any kind of psychotic and inordinary stalking , no . obviously you would not think of it in this way if you learned how freely he roamed at your place the moment you left for work,his calloused hands touching the ruffled duvet as he takes large breaths of your vanilla perfume,the soft aroma engulfing his nostrils and gifting him an unique diziness that battled the one your presence generated .
stalker!dex definetely believes you two are meant to be ; you are not just any of his standard obsessions , he could tell from the very first time you smiled at him at that old bookstore in downtown Brooklyn you were made for him, your eyes disappearing as you gifted him one of the most heartful and empathic smiles , cheeks rising cutely as his acquired a strong shade of pink .
stalker!dex keeps track of your every moment as your phone is already sharing your location with his smartphone,the blue dot of your presence reminding him of his duty to protect and serve you for the higher sake of your safety and well being , of course.
stalker!dex keeps an actual track of your most visited places in New York in his notes, sketches and shaky handwritten notes fill thousands of the digital pages as the list starts from your favorite shops and restaraunts to the city’s most famous underground clubs. Private entries and guarded club doors he was not used to , but one decisive look paired with the profound outline of his glock that nestled in his leather belt always forced the gates ,of whatever low quality hell of a club you would choose once a night ,open wide .
stalker!dex does not approve of your late night dates with your girlfriends as the laugh and caresness of the female company can distract you from the lurking and arcane dangers. However, he cannot blame you for the immature and naive behavior; it was his destined job to protect you he'd remind himself as he wears his black cap and snatches the matching pair of binoculars in case his future position-one that was usually precisely studied and decided-did not allow him a crystal clear view of you .
stalker!dex who bears holes into the eyes of the pathetic men that dare to bother you at the clubs , the cafeteria , the library - god he wanted to smash the head of every single one of these losers , not only because they had ridiculously thought they had the futile right to talk to you , but mainly due to their prominent lust-laced gazes . Their passion filled eyes unnerved him deeply as he clatched harder into the leather gloves he had previouly removed , his scaly hands cracking open at the sudden friction . His whole body itched and trembled with fury as his fist continuously came into contact with the already beaten up prick’s face , the terror and remorse portrayed in his expression thrilled him while the metallic taste of blood slipped into his mouth .
stalker!dex who carefully breaks into the apartment one hour after you have fallen asleep, a state he confirmed as his enhanched vision permitted him to keep track of the rhytmical rise and fall of your chest, your tense shoulders lowering slowly and your breath relaxing were his green cues to abandon hideaway and head towards your quiet appartment .
stalker!dex snoops into your bedtime drawers to examine the current organising problem of yours of course - the panties he steals as a proud trophy are nothing but a secondary concern, a collateral damage. There ,at the bottom of the stuffed cabinet, he had discovered your oldest journal ; even though he knew that you had given up on this salutary technique , he could not stop himself from reading the yellow hued pages , the wrinkles adorning his focused eyes and forehead accentuated as the dim moonlight blocked his vision.
stalker!dex who tidies up and cleans your appartment when you are too exhausted to do so - your eyes fluttering shut instinctively as the familiar,relaxing sensation of sleep takes over your body. One night when he felt particularly bold enough ,he readjusted your cotton blanket so it would cover the small of your back; his muscular hands hovering above the exposed skin as he fought the urge to caress your smooth spine .
stalker!dex who regularly assesses the availability of fresh and wholefood ingredients at the kitchen, clocking his tongue with frustruation as he only comes into contact with already open ,and long ago, expired pasta packages , the correspanding state of your empty fridge troubling him further . He made sure you had healthy food options everyday,the sudden variety of dietary choices never gave birth to an outrageous restlessness as you never seemed to acknowledge the constant restock of your vitals.
stalker!dex who mincingly hides stacks of cash beneath your squeaky matress or adds them into your already full everyday bags, the concealed dollars battling with the unfathomly many makeup products and keychains in the inside of your cases . He had overheard your complaints and pessimistic monologues about the vane financial situation you had positioned yourself in innumerably many times , which was why your eyes sparked with excitiment and “thank god”s were mumbled as you stumbled upon the God-placed money .
stalker!dex who creeps beneath your bathroom’s door as you drop your work clothes , neck tilting forward and sighs echoing while the cold water is still running . He watches as you step your foot into the shower , smooth skin glistening under the fluorescent lights while your backside faces him . The now lukewarm liquid falls into your exhausted body , hands coming into your hair as you enjoy the sudden change of temperature , the familiar sensation of warmth engulfing you completely . He rarely blinks at these particular times ; making sure that you don’t slip and fall on the cold tiles , of course . It’s a matter of safety - yet his hard cock and shallow moans cannot be concealed , his rough hand reaching downwards to palm the tent that forms in his slacks .
stalker!dex who condemnatory clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes as you reach out to the wooden bedroom drawer , the small , magenta machine buzzing softly as it nestles in between your legs . That sends him over the edge ; he wants to end this pleasurable madness by throwing the pathetic vibrator against the other side of the room so you can experience the unique pleasure you deserve . Not a random sex toy he saw you buy last week after your friend’s glorious encouragement; she was incredibly lucky you seemed to deeply like her .
stalker!dex who is fed up with hearing muffled moans escaping your pretty mouth as you viciously attempt to reach your climax ; his hand squeezing the base of his cock while he’s breathing harder , pupils dilated and nostrils flared as his pumping motions match your circular ones . He hates how you bite your lip and pout when you fail to come over the edge ; perhaps the only problem he is not familiar with , as hot,opaque liquid spills all over the dusty floors of his safespot . He wants to show you what real high tastes like , compel your legs to tremble ceaselessly as his sinful tongue explores every inch of your dripping cunt , his eyes rolling at the hopeful imagination .
stalker!dex decides to make the first move after …hmmmm … let’s say 6 months of restless and cautious stalking by paying for your daily coffee in that crossroad spot downtown . Your black headphones are cancelling the city’s bothersome noises, as he's standing behind you ; distance so close he can hear the rhythmical beat travel through the air , the constant hum of your voice following . He smiles unconsciously as he hears your order - of course it’s the usual decaf cappuccino, sweetened with 3 drops of liquid monk fruit and a splash of vanilla . “It’s on me ,buddy” he informs the cashier, your widen eyes proving your surprise as he gifts you a toothy smile , the unique chin dimple taunting you playfully . You sit at the closest table as soon as he picks up the order ,his eyes never leaving yours as you thank him for the kind gesture . “Oh it’s nothing ,sweetheart” he responds confidently , despite the fact that he didn’t feel worth of your attention and kindness for these kind of actions . No .These were too simple , monotonous and repeated.He proved his loyalty and devotion to you every day…because he took care of your safety !
stalker!dex who now possesses your phone number - at least with you handing to him deliberately, texts you immediately after you leave the bumped cafeteria , a naive smile adorning your face as you quickly type an answer . He seems kind, cute and funny . Really funny ,you thought . You actually smiled? He could swear that actually signaled the public start of your very own relationship.
stalker!dex has planned your first date months ago , perhaps at the second week of his surveillance ; he just had to discuss it with you , make sure you enjoyed visiting museums and having dinner at New York’s finest restaurants . He had no intention of showing off his wealth and power , no ; he just wanted to persuade you about his capabilities to keep you safe and sound .
stalker!dex arrives at your house 10 minutes earlier just to watch how you run all over the place , attempting to calm yourself down as you rush to apply the last dots of perfume - was it 5 or 6 sprays you put on ? Fuck , how had he forgotten ?
stalker!dex comes across as the kindest and purest soul, his relaxing and soothing aura always made you wonder how such a polite gentleman could be enlisted in the US army and later on become one of FBI’s most successful agents. However, that was all you knew about him; and considering the fact the mass of these delighting information sourced from the Internet blogs and news site unnerved you deeply,an unexplainable lump forming in your throat as you realized that he had not mention a single thing about him that night. You only knew his name, Jesus Christ. Remorse and iniquity created an unbearable sensation at the middle of your chest,tears gathering in your eyes as you felt incredible immature and naive, foolish to trust this arrogant man ; the spontaneous anxiety left his messages delivered the same night . However, Dex did not have to worry about that when he could just pay a visit at your very own apartment,express how this ignorance bothered him deeply ; his heart aching with every unseen or delivered message he sent .You two could sort this misunderstanment immediately ,he was sure of that ; which was why his hand hovered over the metallic doorknob of your bedroom before he twisted the rusty door softly, the squeaking of the hinge breaking the deathly silence .He stood under the doorway,the usual black cap concealing his face as your sleeping figure gifted him a profound chance of epiphany and clarity . As much as he would enjoy to wake you up by making unholy love to your passed out body , he knew it was way off limits , a literal amateur move .
stalker!dex gradually opens up to you,rarely shares thorough details of past personal life or work experiences ; he does not plan these dates for a free psychologist appointement,no - he signs up for your eternal mumbling since he loves how excited and passionate you evolve into when you discuss your deep interests . He watches as your eyes light up with gratitude and adoration as you mention the real reason behind your complicated major,your soft hands matching your enthusiastic tone and your optimistic persona as the energetic movements empasize your words to the point.
stalker!dex requests to move in together at the first two weeks of your relationship ,as this was the longest and toughest battle he had to put up, from the moment you two made it official . How could this -a relationship so real and worth fighting for-not instantly force you to live together?the constant obsessive voice deteriorating his worry ,as the poor guy he was ,well…handling , let out a choked scream ; the widened eyes of New York’s latest Vigilate known as Bullseye looking straight back at the victim’s drained,puffy eyes which were surrounded by an excessive amount of deep cuts and hideous wounds . That misogynistic prick, who claimed to be your boss, which not only flirted with you shamelessly , as you had told your closest colleaugue yesterday , but also inflicted heavy working schedules and overtime at your already brimmed to the top schedule . You would not have to work now anyway ; especially when you agreed on living together , this would be presented as unnegotiable in your mutual reality .
stalker!dex does not fail to creep you out remotely while he brazenly observes how the TV lights dance at your focused face , the way your eyebrows furrow and eyebrow rises slightly as the true crime documentary you are both watching - well only you are watching…the show- becomes a complex murder labyrinth. “I still don’t get why he would do that,Dexie.”you mumbled,the vibrations of your voice a therapeutical caress on his chest as your cheek’s pressed against it,your smaller body nestling into his soft embrace. “Well, I think he simply loved her”he responded,his muscural hand supporting his chin as he turned to the side to look at you ; strong and uncompromising disagreement flooded your eyes as a pathetic effort to hide the surprise his blunt-yet,extremely honest and simple - words provoked.
stalker!dex definetely wants to keep your precious relationship a secret , especially when he considers the unexpected trope his life had taken into the years ; from an obedient and hardworking FBI agent to a lethal ,unforgiving assasin whose fanatics-or commonly listed as haters- called him by the code name Bullseye. He could not sacrifice the most precise and sleek operation of his life because some rich , heartless person ; like Vanesa , learned he had identified his authentic mission , one that required your perpetual protection as a result of his invaluable devotion and adoration for your face . These people were not even worthy of mentioning her name he would think late at night,his one hand resting at the back of his head while the other one hold your exposed upper back tightly- not only in a possessive and assertive way , but in a futile attempt to guarantee your continuous presence .
stalker!dex , who’s now been your boyfriend for quite the time , never gave up on his old , wicked habits ; they gradually evolved into new, more personal - thus acceptable- obsessions .His past fixation—of watching you sleep at night, like some occult, unseen presence guarding over your unfolding—gradually evolved into a distinct inclination towards somnophilia. Returning home late from work , you vaguely recall the metallic sound of his keys ringing as he left them at the entrance table , his soundless footsteps following the way all to the bathroom . He's rushing , but you can’t tell ; your eyes feel heavy and droopy as you pathetically endeavor to remain awake . You want to talk to him , ask him how his day has been since you haven’t seen since the very morning ; when he dropped a sloppy , quiet messy kiss at your cheek before he headed for a steamy shower after his daily run . This was exactly what he was doing right now you guessed , mind drifting to the sweet embrace of sleep as you allowed your heavy eyelids to flutter shut . Dex knew - hoped- you would be asleep ; this was an unique opportunity to fulfill one of his greatest fantasies . Droplets of water collided with the wooden floors as he walked into your shared bedroom ;The chill of the nocturnal breeze would delay the drying of his sculpted body—but it mattered little; a trace of water, much like a trace of blood, had never troubled anyone.The white towel which was previously hugged his lower abdomen is now replaced with a pair of grey ,well ironed joggers . He didn’t want to rush this , no ; as he also didn’t want you waking up ,too. No , he must have you unconscious,passed out like this so he can see firsthand how your eyes will hesitantly open when the first kiss,a gentle caress lays on your body . He wants to capture the fear that will surely engulf your tired eyes when you will be unable to realise the state you’re in , the effects of deep sleep drugging your senses . He sits at the edge of the bed , the bouncy mattress filling under his heavy weight as he observes your peaceful face for any hint of discomfort or bother; nothing.The moon’s silver rays caress his face as he gazes upon you; his hands find the delicate edge of the covers, drawing them down with unhurried intent. Before him stands a goddess he cannot resist: your fine nightgown reveals the grace of your form, its white lace tracing the outline of your beauty, while the cool night air brushes against you, stirring a quiet, trembling allure.Your nipples harden as they come into contact with the chilly atmosphere, brows furrowing slightly as you search for the warm duvet . Dex’s breath hitches at your lethargic movements, his eyes, long attuned to the language of darkness, linger as he waits for you to fall into stillness.Carefully , his calloused fingers trail the surface of your leg ; goosebumps adorn the fine skin as the cold has left its mark on you . In the same way Dex does as he kisses the inside of your thighs , now manoeuvring himself between your legs so he can greet the only thing that’s been driving him wild all day . His touch is precise , like silk as he prompts your leg further away , allowing him to acquire a better view of your glistening mound . One wrong movement and you’ll wake up , one careless and you’ll break . He licks his lips as he gently removes your lace panties , the white fabric creating a sharp contrast with his evil,sinful nature . You’re an angel , he thinks . What have I done to deserve you ?
stalker!dex definitely knows when you’re period is about to arrive ; not only because you share your private information from the usual app with him , he knew way long ago before that permission . It’s easy - almost like a second nature to him - because he can pinpoint the timing of your ovulation ; he observes how you wake up with flushed cheeks those days or how your eyes glisten with lust , accompanied by a touch of adoration, as you look at him . He knows because you tussle and whine at you sleep , your fragile body rubbing against the sheets at night in a futile attempt to pleasure yourself through friction . Thank god ,he’s always there to stop these ridiculous acts and show you what real highs taste like .
stalker!Dex knows what you want before you say it , way before you even think about it . “I’d really fancy eating B&J right now , Dexie” you’d mumble to him as an old romcom you had chosen plays on TV. What can he say ? He bought one yesterday , since today was movie night and you always wanted something sweet at these particular times . So ,he just stands up from the couch to grab the cookie dough flavour ,that’s fighting with all of the other ice creams on the refrigerator, and a spoon from the counter , while an arrogant smirk plasters on his face .
stalker!Dex hyper fixates on taking unexpected pictures of you ; a stained , white tee of his is adorning your body as you’re making him breakfast , voice humming softly to a random , buoyant beat as the soft sizzling of the just burnt butter fills the air . Vanilla bourbon , fresh milk and chocolate are flooding the kitchen , an intoxicating aroma invading his senses ; the perfect balance of sweetness and boldness , just like you . He can’t help but grab the old polaroid from his perfectly organised office ; the need to capture the sincere moment is unbearable , the manipulative voices in his head taunting him to push the click button as an inanely effort to keep you here forever , with him and him only . However , the obsession doesn’t stop there ; your rugged breath and pants are echoing through the soundproof room , your orgasm’s high drugging your overstimulated senses as Dex observes you in awe . He pulls back carefully, his still hard cock exiting your velvety walls ; your cry out with denial , a unique kind of holy music to his ears , as he pulls out the second polaroid camera he has snuck inside the bedroom drawer . Your eyebrows furrow and you mumble something uncoherently as the absence of his warm embrace is making you crazy . The case of the camera feels lighweight on his hand,the smooth surface cold at the inside of his very red palm,as he spent the last 20 minutes fucking you doggy style-his hands tangling through your hair,tugging on the silky strands affirmatively while his free hand layed spanks over your jiggling ass . You would swear that his large handprint would not have evaporated yet - a constant reminder of his possesive and passionate nature . He raised his eyebrow to you as an subconscious way of reaffirming your certainty about this kind of valuability and exposure . A toothy smile adorning his sweaty-fucked out face as the camera’s lenses aligned with your naked body; goosebumps now appearing at the exposed skin as you patiently expected the longed for click .However,you just received a soft pat in the thigh as Dex mumbled “Turn around”; voice gruff and laced with anticipation as his dilated pupils swallowed you whole . You obeyed willingly , arching your back provocatively as the black laced panties attempted-but failed-to cover your bare backside . Dex couldn’t help but moan at the sight of his very own mark on your body - his large handprint now siiting proudly at the top of your asscheek as his hands instictively tapped at the camera’s most used button . It took every ounce of his FBI training and army practice to hold back , forbidding himself from throwing the old machine over his shoulder and then fuck you senseless into the matress. You smiled profoundly at the loud click ; his calloused fingers trailed the angry outline of your flushed skin , an arrogant smile plastered on his facade . He thrived off that - this undeniable physical and mental connection you two had . Soon , the dark polaroid was ready ; your bare ass almost took over the whole shot , as the lack of physical light blurried the background . Best believe that picture was the very first thing you say when you opened his wallet .
stalker!dex once in an established relationships keeps track of your digital footprint by claiming how he’s too old to participate in the world of social networking but he still wants to he informed . However, this is nothing but a horrendous excuse to acquire all of your accounts’ passwords and trace your online activities . Notifications marked as “new friend request ” storm over his phone screen ; the constant beep of this pathetic reminder taunts him torturously . This is utter bullshit. Who even came up with the name “friend request”? You couldn’t see it be he could envision it clearly ; these wicked, greedy strangers aren’t your friends . They would never be . That’s why , at the sudden glimpse of the provocative notification he switches over to his private laptop - fingers tapping vigorously into the keyboard as he’s manically attempting to break that poor man’s security oversight and track his IP address . In no longer than 10 minutes - 7 and 44 seconds to be precise- he has gained access to the user’s location ; saving it unhesitatingly to his files as he rushes to kiss you goodbye before he deals with that nuance up in person . Once and for all .
𝐀/𝐍: hehehe stalker!Dex is my absolute fav !!! You asked for more blurbs and ideas , so here are some headcanons that describe our beloved Dexie, in all its mysterious and obsessive glory . I warn you , though , it does gets darker as you scroll down 🫣let me know what you think about this !!! Comments , reblogs and likes are always appreciated!
Summary : Dex is jealous of your sex toys. What else is he jealous of?
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : switch!Dex, switch!reader, Dex is a little pathetic in this one, obsessive jealousy, stalking, possessive behavior, BDSM/kink dynamics, sex toys, collars/restraints, safeword use (Green/Red), emotional masochism(?), rough sex, dacryphilia, mentions of past sexual mistreatment from your exes, murder/violence references, blood/injury, emotional dependency, humiliation and praise kink, no anatomical detail as per usual, Dex being jealous of literally anything that has ever touched you. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 13.7k
Notes : I hope y’all don't mind that I wrote a one shot instead of the series! This is my first story in a while that was unrequested and just something that I wanted! Enjoy!
Dex had watched you long before he ever touched you. Not that you ever found out.
To you, Benjamin Poindexter had only been the strange but polite man who started appearing in your life “by chance”. You knew he probably lived around the area, because he happened to be walking down your road and held the door when your hands were full, who remembered how you had your coffee after hearing you order it once in a local cafe, who showed up in the elevator just as the doors were closing and asked if you got home safe last night like that was a normal thing for a near-stranger to worry about. Then, he claimed he was visiting a colleague who lived in your building.
You thought he was sweet in a weird way. A little stiff, a little serious, a little too focused when you spoke, like every word out of your mouth mattered to him religiously.
You had no idea how much of it had been arranged. You thought it was just a little series of coincidences. Dex knew better. Dex had learned your schedule first: work, grocery store, laundromat, home, repeat. Then he learned the smaller things from his shadowy window across from your apartment: you checked the lock twice before bed, you forgot to eat when you were busy, you kicked your shoes off the second you got inside.
He told himself he was protecting you. That was what he called it at first, because protection sounded more legal than obsession. He told himself the neighbourhood was unsafe, that you were too trusting, that someone had to watch you and your window and the dark corners of the street beneath your building because no one else would. He told himself a lot of things, and for a while, he almost believed them.
Then there was the box under your bed.
That fucking box.
At first, Dex didn’t know what it was. It was small and tucked away like a dirty little secret. Maybe it was something you only pulled out when you were alone. Maybe it was something you kept hidden where no one else could see. Except Dex saw everything. He had a good view after all, a couple of stories up.
One night, he saw you come home exhausted, hair messy and shoulders slumped, still in your work clothes with your face drawn in a frown, making his hands flex in the dark because he hated anything that wore you down. He was by his window, watching you with the same dead-eyed patience he would with a target. You were safe. You were home. He should have left it there.
Then you reached under the bed, pulled out the box, and opened it.
Oh.
Dex went completely still.
It was… oh, no.
You pulled out a toy. The first one was a turquoise dildo, stupid and fake and smooth, curved like it had any fucking right to be shaped for you. Dex hated it immediately. He hated the colour, hated the size, hated the shine in your hand. He fucking hated the way you looked at it like it was familiar, like it belonged in your bed, like it had earned the right to be near you. It had known you before he did.
Because no. No, no, no. No, no, no! You didn’t need that!
You didn’t need that stupid silicone. You didn’t need some fake, lifeless object inside you like it could ever understand the divinity it was touching, like it could ever deserve the warmth of your body, like it could ever know what to do with the adorable little sounds that slipped out of your mouth when you started giving in. Dex had one too. It was real and throbbing so painfully against his zipper that his vision almost blurred, but that only made the humiliation worse, because he was standing there in the dark wanting you while some stupid thing got to be held by your hand and plunged into your body without earning any of it.
He couldn’t even bring himself to touch himself. His hand twitched once toward his belt, and then stopped, fingers curling into a fist so tight his knuckles ached. It felt too insulting to you, somehow. To stand there outside your life and get himself off like a stranger when what he wanted was to be chosen, to be invited in. Touching himself would have felt like admitting defeat to the fucking fake piece of silicone, and Dex would rather splinter his hand open against glass than give that thing the satisfaction.
Then, another night, you took out something smaller. It was sleeker, more curved. Dex watched it sit in your palm, watched your thumb brush over it, watched your body settle back against the sheets like you already knew exactly what it was going to do for you. A vibrator, he realized, and the hatred came back so fast it was almost clean.
Of course. Of fucking course there was another one. Another stupid little object pretending it could take his place, not that he had a place at all.
Dex had hands. Dex had fingers that never missed. Dex had aim so perfect and patience like a sickness. He could hit a target without thinking; he could find the weak point in anything. If he had the right to touch you, if you let him get his hands on you properly, he would learn you so thoroughly there would be nowhere left for you to hide. He would make you understand that you had never needed anything from that box. You had only needed him to finally get close enough.
That toy was nothing. Plastic garbage. An object. And Dex was still jealous.
He hated, hated, hated it until the feeling sat under his skin like a fever. He hated that it touched you without wanting you. He hated that it got inside you without worshipping you. He hated that it could make your thighs part and your breathing change without even understanding what blessing had been given.
It had no mouth, no hands, no eyes, no mind. It couldn't watch the little twitch in your lips when you tried not to make noise. It couldn’t possibly hear the difference between a sigh and a groan. It couldn't know when to slow down, when to go harder, when to hold you still and make you take what you were pretending not to need.
Dex could. Dex would. If he had you underneath him just once, he would make sure you forgot that stupid thing had ever worked at all.
His fist curled against the brick wall beside him until his knuckles ached. He was hard and furious and breathing too quickly.
You didn’t know it yet, but you didn’t need that to get off. You needed him. It was only rational.
You needed his focus, his precise attention. You needed to be laid out beneath him and taken apart piece by piece until you understood that pleasure didn’t have to come from a lifeless object. It could come from him. It should come from him.
Then your body arched. Your mouth fell open, your fingers tightened, and the thoughts inside Dex went black.
He punched the brick wall once, hard enough to split the skin over his knuckles and damage the paint. Pain flashed hot through his hand, bright enough to cut through the jealousy for half a second, but not enough to make him look away. Nothing was enough to make him look away. Not when the toy disappeared between your thighs again, not when your head tipped back, then when your chest rose and fell beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. Dex watched with his teeth clenched and blood sliding down his fingers, consumed by a jealousy so vile it should have disgusted him.
The next day, when he thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, he was proven wrong.
The rose toy was worse.
The rose toy made him want to burn the whole world down, because what the fuck did you need that for when he had a mouth? Dex stared at it from his window with a hatred he usually reserved for threats, for guys who looked at you too long on the street, for anyone who stood too close to you in line. But this was not a person who he could threaten or scare away or hurt. It was stupid little thing that sat between your thighs and pretended to do what his tongue should have been doing.
His mouth watered. His eyes dragged over you through the window, over your parted legs and rumpled clothes and the rise and fall of your chest. He watched your chest shift with every uneven breath, watched the way your body trembled when the toy stayed right where you wanted it.
But when did you ever stop to think about what he wanted?
He wanted to put his mouth there. He wanted to drag his tongue over every inch of you. He wanted to learn what made you gasp, what made you mewl, what made you grab his body and hold him exactly where you needed him.
He wanted to master you, and that was the only word for it. Not have. Not fuck.
Dex wanted to know every weak spot, every angle, every sound, every ruined expression you made when pleasure got too big for your body and spilled out of you. He wanted to know how much you could take. He wanted to know how pretty you looked when you were overwhelmed. He wanted to know if you would say his name like a warning or a prayer.
The toy didn’t deserve any of that. It had never protected you, never watched your door, never memorized your footsteps on the stairs, never wanted to crawl inside you.
But it had touched you anyway.
By the time you were finished, the inside of Dex’s mouth was bleeding and his breathing had gone unnaturally calm. He watched you clean the toys and tuck them away, watched the box slide back beneath your bed like it hadn’t broken his heart into a million little pieces.
After that, he hated the box like it was alive.
By the time he actually got close to you, Dex had already hated that box for months. You never knew that when he carried your groceries upstairs, he already knew which cabinet you kept the mugs in. You never knew that when he asked if you slept well, he already knew which nights you had tossed and turned. You never knew that when he looked around your apartment for the first time, polite and almost shy, he knew exactly what was hidden under your bed.
Then you kissed him one night outside your door, giggling because he had gone so still, because he looked like he might actually die if you didn’t kiss him right then and there.
After that, he was yours. Or you were his. Dex didn’t really care which way you phrased it. It was the same thing.
By some miracle, he became your boyfriend.
He hated that word, and loved it all the same, because it sounded too tame for what you had done to him. Boyfriend sounded casual, temporary. As if it was something that could end.
Lover was a better title, he thought. It felt more whole and all-consuming. But then your friends had cringed the one time he said it, and Dex had gone so still afterward that you could almost hear him tearing himself apart over it.
He hated the idea that he had embarrassed you, hated even more that someone else had been there to see it, until you had to cup his face and tell him no, baby, you didn’t embarrass me. I thought it was sweet. Maybe, though, we should just say boyfriend with my friends, okay?
And because it was you asking, he said of course, baby.
Still, nowadays, he slept in your bed more than he did his own. He stood in your kitchen in the mornings. He learned the smell of your shampoo, learned the shape of your body under his hands instead of through glass and his own sick imagination. And when you finally let him touch you properly, Dex nearly lost his mind, because he was good at it.
Of course he was good at it. Dex had focus like a camera lens, and once that focus turned on you, there was no part of your body he didn’t want to understand.
His fingers pressed and curled and learned you with frightening speed, finding the places that made your mouth drop open, the places that made your hips lift, the places that made you grab his wrist like you wanted him to stop and keep going at the same time. His mouth was patient, devoted, mean when it needed to be. He held your thighs open like he had been waiting his whole life to prove a point, like every gasp he dragged out of you was a personal victory over the stupid little rose toy.
When your hands fisted in his hair, when your thighs shook around his head, when his name broke out of you, all breathless and helpless, Dex thought, yes. there. That was what you were supposed to sound like.
The first time he filled you up because he’d convince you to go on the pill, your whole face changed. Dex saw your eyes go wide, saw your lips part, saw your breath catch in your throat like you hadn't expected him to feel like that. For one strange second, he looked almost startled by his own satisfaction. Then he bent over you, mouth brushing your ear, and fucked you because he could, and he was grateful for it, gasping thank you, thank you, thank you over and over again, while his face was buried in the crook of your neck.
After that, you stopped using the box.
Dex noticed the dust beginning to collect on the lid. He noticed the charger cords stayed tangled and unplugged. Now, when you were needy, you reached for him.
And there was nothing he loved more than you pawing his shirt, his wrist, his belt, his mouth. You reached for him in the morning, half-asleep. You reached for him at night with that little impatient noise in your throat that made him coo before giving you exactly what you wanted.
Good.
That was how it should have always been.
Sometimes, when you were asleep, Dex would look at the bed frame and think about the box beneath it. He should have been satisfied, but he wasn’t, because it still existed.
And maybe, much later, you started noticing things too. You’d see the way Dex could flick a bottle cap across the room and land it in the trash without looking. The way his hands looked natural around the knives in your kitchen.
You knew something. You weren’t stupid.
By the time you realised he was Bullseye, it was too late. By then, you already loved him. By the time you realised there was something violently wrong with him, you didn’t care enough to leave.
And the box under your bed stayed untouched, even though Dex thought about it every day.
—
The day he finally did something about it, he came back home to your apartment after a good couple of hours of donning the Bullseye mask, being a good guy and killing at least half a dozen task force agents.
Usually, when Dex came home buzzing like that, you were there.
Usually, the second he stepped through your door with that electric stillness in his body, you would look up from the couch or the kitchen counter or the bed, take one look at his face, and your eyes would change from curious to knowing immediately. You wouldn’t ask what happened. You wouldn’t ask where he had been. You would just set down whatever was in your hands and say, “Come here, baby.”
And Dex would go to you like a starving little thing. You would let him bury his face in your neck, let him grip your hips too hard as you murmured sweet, filthy little things into his ear about how he could take it out on you, how you could handle him, how he didn’t have to hold it all in himself.
Sometimes you made him wait. Other times, you made him ask. Most of the time you let him fuck you against the nearest wall before either of you even made it to the bedroom, because you liked him like that, wrecked and keyed up and desperate enough to turn all that focus on to you.
But that day, you weren’t home. Earlier in the morning, you had kissed him on the cheek with your keys in your hand and said, far too sweetly, “Baby, I have overtime today.”
You’d said it like it was just a schedule change. As if you hadn’t just sentenced him to four or five extra hours all alone.
Dex had been fine then, and said okay, because a normal boyfriend would. He had watched you leave, watched the door shut behind you, watched the lock turn, and told himself he could wait. He had waited for worse things. He had discipline. He had control.
But now, control was suddenly a very stupid word.
He was still buzzing. His hands felt awake. Every little sound in the apartment was a little too overstimulating, and he needed something to distract him from it: the refrigerator humming, a pipe knocking behind the wall, traffic below, the faint settling creak of the floorboards under his boots.
He stood in the middle of your apartment and breathed.
For one insane second, Dex considered going to your workplace.
He could picture your startled little gasp when he appeared where he shouldn’t be. He’d drag you to a single-cubicle bathroom, crowd you against the sink and cover your mouth with his hand because you had laughed last time, whispering, “Dex, we shouldn’t,” while your fingers undid his belt. He remembered the first time he had done it, remembered your skirt shoved up, remembered you biting his shoulder to stay quiet, remembered how smug he had felt afterward when you had gone back to work with his handprint on your hips beneath your clothes.
He could do it again.
He almost did.
But then his eyes moved toward the bedroom. Toward the bed and the space underneath it.
That fucking box.
It was such a stupid thing to notice, such a small thing. A corner of it was barely visible in the shadow under the bed, tucked away like it had nothing to fear from him. Like it hadn’t sat there while you slept beside him, while you kissed him, while you reached for him, while you let him make you fall apart and then kept that little graveyard of old pleasures under the same bed.
Dex stared at it.
The focus in him that had been looking for you found the box instead.
Before he could think better about it, he went into your bedroom, dropped to one knee, shoved his hand under the bed, and dragged the box out hard enough that it scraped against the floor. The lid snapped open under his fingers, and the dildo was on top.
Smooth, curved, stupid, fake little thing, sitting there like a dare.
Dex picked it up, and the second it was in his hand, he felt disgusted. There. There was the problem. There was something he could actually put his hands on. This. This thing. This lifeless piece of silicone that had touched you and survived.
Not anymore.
Dex had gone to the kitchen without even realizing he’d moved, grabbed a knife he recently sharpened, and came back with his breathing shallow and even. He sat on the bedroom floor with the open box between his knees and cut into the dildo like he was gutting a fish. The silicone resisted for half a second before splitting, and that drag of the knife through something shaped to imitate what he had made heat crawl up the back of his neck.
It was satisfying, mutilating this stupidly lifeless object.
His hatred didn’t care about logic. His jealousy had never needed the thing to be alive. It had only needed the thing to have touched you. That was enough to make the destruction feel intimate, corrective, and necessary.
He cut it again. Then again. Then, the rampage took shape quickly after that.
The man who folded his shirts in your drawer and rinsed his mug after coffee and kissed your forehead when you slept in too late was gone. As far as these toys were concerned, he was Bullseye.
The blade dragged through silicone again. His hands twisted. The fake curve lost its shape. He ripped it open, ruined it, carved it into useless pieces while his breath came harder and harder through his nose and his thoughts went noisy and repetitive:
It touched you.
It touched you.
It touched you.
The smaller vibrator went next. He hated how sleek it was, how obviously designed to find something inside you that belonged to him now. He slammed it against the floor once, hard enough that the crack of plastic snapped through the room. The sound felt good, so he did it again. A piece broke off and skittered under the dresser. He grabbed the rest of it and brought it down until the casing split open and its mechanical guts spilled out like it had finally been exposed for what it was: A battery. A lie.
Dex’s hand was bleeding again by then. He didn’t know if it was from the agents, the knife, the plastic, or the way he kept hitting things too hard. He didn’t care, though.
He picked up the rose toy next.
He remembered seeing it between your thighs through the window. He remembered his mouth salivating like an animal. He remembered wanting to bite through his own hand because that stupid little thing had been sitting where his mouth should have been, making you shake, making you breathe like that, ruining you without considering worship.
Dex’s fingers closed around it.
“You didn’t need this,” he muttered.
His voice sounded strange in the empty apartment.
“You had me.”
Not then, some small sane part of him might have said. Not yet. You hadn’t had him then. You hadn’t even known he was watching.
Dex ignored that thought.
He drove the knife into the gummy outer piece and tore it open. The rose came apart under his hands, the casing cracked, the wired snapped, pieces dropping into the box with the others until the whole thing looked like a little crime scene made of plastic and his own deranged need to be the only thing you ever reached for again.
The rampage didn’t make him calm.
It made him worse.
Because once he started, he couldn’t stop at the toys. He snapped cords. He ripped the satin lining out of the old box because it had held them. He crushed a bottle of silicone cleaning liquid in his fist and watched it spill slick and useless across the floor, then cursed and cleaned that part immediately because it was your floor and he was desperately trying to convince himself that he was definitely not an animal.
By the time the box was ruined, Dex was breathing hard. The buzzing under his skin hadn’t disappeared, but it had direction now. His knuckles stung and his eyes stayed fixed on the mess in front of him with a focus so total it almost looked peaceful.
Then he gathered every broken piece.
He took the box outside behind the building, to the old metal bin near the alley where no one ever looked. He arranged the pieces, added kindling, added flame, and stood there watching as the fire caught.
The silicone melted slowly.
The dildo warped first, losing its already tattered shape, collapsing as the heat ate through it. Dex watched with his hands at his sides and felt something in his chest loosen by degrees. The vibrator casing blackened. The rose toy pieces curled and shrank into un ugly, unrecognizable puddle.
The smell was awful, chemical and bitter, crawling into the back of his throat.
Dex watched anyway. He needed to suffer through it to know he did it.
He watched until the pieces were ruined beyond saving. He watched until nothing in the bin looked like something you could have held, could have wanted, could have used.
Only then did he go back upstairs.
Dex laughed once under his breath, not because anything was funny, but because the sound had nowhere else to go. He washed his hands in your bathroom, scrubbing blood and soot from his knuckles, cleaning under his nails with the same discipline he used after a kill. Then he dried his hands on the towel you always insisted was decorative and stood in the bedroom again.
He stared at the empty space under the bed no. There was no taking all the damage back now, not that he wanted to. But… it just felt wrong.
Well.
Now he needed to replace the box, didn’t he?
That was what a boyfriend did after destroying his girlfriend’s private sex toy collection in a jealous, post-murder fugue state. He should replace it with something better.
There was a shop around the corner. Dex had passed it before with you and you had squeezed his hand and laughed under your breath when he looked away too quickly from the window display. It wasn’t because he was shy. Dex wasn’t shy with you anymore. He could put his mouth between your thighs and stay there until you were crying lightning and his name into the pillow, but there was something different about seeing all of it displayed in public: rows and rows of things made for people who didn’t have him.
He went anyway.
The little bell over the door chimed when he stepped inside. A woman behind the counter looked up. “Hi, let me know if you need help finding anything.”
Dex stared at her for half a second too long. “I’m fine.”
Spoiler: he wasn’t.
He walked past the first display and immediately regretted having eyes. Dildos, vibrators, and suction toys. Things in pastel colours and matte black. Things with little labels that promised intimacy from something battery-powered and dead.
No. Absolutely not. He wasn’t buying you anything phallic. He wasn’t buying you anything designed to replace a tongue. He wasn’t paying money for a thing that would sit in your drawer and pretend it could do what he did.
He ignored every masturbation item with the offended dignity of a man who had, less than an hour ago, cut your dildo into pieces because it had hurt his feelings.
He wouldn’t buy you any pretty little objects that promised to “hit the right spot,” because Dex’s fingers hit the right spot. Dex’s mouth hit the right spot. Dex knew your body now, and anything that claimed it could do the same made him want to start another fire.
He moved deeper into the store, and that was when he found the restraints.
He picked up a metal pair of padded cuffs with real locks and tested the weight in his palm, expression blank. Good and sturdy. Soft enough not to hurt you unless you wanted it to. He placed them in the basket.
Then silk ties. Black, then red, then a dark blue because he imagined that one against your wrists and had to stand very still for a moment. Rope came next, the kind that would look filthy wrapped around you but would not actually hurt you.
He found a blindfold and the thought of you wearing it made his mouth go dry. You, trusting him enough to give up sight. You, lying back and letting the world narrow down to what he was doing to you. That was good. That was right. That didn’t replace him. That made him necessary.
Into the basket.
A gag made him pause when he imagined your mouth around it and then imagined not being able to hear every little sound he worked so hard to drag out of you. He frowned at the display for a while, then chose one anyway because some nights, maybe, you would like being made quiet. Some nights, maybe, he would like the sight more than he hated losing the sounds.
Then he saw the collar.
It was not flashy, just black leather, with a small metal ring at the front. His hand closed around it as the leather bent slightly under his thumb. He pictured it at your throat. Pictured his fingers hooking under the ring to pull you close. Pictured you looking up at him with that half-angry, half-wanting expression you got when he was being too much and you liked it anyway.
Mine, he thought.
Not because he wanted to own you like an object, not exactly. Dex was too broken to make the distinction cleanly, but he knew this much: he wanted you choosing it. He wanted you holding your chin up while he fastened it around your neck. He wanted to see it on you and know you had let him put it there.
He put it in the basket.
By then, the sales assistant had started watching him with polite concern.
“Shopping for a gift?” she asked.
Dex looked down at the basket. “For my girlfriend.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, which was such a wild misunderstanding of the situation that Dex only stared at her.
“Yes,” he said finally.
Sweet. Sure.
He added a proper storage box too, black and lockable, because if he was replacing your box, he was replacing it correctly. He added massage oil after checking three labels and rejecting anything that smelled too artificial. He added a small bottle of specialised cleaner because you would complain if he didn’t, and because even in the middle of this deranged little shopping trip, Dex was still painfully, pathetically attentive to the boring practical details of loving you.
At checkout, the woman rang everything up without comment.
Dex kept his eyes forward.
He didn’t look at the wall of vibrators behind her. He didn’t look at the glossy pink boxes promising pleasure in ten different speeds, because if he looked too long, he might start thinking about the one currently melting behind your building, and if he thought about that too much, he might smile.
So he paid, took the bag, and left.
When he returned to your apartment, he arranged the new box carefully. Handcuffs tucked to the side. Rope coiled neatly. Silk ties folded. Blindfold, gag, cleaner. The collar went on top. Maybe he should’ve gotten a leash. Oh well. If you really liked it, he’ll bring you to the store and get you to choose.
Dex stared at it for a moment before he closed the lid and slid the box under the bed where the old one had been.
There.
Fixed.
Not really, of course. Not in any healthy or normal sense of the word.
But when had Dex ever been healthy or normal about you?
—
You came home tired that day
When you unlocked the door, Dex had been waiting in the kitchen, wearing one of the shirts he had slowly migrated into your drawer.
“Hi, baby,” you murmured, already smiling when you saw him.
Dex walked towards you immediately, too fast, probably. He kissed you before you could take off your coat, hands going to your waist, mouth lingering like he had been counting the hours since you left because he had. You laughed into the kiss and pushed at his chest.
“Missed me?”
“Yes,” he said, too honestly.
For a while, everything was fine. You changed out of your work clothes. Dex followed you around like a shadow, trying not to look too often at the bed. He made tea. You drank half of it. You complained about overtime, about your feet hurting, and Dex listened with a deadly seriousness most men reserved for hostage negotiations.
Then you went into the bedroom to put something away. You crouched by the bed to shove your bag out of the way, and that was when you saw the box.
A new box.
It was black, neat, expensive-looking, tucked exactly where the old one used to be.
You pulled it out slowly, already suspicious, because Dex didn’t misplace things. Dex arranged. Dex corrected. Dex replaced. When you opened the lid, you immediately saw the collar laid right on top like a dark little apology ribbon.
For a second, you said, “Oh, wow," because you genuinelyliked it.
It was gorgeous. The cuffs were padded and clearly not cheap. The silk restraints were soft. The rope was smooth, the kind that would not burn if handled properly. The collar was simple black leather, pretty in a way that made your stomach give one stupid little twist before. It was thoughtful. Dex had gone shopping with your body in mind. He had pictured your wrists. your throat, your mouth. The little sounds you made when you were overwhelmed and pretending you weren’t.
And then you remembered the empty space where your actual things should have been.
“Ummm…” You looked up. “Where’s my stuff?”
Dex stood in the doorway, too still. That was answer enough, really.
“What stuff?” he asked, badly.
You stared at him. “What?”
Because really, what the hell did he think he was gonna get away with like that?
“My old box, Dex. The one that was here. The one this is replacing.”
“You don’t use it anymore.”
You blinked. "That's not what I asked.”
Dex shifted his weight, and there was something almost innocent in the confusion on his face. Though not innocent like harmless. Dex was never harmless. He looked innocent like he genuinely couldn’t find the part of the situation where his logic had failed. You had stopped using the old toys. You had him now. He had bought you better things. Things for both of you. In his mind, he had done everything right. Why did it matter?
“You have me,” he said, like that settled it.
You stared at him for another beat. Then your tiredness warped into irritation. “Dex. Where. Is. My. Stuff.”
His eyes flicked away.
Your stomach sank. “Did you throw it out?”
“No.”
“Did you put it in the dumpster?”
“No.”
“Please tell me you didn’t donate it.”
Dex looked appalled, like that wasn’t his modus operandi. “Of course not.”
“Then where is it?”
He hesitated and Benjamin Poindexter did not hesitate unless the answer was somehow worse than every option you had given him.
“I destroyed and burned it.”
What. The. Fuck?
For a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak.
“I…” you looked empty. “You burned it.”
His mouth tightened. “You don’t use it anymore.”
“Oh my god.” You stood up with the collar still in your hand. “I know I don't use it anymore.”
“Then why—”
“Principle, Dex!”
He frowned, and that made you want to throw the collar at his head.
“Principle,” you repeated, louder. “It was mine. I bought it. You don’t get to decide something is useless and destroy it because you personally don’t like it.”
“You don’t need them,” he said again, and he was starting to feel like a broken fucking record.
“Principle!”
“You have me.”
“Principle, Dex!”
He looked genuinely distressed now, but not because he understood. Not because he had suddenly realized that taking your things from under your bed and burning them was unhinged. He looked distressed because you were upset, because the warmth had drained out of the room and he didn’t know how to get it back without lying about the one thing he couldn’t make himself regret.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. A pathetic last ditch effort, really.
You laughed once. “No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I said,” he managed through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry I’m mad.”
Dex went quiet. There it was.
You watched him realize you had him cornered. His face went tense, his eyes a little too dark, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Dex was sorry you looked hurt. He was sorry your voice sounded like that. He was sorry there was a chance you might pull away from him and mean it. But he wasn’t sorry the toys were gone. If he was honest, he was relieved they were gone. He was relieved they were ash. He was relieved they could never sit under your folds again.
“Say it,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Say what?”
“That you’re not sorry you burned them.”
His throat moved.
“Dex,” you scolded.
He looked away again.
You stepped closer. “Say it.”
“I’m not sorry they’re gone,” he said at last, honest and rough.
Your anger went hot and bright. “Of course you’re not.”
“You don’t need them,” he said, almost pleading now, like if he could just explain it properly, you would understand. “You don’t. You reach for me now. You wake me up when you want something. You pull my hand between your legs. You say my name. You don’t need something fake. You don’t need something that works like—” He stopped, breath hard through his nose. “You don’t need it.”
You stared at him, stunned all over again by the sheer deranged sincerity of it. “You hated it.”
His silence answered for him.
“You hated my toys.”
“They touched you,” he said, as if that explained anything.
“They were objects.”
“They touched you,” he said again, as if he repeating it enough would make you believe.
He said it like he was naming a crime. They touched you. That was the entire case. The entire verdict. In Dex’s head, the old box was not just a box. It was proof of a life before him. Proof that your body had known pleasure without him.
“You’re jealous of fucking objects,” you said, “Do you hear yourself?”
His mouth tightened.
“You are. Oh my god, you are so fucking jealous.”
“It was made to—” He cut himself off, eyes flashing, dark and humiliated. “You used it instead of me.”
You dragged one hand down your face. “I used it before I knew you.”
Dex swallowed then started, “Then what…”
“That still doesn’t mean you get to burn it!” you exclaimed, cutting him off.
Dex looked genuinely lost for a second, and that made the whole thing worse. He had walked himself straight into a psychosexual spiral and couldn't understand why the conclusion was not obvious to you. You belonged to yourself, yes, fine, he knew that was what he was supposed to think, and he did think that, but your pleasure had become his job, his purpose, his proof that you chose him. The old toys were obsolete. They made him imagine you alone, reaching under the bed instead of reaching for him, and even the thought made his brain go static with jealousy.
“I bought you better things,” he said, smaller now.
You looked down at the box again, then back at him.
“No,” you said. “You bought things that need you.”
He went still, because you were right.
“You bought cuffs because they need your hands. Rope because it needs you to tie it. A blindfold because it makes you important. A gag because you think would look pretty on me. A collar because—” You stopped, glancing at the leather in your hand. Dex’s eyes followed the movement immediately, hungry and ashamed. “Because you wanted to put this on me.”
His breathing changed.
“You replaced my box with yourself,” you said in deft realisation.
Dex looked at you like you had cracked open his skull and read the ugliest scroll inside it.
“I bought things for us,” he said, but his voice had gone rough.
“You bought things that couldn’t touch me unless you were there.”
His lips parted, closed. Opened again. “I wanted to be there.”
“I know.”
“I should be there.”
“Dex.”
“It should be me.”
Dex looked almost sick, eyes fixed on you, shoulders tight. He was jealous, yes, but the jealousy had gone molten now, mixing with want and shame and the awful fear that you might still want something that wasn’t him.
Your frustration gentles for half a second. Then you remembered how fucking expensive those toys were.
“Principle,” you snapped again, because you needed the word to land in his skull. “Dex, I’m not mad because I desperately needed a vibrator. I clearly don’t. I’m mad you destroyed it.”
“I replaced it.” He had the audacity, even now.
“You replaced it with what you wanted.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I do like it!” you shouted, then immediately hated yourself for giving him that.
Dex’s eyes flicked to the box.
His face went blank, trying not to startle you further. “I’m sorry.”
“But you don’t regret it.”
He swallowed.
You stepped closer again, and he let you.
He could be terrifying. He could be impossible. He could turn an argument about property into an existential crisis about a lifeless object touching you before him. But when you came close, when your anger had nowhere else to go but into his space, he stayed. He let you corner him. Let you press the collar flat against his chest and watch his whole body react.
“What did you think was going to happen?” you asked, voice low now. “Honestly?”
Dex’s eyes dropped to the collar.
“You thought I was going to come home, find out you burned my things, and what? Say thank you? Let you put this around my neck?”
He looked at the leather in your hand. Then at your face.
The want in him was so obvious it was almost embarrassing.
“You did,” you said because you knew. “You thought you were going to put this on me tonight.”
His breathing went uneven.
“You were going to be all sweet and insane about it, weren’t you? You were going to touch my throat and call me yours and pretend burning my stuff was just a little misunderstanding because the new box is prettier.”
Dex said nothing.
“No,” you said.
He looked up.
“You don’t get to do that,” you told him.
Disappointment flashed behind his eyes, then confusion. Then that needy, miserable focus again, like he didn;’t know where the scene was going anymore but he still wanted to follow you there.
You stepped forward until he backed into the doorframe.
“You don’t get to burn my things and reward yourself,” you said, pressing the collar higher against his chest, up toward his neck. “You don’t get to make this about what you want.”
Dex’s throat bobbed. “What are you doing?”
You smiled but it was slightly sadistic. “What do you think?”
His eyes dropped to the collar again. For one second, he genuinely didn't understand.
Then you lifted it to his throat, and he froze.
His brain went haywire so visibly you could almost see the wires sparking behind his eyes. He had thought about that collar on you. He had probably thought about it all afternoon. He had imagined his fingers hooking beneath the ring to pull you close. He had built the whole fantasy around possession moving outward from him to you, about you wearing the thing he chose, about you looking up at him and letting him see proof that he had replaced everything in your life before him.
But now your hands were at his neck. Now the leather was against his skin. Now your fingers were brushing the vulnerable place under his jaw, and the fantasy inverted so violently he looked like he was falling into an unpredictable void of your lust.
“Oh,” he breathed.
You paused with the buckle still loose.
Dex’s eyes had gone wide and dark, his mouth parted, all his vicious certainty suddenly gone. He looked overwhelmed by the speed of his own neediness. The collar was supposed to mean you were his, in that fucked-up symbolic language he had written in his head. But with you fastening it around him, with your furious hands at his throat, with your body pinning him in place without force, it meant he was yours.
Oh. He knew the difference now.
“Oh my god,” you murmured, studying his now half-lidded eyes. “You like this.”
His lashes fluttered once.
“Dex,” you said, squeezing his cheeks together with one hand. He swallowed against the leather as you buckled it with your other hand.
The tiny click sounded obscene in the otherwise quiet room.
His eyes closed for half a second, and his whole body seemed to shudder inward. When he opened his eyes again, he looked wrecked.
“Color?” you asked.
Oh.
“Green,” he managed. Because of course it was.
You pretended not to be pleased as you hooked two fingers through the ring. Dex stared at your hand. You tugged once.
It was barely anything, but he followed immediately.
The sight of it made your anger burn hotter and lower at the same time. Benjamin Poindexter, following one small pull at his throat like his body had decided before his pride could argue. All that violence, all that jealousy, all that insane possessive logic. And here he was, looking at you like punishment was the only language he fully understood.
You pulled him out of the bedroom by the collar, and into the living room, where the good chairs were.
He looked confused and turned on and miserable, which was exactly what you wanted him to be. He still didn’t fully understand the principle. Fine. You would make him understand by the end of the night.
“Strip.”
He obeyed fast.
You watched the fabric hit the floor and felt your mouth go dry despite yourself. He was all lean muscle and restrained violence, chest rising and falling. It should have been absurd. But it was also fucking unfair how good he looked, how the leather made him seem both more dangerous and more helpless, how his eyes stayed locked on you like he would do anything if you kept looking at him like that.
“Don’t look so eager,” you said.
His jaw flexed. “You put it on me.”
“You bought it.”
“For you.”
“Funny how that worked out.”
Dex’s eyes darkened.
You pushed him back into the chair by the window, the one you usually curled up in with a book. He sat because he wanted you to push him, because being handled by you was the closest thing to absolution he understood. You had the cuffs on your other hand, the ones he had imagined around your wrists, and his gaze followed them with naked hunger.
“Hands behind the chair.”
He hesitated, but because he did not want to. He hesitated because some stubborn, spiraling part of him was still stuck on the same loop, still fighting from inside his own head. He had done everything right. He had removed what you didn’t need. He had bought better things, and you were clearly using them now. Why were you still angry? Why did you still want the old ones? Why wasn’t this enough?
You leaned down, holding the collar ring between two fingers. “Dex.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“I said hands behind the chair,” he snapped.
This time, he obeyed.
The cuffs clicked shut around his wrists one after the other. Dex tested them once, shoulders pulling tight, then went still, his chest rising hard beneath the collar. You stood in front of him with the key in your palm and watched his eyes move over you, your work clothes, your tired face, your angry mouth. He looked like being denied forgiveness was hurting him. He looked like it was making him harder to breathe.
You stepped closer, close enough that his knees bracketed your legs, close enough that he had to tilt his head back to keep looking at you. The collar put his throat on display. You could see every swallow, every uneven breath, every tiny betrayal of his body when you touched the ring again.
“I’m not letting you go,” you said.
His lips parted.
“Not until you promise me you’ll buy me new ones.”
Dex’s face changed immediately.
“No.”
You almost laughed. “Excuse me?”
“No.”
You smiled as if he had just fallen into your trap. “Then I guess you’re not going anywhere.”
“No. No, no, no.” The words started coming faster, tumbling out of him with a desperation that made his voice crack. “No, you don’t need them. You don’t need those. You have me. I’m here. I’m right here.”
You narrowed your eyes, but your anger snagged on the way he said it. He was not being smug now. He wasn’t calm, or even really arguing anymore. His wrists pulled once against the cuffs, metal clicking behind the chair, and he looked almost startled by his own helplessness before his eyes found yours again.
“Use me,” he said.
Your stomach tightened. “Dex.”
“Use me,” he repeated, rougher now, pleading. “You don’t need them. You don’t need it. Use me. I’ll do it. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. Just don’t make me buy you something that replaces me.”
“No one said you were replaceable,” you frowned
“You want them back.”
“Because they were mine.”
“You want them back,” he said again, like he couldn’t hear the difference. “You want them back, but I’m right here.”
You grabbed his face, fingers firm on his jaw, and kissed him before he could say it again. It was supposed to shut him up. It did, for maybe half a second. Then Dex made a sound into your mouth, needy and broken, and started kissing you back like he was trying to climb out of his own skin. His hands flexed uselessly behind the chair. The collar pressed into your fingers when you tugged him closer, and his whole body followed the pull so immediately that heat between you legs through your anger.
You kissed him again. And again. And again, until his breathing was wrecked and his mouth was swollen and his begs had turned into a whine against your lips.
“No,” he whispered when you pulled away. “No, baby, please. Don’t make me. Don’t make me buy those. Use me. Please use me.”
“You don’t get to beg your way out of consequences.”
“I’m not,” he said, even though he absolutely was. “I’m giving you something better.”
“You are giving me a headache.”
“I’m giving you me.”
It shouldn’t have made your heart jump. It shouldn;t have made you look down at him, collared and cuffed and half out of his mind, and think that maybe the worst part was not that Dex was insane. It was that he was insane in ways that made you want to love him more
You stepped back.
Dex’s eyes followed you immediately.
“You want me to use you?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“You want to be useful?”
“Yes.”
“Then watch.”
His face changed into a flicker of confusion first, then anticipation, then frustration when you turned away from him and started unbuttoning your shirt.
Dex went silent so abruptly it almost made you smile. His eyes were locked on your fingers, on each button sliding free, on the thin strip of skin appearing beneath the fabric.
You stripped in front of him because you were angry and petty and tired of him thinking his jealousy got to be the only thing in the room. Your shirt fell to the floor. Then your trousers. Your bra. Your underwear. Dex watched every inch of you like it hurt him not to touch, his wrists straining once behind the chair before he forced himself still.
Dex’s mouth opened, as if he was getting exactly what he wanted, but then you walked to the couch and picked up one of the decorative pillows, the cotton one you usually shoved behind your back when you watched TV.
Dex’s eyes shifted again as realization crept in.
“No,” he said.
You arched a brow.
His breathing changed. “No.”
“Oh?” You held the pillow in between your legs, watching his eyes go dark and frantic. “You don’t like this?”
“Don’t.”
“You were jealous of plastic, baby. Surely you’re not jealous of a pillow too.”
Dex made a sound that was almost a growl and almost a whine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t make it sound stupid.”
“It is stupid.” You sank down to the floor in front of him, grinding down on the cushion keeping your eyes on him. “You burned my toys because you were jealous of objects. You’re sitting there in a collar you bought for me because you couldn’t handle a vibrator existing under my bed. And now you’re looking at this pillow like you’re going to kill it.”
His face twisted.
You had meant it to be teasing. Cruel, yes, but controlled. A punishment, a lesson, proof of how ridiculous he was being. But when you settled over the pillow and shifted your hips once, Dex’s reaction was so immediate and visceral that the room seemed to tilt around it.
He didn’t look angry anymore.
He looked distressed.
His wrists jerked against the cuffs, the chair creaking under the force, and his breath punched out of him like he had been hit. You saw his brain do the horrible thing it always did, watched him turn a pillow into another rival, another thing touching you, another thing getting what he wanted while he sat there forced to watch.
“Dex,” you said, but you moved again without thinking.
His whole body flinched.
“No,” he choked. “No, no, no, no, please.”
You froze.
He was staring at you, eyes wet now, breath coming too fast. He wanted to obey. He wanted to be punished. He wanted to be good. But he also could not bear the sight of you taking pleasure from anything that wasn’t him, even in play, even as a punishment.
“Baby,” you said carefully, uncertain now.
Dex shook his head, almost violently. “Red.”
Oh.
Just like that, you stopped.
Neither of you had ever used that safeword before, but you were glad he did.
You were off the pillow almost immediately, scrambling to him.
“Oh,” you whispered. “Oh, fuck, baby, I’m sorry.”
Dex’s gaze snapped to you.
You dropped in front of him, hands going to his face first because you needed him looking at you. His skin was hot under your palms. His eyes were wet, not fully crying yet but close enough. He looked wrecked, and not playfully desperate like usual, not turned on in that cocky way he got when he thought he had pushed you into giving him what he wanted. The sight of you using anything else, even a pillow, even as a punishment, had wrecked him.
“You hate it,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “You actually hate seeing that.”
He nodded pathetically. “Mmmhmm.”
“You said you hated the toys,” you murmured, thumb brushing over his cheek. “I thought you were being insane. I mean, you are being insane, but I didn’t realize it was hurting you like this.”
Dex looked away, ashamed, furious, overwhelmed by being understood too clearly. You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him carefully, pressing your face into his neck. For a second, he didn't move. Then his whole body sagged into you as much as the cuffs allowed, breath trembling against your shoulder, face turning blindly toward your warmth.
“We’re done,” you said. “I’m taking these off.”
You reached behind his neck for the collar first, but the moment your fingers found the buckle, Dex jerked his head to the side.
“Dex.”
“Green,” he said quickly.
You froze.
His voice was rough and wet, the word scraping out of him like he had dragged it up from somewhere raw. “Green.”
“You just said…”
“I know, I know, but—” He swallowed hard, throat shifting against the collar. “Green as long as you use me.”
Your breath caught.
Dex looked at you then, fully, and the tears finally slipped over. His face twisted with it, like he hated himself for crying but couldn’t stop. “Not the pillow. Me. Use me. Please. I don’t want to stop if it’s me.”
“Dex.”
“I need this,” he said, and it came out so naked that it hurt. “I need to know I’m better than a piece of plastic.”
Fuck.
“Oh, baby.” You cupped his face again, thumbs catching the tears before they could reach his mouth. “I know you are. Of course you are.”
“Then why are you still mad?”
The question came out small, almost confused. Because there it was again: the part of him that truly did not understand. The part of him that had made a perfect little equation in his head and couldn't see where it failed. If he was better, why did you care? If you had him, why did the burned things matter?
You sighed, pressing your forehead to his. “Because they were mine.”
Dex shut his eyes.
You felt him breathe, shaky and uneven.
“I’m yours, too.” he whispered.
Your whole body went still.
Fuck fuck fuck. You were going to fold again, were you?
Dex opened his eyes. Damp lashes, ruined mouth, collar snug against his throat. He looked up at you like that was the only answer he had, the only thing he knew how to offer in return. I’m yours, that could balance the scales. Like giving himself over completely should make up for taking the box from you.
You should have argued. Instead, you kissed him.
“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “You are.”
Dex made a broken sound, and then he was kissing you back as much as the cuffs allowed, desperate and clumsy, trying to lean into you with his wrists still locked behind the chair. His mouth tasted like salt and need. You kissed him slowly at first, grounding him, giving him something real to focus on that was not the pillow, not the old toys, not the psychosexual spiral eating itself alive inside his head.
“Color,” you murmured.
“Green,” he said instantly.
“Not because you think I’ll be mad if you say red.”
“Green,” he repeated, steadier this time. Your hand slid down to the collar ring, and his breath hitched.
You kissed him until his begging started to lose shape.
It wasn’t really words anymore, just broken little sounds against your mouth, the scrape of his breath, the helpless pull of his wrists against the cuffs every time you shifted in his lap. Dex kept trying to follow you, kept trying to give you more than his body was allowed to give.
Your hand slipped between you, hiking in his thighs, meaning to wrap around him, to give him pleasure with your fingers.
Dex jerked so hard the cuffs clicked behind the chair.
“No,” he gasped into your mouth.
You froze immediately. “Color?”
“Green,” he said, frantic. “So fucking green, green, I just— not like that. Please, baby, not like that.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were wet, pupils blown black, his lips swollen from kissing. The collar sat snug around his throat, rising and falling with every shaky breath.
“Then what do you want?”
Dex swallowed, and the motion pressed against the leather. “Use me.”
Your breath caught.
He looked ashamed of how badly he needed it and too desperate to hide. “Please. I don’t want your hand. I don’t want anything else. I want you on me. I want you to take it from me. I want you to ride me. I want to be what you use.”
“Oh,” you whispered.
His whole face changed at that, like the understanding alone almost broke him.
You climbed into his lap slowly, one knee on either side of his thighs, watching him fight himself not to move. He was already hard beneath you, hot and straining, his body tense with the effort of staying still while you settled over him. His hands flexed uselessly behind the chair. He wanted to touch you so badly it looked like pain.
You took the ring of the collar between two fingers and pulled his face up to yours.
“You sure want me to take what I need from you?”
“Yes,” he breathed, almost frantic now. “Yes, baby. Please. I can do it. I can be good. I can be so good for you.”
Oh.
Then you sank down onto him, so slowly that both of you stopped breathing.
Dex’s head fell back against the chair, mouth open, the sound that left him too raw to be pretty. You felt him stretch you open inch by inch, felt the heat and weight of him filling you so completely that your own voice broke before you could stop it. You had to stop halfway down, fingers tightening around the collar ring, forehead dropping toward his as your body adjusted to his stretch.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Dex’s eyes opened at once, glassy and wild. “Say it.”
You blinked, barely able to think. “What?”
His voice cracked. “Say I’m better.”
Your heat clenched around him. “Dex.”
“Please,” he begged. “Please, b-baby. Tell me. Tell me I’m better than it.”
You should have scolded him. You should have told him again that this wasn't the point, that you were still angry, that he did not get to turn this into another deranged little competition. But then you sank the rest of the way down, taking him fully, and Dex made a sound so broken and grateful that your whole body went hot.
“You’re better,” you breathed.
He shuddered beneath you, hard enough to make the chair creak. “Again.”
You moved your hips once, slow and deep, and his entire body strained against the cuffs. “You’re way fucking better.”
Dex’s eyes fluttered, his breathing turning ragged. “Again. Please. Again, baby, tell me again.”
So you did.
You started riding him properly, lifting yourself up and sinking back down, bouncing on his length until neither of you could pretend this wasn’t affecting your train of thought. The cuffs rattled behind the chair every time he fought the urge to grab your hips. His thighs flexed under yours, his chest rising too fast, his throat exposed beneath the collar every time you tugged the ring and made him look at you.
“You’re better,” you said, breathless, riding him harder. “You’re better than it.”
Dex groaned, loud and wrecked. “Yes. Yes, fuck, yes.”
“You’re better than the stupid, the vibrator, the rose toy.”
His face fell with pleasure and humiliation, eyes wet, mouth open like every word was going straight through him.
“Better than the box,” you panted. “Better than anything under my bed.”
“Anything,” he echoed, desperate. “Anything. Say anything.”
“You’re so needy,” you whispered, but you were not much better. You were moving faster now, chasing the way he filled you, the way he looked under you, collared and cuffed and entirely yours. “You’re so fucking jealous, baby.”
You grabbed his jaw and kissed him, barely a kiss at all with the way both of you were breathing. Dex tried to follow your mouth when you pulled back.
“Look at you,” you murmured. “You just want me to choose you, dont’cha?”
His eyes locked on yours.
You rode him harder, your voice breaking as the pleasure started making your thoughts blur. “You’re better than anything. Better than anything I could buy. Better than anything I could touch.”
Dex looked like he was going to fall apart beneath you.
“Again,” he begged. “Please, again.”
“You’re better than anything,” you gasped, fingers tight in the collar. “Or anyone.”
Dex stopped thrusting his hips up so abruptly you yelped into a halt.
You barely had time to catch your breath before his eyes opened and darkened.
“Anyone?”
Your stomach dropped.
It was one word. One stupid word you had said without thinking because you were dizzy and full of him, because Dex had begged you to tell him he was better and you had.
Oh. Fuck.
“Dex,” you said carefully. “No.”
His muscles flexed. “No?”
“No. We can’t do this.”
He stared at you, still in his lap, warm and shaking from the way you had been riding him. Still close enough to feel how badly he wanted to move, how hard he was holding himself back by force alone.
“Dex,” you tried again, softer this time.
His eyes did not move from your face. “Uncuff me.”
It should have scared you, how fast he switched.
One second, he was pliant beneath you, desperate to be used. The next, his voice had gone flat and enraged, eyes narrowing like a predator.
But it was still Dex. Your Dex. He would never hurt you.
“Color?” you asked.
“Green,” he said immediately. Then, rougher and impatient, “Uncuff me.”
Your hands were not steady when you reached for the keys, then behind him, squirming because he was still inside you, and his size wasn’t making it easy for you to jostle around like that.
The cuffs clicked open, and for a second, he only trailed his hands up your thighs he was so gentle, rubbing circles on your sweat-slicked skin.
“I know you had someone before me,” he said.
He knew, because Dex was jealous, not delusional.
He knew you had a life before him, knew there had been men before him, had even heard your friend’s tiny voice over the phone once saying, I met your crazy ex today? while you laughed awkwardly and changed the subject too quickly. He had stood in your kitchen with his hand frozen around a mug, filing that away in some dark corner of his mind.
But knowing was one thing. Hearing you say “anyone” while he was still inside you and your hand was tight in the collar he still wore for you, was another thing entirely.
Your face went hot. “Obviously.”
“How many?”
“Dex.”
“How many?”
You swallowed. “I’m not talking about my exes while we’re having sex.”
His hand went up to the collar ring, not to pull it off. To press your fingers there. To make sure you were holding it right.
“How many?” he asked again, and this time his voice was demanding.
You tried to climb off him. “Baby, no. You don’t want this.”
Dex moved so fast you barely registered it.
One second you were above him, the next he had you up and over his shoulder, your breath punched out of you in a shocked little yelp. The room tilted. Your hands grabbed at his back, his waist, anything. Then he was putting you down on the couch, bending you over the arm with one hand between your shoulder blades, still wearing the collar.
“Eyes forward,” he said.
Your thighs clenched at the sound of his voice. “Dex—”
“Eyes forward.”
You hated that you listened. You that your body shivered.
He pressed in behind you, close enough that he made your knees weak all over again. One hand slid over your hip, shaking with restraint, almost tender before it turned possessive. The other covered kept your ass up for him to line up. “Tell me how many.”
You exhaled hard. “Three.”
Dex went silent.
Then, softly, terribly, he echoed it, “Three.”
“Before you,” you snapped, trying to sound angry even though your voice was already ruined. “Before I even knew you like this. Before us. Dex, this is stupid.”
He laughed once. It sounded broken. “Names.”
“No.”
“Full names.”
“No, I’m not giving you their full names so you can go insane and hunt them down.”
His breath hitched behind you.
Oh.
That was not the wrong thing to say. That was the worst thing to say. Because now he had pictured it. Now some awful part of him had lit up at the thought, and you felt his body go harder against yours, felt the way his grip tightened like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
“Fine,” he said, trying so hard to compromise. “First names.”
“You don’t want those either.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t,” you whined, “You think you do because you’re jealous and insane and horny and trying to hurt your own feelings.”
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades.
For one second, he just breathed there, shaking. When he spoke again, his voice was wet.
“First names,” he whispered. “And what was wrong with them.”
He knew it would hurt. Dex wasn’t confused about that. He was not so far gone that he thought hearing their names would make him feel better. He knew it would put pictures in his head he would never be able to scrape out. He knew he would imagine their hands, their mouths, their stupid little claims on you. He knew every detail you gave him would become a weapon turned inward first, he wanted you to press this emotional knife into his ribs just to see if the pain proved how much he loved you.
But that was exactly why he needed it.
Dex didn’t know how to be reassured gently. Soft comfort slid off him too easily. He needed the wound opened first. Needed to be shown the ugliest picture and survive it. It was emotional masochism dressed up as jealousy, and the sickest part was that he knew. He wanted you to hurt him with the truth so your praise would feel earned when it came after.
“Tell me,” he said again, voice breaking at the edges.
“Dex…”
“I need to know,” he said, and the desperation in it cut through you. “I need to know what they did wrong. I need to know I’m better. I need you to say it while I’m fuckin’ deep inside you, while you’re fuckin’ clenching me, baby please.”
You closed your eyes.
His mouth pressed to your back. It was almost a kiss. Almost an apology. Then he pushed into you again, and the sound that tore out of you was so loud it made your own face burn.
Dex groaned behind you, ugly and wrecked. “Tell me.”
You gripped the couch cushion, because fuck it. What the fuck did you owe them anyway?
“Finn.”
His hips snapped forward harder.
You cried out, body jolting against the couch.
Dex groaned like the name had hurt him exactly the way he wanted it to. “What was wrong with him?”
“His nails,” you gasped, already struggling to keep your voice steady. “College boyfriend. His nails were always too long and when he fingered, it hurt. I took it, but then he blamed me when I bled.”
Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, pulling you back into him, his breath breaking against your skin.
“Careless,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“I’m not careless.”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, baby, you’re not.”
“Say I’m better.”
“You’re better.”
He thrust harder, and your answer broke apart into a moan.
“Say it properly.”
“You’re better than Finn,” you choked out. “You’re so much better than him.”
Dex shuddered and you felt it in his chest, in his grip, in the way his mouth dragged wetly over your back.
He was crying, you realised, when you felt hotlittle drops against your spine while he kept fucking you like jealousy had turned him feral. Dominant and ruined at once, giving orders while crying because he had asked for the knife and now wanted you to twist it.
“Next,” he said.
“Dex,” you moaned, shaking your head. “Please.”
“Say red and I’ll —fuck! — stop. Until then…” His fingers tightened around your hip. “Next.”
You tried to breathe. You tried to remember why this was a bad idea. You remember that you didn’t want your stupid dickhead exes in the room with you while Dex was behind you, collared, crying, and pounding into you like every name was a target he needed to hit.
“Matteo,” you managed.
Dex’s rhythm stumbled for half a second, then came back harder.
You sobbed his name.
“What was wrong with him?”
“You don’t want this one,” you managed to hiccup.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, baby. You really don’t.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. He moaned again as he managed, “Tell me.”
“He was a creep,” you finally said, the words scraping out of you. “From my old job. He shared p-private pictures. With his friends.”
Dex stopped breathing, his forehead hit your back again.
“Oh,” he whispered.
It was horrible.
You felt the tears fall faster now, sliding down your skin while his hand trembled on your waist. For all his violence, this was the part that broke him. Someone had treated you like something to pass around. Someone had treated you like you were anything less than sacred.
“Dex,” you warned softly, because you could feel him thinking.
Dex made a small, broken sound, then moved again, harder, like he could fuck the memory out of your body. You gasped, eyes rolling back.
“He didn’t deserve to look at you,” Dex said, voice shaking.
“No,” you breathed.
“He didn’t deserve anything from you.”
“No.”
His tears kept falling, pathetic and hot against your spine, even as his body stayed rough behind yours. He had asked for this. He had wanted the wound. Now he was bleeding into it.
“Tell me I’m better,” he begged.
“You’re better than him,” you said quickly, before he could ask, before he could spiral too far away from you. “You’re better, Dex. You don’t make me feel like I’m just here to be shown off. You make me feel wanted.”
He sobbed against your back.
“Again.”
“You’re better than Matteo.”
Harder.
“You’re better than him.”
Harder.
“You’re better because you actually care if I want it,” you gasped, barely able to speak now. “Because you ask. Because you listen. Because even when you’re like this, even when you’re out of your fucking mind, you still need me to want it, too.”
Dex’s whole body jerked.
“Next,” he choked.
You shook your head, cheek pressed to the couch cushion, eyes wet now too. “Dex, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I hate this.”
“Say red, then.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to. Because he was right. You might pretend to hate this, but fuck, you were sick.
Sick enough for this to get you off.
You managed a pathetic little, “g-green.”
His breath hitched, satisfied. “Thought so.”
He liked it, too. He liked it like self-punishment. Liked it because it hurt.
“Last one,” he whispered.
You swallowed around a moan. “Colin.”
Dex’s hips snapped into you so hard you cried out.
The hand on your hip slid up to your chest, holding you back against him as he bent over you, making the most pathetic sound you had ever heard from him.
“What—hnghhh— was wrong with Colin?”
“He was possessive,” you said, barely coherent. “But not like you.”
Dex went rigid. “Like w-what, then?”
“Shit,” you gasped. “He was controlling. Mean. He wanted to own me, but he didn’t love me. Not like you. He didn’t want to be good for me. He j-just wanted to win.”
Dex was sobbing now.
You could hear it. Feel it. His mouth was pressed to your shoulder, his breath hitching, tears smearing over your skin while his body kept driving into yours with desperate, punishing force. He had you pinned beneath him, yes. He was the one moving you, the one holding you, the one demanding answers. But the collar was still around his throat, and you now managed to trail your hand up and grab the ring. You held the fucking collar and tugged, and he was surprised he didn’t come then and there as he gasped, breaking a little more.
“I’m not him,” he said.
“No.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, t-too.”
“I’d never—” His voice cracked. “I’d never make you feel like that.”
“I know, baby.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re better than Colin.”
His rhythm faltered. “Tell me why.”
“Because you’re mine,” you moaned. “Because you— fuck!— want to be mine. Because you don’t just want to have me, you want me to choose you. You want t-to be useful. You want to be good— hmphh— to me.”
Dex sobbed so hard his hips stuttered.
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
“You’re better than all of them.”
“Again.”
“You’re better than Finn.”
He groaned.
“Better than Matteo.”
His grip tightened.
“Better than Colin.”
He started breaking, cracks building through him in these beautiful little fractures. Your pleasure was already rising too fast, your thighs trembling, your voice gone thin and helpless beneath him.
“Dex!” you cried.
“I know,” he whispered, frantic and wet. “I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Tell me again.”
“You’re better,” you sobbed. “You’re better than anyone. Anything, Dex, anyone.”
He came with your hand fisted in his collar.
The pull of it dragged a sound out of him that was almost a sob and almost your name, his whole body folding over yours as he spilled into you, shaking so hard you felt it everywhere. You could hear the broken relief in his voice as he kept whispering yours, yours, yours like he could make himself believe it if he said it enough.
That was what tipped you over, when your orgasm hit so hard your whole body seized beneath him.
You cried out into the couch, fingers yanking the collar ring without meaning to, and Dex choked behind you, shuddering again like the pull had gone straight through him. Pleasure tore through you in waves, hot and blinding, your legs trembling, your voice breaking on his name until it didn’t even sound like a word anymore.
Dex held you through it, crying into your back like he was the one who had been ruined.
When it finally ebbed, he stayed folded over you, his mouth pressed between your shoulder blades, breath ragged. Your hand was still caught in the ring of the collar.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The couch was too small for both of you, but Dex made it work because Dex always made himself fit wherever you needed him.
His body was still trembling in little aftershocks, but the violent edge had burned out of him. What remained was his mouth against your shoulder, his hand spread over your stomach, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles like he was trying to apologize through touch before words.
You could feel the little ring of the collar cool against your wrist when his head dipped and nuzzled into the space between your neck and shoulder.
Fifteen minutes later, he wasn’t crying anymore. His lashes were damp, his breathing uneven, but he had settled down.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he still wasn’t sure for what.
You were too boneless to answer properly. Your whole body felt heavy and melted into the cushions, your skin still humming everywhere he had touched you. You only reached back, clumsy and tired, and found his hand.
Only then did you realise that it was red from how hard he was pulling at the handcuffs. Because despite the fuzzy liner, it was still metal underneath.
Dex threaded his fingers through yours immediately. That was answer enough for him.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then the back of your neck. Then your cheek when you turned your head just slightly.
These were small, careful kisses. Sweet, almost shy.
His voice stayed low when he spoke again. “I’ll be good.”
You closed your eyes.
The jealousy had calmed, but he still needed to be chosen.
Dex held you like service. Like worship. Like if he could keep you warm enough and safe enough, maybe it would balance out everything else he was.
His hand slid over your side, checking without asking. He smoothed your skin gently over your hip and your thigh. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder, and his breath relaxed when you relaxed into him instead of pulling away.
You should have been angry.
You were angry, maybe, somewhere far away. Obviously, there were things to say later. Things about boundaries and consequences and the fact that Benjamin Poindexter could not solve every insecurity by turning it into sex so absolute it felt like a salvation.
But right now, Dex was curled around you like a guard dog who had been allowed into bed after making a big mistake, and you couldn’t bring yourself to bring it up.
His big arms were careful around your body, face pressed to your skin. The collar still snug at his throat because he had not asked you to take it off, because maybe he liked the reminder that even when he got like that, he was still yours.
Your fingers brushed the ring lazily.
Dex melted immediately.
“Oh, what the hell,” you mumbled with a hazy smile, mostly into the couch cushion. “I don’t need those toys anyway.”
Dex tried not to look smug, but you felt it.
You knew what that little hitch of breath meant, the way his mouth pressed to your shoulder and stayed there, hiding whatever painfully pleased expression had crossed his face.
You didn't have the strength to scold him for it.
He kissed your shoulder again, grateful this time.
Still, you knew you had just signed a death warrant for Finn, Matteo, and Collin.
You hadn’t given Dex their full names, but Dex had heard enough. He could find people with less. He had found you, hadn’t he?
You knew they were as good as dead. And if Dex could destroy and burn your old toys with that much passion, you couldn’t imagine what he would do to living men who had actually hurt you. Whatever came for them would not be quick or merciful. You knew that.
You shouldn’t want that.
On principle, you shouldn’t want that.
On the principle that you were better than them, that you were obviously morally superior, that you should not want three men dead just because they had once made you feel small, even if they deserved it.
But then Dex nuzzled closer in his devotion. His lips brushed your shoulder, and even half-conscious, he murmured your name like a prayer. His hand slipped over your stomach, protective now, his thumb moving in small circles like he was still trying to soothe you from your last.
You looked down at him and thought, I hope you make them beg.
description box; dex tries very hard to be good and behave when he finally finds his new and true north star. he fails. you don’t exactly mind.
warnings; to be fair, dex his pretty much own warning lol, smut implied, toxic and unhealthy relationship dynamics, skewed power imbalance, codependency, stalker!dex, dex is a control freak, obsessive!dex, explicit content (hehe…), nsfw!!!, MINORS DNI!!, established relationship, dex is still a murderer with psychopathic tendencies, not proofread… you have been warned ;)
dex is a stalker. your stalker (he wouldn’t waste his time learning so much about just any person, thank you very much…). not that he would have labelled himself as such, dex himself would have rather called himself your protector. protector who watches you in your tiny, little flat, miles away on another building’s rooftop, spying through the window. a friendly watcher, a concerned… someone. that is what he settles on because right now, you don’t even know him.
the first time he inserts himself in your life, you immediately like him. of course you do, he had carefully assembled himself a mask in order to be the kind of person you like, would talk to. be friends with. in his mind, he makes a disapproving, little tsk sound. if only you knew how easy it was to hack your phone, look up internet searches, break into your home while you were away… but that would change, eventually. he would make you a safe home. he would protect you. he would provide for you. he would take care of you. he would shield you from the world, burn it down if he had to. that’s the thing about dex, he loves in radical extremes and catastrophes; there is no such thing as “casual” or “low-key” with him.
privacy is also a foreign concept to him. privacy? we’ve never even heard of her. jokes aside, dex genuinely thinks there are no secrets between the two of you. of course, there are… darker things, disturbing things, in his mind that he doesn’t tell you. but really, it’s for your own good. he doesn’t want to scare you away, give you a reason to run, knowing that if you did, he would run right after you. it was an instinct, the same way a cat couldn’t help but chase a little mouse. but you were his. as much as dex was yours. leave? you weren’t allowed to leave. or leave him out of anything—he wanted to know everything about you, every single thing there was. dex was overwhelming like that, all-consuming and intense in his loving, but you couldn’t help but fall for him anyway. it was hard to ignore that sort of loyal, undying devotion, that sort of… worship.
when you two started dating, he offered you himself wholly, his heart, his life, every breath he took; he would die for you, he would kill for you, he would do anything for you—take him. keep him. but don’t leave him. never leave him. his separation anxiety is severe like that. sometimes, dex gets anxious simply when you’re in a different room than him, even when he’s at your apartment.
he is a little ocd about… everything. he likes being in control, getting to call the shots, making the decisions. it’s not a masculinity thing, it’s just that dex prefers knowing where to go, getting to plan ahead and assess everything. he’s like a german shepherd that way—it’s ingrained into him, a habit more than a conscious want. but he needs it. and by god, do you love it. you yourself were incredibly indecisive, preferring to hang back and chill out rather than take the lead, which made the dynamic between dex and you pretty much perfect.
and because he is obsessive as hell, he always knows what you like and dislike. how, you have no idea. but dex is incredibly observant, very serious about getting to know you. he always knows things about you. like a clairvoyant, in a way.
dex puts your needs above his. usually, it means that he’ll do whatever you want him to do. his frantic, anxious heart tells him that if he does it, he’ll endear himself to you, earn your love, make him worthy of you not leaving him. because dex thinks he does not deserve you. you are a good person, in the purest, most literal sense of the word. overflowing kindness and a radiant sort of sweetness that attracted all kinds of lesser men, and an innocence that has dex hooked and addicted to you. you draw him in like a moth to a flame, and it’s inevitable, he thinks, that you’ll leave him. you’ll find a better man, a man who doesn’t need a north star to tell him how to be a good person, a man who is perfect and just as good as you.
but he’s selfish. he’s selfish, and he’s not even sorry for it. he wants you. needs you. has to have you. so, he endears himself to you. making it harder for you to leave. and if he is a little suffocating in his love, you don’t complain about it. after all, he showers you with affection and sheer love, and oh, if only you knew how far it went…
dex gets crazy possessive. he needs to be with you at all times, partly out of separation anxiety and partly because he doesn’t like the way some men look at you. hungry, greedy—disgusting. he hates it. but dex behaves, because normal men don’t kill the sleazy, creepy men sitting across the bar, winking at their girlfriend, with a vodka shot glass. it takes every muscle in him tensing and keeping his eyes trained on you to hold back. he knows you wouldn’t approve. he thinks he could get away with it without you knowing. but then you turn around, flash that wonderful, captivating smile at him, and he is… calm. calm in a way his thoughts have never let him be. and there is a hungry, starved urge in him to be closer to you, skin to skin, soul to soul, no, closer even, he needs to be closer than that, has to be, he would fold himself into you—
jealousy. a huge, huge everyday thought that dex carried with himself. for a man so composed and reserved, you can, surprisingly, tell quite easily when he is. he clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth against each other in a motion that flexes the sharpness of his face, and he begins to tense. which is, in its own way, a beautiful thing to witness: his biceps swells, back muscles becoming more and more defining as he tensed, veins popping in his huge, calloused hands and the spot around his strong, firm neck, and you swear he becomes even taller and bigger and larger… it’s s mouthwatering sight. or intimidating, for the ones he directs his dark, murderous glares at. you love it, love the way he automatically placed his palms on your shoulders as he guides you to a place more far away in the bar, taking the lead every step of course, tall frame willing any man stepping close to take an instinctive step back because that deadly stare has mine, mine, mine written all over it.
you actually find yourself finding your jealous boyfriend quite adorable. to everyone else, he is this unbelievably large mass of pure muscle, power and strength, a man you would very much not want to cross, but to you, that’s… dex. simply dex. your sweet, awkward, adorable unit of a boyfriend. who is so, so good at sex.
his favourite position is missionary. he likes you right where he can see you, observe every facial expression you make, every oh so little sound, gasp, whimper, whine… he likes it when you’re like this. unguarded. lost in the pleasure he’s giving you, hair flowing and framing you freely. he loves it when you cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, giving him the sweetest sounds as you grab his arm helplessly for support. it makes him feel needed, appreciated, loved.
another position dex quite likes is burying himself into you from behind, because he gets to hold you. it’s pathetic, and depressingly romantic, he knows. but he can’t help it, he likes having you in his arms. where you can’t escape him. where you’re his willing prisoner. he likes pressing the weight of his body against your back, marking your neck in places you can’t see, it almost makes up for the fact he can’t see your face. but your body tells him everything he has to know. most times, he overstimulates you on accident, he has a high sex drive, he can’t help it, and after he tears orgasm after orgasm out of you, your legs usually tend to get all wobbly and weak. and your arms become so useless of all that overwhelming pleasure that you can’t even hold yourself up right, becoming entirely dependent on dex holding you up. arm hooked under your waist, he can do it effortlessly with just one arm. you can just stay there, look pretty, and let him do all the work. he doesn’t mind. in fact, he finds it sort of cute when you get all docile and pliant like this, because when you’re this out he can easily make you forget that he said he was going to pull out before he came. which… he usually does. but something in him, something vile and evil and selfish and dark, secretly loves the thought of knocking you up. just the thought of your belly all swollen, pregnant with his child, makes him go feral.
it’s not baby trapping. you don’t get it, dex loves you—it’s just that, well… he likes having you right where he can see you. by his side, in other words. which you of course would be, if you were pregnant. and would that be such a bad thing? he would… love that child, that baby growing in your womb. he would, he knows he would. and dex doesn’t make promises, but he would be a good father. he knows he would be. and he desperately, pathetically needs you to want him to be by your side.
dex needs affirmation more than anything. his separation anxiety is already the worst, but the paranoia… oh, the paranoia eats him up. this would solve it—a child. a child created by the little, good parts of him and the entirety of you. all of you. won’t you just give him a baby? please, pretty please?
the third position he loved getting you into is kneeling between his legs. when he sits on a couch, cradling your bobbing head between his impossibly large hands as you try to take all of him, that’s when he is at his happiest. that is when that serene feeling washes all over him, washing away all the paranoid voices screaming, when he looks down and just sees his girl. his sweet, darling girl, trying to please him, accommodating for him in your mouth, trying to make room for all of him. dex loves it when your eyes go a little glassy, when your gaze becomes a little bit dazed. that’s when he knows you’re in that sub space, where he knows your thoughts quiet down, too. and if he is honest, he may just be very attracted to you crying. a bit. he is not a pervert, he swears. after all, he’s one of the good guys now!
author’s note: i have SO fallen for the benjamin poindexter propaganda. curse wilson bethel and his enchanting face. um, i also have a confession to make: i have not watched daredevil… i’ve just been influenced by the tiktok edits… i’m sorry… have some pity for a fellow victim of the wilson bethel face card yeah? so if there are any canonical divergences—just ignore it lol. or pretend it’s part of the au. if it even can be called an au, as our darling dex is clearly very capable of being insane on his own?
anyways, enjoy my lovelies! lmk if you want a part two.
(i have so many delicious ideas y’all would NOT believe it)
you grunted and whimpered under him, his hand pinning you still as another harsh slap landed across your right cheek. first it stung, then it felt as if a candle were lit under your skin. you painfully rolled your head back to look at him, only for him to do it again, and again.
"do you?" he glared, his terrifying leer standing in contrast to the delicate, careful way he brushed the hair from your face. you nodded your head, swollen eyes squinting as you expected another hit that just didn't come. "good. up." he hooked his hands under your arms, lifting you up from the floor.
at the edge of fainting, you felt lightheaded and your knees gave out, causing you to grab onto him. he held you close, mocking you with a small laugh.
"you don't even try, do you? so fragile. let's get you somewhere soft. you can keep fainting then." you started sobbing while he carried you to your bed. he made you sit, and with his knees he parted your legs. "show me."
you lifted your skirt up and he bent down just to take a good look. "see? knew you liked it, doll. all wet f'me now. like a pervert."
warning: MDNI 18+!!, (?semi-) public sex, breeding, rough sex?, chasing, choking, unprotected sex, stalking, face holding, dacryphilia, daddy kink
A/N: listening to dollhouse while writing this btw 🎀
The idea had started as a joke. One careless comment while the two of you walked through the forest trails, hands intertwined.
“You know,” you start. “if you ever decided to become a serial killer, you’d be terrifying one.”
Dex glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“Why?”
“Because you’re weirdly good at sneaking up on people. But I think I would be able to run away from you.”
“Really? Want me to prove otherwise?” His expression didn’t change. The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You laughed anyway.
“Sure.” You say laughing but you obviously don’t mean it seriously. But apparently it was serious enough for Dex.
That was your first mistake. Dex stopped walking next to you, leaving your hand. You took another few steps before realizing he wasn’t beside you anymore.
Turning around, you found the trail empty. Dex no longer to be found, no movement no nothing.
A knot formed in your stomach.
“Dex?” You call out for him but he doesn’t answer. The forest suddenly felt much larger than it had a minute ago.
“Ha Ha. Very funny.” You rolled your eyes but still nothing.
Then, somewhere off to your right, a branch snapped. You spin toward the sound but there was no one. The undergrowth swayed slightly before becoming still again. Your pulse now kicking up.
“Dex? Come on, stop. You proved your point.”
A shadow moved between two trees ahead. Gone before you could focus on it. You started walking a little faster. Every instinct told you he was nearby. He is somewhere watching you and waiting.
You can’t see him, but somehow that made it worse. Because Dex isn’t the kind of person who rushed things. He observes, calculates and then makes a move. He probably enjoys how lost and slightly scared you look.
The forest seems full of him. Every rustle of leaves made your head turn. Every shifting shadow looked like a figure standing just out of sight.
Then you caught a glimpse of him, far off to your left. Motionless between the trees. His dark jacket blends into the shadows but his eyes are fixed on you. He is watching you.
The moment you looked directly at him, he stepped behind a tree and vanished.
“Hell no.” You immediately broke into a run. Panic escapes and you could swear you felt your adrenal glands release adrenaline into your bloodstream, triggering the fight-or-flight response.
The trail started to blur beneath your feet as you sprinted through the woods. For several seconds there was nothing behind you.
No footsteps. No sound. Nothing.
And maybe this should scare you because Dex is still not chasing you. He is letting you think you have a chance to escape him. He wants you to think that you can actually out-smart him.
But then you hear it, the unmistakable sound of someone moving fast through the tree.
You risk a glance over your shoulder and this was a big mistake. Because now you see him. And he doesn’t look like he’s struggling to keep up with you. Just gaining on you with terrifying ease. His focus only on you. The sight alone makes your heart beat even faster than before and you’re suddenly able to run faster than before.
Every obstacle, every root and fallen branch, seems invisible to him. He moves like he’d already predicted exactly where you were going.
“Dex!” The grin on his face is an answer enough.
You push yourself harder. The distance between you barely changed. Instead, the distance started shrinking.
You feel his presence before he touched you. In a rush of a moment, you feel his strong arms warp around your waist. You let out a yelp as he tackles you both into a patch of leaves. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs.
Before you could recover, Dex had already pinned you beneath him. His breathing steady despite the chase. You, on the other hand, were taking deep breaths.
“You really think you could run from me?” The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
You stared up at him, still trying to catch your breath. “You’re insane.”
“You ran.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Because you were stalking me through the woods like a psychopath.”
“I wasn’t stalking you baby. I was just observing you.” Dex replies while holding deep eye contact with you and you see how his eyes are filled with lust. His eyes undressing you and his mind creating unholy scenarios about you. His gaze flicked around the forest as if he was only just noticing.
Leaves clung to both of you. Your hair was a mess. There was probably dirt on your face and somehow he still looked completely focused on you. As if nothing else existed.
The energy from the chase had faded into something more intimate. Something that made your pulse race for entirely different reasons.
His gaze dropped to your lips and you’re trying so hard to stay focused. You’re trying do hard to push the naughty thoughts away because you’re still in the forest. Anyone could walk by and see you. But, fuck, you also need him so bad right now, you can’t wait until you’re back home.
“Dex.” you whispered. He didn’t answer.
Instead, he leans closer. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. Slow enough that the anticipation becomes almost unbearable.
His lips finally meet yours, it was gentle at first. But that doesn’t last long. Gentle never lasts that long with Dex.
The kiss turns into something passionate and intense, both of you trying to assert dominance. But you know damn well you won’t succeed. It’s impossible.
You smiled against the kiss, feeling him pause in brief confusion before he kissed you again. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek.
You open your mouth for him to enter push his tongue inside and make contact with your tongue. The kiss now turns into something messy, it sends heat traveling down your body.
Dex breaks away from the kiss and the only thing that still connects your lips with his is the saliva string between you.
His hungry eyes are still focused on you and his hands move towards your jeans. He unbuttons them slowly, ripping them off of you now along with your panties. He removes his jeans low enough only for his hard cock to spring free and slap against his lower stomach, pre cum already leaking from his tip.
Dex starts playing with your clit but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of pushing his fingers inside you. “Cmon baby. Already this wet for me, think you can do more than that hm?”
His fingers now picking up the speed as he rubs his two fingers against your clit. Your back aching now and you feel your needy pussy pulsing underneath you. You close your eyes at the feeling but that only causes Dex to harshly grab your face with the same fingers he used to rub your clit.
“Don’t you even dare to look away.” Dex warns you before pushing your face away. You do as he says and now watch him spread your legs wide open until he found the perfect position. Now, he’s standing just between your legs, pussy in the open for him and begging to feel his big veiny cock.
“It will only hurt for a second, take a deep breath baby.”
You do as he says and take a deep breath. In the meantime you feel his cock slowly entering your needy cunt, spreading your walls around him. You don’t dare to close your eyes.
He starts moving now, sending deep thrusts inside your wet pussy, hips grinding into you.
Eventually, you feel him picking up the speed. His thrusts become faster and rougher each time. You feel with each time he’s gliding into you how his tip is sweetly abusing your cervix.
Each time he catches you almost closing your eyes he would grab your face and force you to look at him roughly fucking you.
“Look at yourself. You’re doing so good baby.”
“Dex hmph-” You moan his name.
His veiny hands now release your face and instead finds their way around your throat. The view alone made his cock twitch inside you.
He pounds his hips into you. You let out a whine, digging you teeth into your lower lips.
“Such a pretty mess. Hmph- Taking my cock like a good fucking girl. Let me hear you baby.”
“Daddy-” You softly moan which causes Dex to laugh and shake his head. How do you plan on looking at your father’s face after calling Dex daddy on multiple occasion.
“Yeah? Does hmph Daddy’s cock make you struggle mh?”
And as if it wasn’t already overstimulating you, you feel his other free hand move down your body, fingers now simultaneously rubbing against your clit while he is still fucking you roughly. The feeling too overwhelming for you and you feel tears building in your eyes and a sob escapes from you.
“Awww why are you crying?” Dex mocks you with a smirk on his ridiculous handsome face. “Such a mess for me. Such a mess for Daddy.”
As hot tears fall down your eyes, you can feel Dex’s cock twitch inside you at the sight of you crying because of him. It turns him on seeing you with your mouth hang open, you being a crying mess, skin mapped with goosebumps and looking disheveled.
You start clenching around him now, squeezing around his cock which makes it a little harder for him to thrust. Dex whimpers at the feeling.
It starts getting harder for you once you feel yourself holding onto the edge. The urge to cum getting harder to ignore now.
“Please, I need to-” Dex cuts you off before you can finish your sentence.
“I know I know. Think you can hold it in a little longer? I’m almost there.”
“Please, Please Please Daddy let me-.”
“I said hold it in a little longer.” He warns you immediately, voice dangerously low. You cry quietly and shut up, not wanting to anger him again.
After a while, you feel his thrusts become sloppy and his cock starts twitching inside you again. A desperate, pulling ache now forming inside him and the feeling to shoot his hot cum inside your pussy grows louder.
“I’m gonna cum inside you yeah? Fill you up real good.”
It doesn’t take him long until he quivers with the release, painting your walls white with his warm cum. A few seconds later you feel the shockwaves of pleasure wash over you and you cum hard enough to force Dex slightly out of you.
He smiles go himself and pulls out of you, letting himself fall next to you. Both of you taking heavy breaths now.
The warm mixed cum slowly escaping from your pussy catches your attention and the feeling makes you feel a little dizzy.
Dex slowly lifts himself up before kissing your tears stained face, distracting you a little before he pushed the mixture of your releases up inside your pussy again with his two fingers. You gasp at the contact.
“Learned your lesson, baby? You can’t escape from me.”
@poindextersgirlforever @joolapopola @weallhaveadestiny @pearlvirag @angelz-twinstars @mskingbeann Finally finished writing this thanks to you guys xx 🫶🏻
thinking about putting a facemask on rafe rn. (smut 18+ mdni)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
he was sitting on your vanity chair, resting against your fluffy white blanket that was draped over the back of it. he insisted that if he was going to let you put a face mask on him that he needed to be as close to you as he could.
so, thats how you ended up with your face inches away from your boyfriend, your legs straddling his body as he looked up at you dazed.
"rafe, stop moving. i'm gonna mess it up!" you voiced as he kept wriggling under you while you were painting the pink rose mask over his forehead "yeah? can't help what you do to me baby, sitting on top of me like this" the smirk ever so present on his face. "you asked me to!" you unintentionally raised your hips as you whined, slamming back down on him unknowingly in frustration.
rafe let out a hearty groan, quickly grabbing your hips to halt your actions. "angel, if you really want to finish this mask thing, then you're gonna have to stop moving on me like that" you looked down at him, the contact with his only boxer clad crotch finally getting to you as you nodded. he watched intently at the way your eyes were now glazed over, how hard you were gripping the brush you used to apply the face mask with and how your hips were involuntary shifting above him.
he took this as his chance, slowly entering his ring and pointer finger in his mouth and getting them wet. you didn't notice this though, to busy with distracting your self with the mask application so you didn't accidentally grind on top of him more.
he slowly brought his hand to the top of your tiny sleeping shorts, little hearts decorating the fabric and a dainty pink bow resting in the middle of the cream coloured waistband. you were perfect, beautiful, amazing, soft and everything rafe could ever ask for, the mere thought of you could make him bust right there and then. he began to dip his hands into your shorts, inching them closer to your core.
your eyes immediately snapped down to your boyfriends veiny hand making its way to your centre, letting out a shaky breath. "rafey, what are you doing?" your voice was nothing louder than a whisper, any louder and you would let a moan slip out of your mouth.
he looked up at you innocently, brushing his unoccupied hand through your hair. "nothin' baby. just keep doin your thing, try not to get any in my eyes, yeah? wouldn't know what i'd do if i couldn't look at your pretty face everyday." you shakily nodded before rafe's voice echoed in your head about 'using your words' so you followed in up with a quiet "yes, rafe"
"atta' girl" he smirked, before looking down at your shorts again, his fingers now making contact with your heat. he began running his middle finger through your folds as his thumb made its way to your clit.
you gripped the makeup brush with your hand as your knuckles turned white, biting your lip so hard you were scared you were gonna draw blood. as you were running the green paste down his nose, you felt the first finger enter you.
he heard you gasp as he began pumping his finger in and out of your heat, starting slow before speeding up to a ruthless pace. you tried your best to focus on impressing rafe with how perfect your mask applications skills were, but the second his second finger entered you, you were done for.
he groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, struggling to fit both his fingers into you. "shit baby, you're so fucking tight, pussy gripping my fingers like a fuckin' vice."
you whimpered at his words, finally abandoning the brush as you dug your nails into his shirtless back. he grinned up at you as your head buried into his neck, proud he made you incapable of finishing the task he so did not want you to complete.
"r-rafe, g-gonna cum" you moaned "cmon pretty girl, let it all go"
he heard you let out one last gasp before he felt you spasm around his fingers, breathing loudly into his neck. he slowly changed the pace of his fingers, working you through your orgasm before removing his fingers from inside of you.
he chuckled at how dazed you looked from him, rubbing your back with his hand softly.
he took the chance of your tired out state to take a glance at himself in the mirror. "hey! i look so pretty" he exclaimed, reaching his finger up to touch the wet light pink paste on his face.
How would sugar daddy Rafe react if he was having a formal dinner party/meeting with his investors and reader came stumbling in from a night out?🫣
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: sugar daddy!Rafe Cameron x bratty!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 18+, minors dni, daddy kink, sugar daddy x baby relationship except they’re also actually in a relationship, age gap (Rafe is in early-mid 30s, reader is in early 20s), MAJORRR misogyny and sexism, objectification, babying, super condescending, SEXIST RAFE!, touching, fondling, inebriation, I think that’s it.
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe’s having a business meeting and you decide to interrupt...
𝘼/𝙉: another surprise little drabble! I love writing these two, let me know what you think!
“Hiiiiii baby, I missed you soooo much!”
You should know better. And maybe if you weren’t drunk, you would’ve known better. You would’ve known that the door to the formal drawing room was shut for a reason. You would’ve known he had company. Important company. You would’ve known to keep yourself scarce from adult matters.
But you didn’t.
Rafe’s jaw tenses as you stumble into the room in a cloud of sexy perfume and the clickity clack of your heels against the polished wood flooring. He tries to keep his cool, watching closely as his associates’ eyes land on you. They were both potential investors on a new development deal he was trying to close. They’re completely distracted by you now though, eyes glued as you skip drunkenly across the grand room.
“Rafeeee,” you squeal, as if you haven’t seen him in decades. You stumble into his lap, in this insane little lace dress that barely covers your body. See through fabric, low cut neckline. Rafe wonders how he ever agreed to buy you something so slutty.
His hand automatically presses against the small of your back, pushing you gently upright into a sitting position in his lap while also tugging your dress down before you expose your ass. He hears one of the men chuckle.
“Who’s this little rocket?”
“Baby, say hello to my friends.” Rafe tries to keep his voice level. Inside, he’s half furious yet half amused. You look cute and needy, touching up on him all prettily like you always did when you were drunk. But he’s also aware this perhaps isn’t the best look, his girl drunk and scantily clad in front of his two very old school guests.
Your blink at one of the men with your mascara-rimmed eyes, “I’m not a rocket, I’m his girlfriend.”
The guy chuckles, “Oh really? Well, it’s lovely to meet you, sweetheart. Rafe, that’s a pretty little thing you’ve got there.”
Rafe knows they’re looking at you with lust. Most men did. And he liked to show you off like the pretty arm candy you could be. Especially if it helped close deals as important as this one.
“Yeah, she’s great.” Rafe smirks, tapping your butt lightly, “Say thank you, baby. He just gave you a compliment.”
You look like you couldn’t care less, too busy running your freshly manicured nails up and down the lapels of his jacket while you made yourself comfortable on his lap, “Thanks,” you say dismissively, barely looking at the guy before batting your eyelashes at Rafe, “Could you put me to bed, daddy?”
Booming laughs echo across the room. Rafe wants to roll his eyes but he’s also getting hard at how innocent you sound. You were a brat through and through, and yet so cute and needy when you were drunk. That was half the reason he still allowed you to go out partying like this sometimes. Well, it was more like an ongoing game between the two of you. He’d “forbid” you from going out, you’d sneak out anyways, he’d proceed to fuck the living daylights out of you to tame you for the next couple weeks. Rinse and repeat.
Rafe snorts, “I’m busy right now. And you know you’re not allowed in here when I’m working.”
You pout, all glittery makeup and shiny cheeks. Smelling like some fruity pink cocktail that you’ve probably had one too many of. Arms wind around his neck, “But that’s unfairrrr.”
One of the men smirks, “You spoil this little princess rotten, don’t you?”
They both look like they’re about to start drooling any second. What with how you’re completely unaware of how your tits are almost spilling out of your dress, making your cleavage look incredible. Not to mention you smelled so irresistibly sweet like candy, mixed with something else. Something so fucking sexy, he almost has to adjust himself in his pants.
“Rafey, please,” you frown cutely, pressing kisses on his jaw, “can’t sleep without you.”
“Need him to read you a bedtime story, honey?” One of the men guffaws. Rafe eyes him warily, not missing how he and the other one both stare at you with an envious kind of lust. It makes him feel powerful, knowing that to men like them, women are nothing more than currency and a pretty ornament to decorate a man’s lap.
Rafe can’t entirely disagree with that.
“She gets needy when she’s drunk,” He chuckles, squeezing your ass then grabbing your chin to make you stop kissing him, “Baby, I’ll tuck you in when I’m done working.”
“No, now!”
He looks at you sternly, and despite your inebriated state you lower your gaze. Like you know you’re pushing it. Like you know exactly what he’s capable of if you take it too far and it’s no longer all fun and games. He feeds you his thumb, lets you suck on it to calm yourself down from whatever tantrum you were on the verge of throwing. His bratty little girl, always throwing tantrums, always working yourself up. But he could control you when he needed to. And his guests can see that too.
You sit quiet and pretty on his lap from that point onwards. Like a good little doll, letting him fondle and touch you every now and then while he casually talks to his associates. Squeezing your ass, your hip, playing with your fingers. Stroking your bare thigh, fingering the lacy strap of your dress which keeps slipping down your shoulder. And you let him. In fact, you snuggle up into him even more, wrapping yourself around him like a koala. Sucking on his thumb like a baby and it’s getting him so fucking hard.
“She do that a lot?” One of the men asks, transfixed at the sight.
Rafe smirks, “She does whatever I want her to.” He removes his thumb from your mouth and you whine drunkenly, “don’t you, baby?”
“Yeah.”
Fuck, he gets off on the power he has over you. His spoiled little princess, who got whatever she wanted so long as she did whatever he wanted. And he bets he could make you do anything if he wanted to. Give him a fucking lap dance in front of both these fucking men, or let him fuck you in front of them too. Casually, his hand slips up to play with your tits, brazenly cupping one through the sorry material of your dress. Just because he can. He smiles when you suck your breath in harshly, and yet you don’t dare push his hand off. You knew all too well what would happen if you did. And And
They continue talking business, Rafe sipping his whisky while he keeps you steady in his lap. He knows he’s giving these men a show, knows they’d go home tonight to their average wives who weren’t even one percent as hot as you. Rafe had you, owned you. And they were all envious of him. Goddamned rocket was right, you were a fucking firecracker and you were all his.
Fucking you tonight would be a great reward for the deal he’s about to close.
Finally, the old fucks get up to leave after accepting the deal and shaking on it.
“We should head out. Can’t keep this sweetheart waiting for too long, can we honey?” One of them asks you.
You blink sleepily, cuddling even more into Rafe because suddenly you’ve decided you were shy. It amuses him no end.
“You should bring her to the club next time. While we play golf.”
That grabs your attention, and you tug at Rafe’s collar, batting your lashes up at him cutely, “I like the cute golf outfits. Will you buy me one, dada?”
“If you’re good,” Rafe taps your cheek condescendingly, knowing full well his card details were saved on your phone and you could buy whatever you wanted without having to ask him ever. “Now say goodbye to my guests.”
You do, albeit begrudgingly. They don’t seem bothered, in fact they look downright charmed.
“Don’t have too much fun tonight, Rafe.”
He leaves you on his armchair while he sees the men out. When he returns, you’re half asleep. Looking every bit as cute and sexy as always. Fuck, he just wants to devour you for how slutty you’d acted tonight.
Your eyes flutter open, and you immediately make grabby hands at him. Gone from being bratty to needy in record time.
“Daddy, bed please.” You smile sweetly up at him, a smug satisfaction in your eyes now that the men were finally gone and you knew he could shift all his attention on to you.”
“You’re a goddamn piece of work, you know that?”
You pout, making grabby hands at him till he scoops you up into his arms. Then squeal when he throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, slapping your ass hard multiple times.
“Don’t worry, baby. I won’t bruise you up too bad. Gotta take you to the country club tomorrow, show you off a bit more.” He squeezes your tender ass, it’s bare because your tiny dress has ridden all the way up. “But you’re still in for it tonight.”
yeah so… I don’t even know!!! let me know what you think y’all 😭😭😭 reblogs and comments mean everything!!! 💞
your boyfriend, dex, comes home covered in blood after violently slaughtering police officers at a nearby diner.
ᯓ tags│blowjob, cowgirl, creampie, overstimulation, petnames, very detailed imagine of dex's chest and abs!!!│word count: 3k
you sat cross-legged on the couch, sunlight spilling through the windows and filling the apartment with a soft golden glow. though you hadn't turned a page in several minutes, a book was on your lap. every so often, your gaze drifted toward the front door before returning to the same line you'd been trying to read.
the afternoon seemed to drag on endlessly. you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the book's cover, listening to the distant sounds of the city outside. dex had said he'd be back later, and while you weren't exactly worried, you couldn't deny the small spark of anticipation that settled in your chest whenever you imagined hearing the door open and seeing him walk inside.
the sound of a key turning in the lock immediately pulled your attention away from the book. before the door had even fully opened, you were already setting it aside and getting to your feet. a moment later, dex stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket as he closed the door behind him. his eyes found yours almost instantly, and something in his expression softened.
"finally," you muttered, unable to hide your smile.
you crossed the room in a few quick steps and wrapped your arms around him. for a second he seemed caught off guard, but then his arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer against him. the familiar warmth of him made the apartment feel complete again.
dex rested his chin lightly on top of your head and let out a quiet breath. "I missed you," he said, his voice lower than usual.
a smile tugged at your lips as you held onto him. "you were only gone a few hours."
"still," he replied, giving you a small squeeze. "missed you anyway." for a rare moment, he didn't seem eager to let go, content to stand there with you in the middle of the apartment as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows.
as you pulled back slightly, your smile faded. now that you were looking at him properly, he didn't seem quite as put together as he usually did. there was a faint stain on the sleeve of his jacket, dark against the fabric, and a small scrape near his knuckles that definitely hadn't been there earlier. his hair was a little messier than usual.
your brows furrowed. "dex?"
"hmm?" he looked down at you.
"what happened?" your eyes flicked to the mark on his sleeve. "are you hurt?"
for a moment, his expression became unreadable. then he glanced away and shrugged out of his jacket as if it were nothing. "forget about it."
"dex-"
"I'm fine," he interrupted calmly, setting the jacket aside. when he looked back at you, his face had already smoothed into something reassuring. "don't worry about it." he reached out and brushed a hand against your arm, gently steering your attention away from the subject.
you studied him for a long second, not fully convinced - but dex always had that effect. the way he could look at you like everything was okay, even when it clearly wasn’t. still, you didn’t push. instead, without warning, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
it started soft - just your lips meeting his. but the second he responded with a quiet hum in his throat and his hands slid to your hips, it deepened fast. his mouth moved against yours with careful pressure at first.
then one hand crept up to cradle the back of your neck and suddenly he was kissing deeper: warm breath mingling between open mouths; teeth catching lightly on lower lips before soothing again with slow licks.
your fingers twisted into the fabric of his tight shirt - still tucked neatly under his belt and tugged, pulling him closer like you couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. dex made another soft sound against your mouth and this time gave in completely.
dex’s lips finally left yours when he felt your hands playing with his shirt. he broke the kiss just enough to tilt his head back slightly, giving you room, his chest rising fast beneath the bloody fabric.
you worked quickly, fingers unsteady but determined. you pulled it over his head, letting it fall behind him onto the floor.
the sunlight caught every ridge of muscle across his torso - broad shoulders tapering down into a chest covered in scars. you noticed that thin trail of hair leading downward under his waistband - but what stood out most were his abs.
perfectly defined - a six-pack, hard lines forming each defined rectangle; deep grooves between them where shadows pooled from angled light; all leading naturally to that strong V-shape at hips disappearing into pants still zipped tightly around narrow waist.
without thinking twice, your palms flattened against him immediately - fingers splaying wide over warm skin as they traced upward along sculpted muscle.
his hands slid up your back beneath the loose cotton sweater you’d thrown on earlier, palms warm through the thin material. when they found bare skin at your waist, a shiver ran through both of you. he noticed you weren't wearing anything underneath.
"were you waitin' for me, baby?" he let out a breathy chuckle against your lips. another messy kiss - less controlled, more urgent. lips parted wider; breaths came faster.
your hands roamed over his bare chest - thumbs brushing the hard lines of his abs, feeling how firm and warm they were under your touch. you leaned in again, but this time didn’t go for his mouth. instead, your lips found the side of dex’s neck - softly plantinh a light kiss just below his jawline, slow trail down along the column of his throat where you could feel him swallow hard as your breath ghosted over sensitive skin there. dex tensed slightly - not from discomfort but intensity. he wasn't used to being kissed like this.
his ears burned red before anything else even happened - the tips turning pink fast as nervous energy buzzed through him despite how much he was enjoying it. he stayed very still otherwise, barely breathing too loud, just letting you explore while fingers curled slightly against your arms.
your lips kept descending - lower, lower - until they reached the top of dex’s chest. you kissed him there, right over his collarbone first, slow and lingering, then along the slope where shoulder met pec.
each kiss was soft but deliberate - a warm press of your mouth that left behind a faint flush on his skin. dex exhaled shakily as more kisses rained down. when you finally reached his nipples, he actually flinched and sucked in a quiet breath through clenched teeth.
they were small and flat normally under fabric, but now exposed to air - each one tightened instantly into hard little peaks at attention. you didn’t hesitate; gently circling one with your tongue before pressing an open-mouthed kiss right over it - testing how he’d react.
dex's hands shot up almost unconsciously. fingers tangling lightly in your hair like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or push away because this felt too much all at once. "careful, sweetheart" he warned.
before things went any further, your hands roamed back up dex’s torso - this time with purpose. you cupped his chest firmly, thumbs brushing over the tight muscle there. his chest was broad, lean and bulky.
and then you squeezed again not rough but definite, palms pressing into warm skin like you were memorizing the shape of him. dex exhaled sharply through his nose; low groan leaving his lips before he could stop it.
his nipples stayed peaked from earlier attention and now as your fingers drifted closer to them, they stiffened even more. he bit lightly on bottom lip to keep quiet, trying not move too much or react obviously but failing slightly because damn he felt good.
you leaned down and pressed another kiss right over his heart - then looked up at him through your lashes, a small smile playing on your lips.
"you're so hot," you murmured, voice low and sincere.
dex blinked. for someone who usually kept his emotions locked tight, this kind of direct affection undid him every time. he didn’t know how to respond with words - so instead, the corners of his mouth twitched into something flustered but undeniably pleased.
"shut up," without thinking, dex tilted forward suddenly - closing distance fast. dex’s lips crashed into yours, sudden, hungry, and messy with emotion. no grace or technique this time; just raw need. his hands flew up to cradle your face as he kissed you hard - mouth warm and slightly desperate like he’d been holding back all afternoon.
his thumbs brushed your cheekbones while the kiss deepened: tongues meeting again almost instantly; teeth clashing once before adjusting angles to fit better.
then you continued trailing kisses back down dex’s chest, slow, worshipful, each one softer than the last. over his sternum, across abs, lower as your eyes flicked up to meet his as you hovered near the waistband of his pants.
dex stared down at you - dark eyes wide and unblinking. lips slightly parted; chest rising fast under your gaze. no teasing smirk or cool remark this time, just pure anticipation burning in that quiet intensity he always carried.
then without breaking eye contact, you slowly sank to your knees on the floor. you hooked your fingers into the waistband of dex’s trousers and so slowly pushed them down.
fabric slid over his hips, then thighs - revealing more of that toned body beneath: lean legs covered in faint hair, strong calves. everything perfectly proportioned.
now he was just in boxers, a simple black pair hugging narrow waist and you could see everything: how defined and hard he was; how every muscle moved when he breathed.
you slowly tugged the fabric down as the boxers slipped past his thighs - now dex was fully exposed. sunlight spilled over him, painting golden streaks across pale skin. he didn’t flinch or cover himself - just stood there, completely bare from the waist down now, breathing a little faster than normal.
the moment your lips made contact to his tip, dex’s fingers immediately tangled rough and firm as he needed something to hold onto as the sensation overwhelmed him completely. his breath came out in a shaky exhale above you; head tilting back slightly without realizing it while his hips gave the tiniest involuntary twitch forward.
"fuck" he cursed. you looked up at him with eyes filled with lust as dex stared down at you hypnotized.
you took him deeper then, warm mouth working carefully and that’s when his grip tightened just a little: not pushing or forcing yet, just holding, knuckles whitening where they curled against strands of your hair.
every slow suck drew another response from him: shallow breaths turning uneven; thighs tensing under smooth skin; pulse hammering wildly at temples and wrists both.
you kept going - mouth warm and wet around him, lips sliding with careful pressure. each movement was deliberate: soft suction pulling gently, tongue swirling just right in ways that made dex’s knees actually tremble for a second. you took your time, just savoring the taste of him.
you adjusted your rhythm - sucking a little deeper this time, then slowing to tease with just the tip of your tongue tracing along sensitive skin. dex’s whole body tensed. his thighs locked. his stomach muscles tightened like he was bracing for impact.
dex’s control snapped. his hands tightened in your hair, he gently guided your head forward. dex’s breath left him all at once like someone punched air from lungs. eyes fluttered shut for a second; back arched faintly without meaning to, hips forward.
"please don't stop." he whispered.
the next push was firmer, more deliberate. you didn’t resist - just adjusted, letting him guide while keeping pace. dex was taking deep breaths through parted lips above you; eyes shut tight; expression completely unraveled into pure pleasure.
"fuck, sweetheart"
his breathing turned ragged - short, quick inhales through his nose between clenched teeth. every muscle in dex’s body tensed: stomach tight; shoulders rigid; thighs trembling slightly where he stood on the floor.
he was close. so close it bordered on painful. each harsh rock of his hips became more urgent without meaning to be. rough and desperate, every instinct was screaming at him to chase this feeling harder.
dex’s head fell back slightly, eyes squeezing shut. his hips jerked forward, a choked sound escaped him - low, broken, his whole body tensing like a bowstring about to snap. eyes squeezed shut; mouth slightly open as the wave hit.
warmth flooded through him. the air was thick with quiet, heavy breathing as dex slowly came down - dazed, boneless, his chest rising and falling.
You stayed where you were on your knees in front of him, gently kissing the soft skin just above his hipbone as you took all of what remained from him into your mouth without hesitation. you swallowed without breaking eye contact.
you rose to your feet in one smooth motion, still warm from everything that just happened. before dex could even catch his breath fully, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down into a hard kiss.
your lips were firm against his; demanding and possessive as you backed him gently toward the couch without breaking contact. one hand stayed fisted on his bicep while the other slid up to cup his jaw, tilting it so you could deepen the kiss further. tongues tangled messily, sloppy with passion.
dex felt it the shift in your body heat as you straddled him. the way you pressed down against his bare thighs with unmistakable need. his breath hitched mid-kiss. his hands flew to your hips now, big palms spanning nearly all of them and he gripped tight as you grinded.
a low groan rumbled from his chest into the kiss; one hand slid up under fabric while his hips jerked upward slightly to meet yours better - helping create friction where you needed it most.
dex didn’t hesitate. in one smooth motion, his hands slid down to your waist - fingers hooking under the edge of your panties and pushed them aside just enough.
then he lifted you slightly, helping guide you into position as you settled over him again, this time with no layers of clothes left. both of you gasped.
"oh my god," your head and eyes rolled backwards, your body arching into him. a quiet moan slipped from him, eyes fluttering shut at sensation, arms tightening around your back.
you started moving fast - no gentle rocking. no slow rhythm. just desperately riding him hard: hips lifting and dropping with purpose, each motion sharp and deliberate as you chased your own pleasure.
"yeah, use me, pretty girl, "dex’s head fell back against the couch instantly, "fuck- just like that" eyes wide for a split second before squeezing shut again from sheer overstimulation.
his hands locked onto your waist with firm grip and helped lifting you up and down. meeting every downward grind with an upward thrust of his hips, matching your pace despite how much sensation was flooding through him.
a quiet string of shaky breaths left his lips between clenched teeth; jaw tight from focusing on keeping up. the couch creaked faintly under your movements.
each time you came down, dex’s breath hitched audibly; each rise had him gripping tighter like he needed to feel you there, real and close. his abs flexed with every upward push of hips to meet yours.
"can't last any longer, sweetheart" the way his body responded betrayed him, pulse racing. pupils blown wide, staring at your tits going up and down aggressively.
"dex, dex, dex, fuuuck, I'm close"you could feel it building. tight coil of pleasure winding higher and higher with every movement. without warning your body tensed, eyes fluttering shut, hips stuttering for half a second before your walls fluttered around him.
wave crashed over you hard, pleasure so intense it almost hurt but in the best way possible. your muscles locked; fingers dug into dex’s shoulders as everything focused on that single point of overwhelming sensation.
dex felt his own control snap again too, even after cumming once already, the rhythm and heat from your climax pushed him right to edge. and a few seconds later he was falling apart beneath you: back arching slightly off couch as release hit him fast and fierce despite exhaustion creeping in at edges.
dex came with a quiet, shuddering breath, just a deep exhale as his body went completely pliant beneath you. warmth spread between you both, intimate and close as he stayed buried inside for those long, lazy seconds after, not pulling away.
your arms wrapped around his shoulders; face nuzzling into the crook of his neck where skin was warm and sweaty. his cock slowly softened inside you as he pressed soft kisses along your shoulder.
you leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow this time. lips met gently; a quiet press of warmth that lingered before pulling back slightly then doing it again like you couldn’t stop kissing him.
his hand moved slowly along your side as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “you’re too good to me, y’know that?” he murmured. his grip tightened slightly, protective and warm. “don’t know how I got so lucky.”
you smiled against him, and he let out a quiet laugh before resting his cheek on your hair. “seriously,” he said softly, his voice gentler than usual. he pulled you even closer, content just to sit there with you in his arms.
everyone say thank you @bullseyesxgirl for this amazing idea!!!!
disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ slight angst. slight fluff. implied age gap. NONCON. drugging. somnophilia. yandere themes. oral (f!receiving). spit. Dex is a delusional pervert but wbk. thighfucking. pwp. MDNI
pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Yan!Benjamin Poindexter x fem!reader
a/n*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So this is set in the same universe as my fic, Devil in Disguise though it is set a bit before it. Comment, Like and Reblog
Dex was settling into the familiar rhythm of his nightly routine—the kind of ritual that kept the chaos at bay. Dinner was eaten at the right time, finished without delay. He washed the plates with methodical care, wiped each one dry and placed them back in their exact spots. Everything had to be perfect. His eyes swept across the living room, scanning for anything out of place. It was, as always, immaculate.
He walked toward the wall to switch off the lights when he heard it—a small, muffled thud. Not against his door but the one next to his. Then another. Dex paused, listening. The sound was soft but insistent, like something—or someone—knocking rhythmically from the other side of the wall. He opened his door and saw her: Y/n, his neighbour.
She had moved in a few months ago, a young law graduate with a smile that seemed to carry its own warmth. They had developed a friendship of sorts—casual, unspoken, but present. On her first day, she had knocked on his door with a plate of homemade cookies, calling it a “first impression offering.” Dex had accepted them without saying much but he remembered the way she laughed when he muttered a stiff thank you. She was sweet. Warm. There was a natural gravity to her that pulled Dex in without effort, without warning.
There was something about her that felt untouched by the darker corners of the world—something pure and kind in a way that made Dex both trust her and keep his distance. Just the other day, she had brought him dinner, claiming she’d “cooked too much.” But Dex knew better. The portion was perfect. The ingredients were good—expensive, even. The cooking itself felt deliberate, almost tender. It wasn’t leftovers. It was a gift wrapped in a sweet lie and he had accepted it anyway.
He had noticed her on his morning runs, too. She was always kind to the street vendors, patient with the elderly, gentle with stray animals. Once, he saw her hold her umbrella over a dog tied to a leash outside a supermarket, standing there in the rain until the owner came back. Dex hadn’t meant to follow her. That’s what he told himself, at least. It was just a coincidence that he happened to see her on his morning runs. Never mind that he started lacing up his running shoes the second he heard her door click shut. Never mind that he mentally tracked which days she went grocery shopping and suddenly found himself in need of eggs and bread.
He was good, though. He kept his distance. He didn’t make things obvious. He had his north star—someone he’d found years ago, back when he was barely holding on, at a suicide helpline. Julie. Her existence had been the anchor in his worst nights. But lately, something had shifted. The compulsive pull to reach out to her had begun to fade. Sure, he had still visited Julie a couple of times over the past few weeks, but it was different now. Less desperate. More like checking in on an old lifeline rather than clinging to it.
Maybe things were finally looking up.
The past weeks had been rough—Fisk was out again and that alone was enough to tighten the screws on Dex’s composure. But even so, he had managed to make it home every other night. The walls in his apartment were thin in places and through one particular seam in the plaster, he could hear her humming from the other side. It was sweet. Calming. As if that small, quiet sound could set things right in the world or at least in Dex’s.
“Y/n?”
Dex stepped out cautiously into the dim hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The overhead light was flickering again—it had been for weeks—but even in that unsteady glow, he could see her clearly. Y/n was wearing clothes he had never seen on her before. A silvery dress that would have sat just above her knees if it hadn’t ridden up her thighs, clinging to her like second skin. Fishnets ran the length of her legs, one strap of her dress slipping carelessly off her shoulder. Her hair was dishevelled, falling in tangled waves around her face and her makeup—usually so neat, so controlled—had smeared across her cheeks and eyelids like watercolour in the rain.
She had gone clubbing. That much was obvious.
Dex hadn’t pegged her as the type. She always seemed so steady, so warm in that quiet, domestic way. But she was young. It made sense. And yet, seeing her like this—vulnerable, unguarded—stirred something unfamiliar in his chest. Not judgment. Not concern, exactly. Something softer. More dangerous.
“Dex?” Y/n slurred, her voice thick and slow. Her eyes squinted hard, as if trying to focus on him through a blurred, spinning daze. She pressed one hand flat against the wall and took a few wobbly steps in his direction, her heels clicking unevenly against the floor.
Dex watched her sway and immediately closed the distance between them. His hands hovered just above her sides—close enough to catch her if she fell, far enough to pretend he wasn’t touching her at all. He didn’t want to assume. Didn’t want to overstep. But the way her knees buckled slightly told him she was seconds away from collapsing.
“Hi,” she said and then she grinned—so wide her eyes squeezed shut, crinkling at the corners. There was something childlike in it, pure and sweet. She smelled of sweat and cheap alcohol and the faint floral perfume she always wore. It should have been off-putting. Dex didn’t care.
“Hello, Y/n,” he said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Had a fun night?”
“Uh huh.” She nodded enthusiastically, the motion making her stumble forward another step. He steadied her without thinking, his palm barely brushing her elbow. “So fun,” she added with a giggle, then her face fell into an exaggerated pout. “But you know… I can’t find my keys.”
Dex felt something warm uncurl in his chest. She looked so utterly ridiculous and so utterly adorable at the same time—her smeared eyeliner, her fallen strap, her bottom lip jutting out like a child denied dessert. His fingers twitched at his sides with the urge to reach out, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, to touch her properly for once. He didn’t.
Instead, he tilted his head toward the purse still dangling loosely from her arm. “Did you check your purse?”
“Of course I did.” Her indignation came out sharp and slurred all at once. “You think I’m a five-year-old?” She huffed and began digging through her bag with aggressive clumsiness, nearly dropping the contents out twice.
Even her anger was adorable. Dex smiled to himself and reached over. His fingers slipped past hers into the purse and came out with the keys in one smooth motion. The silver glinted under the flickering light.
Y/n stared at him as if he had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Her mouth fell open. “H-how did you—” she sputtered, her cheeks flushing pink beneath the smeared remnants of her makeup.
He held the keys up between them, jingling them once before unlocking the door and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself imagine what it might be like to be the person she came home to every night, “A good magician never reveals his tricks.”
Y/n huffed and stumbled past him into her apartment. She made it exactly six steps before collapsing onto the couch. “Collapsing” wasn’t quite right. Neither was “falling.” Sprawling was the word, though even that felt too graceful for what she’d just done. Her legs hooked over the backrest, her head dangled off the edge of the cushion, and her arms splayed out like a starfish washed ashore. Her dress had ridden up on her hips, but she didn’t seem to notice—or care.
“Thanks, Dex.” Her voice floated toward him, muffled by the couch cushions and her own exhaustion. “Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”
She threw up a peace sign without lifting her head, two fingers waggling vaguely in the air. It should have been ridiculous. It was. Dex stood in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, telling himself he should leave. This was her space. Her mess. Her night.
Against his better judgment—the same judgment that had failed him more times than he cared to count, Dex stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“Let’s get you to bed, hmm?” He kept his tone soft, unhurried. Like coaxing a stray cat out of the rain.
Y/n groaned in agreement, then swung her legs off the backrest with a clumsy flourish. She sat up, briefly, before her torso swayed like a tower of blocks in a light wind. “Hmm,” she murmured, her eyelids drooping. “Bed sounds nice.”
She tried to stand. Her knees buckled immediately. She tried again, planting both palms on the couch cushion and pushing upward with the determination of someone trying to lift a car. Her legs refused to cooperate entirely, folding beneath her like wet paper.
She looked up at Dex from her failed crouch, her bleary eyes wide and almost lucid for a moment. A sheepish expression crept across her smudged face—part embarrassment, part plea.
“Do you need help getting up, Y/n?” Dex asked carefully. He wasn’t sure if he was sparing her further embarrassment or adding to it just by asking. Either way, the question hung between them like a held breath.
“Yeah,” she whispered, then added something indistinct—something about her legs betraying her, about how she used to do gymnastics as a kid, about how this was humiliating. Most of it dissolved into mumbles.
Dex reached for her outstretched hands and pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled harder and for a terrible moment, he worried he might pop her arms out of their sockets like wings off a doll. She was heavier than she looked, or maybe just dead weight in a way that had nothing to do with mass.
So, he leaned closer. He slid his arms under her armpits—the same way you’d lift a child out of a shopping cart or pull someone from shallow water and hoisted her upward in one steady motion. Her body sagged against his for a brief second, warm and smelling of too many things at once, before he adjusted his grip.
“I’m not a child,” she whined, her forehead bumping against his shoulder. But she didn’t resist. Didn’t push away. Her fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt as if holding on to the last solid thing in a spinning room.
Dex carried her to her bedroom. Her legs dragged behind them like boulders, her bare feet skimming the floor, her heels abandoned somewhere in the living room. He nudged the bedroom door open with his hip and set her down on the edge of the bed as gently as he could manage—like placing a broken thing on a shelf, hoping it might hold together a little longer.
Her body was hunched forward, her head bowed low as if the weight of the night had finally settled on her shoulders. She wasn’t looking up. Her hands lay limp in her lap, fingers occasionally twitching like she was trying to remember how to move them. The dim light from her bedside lamp caught the curve of her cheek, the tangled mess of her hair, the small smudge of lipstick near her jaw he hadn’t noticed before.
Dex didn’t speak. He simply lowered himself to her level, bending one knee to the floor so his eyes could meet hers—or at least so she wouldn’t have to lift her head any higher than she already couldn’t manage. The carpet was scratchy beneath his knee, but he didn’t move.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sunshine?”
The nickname slipped out before he could stop it. He hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t rehearsed it. But it felt right in his mouth—warm, almost tender, like something he’d been holding back for weeks.
Y/n blinked at him, slow and dopey, and offered a sleepy smile. “Can you get me my night suit? It’s purple and has blue flowers on it.”
Dex nodded once and rose to his feet. He crossed the small bedroom toward the closet, his footsteps muffled by the scattered clothes and discarded shoes on the floor. When he pulled the closet door open, a faint sweet scent drifted out—something soft and floral, the kind of fragrance that clung to skin and sheets and memory. Tucked in the corner, he spotted a small wardrobe perfume packet, the kind meant to keep clothes smelling fresh. It smelled almost exactly like her perfume. Of course it did.
His hand moved before his mind could catch up.
His fingers traced over her clothes—blouses hung on thin velvet hangers, folded sweaters stacked neatly on a shelf, a few dresses she wore to work. He felt the softness of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, thinking back to seeing her in some of these. The cream-colored cardigan she’d worn the morning she brought him dinner. The green blouse she had on when she laughed so hard, she snorted. The grey hoodie she threw on for late-night grocery runs.
He opened the drawers next, searching for the night suit she’d described. And then his breath hitched.
It was her underwear drawer.
Most of them were cotton, simple and practical, in soft colours: blue, pink, yellow, lavender. Some had minimal patterns—tiny polka dots, thin stripes, a small bow stitched into the centre of the waistband. These were the kinds of things he might have expected. The kinds of things that felt safe to see.
But then his gaze drifted to the far end of the drawer.
Lace.
Delicate, intricate patterns in fabric so thin it was almost wispy. Sheer enough that looking at them felt like crossing a line he hadn’t known he was approaching. Blacks and deep reds and a shade of midnight blue that reminded him of the sky just before dawn. His fingers grazed the edge of one—lace cool and light against his skin and images flooded his mind before he could stop them.
Y/n was a beautiful woman. No doubt about that. She was young and sweet and her smile was as good as her figure. Dex didn’t mean to look. He swore he didn’t.
But how could he not?
How could he not notice when she knelt down to retrieve something from under the couch, her back arching just so, the hem of her dress riding up? How could he not notice when he was up on a ladder fixing something on her roof and she looked up at him, and from that angle, he could see straight down the loose neckline of her shirt? How could he not notice when he sat in the dark in his car some nights—watching, just watching, not stalking, he told himself—and she forgot to draw her curtains and started changing, her silhouette moving behind the glass like a story he wasn’t meant to read?
He didn’t mean to look. Truly.
But what could he do when she was offering so freely? She didn’t know she was offering. That was the problem. That was the part that gnawed at him late at night, the part that made him feel like something was rotting beneath his ribs. She was just living her life. And he was just watching.
“Did you find it?” Y/n called out from the bed, her voice sleepy and slurred.
Dex snapped back to the present like a man waking from a trance. His hand withdrew from the drawer as if burned. He spotted the purple night suit with blue flowers, folded neatly at the opposite end of the drawer, far from the lace and snatched it quickly. He didn’t look back at the rest. He couldn’t.
He walked back to the bed and placed the night suit gently on her lap, careful not to let his fingers linger.
“Here,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
“Thanks, Dexie,” Y/n muttered, her voice thick and drowsy. Her fingers found the straps of her silvery dress and began to push them down her shoulders without a second thought—casual, unguarded, as if he were furniture rather than a man standing three feet away.
“Whoa—Y/n.” Dex’s eyes went wide, his body jerking backward like he’d been shocked. His hands flew up to his face, palms pressing over his eyes with more force than necessary. He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He was trying not to look like a creep. “I’ll wait in the living room.”
Y/n responded with something unintelligible—a hum, a mumble, maybe the beginning of a protest that dissolved before it reached her lips. Dex didn’t wait to find out. He turned on his heel and walked out, closing the bedroom door behind him just enough to leave a sliver of deniability.
He stood in her living room, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. The clock on her wall ticked loudly. Somewhere in the building, a toilet flushed. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. Nothing like the thunderstorm happening inside his chest.
A few moments later, her voice floated through the crack in the door. “Dex?”
He straightened. “Yeah?”
A pause. Then, quieter. “Could you help me with the… thing? In the back.”
Dex closed his eyes for half a second, exhaled through his nose and walked back in.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him. Both straps of the dress had slid completely down. Her fishnets were gone—he spotted them crumpled on the floor near the foot of the bed. Her hair had been swept to one side, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the long stretch of her bare back.
The dress had a small decorative corset at the back—silver ribbons laced through fabric loops, purely for show, the kind of detail you added when you wanted something to look delicate. Beneath it, a zipper ran from the bottom of the corset down to the small of her back. The laces were half done. Or maybe she had simply given up.
Dex felt the urge immediately—a pull so physical it was almost painful. The desire to touch. To run his knuckles slowly down the ridge of her spine. To press his palm flat against her warm skin and feel the subtle shift of muscle beneath. To trace each vertebra like a promise.
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. But because he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk letting his urges show. Couldn’t risk shattering whatever fragile, unnamed thing had grown between them over these past few months—the cookies and the borrowed sugar, the dinners she claimed were accidents and the morning runs that absolutely were not.
So, Dex did what he had trained himself to do. He compartmentalized. He focused on the task. He worked the silver laces loose with careful, deliberate fingers, trying his hardest not to brush against her skin. The ribbons slid free one by one, and then he gripped the tiny zipper pull and drew it down in one slow, steady motion.
The zip ended right at the base of her back. Right where the curve of her spine met the gentle dip above her hips.
She had dimples there. Small, symmetrical indentations just above the curve of her backside. Soft. Deliberate. As if someone had pressed their thumbs into warm clay and left a permanent impression.
Dex stopped breathing.
His hands hovered in the air behind her, trembling almost imperceptibly. The urge surged again, hot and sharp and entirely unwelcome. He wanted to grab her waist. Wanted to press his thumbs directly into those dimples. Wanted to feel the way she might arch into him or pull away. And Y/n was a vocal person in general, he had noticed that months ago. She let out small squeaks and sounds whenever anything happened. When she dropped a spoon. When she stubbed her toe. When she reached for something on a high shelf. Simple things. Ordinary things. And so Dex found himself wondering—in the half second of silence before he pulled his hands away—what sort of sounds would she make if he pressed down on those dimples while buried deep inside her?
The thought arrived fully formed, devastating in its clarity.
He swallowed hard. Stepped back. Said nothing.
“Thanks, Dex,” she whispered, already pulling the nightshirt over her head and shimmying the dress down beneath it. The purple fabric with blue flowers swallowed her whole, hiding every inch of skin he had just been imagining.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” Dex said, rougher than he intended and didn’t really wait for a response.
He walked to her kitchen, the floor cool beneath his feet and stood at the sink with his hands braced against the counter. He filled a glass without really seeing it. His reflection in the dark kitchen window stared back at him—hollow-eyed and hungry, ravenous for something that had little to do with food.
In all honesty, he needed to get away. Horrible, sinful thoughts plagued his mind like locusts, devouring every quiet field of restraint he had spent years cultivating. He wanted her. Not in the soft, romantic way people wrote about in books. Not in the candlelight-and-whisper way. He wanted her the way a starving animal wanted a meal—messy and desperate and without grace.
He walked back from the kitchen, the glass of water cool and sweating in his hand, and handed it to Y/n. She took it with both palms, cradling it like a small animal, and drank half of it in one long, unsteady gulp. Water spilled down her chin but she didn’t seem to notice.
“You know, Dex?” she began, her voice quieter now, the earlier slur fading into something more worn. “Whenever I get drunk, for some reason I keep waking up in the night from weird dreams. At odd times. And then the fucking hangover the next day.” She let out a breath that was almost a laugh but not quite. “I hate it so much.”
There was something raw beneath her words—a weariness that wasn’t from the alcohol and had everything to do with the months before it. She gestured vaguely toward the vanity in the corner, where a packet of makeup wipes sat next to a tangle of hair ties and an empty coffee mug. Dex grabbed them without being asked and placed them within her reach.
In truth, Y/n hadn’t gone clubbing because it was something she particularly enjoyed. The noise. The crowds. The press of strangers’ bodies in the dark. None of it was really her. But her college friends had been in town, old faces, old memories, old versions of herself and she had joined them for a night out. Told herself she owed them that much. Told herself she owed herself a break.
Her brother Matt’s passing hadn’t been particularly easy on her. That was an understatement so vast it was almost insulting but she didn’t have better words for it. After all, he was the only family she had left. Some days, the grief arrived like a wave—predictable, crashing, receding. Other days, it was just there, a low hum beneath everything, the way you only notice the absence of silence when someone points it out. She had spent a lot of time moping. That was her word for it. Moping. When she wasn’t working, she was drifting through her apartment in old sweats, eating cereal for dinner, staring at walls. Foggy and Karen helped only so much. They meant well—they always meant well—but they had their own lives, their own grief, their own versions of Matt to carry.
Having Dex around was what really made the difference.
She hadn’t expected him. Hadn’t planned for him. He was just there one day, a quiet presence on the other side of the wall and then he was there at her door with a tool she’d asked to borrow and then he was there on the stairs with groceries and then he was just… there. Always there. A bright presence even on her dark days. Helping her with little things. Fixing her sink. Changing her lightbulbs. Noticing when she had looked down and showing up with something warm. He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t make her feel like a burden. He just existed in her orbit, steady and constant, like he had decided somewhere along the way that she was worth being near.
Sometimes, Y/n thought Dex felt like a guardian angel. Not the kind with harps and halos. The rougher kind. The kind that showed up with calloused hands and said very little but stayed when she needed someone to.
“I have chamomile tea,” Dex said, his voice pulling her back to the present. “It helps with sleep.”
Y/n looked up at him. Behind the lingering daze in her eyes, something else flickered—conflict. She had already taken so much from Dex. His time. His attention. His small kindnesses. She couldn’t ask for more. It wouldn’t be right. The thought sat heavy in her chest, guilt curdling beneath her ribs.
Dex saw it. He always saw it. And before she could open her mouth to refuse—to say something polite and self-denying about not wanting to be a bother—he spoke again.
“I’ll make some for you.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an offer. It was a statement, delivered with the quiet finality of someone who had already decided and wasn’t interested in debate. He turned and left before she could say anything.
Back in his apartment, Dex moved through the familiar motions with mechanical precision. He grabbed a clean cup from the cabinet, then a box of chamomile tea bags from the shelf beside the coffee canister. His kitchen was small and immaculate—everything in its place, no dishes in the sink, the counter wiped down to a shine. Order. Control. The only things he could reliably manage.
He brought everything to the kitchen table, poured hot water from the kettle into the cup and watched the tea bag steep. The liquid darkened slowly, amber bleeding into clear. Steam curled upward, fragrant and mild.
Given how much she had drunk, the tea alone probably wouldn’t be strong enough. Chamomile was gentle. Soothing, yes. But against the kind of hangover she was describing, the kind that came with fragmented sleep and strange dreams, it might not do much more than hydrate her.
His eyes drifted across the table to a small orange bottle. His sleeping pills. He had just gotten the prescription refilled yesterday. The bottle sat there, innocent and unassuming, a dozen small tablets inside waiting to do what they were designed to do.
Perhaps that would help?
The thought arrived quietly, almost reasonably. She said she struggled with sleep. The tea alone might not be enough. Just one pill crushed into the cup, she wouldn’t even taste it. She would sleep deeply. No weird dreams. No waking at odd hours. She would wake up groggy, maybe, but better than she would have otherwise. It would help her.
A voice in his head started to build the case, calm and logical and terribly persuasive.
He shut it down promptly.
No. He couldn’t. It wasn’t right. The words felt flimsy even as he thought them, but they were true. He wasn’t an animal. He couldn’t do something like this. Not to her. Not to Y/n. She trusted him. She didn’t know about the other things—the morning runs that weren’t coincidences, the nights spent watching her window, the drawer of lace he had no business opening. But she trusted the version of him she knew. The one who brought her tea and fixed her sink and had dinner with her.
That version of him would never drug her.
But it would help her. Didn’t she just say she struggles with sleep? Didn’t she look exhausted? Didn’t she deserve one night of real rest?
The voice returned, softer this time, almost gentle. Dex stared at the orange bottle. His hand hovered over the cup of tea, the chamomile scent rising around him like a question he didn’t want to answer.
Dex crossed the hallway with the cup, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into his palms. The door to Y/n’s apartment was still open, exactly as he had left it. Either she had been too tired to get up and close it, or some small, trusting part of her had left it ajar just for him.
He stepped inside and found her in the same spot as before, still perched on the edge of the bed. She hadn’t moved. Her shoulders were slumped, her bare feet pressed flat against the floor as if anchoring herself to something solid. She looked smaller somehow. Less like the warm, radiant woman who brought him cookies and more like someone who had been carrying something heavy for far too long.
Dex walked over and extended the cup toward her. Steam curled up between them, carrying the gentle, honeyed scent of chamomile.
“Something for your head,” he said quietly.
Y/n looked up at him, her eyes still glassy but softer now—less lost, more grateful. She wrapped her fingers around the cup and murmured a thank you that seemed to cost her nothing and everything all at once.
She lifted the cup to her lips and took a slow, careful sip.
The warmth spread through her immediately—not just in her throat or her chest, but deeper, like sunlight bleeding through frost. The chamomile was rich and soothing, a quiet contrast to the sharp, chemical burn of the alcohol she had been drinking all night. She could feel something in her begin to loosen. Not just her muscles, though they softened too. It was the weariness—not just of the day, but of the week, the month, the long and lonely stretch of months before that. The kind of exhaustion that lived in her bones, that she had stopped noticing because noticing would mean admitting how tired she really was.
And then, slowly, strangely, it began to dissolve. Not disappear entirely, nothing could do that, but fade into something lighter. A strange weightlessness, as if the tea had reached into her chest and untied a knot she didn’t even know she had been holding.
Her eyelids grew heavier. Her breathing slowed. She took another sip, then another, until the cup was nearly empty.
Dex watched her in silence. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He simply stood there, a few feet away, his presence steady and unfaltering. When she lowered the cup and let her hands fall into her lap, he stepped forward and gently took it from her. Their fingers brushed again. Neither of them acknowledged it.
“Close the door behind you when you leave,” Y/n said, her voice soft and drowsy, already half-muffled by the pillow she was turning toward. “I don’t really want to get up.”
Dex nodded, though she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her eyes had already fluttered shut, her body curling into the mattress like a cat finding warmth.
“Of course,” he said.
He walked to the door, pausing for just a moment to look back at her. The faint rise and fall of her shoulder beneath the purple fabric. The way her hair fanned across the pillow. The peaceful stillness on her face—something he had rarely seen before.
Then he stepped into the hallway, pulled the door closed behind him, and stood there in the dim light, holding her empty cup, wondering if he had just done something good or something terrible.
Back in his own apartment, Dex tossed and turned in his bed, the sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. He punched his pillow into a different shape, then another, then gave up entirely. Sleep was a foreign country tonight and he had lost his passport.
He tried to push the thoughts out of his head. Tried to drown them with logic, with restraint, with the memory of every good thing she had ever done for him. The cookies. The dinners. The way she smiled at him like he was someone worth smiling at.
He couldn’t do it. He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t go so far.
Even if every single bone in his body told him to. Even if the urge had settled into his marrow, into the spaces between his ribs, into the quiet corners of his mind that he usually kept locked. Even if the thought of her, soft and trusting and utterly unaware, sent a current through him that felt less like desire and more like destiny.
He should let her be.
The drugs would have kicked in by now, a voice sounded in his head. Smooth. Reasonable. Almost kind. She’s not going to wake up. Not for hours. Not until the morning.
She trusts you, another voice fought back, sharper and more desperate. You shouldn’t do this. You can’t do this. Not to her.
But she’s asleep. The first voice returned, patient and persuasive. She wouldn’t even feel a thing. After all, you’ve been so nice to her. You’ve been there for her. You’ve helped her. You’ve protected her. You deserve this.
Dex sat up in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was dark except for the moonlight cutting through the blinds. His hands were trembling. He didn’t know if it was from restraint or anticipation.
He thought about the door. Since he had closed it, opening it again wouldn’t be an issue. She hadn’t asked him to lock it. She hadn’t told him to stay out. And deep down, somewhere beneath the alcohol and the weariness and the weight of everything she carried, she must have known. She must have left that door open for a reason. She wouldn’t have done it if she didn’t want him to come in. Not really. Not at some level. Even she must recognize what it is that she truly needs.
The thought tasted like poison and honey all at once.
Dex swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He didn’t turn on any lights. Didn’t put on shoes. Didn’t allow himself a single moment to reconsider. He simply walked to his front door, opened it and stepped into the hallway.
Her door was still closed from when he had left it. He turned the knob slowly, silently and slipped inside.
The apartment was dark and still, wrapped in that particular silence that only exists in the small hours of the night. No traffic. No neighbours. No hum of appliances. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing coming from the bedroom.
The door to her bedroom was open.
Dex stood in the doorway for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Y/n was lying on the bed exactly where he had left her, except now she wasn’t sitting up. She had collapsed sideways across the mattress, one arm flung above her head, the other resting limply over her stomach. She wasn’t even tucked in properly. The purple nightshirt with blue flowers had ridden up her stomach, the shorts too exposing the soft curve of her thighs. Her legs were tangled in the duvet, one foot dangling off the edge of the bed.
The sleeping pills had acted faster than he had anticipated. They had pulled her under before she could gather the energy to arrange herself properly, to pull up the blankets, to close the curtains. She had simply fallen where she sat and the drugs had done the rest.
Dex’s gaze travelled over her slowly. There were still remnants of makeup on her face—smudged eyeliner beneath her closed eyes, a faint stain of lipstick on her lower lip, patches of foundation that the wipe had missed entirely. Her hair was a wild mess, tangled and flattened on one side, sticking up in soft tufts on the other. She looked young like this. Younger and more delicate. Vulnerable in a way that made something twist painfully in Dex’s chest.
He remembered something then. A passing comment she had made weeks ago, over breakfast—the time she had claimed she cooked too much and invited him to share. She had been rubbing at her chin, complaining about a breakout and she had said, almost offhandedly, that she broke out horribly if she slept with makeup on her face. My skin just freaks out, she had said with a laugh. It’s like it knows I’ve been lazy.
Dex turned away from the bed and walked to her vanity. The surface was cluttered—bottles and brushes and small glass jars, a hairbrush with strands of her hair still caught in the bristles, a necklace she had forgotten to put away. He found the micellar water easily enough, a clear bottle with a blue label and a round container of cotton pads beside it.
He brought them back to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. It dipped slightly under his weight and he froze for a moment, listening. Her breathing didn’t change. Slow. Deep. Unconscious.
He checked anyway. Leaned close to her face, watching for the flutter of her eyelids, the twitch of her lips, any sign that she might surface from the darkness. Nothing. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, unbroken rhythm. Her mouth was slightly open. A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek.
She was dead unconscious.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Dex’s mouth. Not a cruel one. Not triumphant. Something softer, more private—like the smile of a collector admiring a rare and precious thing that no one else would ever see.
He poured a small amount of micellar water onto a cotton pad until it was damp but not dripping. Then he carefully pulled her upper half toward him, sliding one arm behind her shoulders and lifting her just enough to reach her face. She was limp in his grip, heavy with sleep, her head lolling against his forearm. The warmth of her body seeped through the thin fabric of her nightshirt.
With feathery light touches—so gentle, so tender that anyone watching might have mistaken it for affection—he began to wipe the makeup from her face. Slow, circular motions across her forehead. Soft swipes along her cheekbones. Delicate dabs beneath her eyes, careful not to press too hard. He turned her chin slightly to the side and cleaned the residue from her jaw, her nose, the corners of her mouth.
She didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a single sound.
Underneath the makeup, layer by layer, Dex could see how tired she truly was. The faint purple shadows beneath her eyes. The slight pallor of her skin. The fine lines at the corners of her mouth that hadn’t been there in the photos on her walls—the ones of her and brother, brighter and untouched by grief.
But there was something else there too. With the tea in her system and the pills pulling her under, her face had softened into an expression he had never seen on her while awake. Peace. Not the forced kind, the I’m-fine smile she wore like armour. Real peace. The kind that came from a deeper rest than sleep alone could provide.
Dex set the used cotton pad aside and looked down at her. Clean-faced. Quiet. Completely at his mercy.
She had never looked more beautiful.
He stayed there, still for a moment, her head cradled against his arm. Her breath warm against his skin. The apartment was silent. The world was asleep. And Dex was exactly where he had wanted to be for months—close enough to touch her, close enough to keep her, close enough to do whatever he wanted.
He knew of her brother’s passing. It had happened a little before he had met her—just a few months, maybe less. The timing was something Dex had turned over in his mind more times than he cared to admit. A part of him—the part he tried to keep buried beneath layers of routine and restraint—was quietly, shamefully thankful. Because her brother’s, Matthew was his name if he recalled correctly, death had left her broken. Fractured in ways that didn’t show on the surface but that Dex could sense the way a shark senses blood in water from miles away. And that brokenness had left room for him. Room to step into the spaces Matt had once occupied. Room to pick up the pieces, one by one and make himself indispensable.
It had made it easier. Easier to insert himself into her life. Into her daily routine. Into her mornings and evenings, her grocery runs and her quiet nights in. And now, into her bedroom.
For the most part, she had come to him willingly. That was the truth Dex clung to, the rope he wound around his knuckles whenever the guilt threatened to pull him under. She had offered herself to him willingly—the cookies, the dinners, the smiles, the thank you’s. She had invited him in. She had left the door open. She had asked for his help, again and again, as if she trusted him with something more than just a borrowed tool or a fixing hand.
Just like now. Even unconscious, even drugged, even utterly incapable of consent—she had brought him here. She had called out for him. She had let him in. She had handed him the keys, in every way that mattered.
Dex pushed the thought aside. Or rather, he reshaped it into something he could live with.
The micellar water had done its work, wiping away the last traces of the night. In the faint light of the night, filtered through the thin curtains and softened to a pale silver glow, Dex could see her clearly. Not the version she presented to the world. The real her.
He traced the ridges and contours of her face with his eyes first, then with his fingertips. Featherlight. Barely there. The gentle slope of her forehead. The delicate arch of her brows. The soft plump of her cheeks, still flushed with the last remnants of alcohol. The impossible length of her lashes, dense against her skin, fanned out like tiny wings. And then—his touch hovered, hesitated, then descended—the fullness of her lips.
Dex’s attention had often gone to them. In the hallway. Across the dinner table. Through the thin walls when he heard her laughing on the phone. They were so pretty. Soft-looking. Unfairly pink even without lipstick. And kissable. God, they were kissable in a way that had haunted his quieter moments, that had slipped into his dreams uninvited and overstayed their welcome.
He wondered what it would be like to actually kiss them. To press his own lips against theirs. To feel them part beneath his, warm and yielding. To hold them with his own, gently at first, then harder, until he had tasted everything she had to offer.
But would she really kiss him? Knowing the kind of person he was? The things he had done? The person he was becoming?
The questions arrived like cold water and Dex shoved them aside. Because now—now, with her unconscious and pliant and utterly his—she wouldn’t mind it. She was sweet. So sweet. And surely, after all he had done for her, after all the times he had been there, after all the times she had said “thank you, Dex” in that soft, grateful voice, after “I didn’t know who else to ask” and “couldn’t do it without you” with that sweet voice and sweeter smile—surely, all of that added up to something. Surely, one would assume she wanted it too. Why else would she do all that? Why else would she look at him like that, speak to him like that, invite him into her life so completely?
She wanted it. She just didn’t know it yet. Or maybe she did. Maybe deep down, beneath the grief and the exhaustion and the walls she had built, she had always known. And she had been waiting. Waiting for him to finally take what she had been offering all along.
“You’re so sweet for me, doll,” Dex murmured, his voice barely above a breath. He caressed her cheek, his thumb sweeping across the soft skin just below her eye. She was so incredibly sweet. And now, so incredibly pliable under his touch. Limp and warm and utterly unresisting. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t frown. Didn’t open her eyes. She simply lay there, breathing softly, her lips slightly parted, her body completely surrendered to the darkness he had given her.
Dex leaned closer. His heart was pounding now, a heavy, insistent rhythm that seemed to fill the entire room. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, could smell the faint traces of her perfume mingled with the chamomile and the lingering sharpness of alcohol. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers threading gently through her tangled hair.
And then he kissed her.
It started softly—a brush, a whisper, a question she couldn’t answer. Her lips were warm and slightly chapped, tasting faintly of the tea he had made her and the liquor she had drunk hours ago. The sensation was unlike anything he had imagined. Beyond euphoric. Electric and devastating and entirely, utterly consuming.
But soft wasn’t enough. It was never enough for Dex.
He pressed harder, his mouth moving against hers with increasing urgency. She didn’t respond, couldn’t respond and somehow that only fuelled the fire burning low in his gut. He was chasing a high now, the same way he had chased so many other things in his life, the same way he had chased her. His lips parted hers and he deepened the kiss, tasting her properly for the first time.
A small amount of drool had pooled at the corner of her limp mouth, escaping past her slack lips. Dex noticed it immediately. And then, without hesitation, he lapped it up—gladly, hungrily, like ambrosia. Like something sacred and forbidden all at once. The faint saltiness of her, the warmth of her breath, the complete and total surrender of her body beneath his hands.
He pulled back just slightly, his forehead almost touching hers, his breathing ragged. His thumb traced her lower lip, slick with their combined moisture.
“See?” he whispered, his voice low and thick. “You wanted this too.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
He stayed there, his lips smiling against hers after drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. The world outside her bedroom window shifted—the moon creeping across the sky, the wind picking up and then dying down again, the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city. But Dex noticed none of it.
“Poor baby,” Dex cooed, his voice dripping with a tenderness that felt almost obscene in the quiet darkness of her bedroom. His hand drifted from her cheek, fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path down the column of her neck. He could feel her pulse there—steady, unhurried, completely unaware of the predator tracing circles against her skin. “You must be so frustrated.”
His hand curled around her neck, not squeezing—not yet—just resting there, palm against her throat, feeling the gentle vibration of her breathing. The weight of it. The intimacy of it. He could kill her right now, he realized. It would be so easy. One hard press, one sustained grip and the light behind her eyes would flicker out forever. But that wasn’t what he wanted. Death was final. Death was boring. He wanted her alive. He wanted her aware. He wanted her to know, eventually, that she had always belonged to him.
“That’s why you went clubbing, didn’t you?” His voice dropped, losing some of its honeyed warmth, hardening at the edges. “To forget. To drown yourself.” He thought about her in that silvery dress, the one now folded neatly on the chair in the corner. Thought about her pressed against strangers on a crowded dance floor, bodies grinding, hands roaming, men leering at her. His grip on her neck tightened—just a fraction, just enough to make her breath hitch slightly in her sleep. “Pressed against men who want only one thing from you?”
The thought of her dancing against strangers sent a spike of cold rage through his chest. It was irrational—he knew it was irrational. She didn’t belong to him. Not yet. Not officially. But in his mind, in the deep, possessive place where logic never ventured, she had belonged to him from the moment she had knocked on his door with that plate of cookies. The thought of anyone else touching her made his vision narrow, his jaw clench, his fingers twitch with the urge to commit immense violence. He wanted to find every man who had looked at her tonight, every man who had breathed the same air as her and kill them. Slowly. Thoroughly. One by one.
He didn’t blame her, though. Not really. He told himself that as he forced his hand to relax, as he reminded himself to breathe. She was grieving too. Her brother’s death had hollowed her out, left her raw and searching for anything to fill the void. The clubbing, the drinking, the desperate need to feel something other than loss—it wasn’t her fault. She was broken and broken things made poor decisions.
But she had him. She had him. So why did she feel the need to do that? Why wasn’t he enough? Why did she have to go out and offer herself to the world when he was right here, waiting, patient, devoted?
Dex exhaled slowly, pushing the anger down into the place where he kept all his sharp edges. It didn’t matter now. She was here. She was his. And tonight, she would learn what that meant.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the side of her throat in soothing circles. “I’m not mad. Not really. I understand. You’re hurting. You’re lonely. You needed something I haven’t given you yet.”
His smile returned, softer now, almost playful. Almost dangerous.
“But you’ll have to make up for it you know,” he said, his voice lilting with false sweetness. “You had your fun tonight. Dancing. Drinking. Letting strange men look at you.” His hand slid lower, trailing down her chest, over the thin fabric of her purple nightshirt. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the cotton, the gentle swell of her breasts beneath his palm. “I deserve some too, yes?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. She couldn’t give one. Not that he cared for it now anyway.
His hand settled over the curve of her breast and for a moment, he simply held it there. The weight of it. The softness. The way it fit perfectly against his palm, as if it had been made for him. Dex’s breath caught in his throat. The moral part of his conscience—the voice that had once whispered warnings, that had once reminded him of right and wrong, of boundaries and consent—had drowned in his desire long ago. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard it clearly. Maybe the day he met her. Maybe earlier. Maybe it had always been a weak and flickering thing, easily extinguished.
He had never touched her like this before. Sure, there had been occasional accidental touches—a hand on her lower back when he guided her through a doorway, fingers brushing hers when she handed him a cup of coffee. Times when he had caught her from falling, his arm wrapping around her waist, his hand landing just at the curve beneath her breasts. But he had never actually held them. Never allowed himself to cross that final line.
Until now.
His fingers traced the outline of her breast through the fabric, slow and exploratory. Then his thumb found her nipple, already slightly peaked from the cool air of the bedroom and began to circle it. Softly at first. Then with more intention.
He felt it happen. The way her body responded to his touch even in sleep. The way the sensitive peak hardened further beneath his thumb, pressing against the thin cotton like it was reaching for him. A small, surprised sound escaped Dex’s lips—half laugh, half groan of pleasure.
“Oh?” he said, genuinely delighted. He circled again, watching her face for any sign of awareness. Nothing. Just that deep, drugged sleep. But her body knew. Her body was responding instinctively, as if some primal part of her recognized what it wanted even while her mind was trapped in darkness.
He was absolutely loving this. The way her nipple tightened under his touch. The way her breathing changed—not waking, but deepening, as if her body was sinking further into sensation. The way she lay there, completely vulnerable, completely at his mercy, while her own flesh betrayed her.
“You like this,” he said, not a question. A statement. A discovery. He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm and utterly devoid of innocence. His fingers rolled her nipple between them, gently at first, then with more pressure. He could feel it stiffen further, pebbling against his fingertips like it was begging for more. “Don’t you, doll? Even asleep. Even with the pills. Your body knows what it needs.”
A part of him wished she was awake. Not a large part—the larger part was too busy enjoying the reality of her beneath his hands—but a part, yes. He wished he could see her face. Wished he could watch her brows knit together in that way they did when she was concentrating, or confused, or feeling something she couldn’t name. Wished he could hear the soft sounds that would escape from her lips—little gasps, tiny whimpers, the kind of sounds she probably didn’t even know she made.
He wished she would say his name.
Dex.
Not as a neighbour. Not as a friend. But as the man touching her, the man making her feel things she had never felt before. Breathless. Needy. His.
Dex’s hands moved with a deliberateness that belied the chaos simmering beneath his skin. He lifted her shirt slowly, not because he was hesitant but because he wanted to draw out the moment. Savour it. Commit every second to memory the way a thief does to the contents of a vault before emptying it.
She hadn’t been wearing a bra. Of course not. Given the make of the silvery dress she had worn to the club, the way it cinched and draped and clung to her like a second skin, she wouldn’t have needed one. The dress had done all the work, holding her in place with architecture and intention. So why would she bother putting one on now? Why would she fumble with straps and hooks in her drunken, drugged state when she could simply fall into bed as she was?
Dex was grateful for that small mercy. Her small mercies.
He didn’t wait for any fanfare. There was no drumroll, no hesitation, no last-minute check of his conscience. That part of him had gone quiet now—muffled beneath the weight of want and the thin, fragile justification that she had brought him here. She had asked for his help. She had trusted him. She had left the door open.
He dove in.
His mouth latched onto her stiffened peak with a hunger that startled even him. The heat of her skin. The soft give of her flesh beneath his tongue. The way her body remained utterly limp and unresponsive—no arch of her back, no sharp intake of breath, no hand threading through his hair. She was asleep. Deeply, chemically asleep. And that silence, that absence of reaction, should have given him pause.
It didn’t.
He could taste the salt on her skin—the faint residue of sweat from the club, from the dancing, from the long night that had drained her. Beneath that, something else. A taste that was so uniquely hers that Dex knew he would recognize it anywhere, even blindfolded, even decades from now. Sweet. Subtle. Intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Her skin was so soft under his lips and teeth. Softer than he had imagined and he had imagined it, more times than he cared to count. In the dark of his own apartment, with his hand wrapped around himself and her name a whisper on his lips, he had pictured this. But the reality was sharper. More vivid. More dangerous.
He felt the animal urge rise up from somewhere deep and primal—the need to sink his teeth in, to mark her flesh, to claim her in a way that couldn’t be washed away with soap and water. He wanted to taste the iron tang of her blood on his tongue, to leave behind a bruise that would bloom purple and blue across her skin, to brand her as his in the most primitive way possible.
But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. Not now.
He couldn’t leave a mark on her skin that she might notice later. A bruise on her chest would raise questions. A bite mark would be impossible to explain away. She would look in the mirror whenever the drugs finally released their grip and she would see something she didn’t remember earning. And she would start to ask questions. And questions led to doubts. And doubts led to distance.
Dex couldn’t afford distance. Not after he had come this close.
Still, the thought lingered. The secret thrill of it. The idea of her waking up with marks on her body—tender, unexplained, mysterious—and having no idea how she got them. Would she run her fingers over the bruises and feel a shiver she couldn’t explain? Would she stare at herself in the bathroom mirror, turning this way and that, trying to piece together the fragments of a night that refused to come into focus? Would she wonder, even for a moment, if she had done something she didn’t remember?
Dex smiled against her skin. The thought was almost as sweet as the taste of her.
Y/n wasn’t a prude. Dex knew that much. He had watched the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention—the quick, shy glances across the hallway, the way her eyes lingered on his hands when he fixed something for her, the slight flush that crept up her neck whenever he stood too close. She wanted him. Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in words she could speak aloud. But the body didn’t lie and Dex had spent years learning to read the subtle language of bodily reactions.
He had also spent years learning other things. Tricks he had picked up at the bureau. Skills that blurred the line between investigation and violation. He told himself, at first, that he was just trying to find common interests with a friend. That stumbling across her internet search history, even the private ones, the ones she had cleared and deleted and thought no one would ever see, was an accident. A byproduct of curiosity. A harmless peek behind the curtain.
But all pretence was dropped now. There was no point in lying to himself anymore. Not when he had his lips around her, not when he could feel the soft weight of her other breast against his palm, not when every rationalization he had ever constructed had crumbled to dust beneath the weight of what he was doing.
What use was pretence when he had his mouth on her like this? When he was licking and sucking like there was no tomorrow, like the world outside her bedroom window had ceased to exist and all that remained was the two of them—one conscious, one unconscious, one taking, one giving without knowing?
His hands kneaded her breasts with a rhythm that was almost tender, thumbs circling her nipples, fingers pressing into the soft swell of her flesh. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his palms—slow and steady, undisturbed by his ministrations. The drugs had her in a deep sleep, the kind that drowned out everything. She wouldn’t feel this tomorrow. Wouldn’t remember. Wouldn’t know that his hands had been here, that his mouth had been here, that he had helped himself to what she had offered so freely.
His lips moved further down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her torso. The dip of her sternum. The soft plane of her stomach. The delicate ridges of her ribs, each one a note in a song only he could hear. He lingered at her navel, breathing her in, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her belly beneath his cheek.
She was so still. So quiet. So utterly, devastatingly his.
Dex kissed lower still, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of her shorts. He could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell the faint, musky scent of her and for a moment—just a moment—he closed his eyes and let himself pretend.
Pretend that she was awake. That her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer instead of lying limp at her sides. That the sounds he was drawing from her were moans of pleasure instead of the soft, unconscious breaths of a woman who didn’t know she was being touched.
But pretending was dangerous. Pretending was how you lost yourself.
Dex opened his eyes and looked up at her face—peaceful, blank, empty. And then he lowered his mouth again, because the truth was simpler than the fantasy.
She didn’t need to be awake for this. She didn’t need to want it. She just needed to be here.
And she was. She would be.
Dex’s fingers found the waistband of her shorts. He paused for a moment, his thumb tracing the elastic edge, savouring the ordinary intimacy of it. This wasn’t the silvery dress or the lace from her drawer. This was the real her. The unguarded her. The her that only emerged when she thought no one was watching.
He pulled her shorts down slowly, carefully, lifting her hips just enough to slide the fabric over her curves and down her thighs. She didn’t stir. Her legs remained limp and heavy, offering no resistance, no assistance. Dex took his time, peeling the shorts away from her skin inch by inch, until they cleared her feet and he could set them aside. He folded them once, neatly and placed them at the bottom of her bed. Old habits. Everything in its place.
Then he spread her legs.
Not roughly. Not hurriedly. Just enough to make room for himself, to create the space he needed to do what he had been imagining for months. Her knees fell open without a fight, her body still deep in that chemical slumber, utterly indifferent to the hands arranging her like a doll.
Dex moved down the bed, positioning himself between her thighs. He lowered his face until he was inches from her sex, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her, close enough to see the delicate dampness already gathering at the fabric of her underwear. And then he pressed his nose against her—directly against her, through the thin cotton and took a deep, slow breath.
The scent of her flooded his senses. Sweet and musky and unmistakably, devastatingly her. It was intoxicating in a way he had never know. His head spun. His eyes fluttered half-closed. For a moment, he forgot where he was, who he was, what had brought him here. There was only her. Only this.
He pulled back with a huff of a laugh—soft, almost disbelieving. His heart was pounding, his lips parted, his breath coming faster than it should. He felt drunk. Drunk on her, on the power of having her like this, on the sheer, staggering reality of what he was doing.
“Oh, darling,” he muttered, his voice thick and low, barely more than a whisper. “You’re fucking perfect.”
He meant it. Every word. In the light filtering through her curtains, with her legs spread and her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, she looked like something painted. Something sacred. Something made just for him.
Dex leaned down again, this time using his teeth. He caught the waistband of her underwear and tugged it downward with careful precision. The fabric slid over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees, until he could pull it free entirely with a flick of his head. He held it in his hand for a moment, soft and warm from her body and felt the urge rise like a tide. Pocket it. Keep it. Take a piece of her home with him, a secret souvenir that no one would ever know about.
But he knew that wasn’t the wisest decision. She might notice. She might count her laundry or find it missing, or wonder where her favourite pair had gone. Small details could unravel everything. So he put it aside with the shorts, adding it to the small pile of her clothes at the bottom of the bed.
His hand found her calf, warm and smooth beneath his palm. He pulled her toward him, bending her leg at the knee and settling her calf against his shoulder. The position was intimate, almost loving—the kind of hold a lover might use, not a predator. Dex liked that. He liked the blur.
He began with her calf, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the curve of her muscle. Little pecks at first, then longer ones, his lips dragging against her skin. He licked a slow stripe from her ankle to the back of her knee, tasting the faint salt of her, the lotion she might’ve applied, the simple, human warmth of her. She tasted like nothing and everything. Like a woman. Like something he always wanted and didn’t realise till this very moment.
He travelled downward, his mouth finding the delicate skin of her inner thigh. This was softer, more sensitive, more vulnerable. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, could smell her more intensely here and it drove him forward like a compass needle finding north. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her thighs, alternating sides, working his way up and then down again, never quite reaching where she might want him most. Not yet. He was taking his sweet time.
And then he licked her—long, slow stripes along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, from knee to groin and back again. Her skin was almost velvety here and he could feel the fine hairs rise beneath his tongue. She was so responsive, even in sleep.
A part of him wanted to leave a mark. Not the kind she would see immediately—not on her neck or her chest or anywhere obvious. But somewhere subtle. Somewhere she might not notice for days, if ever. A small, secret bruise that would fade before she found it, but that would exist just long enough to satisfy something primal in him. A claim staked in flesh. A signature carved into her skin without her knowledge.
He lifted her leg higher, tilting it to expose the back of her thigh—a spot that was hard to see on oneself, hidden in the crease where thigh met buttock. Dex pressed his lips to that hidden patch of skin and sucked. Gently at first, then harder, drawing the blood to the surface, leaving behind a small, dark blossom that would bloom purple by morning. It was small. Subtle. She might not notice it for days and even if she did, she might dismiss it as a bruise from dancing, or from bumping into furniture, or from any number of innocent accidents.
But Dex would know. He would carry the memory of putting it there.
A small groan escaped Y/n’s lips—soft, almost indistinct, more breath than sound. Dex froze instantly, his mouth still pressed against her thigh, his entire body going rigid. His eyes darted up to her face, watching for any sign of consciousness. A flutter of eyelids. A furrow of brows. A shift in breathing.
Nothing. Her eyes remained closed. Her face remained slack. The groan had been reflexive—a response from a body that was still asleep, still drugged, still unaware. But it was a warning. A reminder that sleeping pills rendered a person unconscious, yes, but not entirely unresponsive. He still had to be careful. He still had to pay attention.
Maybe I’ll alter the dosage for next time, he thought, the idea sliding into his mind like a key into a lock. A little more. Just enough to ensure complete stillness. Complete silence. Complete surrender.
He paused at the thought.
Next time?
Would there be a next time to this?
Dex looked up at Y/n, lying in her bed like something out of a painting. Her hair had spread across the pillow in soft waves—like a halo, he thought, though the comparison felt almost blasphemous given what he was doing. Her lips were parted, slightly swollen from the kisses he had pressed to them, still glistening with the moisture he had left behind. Her shirt had bunched up above her breasts, the purple fabric with blue flowers now slick with saliva in places. And then further down—to himself, positioned between her legs, close enough to feel the heat of her, close enough to see the way her pussy glistened in the low light, wet and ready and his for the taking.
She couldn’t do a thing to stop it. That was the thought that settled over him like a blanket, warm and heavy and suffocating all at once. She couldn’t push him away. Couldn’t say no. Couldn’t even open her eyes. She was completely, utterly, helplessly at his mercy.
And all of it was so easy.
So why wouldn’t there be a next time? Why would he stop at one night, one taste, one fleeting moment of possession when she would wake up tomorrow with no memory of any of it? When he could do this again and again, refining his approach, learning her body, claiming more of her each time? When she would continue to thank him, continue to trust him, continue to invite him into her life because she had no idea what he was doing in the dark?
Dex smiled against her thigh, soft and private and deeply, terribly satisfied.
There would be a next time. There would be many next times.
This was only the beginning.
“You’re not getting rid of me so easily, doll.”
The words came out low, almost a growl—not threatening, but possessive in a way that surprised even himself.
Dex spread her legs a bit more. His knees pressed into the mattress on either side of her thighs and the bed dipped under his weight. She shifted slightly—an unconscious response, or maybe not so unconscious after all. The drugs had done their work, but somewhere beneath the surface, some part of her knew he was there. Some part of her had been waiting for this.
He leaned over and kissed her again.
This kiss was different from the ones before. Messier. More animalistic. The careful restraint he had shown earlier—the featherlight touches, the tentative press of lips had burned away, leaving only the raw hunger beneath. He let his saliva pool on the underside of his tongue, let it gather and warm, and then he parted her lips with his own and let it drip down into her mouth. Into that soft, waiting, pliable space that she had opened for him without resistance.
She didn’t choke. Didn’t gag. Her body accepted what he gave her the way it accepted everything else tonight—quietly, completely, trustingly.
Dex tilted her head up with one hand cupped beneath her jaw, adjusting the angle of her throat so the saliva would slide down naturally. So, she would swallow it without thinking, without waking, without breaking the fragile spell that held her in that twilight space between sleeping and waking. He watched her throat work reflexively, a small, involuntary motion that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight through him.
Good girl, he thought, though he didn’t say it aloud. Not yet. That word was for later, when she was awake enough to hear it, when she was ready for it.
His length had been stirring in his pants from the second he had first put his hands on her from the moment he had lifted her shirt and seen the soft swell of her breasts, bare and unguarded. But now, with his body pressed between her legs and the taste of her still fresh on his tongue, it was straining harder against the fabric of his sweatpants. Demanding. Insistent. The ache was almost painful, but he ignored it. This wasn’t just about him. Not yet.
“Let me get a taste of you first,” he murmured against her lips, pulling back just enough to look down at her peaceful sleeping face. “Then you’ll have your turn, hmm?”
He patted her cheek gently—two soft taps, the kind of gesture that was almost affectionate, almost tender, if you didn’t know what was coming next. Her head lolled slightly to the side, her lips still parted, her breathing still slow and even. Dex moved back down her body, trailing his hands along her sides as he went. He could feel the ridges of her ribs, the soft dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
Then he buried his face between her folds.
The first breath was always his favourite. The musky scent of her filled his lungs and he felt something in his chest unlock. He had imagined this so many times, in so many lonely hours on the other side of the wall. But imagination was a pale shadow of reality. Nothing compared to the warmth of her, the wetness that had collected there as a natural physical response but Dex accepted it as proof. Proof that her body knew what her mind could not consciously acknowledge. Proof that even in sleep, even drugged, even unaware, some part of her wanted this. Wanted him.
He licked up a slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, savouring the taste of her on his tongue. Sweet and sharp and utterly intoxicating. And then he felt it—a hitch in her breathing. Small. Barely perceptible. A tiny catch in the rhythm of her chest that might have been nothing, might have been a dream, might have been her body finally beginning to respond to what he was doing.
Dex paused, lifting his head just enough to look up at her face. Still asleep. Still peaceful. But there was something different now—a faint flush creeping across her cheeks, a slight furrow between her brows, as if her body was trying to surface from the darkness and her mind was holding it back.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly, his breath warm against her most sensitive skin. “I’ll make sure you enjoy it too, sweetheart.”
He spread her folds apart with his thumbs, exposing her completely to his gaze and his mouth. The dim light from the window caught the slickness of her, the way she glistened like something precious pulled from deep water. She was ready—so obviously, undeniably ready—waiting for him in a way that made his mouth water and his restraint crumble to dust. This wasn’t reluctant. This wasn’t tolerance. This was acceptance.
And then he lowered his head again.
He lapped at her like a man starving. No—that wasn’t quite right. A starving man eats with desperation, with urgency, with the fear that the food might disappear before he’s had his fill. Dex wasn’t afraid of that. She wasn’t going anywhere. She was right here, spread open beneath him and he had all night.
It was something less civilized than a man. Something older. Something that existed before manners and restraint and the careful masks people wore in daylight. Something hungry and single-minded and utterly without shame.
His tongue moved in broad, flat strokes first, covering as much of her as he could in one long, slow pass. He wanted to taste all of her—not just the center of her, but the edges, the folds, the soft skin of her inner thighs where her scent clung so preciously. Then he tightened his focus, his tongue circling in smaller and smaller spirals until he was tracing the delicate bud of her clit with the tip, teasing her with the promise of more.
Then came the quick flicks—fast, rhythmic, relentless.
Her hips twitched. Involuntarily at first, a small jerk like a muscle spasm. But then again and again, a stuttering rhythm that matched the movements of his tongue. She wasn’t waking. Not yet. The drugs still held her in their soft, grey embrace. But she was close. So close. Dex could feel it in the way her body was beginning to respond, beginning to surface, beginning to remember that it was capable of pleasure even if her mind was still adrift.
Her breathing grew faster. Shallower. Her chest rose and fell beneath the rumpled nightshirt, the purple fabric with blue flowers shifting with each quickening breath. The rhythm was no longer the slow, steady tide of deep sleep. It was more tumultuous now—uneven, catching, stuttering in her throat like she was trying to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.
Dex groaned against her, the vibration of it traveling through her flesh like a current. And then he felt it—a subtle shift beneath his hands. Her back arched. Just slightly. Just the barest lift of her hips off the mattress, pressing herself closer to his mouth, seeking more of what he was giving her.
That’s it, he thought, the words forming clearly in his mind even as his tongue never stopped moving. There you are, sunshine. Come for me.
He doubled his efforts. Licking and sucking and devouring her with a focus that bordered on religious—not the quiet, solemn kind, but the ecstatic, crazed kind. The kind where you lost yourself in the act of worship. His tongue pressed flat against her clit then curled, then flickered in patterns as if he had learned from hours of study and practice. Not on her, of course. Not until tonight. But he had made a study of pleasure, the same way he had made a study of her. He knew what he was doing.
The taste of her flooded his mouth—sweet and sharp and complex, like something that couldn’t be reduced to a single flavor. It dripped down his chin, warm and slick and Dex realized with a jolt that he was making a mess. A beautiful, obscene mess. But a mess nonetheless.
He pulled one hand away from her thigh and slid it beneath his face, cupping his palm under his chin to catch what was falling. He wouldn’t let any of her drip onto her sheets. Couldn’t. She would notice that in the morning—a stain she didn’t remember making, a mystery she couldn’t solve. And while Dex enjoyed mysteries, he preferred the ones he could control.
He gathered what had collected in his palm and brought it to his lips, slurping it up with an audible sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room. The taste was even more concentrated now, warm from his skin and he closed his eyes for a moment just to savour it.
Then he looked back at her.
Her face was still slack with sleep, but there was something new there now. A flush across her cheeks. A slight parting of her lips. Her brows were drawn together in the faintest furrow, as if she was dreaming of something intense, something that was pulling her toward an edge she couldn’t see.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Still asleep and already falling apart for me. You have no idea what you look like right now. No idea what you’re doing to me.”
Dex felt his length strain almost painfully against the fabric of his sweatpants—a dull, insistent ache that had been building since the moment he first stepped into her apartment. It was asking him, even begging him, to act. To provide himself some relief. To finally have his share too. The need thrummed through his veins like a second heartbeat, hot and demanding and growing harder to ignore with every passing second.
He looked over her sprawled beneath him, bare and beautiful and completely surrendered. Tasting her like this was delectable, yes. The sweetness of her, the way her body responded even in sleep, the soft sounds she made without knowing she was making them. All of it was everything he had dreamed of and more.
But he wanted more. Not just more of her body, though God knew he wanted that too, wanted to bury himself inside her until neither of them could remember their own names. No, what he truly wanted was more warmth. More of the personality that had drawn him in and made him stay. The way she laughed at her own jokes. The way she hummed while she cooked. The way she looked at him sometimes, like he was more than just a friend.
He wanted her to open her pretty eyes. To say his name in that sweet tone of hers—not slurred with alcohol or thickened by drugs, but clear and conscious and meant just for him. He imagined it so vividly that he could almost see it: her eyelids fluttering open, her gaze finding his in the dim light, a slow smile spreading across her face as she reached up to cup his cheek with her warm palm.
“Dex,” she would whisper, her voice still rough with sleep but already full of that particular tenderness she reserved just for him. “Take me.”
The fantasy was so real, so achingly close, that Dex had to close his eyes for a moment and steady his breathing.
Taking what he had taken so far—the kisses, the taste of her, the intimacy of touching her while she slept—was still within the bounds of his twisted morality. But weren’t first times supposed to be well planned? Magical? The kind of memory you carried with you for the rest of your life, warm and golden and untouched by regret?
Surely he couldn’t take that away from her. He cared far too much for her to do that.
Dex had it all in his head already—had been building it for weeks, in fact, in the quiet hours when he couldn’t sleep and the walls between their apartments felt too thin and too thick all at once. He saw it perfectly: the bed covered in rose petals, deep red against the white sheets. Scented candles flickering on every surface, casting soft shadows across the walls. Soft music playing from somewhere just out of sight. And Y/n lying in the center of it all, looking up at him with that shy blush on her cheeks, her lips parted, her eyes shining with anticipation and trust.
That was how it was supposed to happen. That was the memory she deserved.
If he wanted this relationship to last and God, he did, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life—he had to build it properly. On a foundation of intention and care, not haste and hunger. He had to prove to her that he was worth the risk she was taking, that he could be the man she needed him to be. The man who brought her dinner when she was sad and fixed her sink when it leaked and planned first times with rose petals and candles and music.
He imagined what it would be like to be in a real relationship with her. Not just stolen moments in hallways and carefully orchestrated coincidences. Something real. Something lasting.
Him coming back from work, exhausted and frayed around the edges, and her greeting him at the door with a kiss and a question about his day. The simple domesticity of it made his chest ache. Or him preparing dinner in the kitchen while she sat at the counter, still in her work clothes, telling him about her day at the law firm—crappy clients who didn’t appreciate her, firm partners who were being annoying, a paralegal who kept microwaving fish in the breakroom. The mundane details of a shared life. The small, beautiful ordinary moments that added up to something extraordinary.
It was all he wanted. All he had ever wanted, really, though he hadn’t known it until she moved in next door with her cookies and her smiles and her quiet, persistent kindness.
Dex looked down at her unconscious form—so peaceful, so trusting, so completely unaware of the war being waged inside him. He smiled, small and soft, and reached out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead.
“I won’t take you yet, darling,” he said quietly, the endearment slipping out as naturally as breathing. “Not like this. You deserve better than this.”
His body screamed in protest, his length still straining against his sweatpants, demanding attention he wasn’t ready to give. But Dex had spent years learning to ignore his body’s demands. Years of discipline and control and putting one foot in front of the other even when every fiber of his being wanted to run in the opposite direction. He could wait a little longer.
“But we still need to do something about this, hmm?” He looked down at the obvious bulge in his pants and let out a soft, rueful laugh. The situation was almost absurd—here he was, hard and aching, kneeling between the legs of the woman he wanted more than anything and he was choosing to walk away.
Almost.
Dex shifted his weight, settling back on his heels. His hand hovered over the waistband of his sweatpants and he glanced at Y/n’s face one more time. Still asleep. Still beautiful. Still completely unaware.
He wouldn’t take her. Not tonight. But that didn’t mean he had to leave empty-handed.
“It’ll be quick. I promise.”
The words were meant for her, but also for himself—a reassurance whispered into the quiet darkness of her bedroom, an anchor to keep him from drifting too far into the depths of his own hunger. Dex pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and almost reverent, before shifting his attention to the task at hand.
He reached down and grabbed both of her legs, his hands firm around her calves. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his palms and he lingered for just a moment, savouring the feel of her. Then he crossed her legs at the ankles, one over the other, and pressed them together tightly. The position held her thighs flush against one another, leaving no gap, no space between. With one hand, he kept them pinned in place, his grip firm but not painful. With the other, he slid beneath her waist and lifted her hips just enough to slide a pillow underneath.
The angle was better now. More deliberate. Her hips tilted upward slightly, her thighs pressed together in a perfect channel of warmth and softness. Dex adjusted himself between her legs, his breath coming faster now, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged thing.
He pulled down his sweatpants first, the fabric pooling around his knees. Then his boxers followed, tugged down just enough to free himself. His length sprang forward, red and weeping at the tip, the evidence of his need glistening in the dim light. He had been hard for what felt like hours, had been fighting the urge to act since the moment he first touched her. Now, finally, he let himself breathe.
He took himself in his hand, his fingers wrapping around his shaft, and guided himself between her thighs. Right above her sex. The placement was deliberate, precise—close enough to feel everything, close enough to pretend, but not close enough to cross the line he had drawn for himself tonight. Had he thrusted just a little lower, just a fraction of an inch, he would be buried inside her right now. The thought sent a jolt of electricity through his spine and he had to close his eyes for a moment to steady himself.
A part of him felt bad for doing this. A small part, buried somewhere beneath the layers of want and need and justification. It whispered to him in a voice that sounded like guilt, like shame, like the ghost of the man he used to be before he started down this path. This isn’t right. She trusted you. This isn’t what she meant.
But what could he do? Benjamin Leonard Poindexter was an animal of need after all. He had spent so long denying himself, so long keeping his distance and playing the role of the good neighbour, the helpful friend, the safe pair of hands. And now that he had her—now that she was here, warm and soft and willing in the way that mattered most—he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.
He began to move.
At first, his thrusts were slow. Experimental. He pushed his length between her thighs, feeling the press of her skin against his on all sides. The friction was exquisite—the warmth of her, the softness of her, the way her thighs hugged him like they had been made for exactly this purpose. He could feel his own juices gathering at his tip, spreading between her legs with each pass, mixing with the evidence of her earlier arousal. The combination was slick and hot and utterly intoxicating.
His pace quickened almost without his permission. His hips snapped against her thighs in a rhythm that was less human and more instinctual, the kind of motion that came from somewhere deeper than thought, somewhere primal and raw. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, sharp and rhythmic, punctuated by the low, deep grunts that escaped Dex’s throat with every thrust. Beneath it all, a wet squelching sound, the unmistakable noise of liquids gathering and shifting between their bodies.
He was almost like a rabid dog now—mindless, driven, consumed by the singular need to chase his release. He had told her it would be quick and he hadn’t been lying. His control was fraying at the edges, unravelling with every pass of his length between her thighs. He just needed this. Needed to feel her. Needed to feel himself get a taste of what he had wanted for so long. Even if it wasn’t everything. Even if it was only this.
Dex looked down at her face, searching for any sign of awareness. Her eyebrows had knit together slightly, a small furrow appearing between them. Her fingers twitched at her sides, just barely, just a flutter of movement, as if she could feel what he was doing somewhere distantly, somewhere in the fog of a dream she wouldn’t remember in the morning. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of heat through him.
She can feel it, he thought, wonder mixing with hunger. Some part of her knows.
He imagined what she might be dreaming. Perhaps she was running through a field, or falling from a great height or standing at the edge of something she couldn’t name. Perhaps she was dreaming of him—of his hands on her body, of his mouth on her skin, of the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching. He hoped so. He wanted to live in her dreams the way she lived in his waking thoughts.
“Just a little more,” Dex muttered, his voice strained and breathless. He quickened his pace, his hips pistoning between her thighs with increasing urgency. The wet sounds grew louder, obscener, mingling with the creak of the bedframe and the ragged rhythm of his breathing. His grip on her legs tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin hard enough to leave marks that would fade by morning.
He was close now. So close. The pressure built at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, threatening to snap. His vision blurred at the edges, narrowed to the small space between her thighs where he moved in and out, in and out, chasing something that felt less like pleasure and more like salvation.
Just a little more.
With a sound that was half groan, half scream—something torn from the deepest part of his chest, raw and unrestrained—Dex let go.
The release crashed over him like a wave, white-hot and all-consuming, stealing the breath from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. His seed spilled between her thighs first, hot and thick, coating the soft skin where he had been thrusting moments before. Then, with each subsequent pulse, it spurted onto her stomach—stark white against the expanse of her belly, catching the dim light like something almost beautiful. The final strings shot higher, landing on her chest, her collarbones, the delicate hollow of her throat. A few stray drops marked the underside of her chin and Dex watched them with a kind of dazed fascination, as if he were observing something happening to someone else.
His eyes were screwed shut for the duration of it, his face twisted in an expression that hovered somewhere between ecstasy and agony. Every muscle in his body had gone tight, locked in the final throes of his peak, and for a few suspended seconds, the world outside her bedroom ceased to exist.
Then he felt movement.
Small. Subtle. Barely there. But unmistakable.
His heart dropped.
Dex’s eyes flew wide open, panic flooding his system with ice-cold adrenaline. He looked down at her face, really looked, and saw that Y/n’s eyes were half lidded, her lashes fluttering as if she were trying to surface from deep water. Her lips were parted and she was indistinctly murmuring something, the words too soft and too slurred to make out. Her fingers twitched again, more purposefully this time, and for one terrifying moment, Dex was certain she was waking up.
No. Not yet. Not now.
A wave of panic rose in his chest, hot and suffocating. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, could hear the rush of blood in his ears. His mind raced through possibilities—what would he say? How would he explain? The tea, the pills, the position she was in, the evidence cooling on her skin. There was no innocent explanation for any of it.
But then he noticed her eyes.
They were dazed. Unfocused. The glassy, wandering gaze of someone who was still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, not quite in either world. She wasn’t looking at him so much as through him, her pupils dilated, her stare unfixed and dreamy. She wasn’t fully conscious. Not yet. She was hovering on the edge, teetering between the darkness he had put her in and the light she was trying to reach.
Dex swallowed hard and forced his hands to stop shaking. He reached out and placed his palm gently against her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below her eye. The touch was tender, almost loving—the kind of gesture that could mean anything, depending on who was watching.
“Go to sleep, sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, the same tone he might use to calm a frightened animal or lull a child back to bed. “You’re okay. Just go back to sleep.”
Y/n hummed softly—a sound that might have been agreement, might have been acknowledgment, might have been nothing more than the involuntary vocalization of a body too drugged to form words. Her eyelids, which had been struggling to stay open, finally fluttered closed. Her breathing deepened again almost immediately, her body sinking back into the mattress as the pills reclaimed their hold on her.
Within seconds, she was under again. Deep, unconscious, unaware.
Dex let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—a long, shaky exhale that seemed to drain the remaining tension from his shoulders. His heart was still racing, but the panic had begun to recede, replaced by something colder and more calculating.
That was too close, he thought. I really need to alter the dosage next time.
He had calculated carefully—had measured the pills, had accounted for her weight and her alcohol consumption and her general tolerance. But he hadn’t accounted for the possibility that the physical stimulation might pull her toward consciousness. His thrusts between her thighs, the sounds he had made, the sheer intensity of his release—any of it could have been enough to disturb the fragile equilibrium of her sleep.
He couldn’t afford another close call like this. Next time, he would crush an extra half tablet into her tea. Just to be safe.
Dex slipped out from between her thighs carefully, slowly, so as not to jostle her more than necessary. He set her legs down on the bed one at a time, arranging them in a position that looked natural rather than posed. Then he stood up and surveyed the scene before him.
The mess was considerable. His seed gleamed on her skin in the low light, stark and damning. The sheets beneath her were damp in places and the pillow he had placed under her hips had shifted during his exertions. He needed to move quickly. Quietly. Methodically.
Dex grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on her nightstand and set to work.
He wiped the stains from her skin with almost feather-light touches, dabbing and cleaning with a gentleness that belied the urgency thrumming through him. He was careful—so careful—to not disrupt her sleep. Each swipe of the tissue was measured, deliberate, designed to remove the evidence without causing enough sensation to rouse her. He cleaned her stomach first, then her chest, then the delicate skin of her collarbones. He wiped between her thighs last, pressing the tissue into the crease where his seed had pooled, absorbing as much as he could.
When he was finished, he inspected his work. Her skin was clean again, free of any visible traces of what had happened. The only signs were the slight dampness of the tissues in his hand and the faint, musky scent that lingered in the air—something that would dissipate by morning or that she would attribute to her own dreams.
Dex paused for a second, the balled-up tissues in his fist and felt a sharp pang of regret.
I should’ve taken a picture, he thought, wincing internally. At least one. Just to remember.
The image of her lying there—his seed cooling on her skin, her face peaceful and unaware, her body still warm from his touch—was already seared into his memory, but a photograph would have been different. Tangible. Something he could look at later, in the quiet of his own apartment and remember exactly what he had done to her.
He shook his head slightly. It’s okay, he told himself. You’ll have more turns. This wasn’t the last time. This was just the beginning.
He disposed of the tissues away from her, so that she wouldn’t find it. Then he returned to the bed and began the process of clothing her again.
His movements were almost clinical now—efficient, detached, the same methodical care he might use to fold laundry or arrange dishes in a cupboard. He pulled her nightshirt back down over her torso, smoothing the purple fabric with its blue flowers over her stomach and chest. He adjusted the duvet, pulling it up to her chin, though he deliberately left it slightly rumpled. Not tucked in as properly as he would have liked. He didn’t want everything to look too perfect. Too arranged. If she woke up and found herself swaddled like a child, she might wonder. She might start asking questions.
A little imperfection was natural. A little mess was expected. And Dex needed everything to look exactly as it should when she opened her eyes in the morning.
He stepped back and looked at her one last time. Curled beneath the duvet. Hair spread across the pillow. Lips slightly parted. Peaceful. Untroubled. Completely unaware of everything that had happened while she slept.
A sweet, satisfied smile spread across Dex’s face—the kind of smile that belonged on a man who had just received exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it. He walked to the head of the bed and stood over her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her.
Then he reached down and traced his knuckles slowly, gently, down the side of her face. From her temple to her jaw. From her jaw to her chin. The touch was almost reverent, like a prayer whispered against her skin.
“I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of you,” he said softly, his voice barely above a breath, “now that I’ve tasted you.”
The words hung in the darkness, unanswered, unheard.
Dex straightened up, turned away from the bed, and walked out of her bedroom. He left the door slightly ajar, the way he had found it, and made his way through her silent apartment to the front door.
He stepped into the hallway, pulled her door closed behind him, and stood there for a long moment in the flickering light. Tomorrow, she would wake up groggy and confused. The drugs would leave her head thick and her thoughts sluggish, the kind of morning where coffee tasted like necessity rather than comfort. She would lie in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. The club. Her friends. The walk home. And then—maybe—a flash of something else. Tea. A familiar voice. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Dex, did you come over last night? I can’t remember much.
He could already see the words in his mind, could already hear the tentative confusion in her voice. And he would reply with something gentle. Something reassuring. Something that sounded like the good neighbour, the helpful friend, the safe pair of hands she had come to rely on.
You had a rough night. I brought you tea. You fell asleep. I hope you’re feeling better.
No lies, exactly. Just omissions. Just the careful selection of which truths to tell and which to keep folded away in the quiet corners of his memory.
She would thank him. She always thanked him. That was the thing about Y/n—she was grateful to a fault, appreciative in ways that made his chest ache. She would thank him for the tea, for checking on her, for being the kind of person who looked after her when she couldn’t look after herself. She would never know how much more he had given her. How much more he had taken.
And life would go on.
The routine would continue. The morning runs that weren’t coincidences. The borrowed sugar that wasn’t really borrowed. The dinners she cooked too much of, the ones she claimed were accidents, the ones he accepted with a quiet smile and a plate carried back to his own apartment. The walls between them would still be thin, and he would still hear her humming from the other side, and she would still be sweet and warm and utterly unaware of the hunger that lived just a few feet away.
Only now, Dex would carry this with him. This secret. This memory. This proof—cooling on tissues he made sure to destroy, imprinted on his skin, seared into the back of his eyelids—that she was his in ways she didn’t even know. That she had been his for longer than she would ever understand. That she would continue to be his for as long as he wanted her to be.
He returned to his apartment, seeing the bottle of the pills and the piece of paper and hammer he had used to crush the pills. He would clean it in the morning, when the light was better and his thoughts were clearer. His sweatpants went into the hamper. His shirt followed. He stood in his bathroom for a moment, washing his hands, watching the water swirl down the drain, and wondered if any part of her would remember the weight of his hands on her skin.
Probably not.
He climbed into his own bed, the sheets cool and crisp and perfectly folded against his skin—the way he always left them, the way he needed them to be. Order. Control. The small rituals that kept the chaos at bay. The mattress welcomed him like an old companion and he settled into the hollow he had worn into it over months of restless nights.
But tonight was different.
The silence in his apartment was absolute. No hum of the refrigerator cycling on and off. No distant sirens bleeding through the walls. No faint whisper of traffic from the street below. Just the quiet. Deep and still and complete, like the inside of a held breath.
And the memory.
It played behind his eyelids in vivid, relentless detail—the warmth of her skin, the taste of her on his tongue, the soft hitch of her breathing when his body had pressed against hers. The way she had looked in the dim light, sprawled across her bed, trusting and unaware and so utterly, devastatingly his. The memory was a living thing now, coiled in his chest, warm and possessive. It would keep him company on nights when sleep came hard. It would sustain him through the long, patient work of making her his in truth.
And beneath it all, the slow, steady beat of his own heart—calmer now than it had been in weeks. Months, even. The perpetual hum of anxiety that had lived in his ribcage for as long as he could remember had quieted to a whisper. The sharp edges of his thoughts had softened. For the first time in a very long time, Dex felt something that might have been peace.
There she was. His true north star.
For years, that title had belonged to Julie. The voice on the other end of the suicide helpline, the anchor that had kept him from drifting into the abyss when everything else had fallen away. She had helped him—there was no denying that. Watching her from afar had talked him down from ledges he didn’t even know he was standing on, had given him courage to hold onto when his own mind had turned against him. But even then, even at his most grateful, Dex had known the truth. Julie had been a necessity. A lifeline thrown to a drowning man. He had reached for her because there had been no one else.
But Y/n was different.
Y/n was choice. Deliberate and warm and so impossibly sweet that sometimes Dex wondered if he had imagined her into existence. She cared for him directly—not out of obligation, not because it was her job, but because she wanted to. He saw it in the way she looked at him across the hallway. In the way she even remembered how he took his coffee. In the way she said his name, soft and familiar, like it belonged in her mouth. She didn’t know everything about him—not yet atleast—but she knew enough. And she had stayed anyway.
She was the light at the end of a truly dark tunnel. The tunnel that had been his life for as long as he could remember—the years of scrambling and surviving, of pushing people away before they could leave, of telling himself he didn’t need anyone when really he was terrified of needing and losing in equal measure. But Y/n had walked into his world with her warmth and her smiles and her quiet, persistent kindness and something in him had shifted. Something had unlocked.
She was his now.
Not in the way the world would recognize—not yet. There were no rings on fingers, no shared last name, no public declarations of belonging. The neighbours didn’t know. Her friends didn’t know. Even the well-meaning remnants of her brother’s life, had no idea that the man next door had laid claim to something they didn’t even know was vulnerable.
But she was his nonetheless.
He had tasted her. Had felt the warmth of her against his lips, had swallowed the sounds she made without knowing she was making them. He had touched her—everywhere, everywhere—had learned the geography of her body the way a cartographer learns a new country. He had claimed her in the only way she would allow, had marked her as his in a language only he could read.
And he would have her again. And again. And again.
Not just her body—though that, certainly, again and again until he had memorized every response, every sound, every shudder and sigh. But her attention. Her time. Her trust. The small, precious currency of her daily life that she had been handing him in increments without realizing what she was paying for.
Each time he would pull her a little closer. Each time he would bind her a little tighter. With every cup of tea, every fixed appliance, every morning run that wasn’t a coincidence, he would weave another thread into the web that held them together. Until the day she finally opened her eyes and saw what had been in front of her all along. Not a neighbour. Not a friend. Not a helpful hand. But him. Dex. The man who had been watching, waiting, wanting, from the very beginning.
And on that day, she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t flinch. She would look at him with those sweet, trusting eyes and she would say his name the way he had always wanted to hear it. Because by then, there would be nowhere else for her to go. By then, he would be the only thing holding her together.
Dex smiled into the darkness.
It was a slow smile, unhurried and deep, the kind of smile that lived in the bones rather than on the lips. Satisfied. Full of promise. The smile who waited a long time for something and had finally, finally taken the first real step toward having it.
On the other side of the wall, Y/n slept on. Her breathing was soft and even, her body curled beneath the duvet, her face slack with the particular peace that comes only from deep, chemically assisted unconsciousness. She was dreaming of nothing at all—no monsters, no memories, no premonitions of the man who had been in her room just hours before. Just the warm, empty darkness of a sleep from which she would wake with a headache and a void where her memories should have been.
And in his own bed, Dex slept better than he had in years.
No dreams troubled him either or if they did, he didn’t remember them in the morning. What he remembered was the warmth coiled in his chest, the satisfaction settled into his being, the quiet certainty that something fundamental had shifted. He had crossed a line tonight and he had done it without hesitation. Without regret. And he would do it again.
The walls between them were thin.
But the bonds he was weaving were thicker. Stronger. Unbreakable.
Dex closed his eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, he let himself fall asleep without fighting it.
╰ ┈➤ A/n: I fear I Chekhov’s gunned myself with the back dimples and didn’t follow through 🫠🫠 Also this man pmo so bad istg i cannot with him—
giving dex permission to take his anger out on you—
content <𝟑 .ᐟ f!reader, pain play / kink, obsession, casual dominance, impact play -> consensual face slapping, crying, mention of manipulation, use of sir / sir kink.
he’s hesitant. hurting you has never been his prerogative … even when his obsession with you was at its scariest. if anything, he’s only ever wanted to shelter you from all of the pain and terrible nonsense that the world has to offer. sure, he can fully understand why you would want such a thing. he’s observant, he can see the little gleam in your eyes when he’s extra rough on you. but you seem almost alarmingly into the idea of him slapping you around and using you as a stress toy just because he can. it’s making you restless.
clearly you’ve learned to feel out his moods, you’ve discovered when the perfect times to talk back and huff and whine are. a part of him wants to praise you for being such a clever girl, albeit manipulative. he isn’t bothered by your pitiful attempts at getting him to snap, he can settle you down with a single stern look sometimes. at the end of the day, he has the upper hand. you’re the one waiting for him to give in with that same semipermanent pout on your face.
“little fuckin’ masochist,” he grumbles to himself when you’re done clinging to his arm and you’re out of earshot for the moment, huffing on a laugh that he can’t seem to hold back.
of course it happens when you least expect it. weeks later when it’s off of your mind completely— on a day where benjamin isn’t able to scratch that itch, a day where his fingers twitched to do something else even after bruising his knuckles under his gloves.
the sound of him undoing the locks on the front door forces your ears to perk up. his bulky boots meet the floor with each and every heavy step, your breath catches at that before he even grabs you up. a firm hand settles on your jaw as he ignores the whimper that falls from your lips. you’re shocked but you’re not scared, and that’s exactly how he wants you when his hand comes down on your sweet face.
experimentally at first.
your eyes gloss over with both tears and excitement as the pain blossoms over your soft skin.
“are you gonna cry? isn’t this what you wanted?” dex taunts, his calloused fingers colliding with the plush expanse of your cheek once more after the initial slap. and then again, before you have the chance to respond or hiccup out a little sound. your face is sore as he squishes your cheeks in his grip, making your lips jut out pathetically while he speaks to you— low and raspy, “you’ve been begging me to hurt you for months, sweetheart. save the sniffles for later ‘n thank me.”
you nod faithfully, biting back a dazed smile as you mumble a sugared “thank you, sir” that forces dex’s heart to squeeze in his chest.
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, brat!reader, strict dom / brat tamer!dex, small mention of blood, manhandling -> use of a headlock, casual dominance, a single pet name, use of sir / sir kink.
sometimes you don’t know when to stop, at least that’s what dex has noticed. for example— when he gets home from a long day, and he barely has his shoes off before you’re following him around like an attention starved house pet, pouting about god knows what while he’s simply trying to unwind. the scent of blood and grime is still lingering in his nose for fuck’s sake, and here you are trying to cling to him.
he’s leaning over the kitchen counter, watching you. he can see your pouty lips moving with quickness through the borderline blinding frustration that’s taking over his vision. he can hear your sugared voice and that little rasp you have when you’re close to crying. you’re being petulant. all fussy and worked up because he let one tiny thing he promised slip through the cracks. because he won’t let you run off to the mall with his credit card like he said he would. if he has to hear you whine “but you pinky promised” one more time, he’s going to snap.
“enough,” he barks— and before you have a chance to bite back somehow, because he knows you will— dex is hooking a bulky, veiny arm around your throat. not hard enough to hurt you in the slightest bit, but more than enough to get you to shut up for a moment aside from the angelic gasp that falls from your lips. his firm chest presses against your back and your smaller form immediately melts into him.
teasingly, he jostles your already dizzy head in his grip while leaning in. his nose brushes against your heated cheek, his warm breath fanning over your ear as he continues on, “you know, you didn’t even greet me properly before you started running your mouth. i don’t think that’s very nice, angel face.”
“i— ‘m sorry, sir.” you mumble, turning your head to look over his sharp expression and features with dazed eyes. you’re no longer ready to start kicking and screaming, no longer worried about your shopping spree. all that matters now is getting his approval back and fixing your attitude. his hold on you doesn’t relent, especially not when he presses his lips to yours in a gentle kiss designed to keep you docile.
“yeah, ‘m sure you are now that i’m touching you … such a shame you don’t deserve it.”
he sighs in your face, peering down at you with no sympathy. he’s not in the mood to pretend, either. even when he knows how messy you get between your thighs when he lays the faux pity on thick. he lets you go and you stumble on your feet for a brief second— he doesn’t bother to steady you, already heading off to take a shower while you stand there all needy and desperate for him to rough you up some more. to put his hands on you again. he can feel your heavy gaze on his broad back, he can sense your silent pleading and the way you’re holding back more whines now that you’ve been scolded.
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, obsession / possession, stalking, manhandling, size kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, mention of f. masturbation, mention of crying (reader), reader is clueless.
benjamin knew he had to have you in every way from the moment his calculating eyes fell on you. you’re everything he isn’t. you’re sweet, you’re precious and innocent to a devastating fault. it almost makes him sick. faithfully, he took his time figuring you out. there’s nothing wrong with him watching you from a safe distance as long as it doesn’t get out of hand— that’s what he told himself as he memorized your routines, your tiny habits and mannerisms, the things in your life that alter your moods … all with the intention of getting to know you better.
months of preparation for when he finally gets close to you.
it wasn’t easy. you were skeptical that first time you met. maybe it was because you were clinging to an unsettling feeling. the feeling of being watched everywhere you went, whether it was day or night. it was enough to make you install a dead bolt on your door. he remembers catching a glimpse of it through your window. he scoffed, mostly because he was endeared by the fact you thought it made a difference.
he’d end up getting past those locks, anyway. time and time again.
like after your fourth date, when you invite him in and something about the way you purr your words tells him it’s not just for rosé flavored kisses and heavy petting or getting handsy on your couch. it doesn’t truly hit him until you’re pulling him into your bedroom with breathy giggles falling from your lips in between kisses. he’s nervous, a little fidgety as his deft fingers mess with the zipper on your dress— you’d never be able to tell by the grin that’s spread over his features. or the way he squeezes your waist with his big hands in the next second, muffling the mewl that falls from your swollen lips with his own.
you’re on your back and at his mercy in record timing. all it took was some tossing you around until you met your mattress with a soft sound. your dress is discarded, thrown to the floor along with your lacy panties and the delicate bra that matches. he’s careful not to tear anything no matter how badly he wants to let those urges take control for a brief moment. you can’t see that side of him yet.
the side you can see, however, is how attentive he can be while he has you folded up under him. while you’re gasping and mewling and his hands are tucked under your knees, keeping your thighs spread wide and your pretty cunt on display for when he finally sinks in. you gasp in sync, and benjamin swears he’s never been closer to true salvation.
he wishes you both weren’t so desperate for it. he wishes he could take the time to press his face between your legs, kissing and sucking on your sensitive clit in earnest until you’re hiccuping for him to stop. he’s thought about it countless time, both on his own and while watching you play with yourself through your frilly curtains. whether it was your clumsy fingers rubbing yourself stupid or a pillow you decided to hump on, he’s seen it all. he’s thought about it all. and much like you, he’s thought about how no amount of fingering yourself to thoughts of him after your little dates could have prepared you to take him.
“look at that. y’did so good, angel girl— even after all that whining and crying,” he croons, running a rough hand down the length of your tummy as if he can feel himself under your tender flesh. he presses, just enough to make you gasp once more and whine. you can feel him right there, like weight of him is resting in your stomach. his gaze finally trails upwards, he breaks it away from where his cock pushes insides your soft, messy cunt and meets your dazed eyes instead. “but i think she wants more, huh? wants to be stuffed real good, yeah?”
he knows you don’t have the strength to respond fully. broken pleas and feverish nodding is all you can manage before he coos down at you and allows his hands to slip to the backs of your thighs. he feels your dewy skin as his fingers sink in for leverage, he rears his hips back before they twitch forward and chase after the silky, heated vice that your sweet pussy seems to be. yeah, he picked the perfect girl.
“fuckin’ made for me, you were made to take this cock,” he grunts out, peering down at you while you lose yourself little by little. pathetic sounds fall from your lips freely and he’s quick to shush you, leaning over your dizzy and manhandled form entirely as he speaks right above your spit slick lips. the words that leave his mouth send you into a frenzy— “i knew you were all mine from the second i saw you.”
authors note: thank you anon, was very fun to write this! feel free to send more hc asks or your ideas and thoughts. i have loved seeing people's thoughts on what i write in tags and stuff <3
masterlist.
warning(s): reader is assumed to be a woman, but there is no genitalia descriptions so it doesn't even matter lol. obsessive/unhealthy behaviours, light stalking because... yeah. it's dex. so. he does that in canon. knife play mention but not actually written out lol. not edited.
pairing(s): benjamin 'dex' poindexter x reader
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
daredevil and daredevil born again dex are kinda different stories inside my head, like he has different era's that change the ways he acts.
fbi!dex, pre-fisk, definitely tries to reel himself in. i mean, like, he fails a lot, but he's not going to kill some idiot in a bar for looking at you too long.
but he does care a lot when that does happen.
i think he would be controlling in subtle ways but he is also like, he would just get lost in the positive feelings that he scarcely gets -- he just wants to make you happy.
so maybe he thinks a dress is too short, on a good day, he won't tell you to change or anything.
but i think the inability to identify and, like, healthily deal with his feelings, on bad days, he might come off like a controlling asshole and want you to change.
but literally all you have to do to eliminate that is like, ask him what's wrong, or touch his hand or literally any part of his body.
this dex wants to be good, he wants to want normal things, for your sake, but also his own. any falling out of line or uber-possessive behaviours are acting out wanting to protect the goodness you bring into his life.
that's not like, excusing that behaviour lol that's just explaining. if you want a healthy relationship, don't date this guy bro <3
if you go out without him, a girls night perhaps, he might watch you from a distance. to keep you safe.
other things that would make him jealous, probably when you comfort your other friends, not even just with physical affection, showing emotional vulnerabilities with others is your shared niche couple task that you couldn't possibly want to share.
he might be needy after that, or you have to instigate comforting him while he's being a bit colder than usual.
but yes, during this time it's less about action, more emotional repression, punching the walls and stuff.
you come back from a night out and he's patching up a wall, you're all sweet and a little drunk.
you call him baby and tell him you had fun, kissing him, before frowning at the wall.
he tells you he was an accident with him opening the door too hard.
you accept that answer, because his arms look so good in the shirt he's wearing, muttering an "oh", slurred and kicking off your heels and whining about your dress that he absolutely must help you out of.
still fbi, while working with fisk, he might not hold himself back as much.
he'll beat the shit out of the guy at the bar, if not kill him after he takes you back to your place. or your shared place. whatever point you're at.
he still wants you to be happy, treat you good, but he might have different ideas what that would look like. so good is not always actually good.
he would kiss you different, the start of kisses that are parasitically consuming you.
he might not follow you in secret, just convince you by keeping you under him to stay home, wanting to keep you all to himself.
light emotional manipulation about how work has been hard etc etc he just wants to be with you tonight.
anytime he wants to go out, it's with him.
he's a little more erratic, you notice.
he can be really tender, washing your clothes and folding them, showering with you and wanting to clean every inch of you just to kiss every inch of you -- to wound tight, not wanting your touch, pushing you away and immediately regretting it.
he kills people who make him feel jealous now, the only threat is like, your independence. it makes his eye twitch.
full on bullseye era in daredevil born again, depending on if he meets you then or is returning back into your life...
if you knew him before, were his person before, he doesn't hide as much if he's watching you. as in, he's not going to tell you, but if you find out, it's not over for him.
If you're a new person in his life, he might hide it more, but again, it's not like if you found out, it's the end-all be-all.
violence is a bit of the default when it comes to his jealousy, it always was, but he might not care much to hide it anymore.
using the man in the bar example, it could potentially very well be on sight lol
but again, there's still that little piece of him that if you are really insistent on not killing random bar man, then he might listen -- depending on where he's at in his " redemption arc ", and i say that loosely.
or it could be one of those things where if you're new where he's still like, masking a little bit, he goes outside to "make a call" and then come back with mysterious red stains on his shirt.
maybe he got a spontaneous hot dog with lots of ketchup, who knows.
he's a bit more blunt about asking where your priorities are -- the friend you're too close to, do you love them more than him? he would never hurt you, of course. but your friend?
anyways.
a dress he doesn't like? he'll take it off himself. but you won't even notice really. maybe you discover just how into knife play you are (or aren't) when he cuts it off you.
