author's note: sorry for the quick ending. this was sitting in my drafts for a week and idk how to end it so i just ended it.
masterlist.
word count: 1,275
plot: you get a traumatic brain injury but your fiancĂŠ is hard at work helping you remember your life.
warnings: reader has amnesia. i LOVE PATHETIC FBI MANIPULATOR DEX. manipulation. implied and slightly described stalking. potentially dead dove in a way. minors DNI. reader and dex are not really together if you couldn't tell.
you were kneeling with a box of your things in his apartment. you didn't recognise a lot of it and looking at it was making the wound on your head throb like crazy.
it made you feel so off-put, you didn't know why. your stomach would twist and your mind would scream and it all went straight to stabbing you in the eyeballs.
"baby?" dex's voice came from the other room. the door opened and there he was. he looked worried, ready to chastise you again for forgetting the rule about doors. "why's the door closed?"
you turned, head on the bandage on your head in mind-numbing contemplation. "i forgot," you tried your best at looking apologetic.
closed doors weren't allowed when you were injured, apparently. sure, fine, that made sense. you had been getting dizzy really easily and sometimes vomiting, all side effects of whatever pills you were on and a traumatic brain injury.
yesterday, you had fallen on carpet. you were convinced he was going to chain you to the bed.
he didn't say any more about it, his gaze catching the box. "any luck?" he asked. his hand twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you, comfort you in your confusion. then, he did, still standing above you, his hand moved to press your head to his thigh as he rubbed your head, to comfort you. certainly, this action was for himself, obviously.
his fingers found your scalp, threaded through your hair. he began to rub firm circles, the kind of pressure that usually made you melt. you would assume. you wondered how different you were since the accident.
"nah," you sighed. you let it happen, you didn't hate it. you didn't know what you liked either. "i still don't recognize anything, it's all just... stuff."
"that's the amnesia," he said. "things don't feel familiar. it's disorienting. it's supposed to feel wrong."
you didn't respond, moving your head off his thigh to pick up a scarf that you grimaced at.
his hand didn't leave your head, he just moved with you. his thumb brushed the shell of your ear, tender and what you imagine to be loving. "brains are weird and you're still healing. give it time."
you went for jogs most days. if you didn't jog on a given day, you would still walk.
he liked going with you, even if you didn't know it. and didn't know him.
you didn't know him yet, not really.
you'd only crossed paths a few times, he was in FBI SWAT and you were a whole other team. most recently, you smiled at him once, when you were on his floor to meet with someone else. but that's not where it started, it was training. you were at quantico together.
he told himself he was just working up the nerve to speak to you, it had just been a few months of this. watching your routines.
he watched from just slightly down the street as you left your building. you always looked both ways before you started down the street. he would wait ten seconds before following you, at most, he was thirty yards behind you.
you turned onto 11th avenue. the light was red, you looked both ways, like you always did. but that delivery truck came out of nowhere.
he didn't even hear you scream, didn't hear a sound. he didn't know if that was just his body's reaction to seeing you hurt, or if it was the reality of what happened. silence.
blood pooling from the back of your skull, your hand twitched like it wanted to reach for it, but your eyes were fluttering shut. he didn't evne remember running towards you, shouting about calling 911. he almost was ready to pick you up and carry you himself, preparing to run you to the nearest hospital.
the emt almost didn't let him come with you. he thought of you, alone in the hospital. so he said he was your fiancĂŠ.
he didn't know why he said it. why didn't he say boyfriend? why not husband?
when you had been unconscious in the hospital, he had went to get a ring. he didn't know why. he didn't know you'd wake with amnesia. maybe he thought he would propose later, take this as a meet-cute opportunity more than anything else.
until they told him you didn't remember him, the man who brought you in, who everyone believed was your fiancĂŠ, then another plan formed in his mind.
when you woke up days later, he said he found it where the accident happened and slid it right onto your finger.
"dex... maybe i could sleep in your room tonight?" you had been sleeping in the guest room. for your comfort. you sounded so shy, unsure.
his thumb paused against your scalp and you felt it immediately. but then he started rubbing those slow circles again, steadier this time, grounding himself more than you.
âyou wanna sleep in our room?â he repeated.
he was also correcting you about what he wanted to believe. or maybe it was more about what he wanted you to believe. and he was your only tether to the truth of your reality; you had forgotten everything else, and the only things that you knew about your life, your personality, your likes and dislikes, came from his lips.
his room? no. it was our room.
"we could just try it tonight, maybe? see how it goes?" your expression almost turned embarrassed as you looked up at him. "i keep waking up not knowing where i am. maybe i would just feel better if you were... beside me, i don't know."
he stared at you. he imagined you in his bed so many times it made him sick. so many scenarios ran through his head from before the accident, most of them making him stiff in his pants.
when he would watch you through your webcam through the laptop you forgot to close when you passed out, or through your bedroom window. he wondered what the weight of you against him would feel like, what the sound of your voice sounded like at 3 a.m., he wanted to know if you would curl up against his warmth, or turn away from it.
it wasn't crazy for him to think about this. he already knew your coffee order, your jogging routine, among the many other routines in your life he used to mould his around just to catch a glimpse of you.
"yeah," he breathed, a bit too fast. "yeah, of course."
that night, he tries to be perfect. he keeps his distance, careful not to overwhelm you like he hadn't been petting your head like a dog earlier.
the mattress is firmer than the guest room's. the pillows smell like his laundry detergent, like him. you wonder why, if this is your shared room, it doesn't smell you?
he lies down on his side, keeping space between you. "all good?"
you nod, staring at the ceiling, you try to relax, but you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. the same feeling you get when you're being watched in an empty room.
in the middle of the night, you wake up. you feel him, right behind you, his front pressed to your back, one arm draped heavily over your waist. he's breathing slow against your hair, but just a little off. is he pretending to sleep?
his arm feels less like an anchor and more like a lock. when you shift, his arm tightens out of some reflex. his body automatically locks up in panic when you pull away from him. just as quick as his grip tightened, he's relaxing again.
"shh," he whispers, voice thick with false sleep. "go back to sleep, baby."
just a small little thought while iâm drinking my coffee watching a manatee cam on this fine warm saturday morn
lil smutty but mostly suggestive fluff? would this be fluff? im sleepy and did not re-read or edit after writing
but insecure dex who cannot comprehend how goddamn sexy he is vs his girlfriend who gets wet just from him wiping his fingers off with a napkin
dex who doesnât understand how pretty he is or why his girlfriend is staring at him so much⌠he canât feel anything in his face, heâs checked his reflection several times. and sure he stares at you pretty much 25/8 but thats because you are gorgeous and everything good and pure in his life. he has no idea why you havenât taken your eyes off his face in the past 20 minutes and its beginning to stress him out. until you grab his jaw and gently turn his head to face you with that soft, adoring smile that is all his and mutter âso fucking pretty, babyâ while pressing kisses to his skin
dex who doesnât think heâs ugly but also doesnât understand the minute he pulls out that cocky smirk or run those thick ass hands of his down his face, your panties are flying off your person and into the back pocket of his jeans
and our dex who is always shocked at first when you grab one of his hands to shove down your panties, but the shock fades the instant your wetness seeps onto his rough fingers
dex who immediately spots the creeps eying you and hyping themselves up to approach if dex hadnât scared then off already with his death glare. but the moment another woman who most certainly is not you shows interest in him, heâs clueless to the flirting and lustful stares. mostly because theyâre not coming from you
dex who fully holds some dude inches from the ground for touching you and thinks he did something wrong because the moment that guy was out if sight, you pulled dex down to eye level saying you wanted to leave. to make matters worse, you barely speak to him the entire trip back home. and dex would be torn, he did the right thing, the pervert touched you and it looked like you were about to hit him! so instead of you potentially hurting yourself by doing so, dex took care of it. like heâs suppose to.
dex who is beyond confused when you barely make it through your front door before youâre pushing him to the wall and dragging your tongue over his, demanding he take off his shirt
dex who whispers confused, âyouâre bot mad at me?â
and you whoâs even more confused would ask, âthat was one of the hottest things youâve ever done, why tf would i be mad at you? shut up and take your shirt offâ
Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures (ONE SHOT)
Benjamin Poindexter x Reader
TAGS/WARNINGS: none
Synopsis: You find out that Dex is Bullseye and ask for some space while you mull things over. Dex cannot handle space, he needs you. And so? He begs.
âNo, nonono, please-â Dex is moving towards you, eyes desperately searching yours, hands reaching for you. âPlease, I can fix this, just let me fix this-â
âDex,â Your eyes fall shut and youâre pinching the bridge of your nose, exhaustion evident. This is unbelievably overwhelming and fuckâs sake, you just need to be alone so you can think clearly.
âBaby, please,â Heâs pleading with you, moving from the chair heâs been sitting in for the last thirty minutes so he can try to stand in front of you but you hold your hand out to stop him.
âDex, stop, please, I canât do this right now,â Thereâs an edge to your voice, frustration painfully evident as you move to turn away your boyfriend. Was he that still? You honestly werenât sure anymore.
âY/N, please,â he sounds desperate, eyes wide with panic, breathing laboured as he continues to try and station himself in front of you. Heâd spent the better part of the hour explaining that he was, in fact, the masked killer Bullseye.
Heâd been tucked into your living room chair, palms pressed flat to his knees as he explained, in detail, what his second life was like. Youâd stood there, arms crossed, body rigid, as you mulled over what your boyfriend had told you.
So not only had he hid a secret identity from you, but he was also, essentially, a villain.
Great.
And the worst part? It made so much god damn sense. How had you not seen it? Were you really that fucking blind? Or had you hoped, prayed, that youâd finally been dating a good, decent man?
You knew that Dex had killed, yes-he was in the FBI, of course heâd had to. But killing out of necessity was very different than a criminal paying you because they put a hit on someone. The late nights, irregular bruising and body aches made so much more sense now. Yes, some part of you figured he was doing vigilante work but this wasnât vigilant work.
It was straight up immoral.
Dex had tried to keep this a secret. He hadnât wanted to, but this had been so good. He had been so good. He liked this relationship, had fallen in love with you, and was happy. Coming home to you had proven to be as adjustment he looked forward to. It had made him feelâŚnormal. He didnât have to pretend around you: he had his outbursts, his moments of panic, felt the need to keep things organized and in their place, and you were always so kind about it. Heâd been put in his place by you, of course, but heâd been trying. He wanted this, needed this, needed you. But the look on your face now left him feeling scared, terrified even. Fear rose like bile in his throat and he felt his heart beating frantically in his chest, like a caged bird beneath the confines of his ribs.
The wretched, angry animal in him was clawing at his insides, begging to be set free.
She canât do this to me. She canât leave.
Youâd been standing with your arms crossed the entire time heâd been talking to you, and god heâd been trying so hard not to shake or sweat but the hardened look on your face was making it difficult not to. And now you wanted space? Time to think? So you didnât understand him like youâd said you did. If youâd actually understood him, knew him, cared about him, then this would make sense. Youâd be understanding.
Why werenât you understanding?!
Sweat had gathered on Dexâs temples and he swallowed loudly, palms facing you, terrified you were suddenly scared of him after realizing what he was capable of.
âPlease, just-â The panic was evident in his usually calm, level voice. âLetâs just sit and talk. If you let me explain-â
âBenjamin,â Your voice is curt, short and nearly halts him in his tracks. âWe have been talking. Thatâs what this was. You explained yourself and I asked for space.â
Dex felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack. The need to fold in on himself was beginning to chisel away at whatever was keeping him standing in front of you at this moment.
He could feel the tremor in his hands as he fought the urge to lunge forward and pull you into him. He couldnât let you have space. Then you could leave him, decide it was better to be apart, and what if you didnât want to see him again? What if you broke up with him? What was Dex supposed to do? Nonono, he needed you. He needed you.
Dexâ breathing was sharp, his heart in his throat as he moved to block your path again, his hands still out, palms facing you, showing he was safe.
Iâm safe baby please.
Iâm safe.
Safe.
Your face twisted and Dex could see your frustration with him quickly shifting into anger. He was overwhelming you, he knew that, but he couldnât stop. This awful, awful ache in his gut made him feel like he was drowning and you hadnât even left. What would he do if you did? What would he do if you said you needed space and actually took it?
He tried to keep himself from reaching for you, from touching you, from pulling you into him and making you listen and just fucking understand him.
He side stepped when you moved, planting himself back in your path.
âDex-â A warning.
âPlease, just-â He could hear how desperate he sounded, and maybe he should have cared but he couldnât. âDonât leave. Can we please talk? About this? Please?â
An exasperated sigh left you, and Dex watched your lip curl in a way it only did when you were reaching your limit.
âI know you said you needed space,â He rushed to explain himself, muscles tense as he prepared to physically stop you from moving away from him. âI just think we need to go over some things a little bit more.â
âDex, did you lie to me?â It was curt, short, abrupt.
He froze, eyes boring into your own.
He swallowed.
âYes, but-â
âThatâs all I needed to hear,â Youâd thrown your hands in the air, eyes rolling as you turned to move away from him again. âPlease leave now. I just need some time to myself-â
Dex should have been embarrassed at his desperation. Honestly, heâd never even imagined heâd end up in a relationship let alone love someone the way he loved you.
He needed you.
Youâd guided him. Hell, heâd even worn the mask exponentially less because he wanted to be around you so often. He wanted to be more like you, to love you, to protect you, to own you. You were his and only his.
So he did what any sane man would do: Benjamin Poindexter dropped to his knees and begged.
âOh god,â it escaped you in a startled whisper.
âPlease,â His voice was strained, brows drawn together as if it pained him to speak. His hands were on his thighs in front of him, flexing, as if he was forcing them to remain there. âI-Iâll do anything Y/N, just-just donât leave.â
It was pathetic, he was pathetic. Begging on his knees in your apartment, pleading with you to just give him another chance.
His chest was heaving, sharp breaths escaping him as he gazed up at you. He looked wild and barely contained, and you could tell in that moment that even if you tried to make him leave, it was more than likely that heâd simply refuse. Or linger in the area. You hated how much you loved that about him.
âBenjamin,â It escaped you in a startled sigh, blinking rapidly as you gazed down at your boyfriend. Youâd never seen him so distraught, so desperate.
It made your chest and pussy ache.
âPlease,â His voice was hoarse. âIâŚI canât do this without you.â Dex leaned forward on his knees, tentatively reaching towards you. âIâll do whatever you ask me to. Iâll be good, I promise.â
Your hand came up to cover your mouth, lashes fluttering in surprise at how earnest he was being. You really had only wanted spaceâŚjust-just some time to think. The realization that Dex was Bullseye was heavy. And, truthfully, you knew that this was manipulative. Dex could, absolutely, be manipulative. But he was also desperate and possessive. And honestly? Pathetic.
You loved that about him.
âDexâŚâ It was soft, the way you said it, and Dex moved to wrap his large, warm hands around your thigh, drawing you closer to him.
âBaby, please, I need you,â It was rushed, whiny, âI-I can fix it, just let me fix it.â
âDex,â You started, eyes fluttering shut as you turned your face to look away from him, overwhelmed by his demonstration. âYou canât stop being yourself, and this is-â
He looked anguished. âI know I upset you, I know I lied and I promised I wouldnât-â His hands were flexing around your leg, demanding, fingers almost bruising. âI fucked up. But I need you Y/N.â
Fuck.
You lifted your gaze to the ceiling for a moment, cursing yourself under your breath. Were you really going to cave? Fuck, it was so hard not to with him. He was soâŚDex.
When you finally looked down at him again it almost made you catch your breath. His lips were parted, cheeks a soft hue of pink, brows drawn together and hair moussed. He was a wreck, begging on his knees for you, his hands wrapped around your leg. Heâd moved closer so that your foot was resting between his knees now as he gazed up at you.
âDonât make me leave,â His voice cracked as he spoke and you nearly wailed in frustration.
âFine,â It was a soft murmur and you reached out to gently smooth his hair back from his forehead. âYou can stay. JustâŚcalm down, okay?â
Dexâ eyes fell shut, face immediately shifting into one of relief as he leaned into your touch.
âThank you baby,â He managed, and when he gazed up at you, you nearly caught your breath. âI promise Iâll behave.â
He pulled you closer to him then, crowding around your leg as he began planting open mouthed kisses atop your thigh. You could feel his tongue and teeth dragging along the skin as you continued to rake your fingers through his hair.
âThank you, thank you,â He kept whispering between kisses, hand hand smoothing up the back of your thigh as he drew you even closer to his body.
just a small little thought while iâm drinking my coffee watching a manatee cam on this fine warm saturday morn
lil smutty but mostly suggestive fluff? would this be fluff? im sleepy and did not re-read or edit after writing
but insecure dex who cannot comprehend how goddamn sexy he is vs his girlfriend who gets wet just from him wiping his fingers off with a napkin
dex who doesnât understand how pretty he is or why his girlfriend is staring at him so much⌠he canât feel anything in his face, heâs checked his reflection several times. and sure he stares at you pretty much 25/8 but thats because you are gorgeous and everything good and pure in his life. he has no idea why you havenât taken your eyes off his face in the past 20 minutes and its beginning to stress him out. until you grab his jaw and gently turn his head to face you with that soft, adoring smile that is all his and mutter âso fucking pretty, babyâ while pressing kisses to his skin
dex who doesnât think heâs ugly but also doesnât understand the minute he pulls out that cocky smirk or run those thick ass hands of his down his face, your panties are flying off your person and into the back pocket of his jeans
and our dex who is always shocked at first when you grab one of his hands to shove down your panties, but the shock fades the instant your wetness seeps onto his rough fingers
dex who immediately spots the creeps eying you and hyping themselves up to approach if dex hadnât scared then off already with his death glare. but the moment another woman who most certainly is not you shows interest in him, heâs clueless to the flirting and lustful stares. mostly because theyâre not coming from you
dex who fully holds some dude inches from the ground for touching you and thinks he did something wrong because the moment that guy was out if sight, you pulled dex down to eye level saying you wanted to leave. to make matters worse, you barely speak to him the entire trip back home. and dex would be torn, he did the right thing, the pervert touched you and it looked like you were about to hit him! so instead of you potentially hurting yourself by doing so, dex took care of it. like heâs suppose to.
dex who is beyond confused when you barely make it through your front door before youâre pushing him to the wall and dragging your tongue over his, demanding he take off his shirt
dex who whispers confused, âyouâre bot mad at me?â
and you whoâs even more confused would ask, âthat was one of the hottest things youâve ever done, why tf would i be mad at you? shut up and take your shirt offâ
synopsis you hate flying. something seems to go wrong every time you get the courage to get on a plane. but the stranger you were seated next to makes your trip a little more tolerable.
notes this one's for my nervous ramblers (looks in the mirror)
tags humor, fluff, fear of flying, awkwardness
wc 1.7k
series masterlist ⢠next part
No amount of preparation ever seemed to relax you before a flight. Whether it was the long grueling hours spent in the airport or the anticipation of taking off, stuck in an uncomfortable seat with your elbows rubbing against a total strangersâ, you absolutely loathed flying.
There were times when your determination won out, though. Fear of flying be damned, you had places you wanted to see before you died.Â
Now was one of those times.
You were sitting stiffly in your seat, trying to even your breathing and calm the hell down now that the plane was actually in the sky. But there was a pressure in your head from the elevation making you feel like your ears were full of cotton and the loud, continuous hum of the engine wasnât doing you any favors.
You were glad your seatmate had the window shade pulled down. The sight of being over the clouds would surely take you out in your current state. He wore a pair of vintage style headphones over his ears, minding his own business with his head rested back against the seat.
He had the right idea.
With trembling hands, you unzipped your carry on to pull out your own headphones. Drowning out the sound of the roaring engine with your top songs of the month would help clear your head and provide a nice distraction to calm your nerves.
Your bag was well-organized when you left the house. But by now youâd dug through it so many times it was a mix of tangled wires, chapstick, loose credit and ID cards, your worn half-read book you slid a receipt into as a makeshift bookmarkâŚ
No headphones. But you hadnât forgotten them at home or packed them in the wrong bag; no, you had used them in the airport. Which means they were now sitting abandoned, waiting to be claimed by someone lucky enough to spot them.
At least they weren't your expensive ones...
You covered your face and groaned as quietly as you could. You still caught the attention of the man beside you. He had only glanced at you. No judgment in his eyes, but no sympathy either. He was just watching you, like, âoh. this is the person I have to ask to move if I need to use the bathroom.â
Heat climbed up your neck and you swiped your book out of your bag bitterly, opening it to your bookmarked page and staring at the words rather than reading them. They melded together in front of your eyes, letters blending and turning into inky blobs in the wake of your pounding headache.Â
No headphones, no ibuprofen. You were lying to yourself if you thought you were well-prepared. Maybe this is why flying was always miserable for you.Â
You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the seat. The darkness behind your eyelids helped you focus on clearing your mind, singling out that loud engine hum and trying to force it to fade into the background. It became more and more distant andâŚ
Was that music?
At first you thought you were wishfully imagining it in your head, still broken over your lost headphones. But then you focused on the sound a bit more, and yeah, that was definitely someone shredding on guitar.
You opened your eyes and looked beside you at your seat neighbor where the sound was coming from. His headphones were leaking his music, just loud enough for you to hear. It was barely audible, but you could make out what he was listening to.
His eyes were shut, so you took the opportunity to shamelessly catalogue his features to memory. Particularly the long scar running across his cheek. The dimple on his chin. The wrinkle between his eyebrows.Â
You sat back against your seat, straining your ears to listen along. You were desperate enough to make a game out of it, too, guessing every track. Radiohead, the Smiths, ChevelleâŚ
But the next song gave you pause. It immediately struck you with recognition, a song youâd heard maybe a hundred times over your morning coffee. It was almost comforting hearing it now, over 30,000 feet in the air.
So, being as subtle as possible, you leaned your head to the side of your seat, trying to hear a little betterâŚ
Okay, clearly not subtle enough. The music paused. When you looked over to investigate why, he was looking right at you.Â
You sat up straight, turning your head away as if you hadnât just been listening to music from a stranger's headphones. Totally cool, totally normal, youâre sure he didnât notice.
He slid his headphones down to his shoulders, and you knew it was over for you.
âWere you listening?â He asked, pointing to his headphones.Â
You laughed sheepishly. âUh, yeah. Sorry. I sort of forgot my headphones.â
Instead of being weirded out by youâor if he was, he didnât show it on his faceâhe just nodded, unbothered.Â
For some reason, you decided to fill his silence.
âIâm a nervous flyer and music calms me down.â You explained. You were like a running tap, not able to close your mouth the moment his headphones were off apparently. âYour volume was pretty loud so I could hear it through your headphones.â
Based on his lack of responses, you expected him to ask you to stop being a weirdo, and that heâs not a free radio station service.Â
âThe music calms me down, too.â He admitted it and then turned back to glance at the covered window, like he wasnât expecting to open up to a stranger today.
Granted, neither were you. But you werenât going to stop now. If you didnât have the music anymore, you were going to get your nervous energy out by rambling to this admittedly handsome man sitting beside you.
âMy best friendâs getting married,â you said, âIâm meeting her and some of our other friends for a kind of bachelorette trip. You?â
âWork.â He said simply, ânot as interesting as partying.â
The scar on his cheek hinted otherwise. But you werenât going to say that to himâyou still had some semblance of a filter.
âWeâre not really going to party, per se. JustâŚsightseeing.â You explained, looking down at the book still left in your lap. âSheâs always wanted to go and her lifeâs so busy this is her only chance to do it before the wedding planning chaos.â
âWhat about you?â He asked, to your surprise. âDo you like traveling?â
You laughed nervously. âThe being there part is great. Getting there, not so muchâŚâ
The slight shaking in your hands and bees nest in your stomach was proof enough.Â
âThat song that was just playingâI recognized it because, well,â you bit the inside of your cheek, âthis is going to sound strange, but the jukebox at this diner I go to for breakfast every morning always gets stuck playing it on a loop, andââ
âThe jukebox at the Bel Aire Diner.â He finished for you. âI know the one.â
Your eyebrows raised. âYouâre from Hellâs Kitchen, too? Iâve never seen you in the diner, though. We must be there at different times of day.â
âMust be.â He repeated after you, and you caught the corners of his lips raising in a smile.
His gaze fell to your still quivering hands. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the MP3 player his headphones were connected to.
You watched him press play again, music filtering in through the headphones that were still resting on his shoulders. The music was now just loud enough for you and him to hear.Â
âGo ahead and listen.â He offered. âIf it helps.â
The gesture surprised you. But certainly wasnât unwelcome. The buzzing in your stomach calmed to a soft fluttering.
âThank you.â You smiled, leaning back in your seat again. âWhat was your name, by the way?â
He smiled, lips pulled to one side. âItâs Dex.â
You gave him your name, and watched him mouth it once before the music caught your attention again.
It was a slower song now, the chords progressing in a gentle melody. You recognized it, too, the lyrics repeating themselves in your head as you followed along.
You hadnât even realized you drifted off until you woke later from the high-pitched whistle of the plane descending. The first thing you registered was how warm your body was, eyes fluttering open. It was then you felt the gentle pressure of your head resting against something hard.
Oh god. Your stomach flipped when you realized you had ended up with your head on his shoulder at some point. He didnât seem to mind. He had the window shade pulled up now, staring out at the evening skyline.Â
Your face heated up and you sat up straight in your seat, rubbing your eyes. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to fall asleep on you thereâŚâ
He turned to look at you and shrugged. âDidnât even notice.â
If he was trying to rescue your dignity, he was doing a great job at it.Â
His music was still playing until the plane had finished landing. You had moved out of the aisle to let him through, holding onto your book that had stayed in your lap the entire flight. In a distracted haste to grab your bag, you noticed he had left the plane before you got a chance to say anything more to him.
It made your heart sink. You were sure there was a little something there, even if it was just him being friendlyâŚÂ
But once you too were out of the plane, smelling the fresh air of the new city you had traveled to, you were overcome with the excitement of being somewhere new.
You could be grateful to him for making it the least agonizing flight of your career, even if the two of you were ships in the night.
Your friends promised to pick you up after you landed, but you had made it about a half hour early. Sitting at the nearest bench, you flipped your book open to the receipt-marked page.
Oh.Â
There was a note scribbled onto the empty space underneath the final paragraph of the page.Â
See you in Bel Air Diner.
- D
Your lips pulled into a smile, your finger tracing over the blue ink.
You still didn't have headphones for your flight home, but now you had something a little better.
a/n some of the songs i imagine being played: the red by chevelle, back to the old house by the smiths, all i need by radiohead. the song looping on the jukebox is dont dream its over by crowded house. these are probably not very accurate hcs but i digress.
Summary: Dexâs girl fails to text him and sends him into a spiralling mess. Turns out sheâs just sick.
Warnings: 18!+ mentions of sex, swearing, pre-Fisk!Dex, FBI!Dex, stalker-ish!Dex, mentally ill!Dex, comfort fic, loving!Dex, mentions of sickness and flu/cold.
Masterlist
Notes: i hope u enjoy it! Any feedback is appreciated. If there are any mistakes or inaccuracies inform me. Inbox is open for requests or just to chat.
She was so incredibly cold; withering in her comfortable bed where it was supposed to be warm and cozy.Â
Although she was cold and her body shivered, sweat gathered all over her skin. A headache kept on persisting to survive, not allowing her a minute of rest.Â
A wet cough erupted from her cracked lips and her body began to ache more.Â
The sun shining through the window hurt her eyes, adding to the discomfort.Â
With a grumble y/n drew up the blanket over her head and hid herself from the rising day.Â
âFuck me,â a hoarse murmur came out of her.Â
The phone kept buzzing and vibrating somewhere in bed, her throat stung like hell, and she could barely take a breath; and she was just so tired, y/n thought.Â
So incredibly weighed down by the sicknessâby a common cold.Â
âFuck me.â
The phone kept buzzing every few minutes or maybe it didnât? Maybe she was deliriously out of it all, who gives a shit at this point?
With a heavy sigh y/n tried to fall into a deep sleep but only managed to close her eyes and pretend to sleep.Â
Fifteen minutes passed.Â
Maybe thirty minutes?
Her tired eyes and mind kept on conjuring interesting images: some sort of fiery field, a farmers market, Dex in clothes he would never wear.Â
High fever, y/n though. She snuggled deeper into her blanket and pillows, relaxing into its soft embraceâ
At first she did not hear anything, but her body stiffened; an off putting feeling coursed through her body. Only after a few minutes her body caught up to the soudâbanging.Â
What and where eluded her still. But it was persistent⌠and followed by muffled sounds.Â
The next set of bangs was more aggressive, it made y/n sit in her bed. Hair wild and sticking to her damp skin, she had to brush it off of her faceâthe banging continued.Â
Her eyes darted all over the bedroom, to the closet door, to the curtained windows, she even leaned down to look under the bed.Â
Y/n neared the conclusion it must be coming from outside of the bedroomâprobably the front door.Â
âUgh,â y/n flopped back into the bed and hoped it would go away⌠but maybe Mrs. Smith is in need of help or Siennaâs daughter?
âFuck me.â
Y/n moved around on the bed struggling to lift herself up, eventually managing to untangle herself from the blanket and the pillows.Â
Slowly and very painful, hands leaning for support on walls and furniture, y/n managed to near the door.Â
And by then the banging has stopped; she lingered for a few moments, then looked through the peepholeâ
Dex.Â
Oh.Â
He looked⌠pale and sweaty, and frantic, and scared, and angry. What the hell happened, she thought. Quickly undoing the locks Dex installedâhe kept saying that it is easy to break in, you need better locksâshe swung the door open and both of their frantic eyes met.Â
âWhatâs wrong,â y/n began to say, voice gravely and breathy.Â
While at the same time Dexâs raised voice reached her ears, âWhere the fuck have you been?â
âWha?â
âWhy havenât you been answering me?â
âHuh?â this was very confusing for her, everything was so overwhelming. With the back of her hand y/n wiped her nose, âI didnât hear you calling.â
His eyes lingered over her form, the anger usually made him not as perceptive of the outside world, but now he noticedâthe runny nose, the hard breathing, the hoarseness in her voice. She was sick, and he came to the worst conclusion imaginableây/n was fucking some other man.Â
Anger and fear always made him experience tunnel vision. Dex came here to confront his lover, maybe beat the living shit out of a guy, but all he found was his lovely girlfriend pale and wobbly on her feet.Â
âIt doesnât matter,â he whispered and extended his palm to her waist.Â
âYouâll get sick,â y/n tried to reason with Dex. With his hand gently wrapping around her waist, Dex stepped into the apartment and locked the door. Quickly he took off his shoes and straightened to look at her.Â
âWhen did you get sick, hmh?â he was gentle with her now, all the worry and doubt left in the hallway. Dexâs hand gently enveloped her waist, bringing y/n into his chest.Â
âYouâre gonna get sick,â mumbled y/n into his clothed chest.Â
âI donât care,â his other hand came up to caress her hair.Â
She was sweaty and sticky, the smell was quite awful, too, Dex thought. If it were anyone else, he would probably ignore them or tell them to fuck off. But this was not just anyone, he was holding the world in his armsâhis North Star.Â
He would bear this mess, Dex would not shun her out just because y/n was unfortunate enough to get sick.Â
With his cheek pressed against the top of her hair Dex spoke, voice soft and tone warm, âYou should have called, sweetheart. How long has this been going on, hmh?â
Dex felt her shrug. âA day or two.â
He knew exactly for how long, because after she finished work Friday evening, y/n did not contact him. Dex thought she was fucking some other guy, but the reality was his precious star was sick.Â
He forgave her for Friday, Dex knows she likes to take long baths and read for hours on end. Or maybe she had a migraine or a headache. One evening was not the end of his world.Â
The app on his phone informed him that y/n was in her apartmentâso, Friday night Dex worried but did not come to any solid conclusions.Â
But he kept checking the app every ten minutes.Â
On Saturday, he did not receive any calls or texts from her. His pulse picked up, thoughts darkened, and the picture frames that held her pictures were taken off of the walls. Not shattered or broken just yet, Dex tried not to overreact. At the moment, he just couldnât look at her face.Â
But her location did not change; y/n was still at her apartment. So, Dex waitedâbut not as patiently as the previous evening.Â
Early Sunday morning he texted her first:
Hey, are you okay? I love you, i can help with whatever :)
No answer. Usually, y/n was glued to her phone; a reply would reach him in minutes, even when she was working or reading.Â
After an hour there was still no reply.Â
Dex tried again:
Are you home? Can I come over, im worried about you.Â
Still nothing.Â
He texted some more and then began to call her. Dex mustâve called y/n ten times before deciding to just come over.Â
His mind was a strange thing, Dex himself did not even understand it fully. His North Star was not answering him, and his only conclusion was she must be with another man. He was sick, Dex knew it, but not once did he think that maybe y/n was in trouble or unwell, or even laying dead in her apartment.Â
Tunnel vision did not allow him that; she was fucking another man, and that was final. And she was doing so in the same bed that the two of them made love, the thought sickened him even moreâangered him.Â
They never fucked, that was a conversation Dex initiated. He wanted to love her and dote on herâhe always wanted to make love to her. Even when she misbehaved and he had to remind her of how to be his good girl. Even when their lovemaking sessions were rough and Dex used her body to pleasure himselfâit was still love making, because he loved her, and y/n loved Dex.Â
But now all of it melted away, as soon her body was enveloped in his, Dex forgot the imaginary man and the frustrations eased out of his body.Â
âYou need to shower, it will make you feel better, yeah?â Dex encouraged her, he could feel her face shaking against his chest.Â
Dexâs arms tightened around y/n. âIâll comb your hair and make you something to eatâand you will go take a shower.â
This time it wasnât a suggestion but rather a demand. He couldnât allow himself not to take care of herâsweaty and unclean, a shower will help her feel better. It would rinse off all of the perspiration, the warm water would ease her muscles.Â
Her head shook again.Â
âItâs not up for debate,â said Dex and lifted her up, one hand under her knees the other around her back, and carried her to the bathroom.Â
Carefully setting her down on the warm tiles, Dex rummaged through the drawers looking for the hairbrush.Â
âYou should have called me or texted, I would have come over,â he said softly.Â
Y/n turned to him, body now leaning against the tiled wall.Â
âDid I not text you?â y/n asked quizzically, voice hoarse.Â
Y/n sounded exactly the same after the first time he fucked her throat; Dex smirked at the memory. That was a good day, he thinks, and quickly is brought back to reality after his eyes lay upon the brush.Â
Turning around to face her Dex motions for her to turn her back to himâher hair.Â
âNo, you didnât,â his voice was tight, he was displeased she did not inform him but could he really blame her? Maybeâjust a little.Â
His fingers worked through her hair, untangling the bigger knots and only then beginning to brush it.Â
âI thought I did,â Dex heard her mumble.Â
âItâs okay, now. I was just worried.â
âYou could have come over as soon as you began to feel that something is wrong,â y/n offered gently.Â
âI didn't want to intrude on you or invade your space, sweetheart,â he leaned into her and placed a soft kiss on the back of her neck. She was sticky and salty, Dex did not mind it.Â
Of course, that was a lie. He wanted to force himself into her space all day everyday. She was an individualist, y/n enjoyed spending time alone, but god Dex hated that trait of hers. All he wanted to do was be with her day and night, touch her constantly, know every minute detail about her day and plans. And she⌠she was closed off, y/n would inform him of going out and such, but never in much detail.Â
Y/n thought that her life was her own and Dexâs belonged to him. But the reality was, her life was Dexâs. He often followed her around, nothing excitingâwalks in parks, reading a book on a bench, thrift shopping. Sometimes he would let her go alone, sometimes Dex did not want to spend an hour outside a bookshop waiting for his North Star to explore all of it and still not buy anything.Â
âYou never intrude, baby,â she tried to sound soft but a cough interrupted her. He did not mindâhe was a man not a fucking pussy, he served in the military, Dex has seen more gore in his life than mostâa wet cough erupting form the chapped lips he wanted to kiss was no problem at all.Â
âOkay,â Dex said and put the hairbrush on the counter, his other hand running through her oily hairâhis large palm pressing into the back of her head and slowly moving downwards caressing her hair.Â
âTake a shower, Iâll make you something to eat.â
He planted one last kiss on her neck and left the bathroom.Â
Her apartment wasnât bigger than his, although it had more personal items and furniture, it was more colourful than Dexâs. He had a couple of photos hanging on the wallsâmostly of his North Star, a few pictures of the both of them, and from his days at the hotline.Â
The kitchen was a mess, the living room was a messâDex glanced into the bedroom, it, too, was a mess. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair.Â
Dex started with the kitchen, cleaned it up and washed the dishes, he was quick. He never liked dirty places or messes, especially where one eats. But he would forgive her this time, y/n was sick. Quickly moving around the kitchen he found a pot and heated some water.Â
Y/n taught him how to make brothâquick, easy, and delicious. Dex put a couple of cubes of vegetable bouillon, chopped some vegetables he found in her fridge and left the pot to simmer.Â
He bought the same bouillon she used, truth be told his apartment held many things she used and likedâthe sauces, the bouillon, the chocolates she enjoyed and the chips she swore she would die for.Â
Her personal items littered his bathroomâit was an organised mess, she told himâbut every time she would leave his place, Dex would pack all of it into the spacious makeup bag he bought her.
Her living room was just a mess, no organisation. He cleaned it up, the wrappers and the empty cups. This, he could not forgive her, this mess was made days before y/n fell sick.Â
Then Dexâs attention was drawn to the bedroomâthe shower was still running, he still had time. His lingering gaze was set on the bed, sheets crumpled and stained with sweat. To Dex, it looked like a mess after sex, the thought irked him, and he began to remove the dirty sheets.Â
The phone in her bed caught his attention. It was so close to her, yet she did not text or answer him. Quickly snatching it he unlocked itâpasscode the year they metâhe did not mean to snoop, it was instinctual for him now. He had done it so many times with her permission and without it, with her knowing and without her knowing.Â
The phone unlocked and the first thing he saw was their messages, and the usent message y/n typed out:
Geting sick, idont think we can hang iut this wknd :,((
His heart ached for her, his poor North Star, so tired she couldnât even hit send. He will apologise to her in his own way, Dex thinks. After she is well and healthy, he will apologise for something y/n doesnât even have a clue about. A nice dinner date, a velvety jewellery box, and y/n as a dessert. Yes, heâll need to apologise to her on his knees, as is appropriate.Â
Dex continued with the task, finding the clean sheet in her closet, he made quick work of itâDex tried but he could never understand why y/n needed this many pillows.
He asked once, y/n said for snuggling, Dex replied you have me, she laughed yeah, but when you're out being FBI Benjamin Poindexter I snuggle the pillows. He did not understand the appeal.Â
The water stopped running and he was still three pillowcases away from completing the task. Her skincare is detailed, Dex thought, he still had time. And by the time she emerged from the bathroom, the apartment was cleaned up and aired out. Of course, it did not meet Dexâs expectations but he did the best with the time he had.Â
âNooo,â y/n whined, âyou did not need to do any of this.â
Her hands motioned to the apartment and a breathy cough caught her off guard. Dex stepped up to her, hand gently brushing her back. With little force he began to manoeuvre her towards the kitchen table.Â
âYouâll get sick,â she coughed into the elbow.Â
âI wonât,â Dex murmured and drew out a chair for her. âSit.â
Y/n did as told; Dex liked when she listened, it made things easier for himâeasier to control the scene.Â
âMade broth, just the way you like,â Dex informed y/n while ladling the soup into a small colourful bowl. âHow do you feel, sweetheart?â
Y/n cleared her throat and nodded, âBetter.â
âGood.â
Dex gently placed the bowl and a spoon in front of her, and went back to pour himself some.
âItâs hot,â he reminded her, y/n hummed and leaned back into the backrest of the chair.Â
âWhat were you so worried about?â her hoarse voice pierced the comfortable silence.Â
âHmh?â
âYou looked frantic and scared at the door, what happened?â
Dex set the bowl on the table and sat in front of y/n. The spoon in his hand began to swirl the contents of the bowl, eyes gazed upon it.Â
Dex did not want to tell her the truth, that he thought that y/n would stoop so low as to cheat rather than talk it out with Dex. Â
âI was just⌠worried about you,â Dexâs gaze finally meets hersâred and watery. âI should get you some medicine, what do you have at home?â
âUmmâŚ,â she scratched her chin, âIâm not sure, you can check, itâsââ y/n turned and pointed to one of the cabinets.Â
Dex stood up and aimed for it. He took out the plastic box and rummaged through itâhe did not find anything useful. Old cough syrup, empty bottle of Advil, and gauze.Â
âDidnât I tell you to buy more stuff for your emergency kit?â
âDid you?â y/n asks him shyly.
âI did. You have nothing, Iâll need to go to the pharmacy,â he pushed the box away from himselfâas if it offended himâleaving it on the kitchen counter and returned to the table. âIâll go after we eat,â Dex informed her.Â
âThank you,â a small whisper left her lips. She began to swirl the spoon in her soup, blowing on it to cool it.Â
âWhere do you think you caught it?â Dex asks casually, but it wasnât. He wanted to know if she went out somewhere or met someone he wasnât aware of.Â
âProbably work,â she sighed and began to blow on the spoonful of soup, âDan brought in a kid on Monday. You know, kids are like vaults full of bacteria and shitâŚâ
âMhm⌠Dan? Heâs the one that drops you off after work sometimes?â
She shook her head and took a spoonful of the soup, then hummed, âOh, this is delicious, thank you, Ben.âÂ
The smile on her face almost made him forget what she just negatedâalmost.Â
Dan⌠if not the old grandpa, with a wife of forty years, who occasionally gave her rides home, who the fuck was he?
âHeâs a new guy. Before, we called Daniel Dan, now we call him just Daniel, and the new guy Danâbecause thatâs his full name,â she explained slowly, in between taking sips of the broth.Â
âAh,â he nodded, âis he nice? Dan, I mean.Â
He saw y/n shrug. âI donât know, we donât really work together, most of my projects are with Daniel. But the kid seemed polite, so at least he can teach the kid some manners.â
Dex hummed in agreement.Â
Dan, a new player on the field. Heâll need to look into him. It irked Dex that she didnât tell him soonerâor maybe it was for the best, he would have come here with the intention to kill Dan.Â
They ate in comfortable silence. Y/n felt better, a shower can do wonders for body and mind, she thought. Having Dex here also uplifted her spirits; he cleaned up her apartment, he cocked for herâhe came in to check on her. It felt nice to be loved like this, Dex always took care of her. He would always plan things in advance, which she liked, he would always take care of the details and such. Y/n never had to worry much while being in a relationship with Dex. He always took good care of her.Â
And once again, he cleaned the dishes and made sure the kitchen was clean.Â
Dex instructed y/n to go rest in the bed while he went out to buy medication for her; she obliged. Her body was still very much in pain, her mind and eyes tired. He kissed her forehead goodbye, in return earning another youâll get sick that he did not pay much attention to, and made his way towards the door.Â
********************************************
The next time y/n woke up it was much darker outsideâthe sun had set alreadyâand a firm and warm body was pressed against her back.Â
She smiled to herself and leaned into his embrace; one of his hands was under a pillow and the other atop her hip. His hot breath hit the back of her neck and, usually, that would bother her but she did not mind it when it was Dex.Â
Her eyes fluttered open and were met by a beautiful bouquet of tulips on the windowsill.Â
Dexâs hold on her hip tightened and she closed her eyesâenjoying the peacefulness of the evening.Â
ââ Dex kills someone for you. You deal with it.
tags: violence, death, harassment (not from dex), toxic relationship dynamics, obsession, reader is a bit of a freak, dex being soggy and pathetic
ââââââââ
âIf I knew youâd look so good in that quarter-zip, I would have brought you out here ages ago.â
Dex flusters at your compliment, a pink stain rising to his cheeks. Your reward from him is a shy smile, small and lopsided. His fingers tug at the zipper of the aforementioned quarter-zip, a simple black thing that hugs his chest and the broad line of his shoulders.
âThank you,â he says. Months of dating still havenât acclimated him to the warmth of your attention, and his bashfulness is still as charming as it was in the beginning. You lean back on your elbows, grass tickling your skin, and let the sun warm you with its fading light. This park has been a favorite escape of yours. Just outside the city and tucked up against the riverbank, itâs offered you a quiet refuge for as long as youâve lived here, and now youâve shared this little piece of yourself with Dex. A quiet place for both of you to enjoy â together.
âYou look pretty,â Dex says, and you know before you even turn to him that heâs been staring at you this whole time. âThe sun is on your face. You â youâre glowing.â
âThank you, baby,â you say, twining your fingers with his. You turn your attention to the river and the sun dipping below the skyline of the city beyond. By the bank, a man walks with his dog. The air is cool and quiet until the bright ring of a phone cuts through the silence.
Dex tugs his hand away from yours and seizes the phone from his pocket, eyebrows scrunching as he glares at the screen.
âShit,â he says. âItâs work.â His thumb hesitates over the answer button.
âItâs ok, Agent Poindexter. Iâll wait here while you do your FBI thing.â You give him a reassuring smile and he returns it, squeezing your hand one last time before climbing to his feet. The low tone of his voice fades as he moves out of earshot, and youâre left alone in the grass.
Minutes pass, and a glance over your shoulder reveals Dex with arms crossed and shoulders tight as he speaks into the phone. Something stressful has come up, or a last-minute call into work, perhaps. You climb to your feet and wander closer to the bank. Whatever it is, youâre sure to get the run down when heâs finished.
You hear it before you see it â gravel crunching under heavy feet from beyond the crop of trees to your left. A man emerges from the tree line, walking along the path that hugs the bank. He catches you assessing him, eyes locking with yours, and a weight settles deep in your gut. The man is moving towards you.
âOut here alone?â he asks.
You offer a tight-lipped smile. âNo,â you say. âIâm just waiting for my boyfriend.â
âDonât see no boyfriend,â the man says. He stops at a too-close distance, and you cross your arms over your chest, turning your body away from his.
âHeâll be here in a minute,â you say shortly. âIâm just waiting for him.â
The man takes another step toward you. You take a step back.
âSo you canât talk to nobody?â he says. âOr are you just too pretty to talk to me?â
You turn to walk away from him, to find Dex yourself, but the man steps in front of you in one smooth motion, cutting off your path of escape.
âHey, nothing wrong here,â he says, advancing into your space again. âIâm just trying to get your number.â
Heâs too close, and moving closer. He raises a hand like heâs going to grab at you, and you take a sharp breath, youâre going to yell â
Thunk. The man freezes. His mouth parts stupidly and his hand â the hand that was reaching for you â moves, trembling, to his temple, where a pen has lodged into his skull. His fingers fumble around it, as if in disbelief, as if he doesnât understand whatâs just happened, and in your shock you havenât quite grasped it either. Blood sprays down his pale face. He collapses into the soft grass.
His mouth opens and closes, opens and closes, breaths short and ragged. His body twitches once, twice, muscles locking up in a violent spasm, and then he stills. Eyes open. Afraid. Dark blood and clear fluid pool around that soft, green grass, and the manâs chest does not rise again.
Heâs dead. You watched him die. Your heartbeat is a pounding thud in your ears, and you turn, dazed, to the man you know is waiting there.
Behind you, Dex stands like a wild animal. His wide eyes are not on the body, but on you. You stare at each other in taut silence. For one delirious moment, you think you could laugh. Dex â your Dex â launched a pen like a bullet through that manâs skull. Dex killed him. Killed him, and in his eyes, you see fear. He raises his hands slowly. Placatingly. Like one sudden movement will spook you and send you running to the road. He says your name.
âThe body,â you blurt out. âThe river. Put it in the river.â
All at once, your senses come back to you. Youâre in the park. A public park. You glance frantically around for anyone nearby, anyone who could have seen it happen. The man with the dog. The walking paths. Did anyone see? Are there cameras here? You rush to the body and the bright patch of red soaking the dirt. Dex is still staring at you as you crouch beside it.
âNow, Dex,â you snap, voice low and hoarse. Heâs just looking at you. Just standing there and looking at you with fear in his face.
âYeah,â he rasps. âYeah. Ok. The river.â
The two of you haul the body down to the riverbank, behind the crop of trees, over stones and brush out of sight from the path. You dump it clumsily into the water and it sinks into the murky depths, disappearing in the current as if it was never there at all. In days or weeks it will float back up to surface, bloated with gas and rot. But by then the two of will be long gone. You scrub your hands in river water until theyâre pink and stinging and clean of his blood.
Beside you, the pen rests on a mossy rock. Dark blood clings to its bottom half, wrenched free from its victim with a wet squelch. Federal Bureau of Investigation, it reads, letters engraved into the silver. You offer it to Dex, who has said nothing since the two of you began the disposal. That animal-panic is still in his eyes, and his eyes are still trained on you.
âThrow it,â you say softly. âAs far as you can.â He takes the pen from your fingers and hurls it into the water.
ââ
The sky is dark on the drive back into the city. Dexâs hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and when the car finally rolls to a stop, you look up to see that heâs brought you back to his apartment. The entryway is dark and quiet when he lets you in, and the sterile world of his home feels almost like a different reality from the dark waters youâve just left behind. You move like a ghost to his room, on legs that seem to carry you with a will of their own. Your bag thugs to the ground and your jacket follows it, before a dark silhouette blots out the light cast from the open door.
Dex stands in the doorway. He is a shadow illuminated by the hall light behind him, his face hazy and obscured. He says your name again, strained.
âI couldnât let him hurt you. He was - he reached for you, he was scaring you, and I couldnât let him touch you.â His fingers flex and open, a nervous tick. The room is cold silent. Not even the rush of traffic outside.
âI know, Dex,â you reply. The silence drags only for a moment as Dex realizes youâre not going to say anything else. He takes a step toward you, out of the harsh backlight of the hallway and into the dimly lit room.
âI was protecting you,â he says. âIâll always, always protect you. Nothing else matters. Youâre the only thing that matters, youâre the only person I love, your the only person who loves - who loves me, and I canât - I had to -â his breaths become shakey, rapid. He stops an arms-length away as if heâs afraid to come closer. In the space between you he raises a hand, palm up in request of your own. He wants you to touch him. To slot your fingers between his and tell him that everything will be all right. You donât offer it to him.
âI know, Dex,â you say again. âIâm not mad. I just . . . I just want to sleep. I want to shower and go to bed.â
His hand falls to his side and his face crumples for a moment, desperate and close to tears. âOk,â he says. âI can do that. We can shower.â He follows you to the bathroom and starts the shower as you strip in silence. The small space is tighter still with two bodies huddled inside of it, steam clinging to the tiles and water just hot enough to make you squirm. You donât bother asking him to lower it. Dexâs eyes follow every move you make.
The familiar scent of his laundry detergent wraps around you as you curl into his sheets, and before you can shy away his body is sliding into bed behind yours. His chest is firm against your back. His arm snakes around your waist and presses you flush against him. Legs tangling, fingers curling into the worn fabric of your sleep shirt. You feel his breath stall against the bare skin of your neck, as if heâs going to speak.
âDonât,â you say softly. âI donât want to talk. Not right now. We can do it in the morning.â
Calloused hands clutch at the fat of your waist. He presses himself further, further into you.
âOk,â he rasps. âIn the morning.â
You fall asleep in the vise of his arms.
ââ
You wake with his limbs twisted up in yours. Bodies tangled in a sweaty knot, his breath warm against your neck. You are one half-turn away from slipping off the mattress, as if you shifted away from him in sleep and he chased you to the edge. His breath catches and you know heâs woken up, too. Dex always wakes when you do. A sixth sense that you used to joke about. You shift in his arms and he jolts up to rest on his elbow, his other hand worrying the sleeve of your shirt.
Somewhere in the river thereâs a body, cold and bloodless. You swing your legs over the bed and Dex follows close behind. Heâs a shadow at your back as you slink into the bathroom to splash your face with cool water. His anxiety is a dark cloud in the room, buzzing, clawing energy that surrounds you even without looking at his reflection in the mirror as you squeeze toothpaste onto a brush. Heâs waiting for you to say something. But speaking about it makes it real, makes the man hovering behind you into someone you no longer know as well as you thought you did. A hidden facet of him has been revealed to you. Soon you will have to decide what youâll do about it.
You make it into the kitchen before he cracks.
âWhy arenât you saying anything?â he asks, weakly. âAre you mad at me?â
You force yourself to meet his stare. A fitful and sleepless night has carved lines under his eyes and made his skin blotchy red. He looks young and fearful. He looks like he could be sick.
âIâm not mad,â you answer. âIâm just . . . thinking.â
Dex sniffles. âI did it for you,â he says, voice wobbly. âTo protect you. I would do anything for you. Anything. I need you so much itâit hurts.â He shuffles towards you with his palms up and open. You realize, not for the first time, that Dex is big. Tall. Broad shouldered. Intimidating.
But heâd never felt intimidating to you. Shouldnât it have been obvious? Dex is a sniper with the FBI. Heâs paid to kill. And heâs already confessed to you, between tears and wracking sobs, the truth of his violent childhood and the source of the shame that permeates his every waking moment. Of course he was capable of this. Of course. What were you thinking? That he was better? Changed? That he wouldnât hurt anyone anymore â that he wouldnât hurt you?
No. No, Dex would never. He loves you. Heâs fiercely protective of you. Heâs never, ever made you feel unsafe, not until . . . until now. Until last night.
The length of your silence must have been a few breaths too long, because Dex presses on, tears rolling down his red cheeks.
âIâm not good,â he says. âIâm not good like you are. I want to be, fuck, Iâm trying to be, but I donât care what I have to do to keep you safe.â Heâs shuffled into your space again, his body a furnace next to yours. His fingers grip the fabric of your t-shirt.
âPlease, please, Iâm sorry. I didnât mean to scare you. Just please donât leave me.â
It strikes you then. The truth of what Dex is feeling. All of the nerves, all of the shaking, the crying . . . Dex isnât afraid of being caught. Heâs not worried about the police or even shaken by the fact that not 10 hours ago, he took a human life. Dex is afraid that youâre going to leave him.
. . . Would you? You think of the body in the grass. Gasping. Twitching. He didnât have to die. Dex could have scared him, or fought him, or just taken you away, but he put a pen through the manâs skull without a moment of hesitation, and apparently, without any remorse. Itâs not the first time heâs done it. It may not be the last. What happens the next time he sees someone harassing you? What happens if he meets any of the people whoâve wronged you, the former friends, the exes? Heâs violent. Heâs dangerous. Heâs . . .
Heâs crying into your shoulder. Pitiful, gasping sobs that shake his big body as itâs folded over to curl into your warmth. A wet patch clings to your skin, tears and snot soaking the cotton of your shirt. When your hands rise to cup his face and lift his head to look at you, the movement is all muscle memory. Comforting him is second nature now, engrained in you like instinct. This is Dex. This is your baby.
âOh, honey,â you coo. âItâs ok. Shhh, itâs ok. Iâm not going anywhere.â You wipe the tears from his eyes, even as theyâre immediately replaced by more.
He chokes on a sob, an attempt to gather himself enough to speak. âY-yeah? Really?â
âI promise, baby. You know I would never leave you.â
Dex sighs then, a long exhale of relief, and takes the first full breath youâve heard from him yet. âThank you,â he says, sniffling. âThank you, thank you,â each thanks punctuated with a kiss pressed to your face. He continues down your neck, mouth hungry over your skin, like he could swallow you whole. A wet trail follows the path of his lips. You run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. Let him take what he needs.
No one saw. No one knows what happened. And when the news eventually reaches you â âdid you hear? A body was found in the riverâ â youâre not going to watch Dex go to prison over the life of some creep. It was a mistake; one that no one needs to know about. He wants to be good. Heâs trying. He just needs patience and love, and youâll give it to him. The rest will sort itself out.
When heâs cried himself dry, you lead him to the table, sit him down in a chair and set a glass of cold water in front of him. Youâll make breakfast, go out on a run together. Get him back into his routine. Get him stable again. He takes a long sip of water, his breath evening out at last.
âI love you,â he says, eyes wide and rimmed with red.
âI love you, too,â you say and press a kiss into his hair. âSo, so much.â
Dex has a life to get back to and a future with so much left to learn.
since dex tries so hard to implement structure and routine in his day to day, he wouldn't turn off his dominant side outside the bedroom. considering he's spent his entire life taking orders from other people, he wants some kind of control and that happens to be in your relationship.
if you even dare to do something by yourself he's immediately behind you, grabbing whatever needs doing from your hands and scolding you under his breath. (probably giving you a look similar to the one in the picture)
"didn't i tell you to leave this kinda thing to me?"
everytime you go out together, he's steering you through the streets and crowds of people. either with a hand on your waist or gently cupping the nape of your neck. and of course he follows the boyfriend sidewalk rule.
unfortunately he's constantly on edge when he's out with you. like a jittery dog waiting to hear the command attack.
sometimes you'll notice him eyeing someone behind you, not fully listening to what you're saying. other times he'll straight up confront anyone for staring at you too long, placing himself in front of you and gently (possessively) holding your arm.
if you're being lazy or procrastinating something, he'll give you two chances to get up and do it before dragging you by the arm to complete the task with you.
he'll sit next you, practically breathing down your neck while you do your work (pretending he's not distracting you while he traces patterns on your thigh). he'll hop in the shower with you, not even letting you wash yourself, while he scrubs your body a little too harshly.
"since you don't wanna do it, hm?"
and if your shared apartment has something needing fixing? do not bring up calling a repairman around dex. the first time you tried that, you swore you saw tears welling in his eyes.
and of course, he loves recieving praise every time he does something for you. having a dynamic as simple as yours relaxes his mind, and whenever you break the cycle he can always take it out on you in bed. âĄ
summary: You wake up one night to a familiar knocking on your window.
word count: 4.4k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: everyone say "thank you karen page" for giving us this absolute treasure of a scene, because damn i think about it every. single. day. i even thought about it during my biology midterm... and when i'm driving... and when i go to sleep at night... is it too much to ask for dex to look at me like this??? i need this absolute bottom of a man
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gun (is that a sufficient warning?), implied that you and dex used to date, dex is an absolute simp, this man gets on his knees for you yes yes yes, kissing, pet name (use of baby), implied that this takes place after dex gets out of prison
The first sound is so small you almost convince yourself itâs part of a dream, something your brain made up to justify the way youâve been sleeping with one ear open. You donât get the luxury of pretending for long, because it comes againâsoft, deliberate, and itâs definitely not a branch scraping glass or a neighborâs door slamming downstairs. Itâs a tap that knows exactly where your window is, exactly how much pressure to use, and exactly how to wake you without waking the whole building.
You sit up without thinking and the sheet slides off your shoulder. The room is dark enough that you canât make out much beyond the vague shape of your dresser and the line of the curtain, but you donât need a clear view to find what your hand is looking for. Your fingers go into the bedside table drawer, curl around the grip, and pull the gun free with the quiet familiarity of practice. You stand, bare feet on cold floorboards, and the chill climbs up your legs like the apartment is trying to warn you.
The hallway is narrow and familiar, and youâve walked it a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a corridor in someone elseâs life. You keep the gun up, not waving it around, not shaking, just steady, and you listen with everything youâve got. Thereâs no heavy breathing, no footsteps scuffing. Thatâs what makes your stomach tighten, because a drunk would stumble, a thief would rush, and a normal person would knock at your door.
The living room opens up around you, a patchwork of darker shadows where your furniture sits. The window by the fire escape is cracked open by a few inches, the curtain pushed aside like a hand slid it back and held it there. The air coming in is colder than the air in your apartment, and it carries the faint scent of city grime and rain. You take one more step in, muzzle tracking toward the window, and then you see him in the corner where the light from the street doesnât quite reach.
Heâs standing with his back close to the wall, like he chose a spot that gives him the whole room and keeps him out of the line of sight from anyone walking past outside. Heâs dressed dark, of course, and heâs not moving like heâs trying to spook you. Heâs still in that unsettling way that makes it feel like the apartment belongs to him now, like heâs been there longer than you have and heâs just waiting for you to catch up.
âStep into the light,â you say, and your voice comes out flat, the way it does when youâre forcing yourself not to feel something first.
He exhales, slow, and the sound is quiet but familiar enough to pull at something inside your chest. Then he shifts, and you get a glimpse of his face as he moves just enough that the streetlight catches the curve of his cheek and the pale line of his mouth. The light shows the tension in his jaw before it fades again as he settles back into shadow.
A pause, and then a voice from the darkest part of your living room, low and steady like heâs been standing there listening to you breathe. âYou still sleep with it that close.â
Your grip tightens before you can help it. Your aim doesnât wobble, but everything in you goes hot and cold at the same time, because you know that voice, you know the cadence, you know the way he makes the simplest sentence sound like heâs filing it into place. You take another step forward without meaning to, then stop yourself before you get too close. âWhat are you doing in my apartment, Dex?â
He says your name, and he says it like heâs allowed to, like he hasnât earned the right to have it in his mouth. It hits you anyway, because your body is stupid and memory is worse, and thereâs something about hearing him say it that makes your grip tighten on the gun until your knuckles ache. âI needed to see you,â he says.
âThatâs not an answer.â
His shoulders lift a fraction, not quite a shrug. âItâs the only one I have.â
You keep the muzzle steady, aimed center mass, the way you were taught, the way you taught yourself when no one else was around to correct your stance. âHow did you get in?â
He glances at the window. âYou already know.â
âI want to hear you say it,â you tell him.
He shifts again, and this time he steps out far enough that you can actually see him. The light catches more of him now: the shape of his shoulders under the jacket, the tired set to his eyes, the faint shadow of bruising thatâs either healing or never fully fades when a bodyâs been through too much. He looks leaner than you remember, like prison carved away whatever softness he had left, and he looks too controlled for someone who just climbed up to your window in the middle of the night.
âI came up the fire escape,â he says, and then his eyes flick down for a second, to the gun, and back to your face. âYou didnât change the latch.â
Your pulse jumps, not because heâs wrong, but because you hate that he knows. You hate that heâs cataloging details like heâs always done, like he canât help it, like your life is a pattern and heâs already traced the lines. âYou couldâve knocked,â you say.
He gives you a look thatâs almost dry, almost amused, and it doesnât belong on his face after everything. âWould you have opened the door?â
You donât answer that, because the truth is complicated and ugly and it doesnât deserve to be spoken out loud with a gun between you. âWhat happened?â you ask instead, because something had to have pushed him here. âDid someone follow you? Is this some kind ofââ You cut yourself off before you say trap, because saying it gives it more shape than you want to hold in your head.
He shakes his head. âNo one followed me.â
âThen why are you here?â you repeat, and you keep your voice sharp enough to cut. âWhy now?â
His mouth opens like heâs going to say something, then closes again. For a second he looks almost⌠careful, like heâs choosing words in the same way someone chooses where to step on thin ice.
âI got out,â he says finally, and his voice stays quiet, but thereâs a roughness under it that wasnât there before. âAnd the first night I was out, I didnât come here. I didnât come anywhere near you. I went somewhere else and I sat there until morning, because I told myself if I made it through one night, I could make it through the next.â
You donât let yourself soften at the sound of him trying. You keep the gun up, because you remember the things heâs done and you remember how quickly trying can turn into something else when itâs Dex Poindexter doing it.
âHow many nights did you make it through?â you ask.
His gaze holds yours, steady as the muzzle pointed at him. âNot enough.â
Your breath comes out harsh. âSo you decided to break into my apartment.â
He doesnât flinch. âI decided to see you.â
âYou donât get to decide things for me anymore.â
His expression shifts at that, something tightening behind his eyes like heâs swallowing down a reaction. âIâm not asking for permission,â he says, and then he adds, almost softer, âIâm here. Thatâs all.â
âThatâs not all,â you snap, and the gun wavers a fraction before you force it steady again. âYou donât show up like this and pretend itâs nothing. You donât get to stand in my living room like you didnâtââ
The words knot in your throat and refuse to come out, and Dex watches you with that awful focus that makes you feel seen in a way you never asked for.
He takes one step closer.
âStop,â you say immediately.
He stops, but the fact that he moved at all sends heat crawling under your skin. Heâs closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar on his cheek you donât remember from before, close enough that you can see how his pupils look too wide in the low light. His hands hang at his sides, relaxed but not casual, and he keeps them visible like he knows youâll put a bullet in him if you have to.
âYouâre shaking,â he says.
âIâm not,â you lie, and itâs stupid because heâs right. The tremor is small, but itâs there.
His mouth twitches. âYou used to shake when you were angry.â
âDonât,â you warn him.
He doesnât stop, because Dex has never been good at stopping once heâs latched onto a thread. âAnd you used to hate it when I noticed,â he continues, and his voice is almost gentle now, like heâs trying to smooth something over with tone alone. âBut you always let me.â
âI donât let you do anything,â you say, and you lift the gun a fraction higher, aiming for his head this time because you want him to understand you mean it. âTake one more step and Iâll put you down.â
He looks at the gun, then back at you, and then he does the most infuriating thing he could do: he steps forward anyway, slow and deliberate, like heâs approaching an altar instead of a weapon. You donât move, because you refuse to give ground in your own home, and the next second the barrel meets his forehead with a soft, undeniable bump.
He doesnât jerk away, he doesnât blink fast, he just leans in until the pressure is firm, and you feel it through the gun, through your arm,, straight into your chest. âThere,â he says, voice low. âThatâs better.â
Your stomach flips, half disgust and half something you donât want to name. âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â
He breathes out through his nose, and you can feel it in the space between you. âA lot.â
âBack up,â you order, but he doesnât move an inch. Your grip tightens again. âDex.â
His eyes stay on yours, and thereâs something in them thatâs so naked it makes your throat go tight. Itâs not a plea, not exactly, and itâs not a threat. Itâs need in its purest form, stripped of all the lies he usually wraps around it.
You hold the gun steady even though your arm is starting to ache, and you hate that he can stand there with the barrel pressed into his skin like itâs a point of contact instead of a warning. He stays close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales, and he doesnât do the decent thing and back away.
âOn your knees,â you say, and you make your voice mean it.
For a beat he doesnât move, not because heâs refusing, but because heâs watching you like heâs memorizing the exact set of your mouth, the angle of your wrist, the way youâre not stepping back. Then he nods once, slow, and he lowers himself like heâs trying not to startle a wild animal. His knees touch the floor with a quiet sound that makes your stomach twist, because the sight of him down there is wrong in a way that feels too right, and his hands lift up beside his head with his palms open.
âLike this?â he asks, and the question comes out calm, almost polite.
âDonât talk to me like youâre doing me a favor,â you say, and you keep the muzzle angled down at him, not because youâre easing up, but because the geometry changes when he kneels. âYou donât get to play nice now.â
His eyes flicker, and something tight pulls at the corner of his mouth like he wants to smile and doesnât trust himself to. âIâm not playing,â he says. âIâm doing what you said.â
âGood,â you tell him, because you need something solid to hang onto. âStay there.â
He stays there, hands still up, shoulders squared even on his knees like posture is another kind of armor. The streetlight catches his face better now, carving shadows under his cheekbones and making his eyes look even darker, and you hate how familiar he still is. He looks at the gun, then at you, and he doesnât look away from either like heâs proving he can take it.
âYou shouldnât be here,â you say. âYou shouldnât even know where I live anymore.â
âI didnât forget,â he answers, and he says it like itâs a simple fact instead of a confession. âI missed you.â
You swallow and your throat aches, because you can hear the old softness threaded through the words and you donât want it. You donât want the version of him that sounded like that when he was in your bed, when heâd tuck himself behind you and pretend the world couldnât touch him if he had you in his arms.
âDonât,â you say again, and this time it comes out quieter than you meant it to.
His gaze lifts to your face and he holds it like heâs holding onto a ledge. âI missed you, baby,â he repeats, and he doesnât push the nickname like a knife. He says it the way he used to say it when youâd fall asleep mid-sentence, the way heâd say it when he was trying to be gentle.
Your breathing shifts, shallow for a second before you force it back into something steadier, and the gun stays in your hand even though your fingers tighten around it like youâre afraid it will disappear if you loosen your grip. âYou donât get to just show up,â you tell him. âNot after everything.â
He doesnât argue, and the lack of fight is almost worse than if heâd tried. His shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath, and his hands stay up where you can see them. âI know.â
âYou donât get to stand in my living room and look at me like that,â you add, because anger is easier than the other thing pressing up behind your ribs. âYou donât get to say you missed me like it means something.â
His throat works like heâs swallowing down something sharp. âIt means something to me,â he says, and he says it like he hates himself for it. âIâm not asking you to forgive me.â
âYou should be,â you say. âIf you had any sense left, youâd be begging.â
His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he looks almost like he wants to laugh and canât find the sound. âDo you want me to beg?â he asks, and his voice stays even, but thereâs a tremor under it that makes your teeth clench. âIf you tell me to beg, I will.â
Your hand trembles just enough that you feel it in your wrist, and you hate that he notices because he always notices. His eyes flick to your hand, then back to your face, and the intensity in his stare doesnât change, but his posture does. Itâs small, careful, and it makes your skin prickle, because his hands lower a little from beside his head to hover closer to his shoulders like heâs testing whether youâll stop him.
âHands up,â you order immediately.
He freezes with his hands halfway down, and he lifts them again without complaint. âOkay,â he says, soft.
You take a breath that scrapes, and you try to keep your voice sharp enough to protect you. âYou think you can come back and act like this,â you say. âYou think you can walk right into my life andâwhat? Remind me of how it felt? Thatâs your plan?â
âI donât have a plan,â he says, and his eyes flicker with something that looks like frustration, not at you, but at himself. âIf I had a plan, I wouldnât be here.â
âThatâs the first smart thing youâve said all night,â you mutter.
He shifts his weight slightly on his knees, the motion controlled, and the gun tracks him on instinct. He notices that too, of course, and his gaze drops to the muzzle for half a second like heâs checking where it is, like heâs measuring distance in his head the way he measures everything. When his eyes lift again, theyâre too steady, too direct. âYouâre still holding it like you mean it,â he says.
âI do mean it.â
âI know,â he replies, and he sounds almost relieved by that. âThatâs why I came.â
Your jaw tightens. âWhat do you mean?â
He doesnât move his hands, but his fingers flex once like heâs fighting the urge to reach. âYou donât lie to yourself,â he says. âYou never did.â
âThatâs not a compliment,â you tell him.
âI wasnât trying to compliment you,â he says, and then he adds, quieter, like it costs him to say it out loud, âI needed something real.â
You stare at him, and the room feels too small for the two of you, because heâs taking up all the air with that gaze and youâre letting him. The gun is still there between you, still a line you can draw any time you want, but your arm is tired and your hand is shaking just a little, and youâre furious that he can make you feel anything other than disgust.
âGet up,â you say, and your voice is steady again because you force it to be. âSlow.â
He watches your face like heâs waiting for you to change your mind, and then he rises in the same careful way he knelt, one measured movement at a time. His hands stay up for a moment even when heâs standing, palms open beside his head, and the sight is almost absurdly intimate, like youâre the one holding him in place with nothing but a word.
When heâs upright, you lower the gun just enough that itâs not pressed against him anymore, but you donât put it down. It stays in your hand, pointed between you, not quite aimed at his heart now but still close enough that he understands what it means. He steps closer anyway, not quickly, not like heâs trying to take it from you, but like heâs following a gravity he canât resist.
âStop right there,â you say, even though you donât move back.
He stops, so close that your breath hits him you exhale. His hands are still raised, and you notice the tension in his forearms, the way heâs holding himself back on purpose. His eyes flick to your mouth and back up, and the movement is so fast you almost miss it, but you donât. You never used to miss it.
âThis doesnât fix anything,â you say, and it comes out harsh, like you can say it hard enough to make it true.
âI know,â he answers immediately, and the speed of it makes your throat tighten because he isnât pretending. âIâm not here because I think it fixes it.â
âThen why are you here,â you demand, âif youâre not here to fix it?â
His voice drops, and itâs barely above a breath. âBecause I couldnât stand not knowing if youâd look at me.â
Your fingers curl tighter around the grip. âYouâre looking at me right now.â
He shakes his head once, tiny. âYouâre looking back,â he says.
You hate the way your body reacts to that, the way heat crawls under your skin like an old reflex waking up. You hate that you want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath, and you hate most of all that heâs watching you like he can see every ugly thought as it passes through you.
âDonât,â you whisper, and you donât even know what you mean by it, because itâs too late for a dozen different kinds of donât.
He holds still like youâve pinned him there with your voice, and then he leans forward just enough that his forehead almost brushes the gun again. He doesnât touch it this time, like heâs learned the boundary youâre actually holding, and he stays in the thin space you allow. âTell me no,â he says, and his voice is steady even when his eyes arenât. âTell me no and Iâll go.â
You stare at him, and the word sits in your mouth like a coin you canât swallow. You could say itâyou should say it, but you donât.
Dexâs breath stutters once, like he felt your silence land. His hands are still above his head, still open, and for a moment the two of you just stand there with the gun between you and the air too thick to breathe. Then you step in, because youâre tired of being the only one pretending you arenât about to do something youâll regret.
You kiss him.
It isnât gentle, and it isnât sweet, and it isnât anything like an apology. Itâs hot and angry and familiar in the worst way, like your mouth already knows his and your body already remembers the shape of him. His hands stay up for one strangled second like he doesnât believe heâs allowed, like heâs waiting for you to shove him away, and that pause makes your pulse kick hard.
âDonâtââ you start, pulling back just enough for the words to hit his mouth, but you canât finish because he swallows the rest of it when you kiss him again.
âIâm not,â he murmurs against you, and itâs breath and sound, barely a sentence. âIâm not.â
His restraint breaks in slow motion. One hand lowers first, hovering near your waist without touching, and he waits like heâs asking permission without using words. When you donât flinch, his palm settles against you, warm and firm, and the contact sends a sharp shiver through you that makes you hate yourself.
Your other hand is still holding the gun, angled down now, forgotten and not forgotten at the same time, because you can feel its weight even as you drag your free hand up his chest. Your fingers catch on his jacket, then slide up to his collar, and when you fist the fabric there his breath turns rough.
Dex makes a sound that he tries to swallow, and his other hand comes down to your side, then your back, pressing you closer. He doesnât force you, he just follows the contact like heâs starving for it, like heâs been holding himself together with rules and silence and the idea of you, and now youâre here and his hands donât know how to be anything except reverent and desperate at the same time.
You break the kiss long enough to glare at him, your mouth still close to his. âThis isnâtââ
âI know,â he says again, and his eyes flick to your lips like he canât stop himself. âI know.â
âSay it like you mean it,â you challenge, because you need something that hurts more than this does.
He nods once, and his voice comes out rougher. âIt doesnât fix anything,â he repeats, and thereâs no argument in him, no illusion. âIt just⌠makes it quiet.â
Your chest tightens at that, and you should step back, you should put the gun away, you should make him leave, you should do a hundred sensible things. Instead you kiss him again, slower this time, and he sinks into it like heâs been waiting for permission to breathe.
His hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with the kind of careful touch that makes your stomach flip because itâs so gentle it feels wrong coming from him. Your fingers tighten in his collar, and you feel the tremor in him when you do, like heâs trying to hold himself to a line heâs drawn and youâre daring him to cross it.
âLook at me,â you say, because you want to see if heâs still there in his own eyes.
He does, immediately, and he doesnât pretend to be anything other than what he is. âIâm looking,â he says, and his voice is low, steady, too intimate for the middle of your living room with your gun still in your hand.
You donât answer with words. You answer by pulling him back into your mouth, and his hand tightens at your waist like heâs anchoring himself, like youâre the only thing keeping him from floating apart.
When the kiss deepens again, itâs messy in the way you remember, not because itâs out of control but because itâs full of everything you havenât said. His hands roamâyour side, your back, up to the base of your neck where his fingers curl like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets goâand he keeps checking you with tiny pauses, tiny hesitations, like heâs still waiting for you to push him away and heâs bracing for it even as he kisses you like he canât live without it.
You donât push him away; you keep him close, gun still hanging loose in your hand and angled toward the floor, because you havenât decided what any of this means and youâre not going to lie and pretend you have.
Dex stays pressed to you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he blinks, and when he kisses you again itâs slower, heavier, like heâs trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead hovering near yours, and his eyes search your face like heâs bracing for the part where you tell him to leave. âTell me to go,â he murmurs, voice rough, like it hurts to offer you the out.
You swallow, your grip on his collar tightening, and the words come out low and sharp like youâre daring him to believe you. âDonât go.â
For a second he looks stunned in a way you almost never see on him, and then something in him gives with a quiet, relieved exhale. His hands tighten at your waist like heâs anchoring himself, and he kisses you again like heâs starving, like heâs been holding back for days and you just cut the last thread.
âThank you, baby,â he breathes against your mouth, the nickname soft enough to make your chest ache. âI missed you.â
extra notes: one, i'm thinking of making a dex taglist, so if you want to be added, let me know! (here or on my taglist post). secondly, writing that last line made me realize that dex is the kind of guy that would ask to go down on you and say thank you when you let him... yeah
cw á° .á obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean heâs a murderer so
BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the âlikes your selfiesâ kind â more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.
he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesnât trust you â he just doesnât trust anyone else. he tells you itâs for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. âiâd rather know where you are than bury you, baby.â
he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but heâs so good at holding it together â until youâre alone. then heâs pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. âyouâre mine, right?â heâll ask, low and tight.
dex does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesnât matter if heâs had the worst day imaginable â heâll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if youâve eaten.
he gets scary when he thinks youâre pulling away. itâs subtle at first â quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second heâs sure somethingâs wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like itâs betrayal. like itâs death.
heâs weirdly soft in private. youâre the only person who gets to see the version of him thatâs quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like youâll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like heâs memorizing you in case you disappear.
always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry â no, benâs gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. âmade me think of you,â he says, dead serious.
his love language is acts of service â intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice itâs broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.
canât sleep unless heâs touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. âwhere you goinâ, sweetheart?â he mumbles, half-asleep.
keeps a photo of you in his wallet. itâs old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner â but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. âkeeps me sane.â
loves forehead kisses. wonât ask for them. wonât say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like itâs the only thing anchoring him to earth.
has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. youâll say âiâm coldâ and heâs like, âwant me to burn the world down for you?â you laugh. he doesnât.
likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching â so still itâs unnerving. to him itâs peace. itâs you alive.
plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. âthis one?â heâd question. âfell off my bike.â a pause. âwant me to go back in time and kill the pavement?â
notices everything. you donât even realize how closely heâs watching until he casually mentions things like, âyou switched shampoo, didnât you?â or âyou tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually itâs four.â and itâs not judgment â he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if somethingâs wrong, he really knows.
heâs extremely routine-oriented â and he builds you into his structure. once youâre part of his life, youâre in it.
your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = somethingâs off, red = drop everything).
he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if youâre the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. youâre the only thing that doesnât throw him off.
he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, itâs intense. thereâs no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from âi think i like themâ to âi will absolutely die if they leaveâ in under a week. heâs so good at hiding just how deep it runs.
he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.
he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, heâll buy ten. you compliment a song? itâs on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? heâll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.
he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. youâre going to leave. i ruined it. heâll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft â a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.
he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals â he fidgets constantly, and youâre the outlet.
his hands donât stop moving, so they move for you. youâll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he wonât mention it, but heâll watch to see if you notice.
he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. heâll say things like, âyou still like having me around, right?â or âyouâd tell me if i was being too much?â and it breaks your heart a little, because heâs so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: âyouâre my favourite person.â
canât fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesnât matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was â he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesnât it eats at him. heâll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terribleâs going to happen because he broke the pattern.
refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesnât care if itâs your friend, your boss, your own damn parent â if he canât be the one driving, heâs deeply uncomfortable. heâll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.
has ârulesâ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it â he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.
saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when heâs spiraling.
he screenshotted the first time you said âi miss youâ and keeps it in a locked photo album. youâre proof that something good happened to him once.
gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the roomâs too loud, someoneâs tapping a pen too much â heâs unraveling inside.
but if youâre talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? heâll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.
has a favorite version of you, but itâs not what youâd think. itâs not when youâre dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. itâs when youâre sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.
âyouâre not real,â you mumbled once. âi made you up.â he still thinks about that. hopes itâs not true. but if it is? heâs glad you dreamed him.
collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.âyouâre safe with me.â ,, âyouâre not too much.â ,, âi like you exactly the way you are.â he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.
panics if he forgets anything about you. canât remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesnât know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.
his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.
he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.
gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesnât even want to do anything â he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while youâre in there like, âyou left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.â you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.
gets weirdly quiet when youâre on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and heâs just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping youâll notice. you say âbenny, you okay?â and he melts like, â...mâhere. just waitinâ.â
clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesnât matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, heâs already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. ânot mad anymore.â he murmurs. translation: donât leave me.
keeps weapons stashed in every room âjust in case.â under the bed. behind the fridge. in your carâs glove box.
memorized your exâs face and car within the first week. he wonât say what he did with that information. but he didnât like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldnât happen again.
he hates parties.not because heâs antisocial, because he canât relax when youâre in a room full of strangers.
heâs watching everyone â every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.
texts you âwhere are you?â even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows youâre at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say âiâm fine, benny,â and he responds with âmiss you.â (youâve been gone 20 minutes.)
calls you his âperson.â not partner. not babe. just âmy person.â says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.
wonât let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. youâve tried switching sides â heâll switch with you immediately. doesnât matter where youâre going. doesnât matter if the road is empty. ânope,â heâll mutter, hand on your hip. âyou donât get hit. not on my watch.â
he has a folder on his computer labeled âthem.â inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people whoâve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you donât know it exists.
takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? heâs already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say âi donât feel safe,â and heâs already reaching for his coat.
he doesnât yell unless someone talks down to you. heâll take endless shit from people when itâs about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch â âyou wanna repeat that to me?â and suddenly the roomâs ice cold.
heâll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist â and behind his eyes, heâs already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.
he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.
he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you â heâs the most focused man alive.
stares at your contact name before calling you, like heâs bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesnât even call. just stares. like maybe thatâs enough to survive another hour.
doesnât know how to be casual. you say âi like your shirtâ and heâll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.
loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside heâs screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.
he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? heâs already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? heâs acting like you got shot. âyouâre bleeding.â he mutters, completely still. âbaby, itâs a scratchââ
gets scary quiet when youâre in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. âstay down. donât move. donât look.â and you listen â because in that moment, heâs not your sweet clingy ben. heâs the weapon the government built.
has trauma responses built around you. youâre late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesnât just worryâ he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything heâs lost before.
so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. âdonât do that to me again,â he whispers. âplease.â
doesnât forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he wonât. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? heâll do it without blinking.
knows all your âtiredâ cues. you yawn a certain way when youâre really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brainâs overwhelmed. so heâll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.
obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because heâs paranoid. because you live there. and nothing â nothing â is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.
he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? heâs quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someoneâs joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.
he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. wonât let go. âyou like me better, right?â you tease him and say âmaybeâŚâ his whole face drops. âdont.â
and if he sees them in public, heâs pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.
he repeats the same three phrases every time youâre hurt. like itâs a spell: âyouâre safe.â âyou didnât do anything wrong.â âi love you so much it hurts.â
he checks in constantly. not just âare you okay?âbut âdid you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?â
The apartment smelled like her shampoo. It clung to the air, a faint floral ghost threaded between the smell of cleaning supplies and coffee grounds, and Dex could track it the way other people tracked a heartbeat. Sheâd gotten in the shower ten minutes ago. Ten whole minutes. He sat on the couch, knees bouncing, fingers worrying a seam into his jeans because sheâd asked him â asked him â for âjust a little spaceâ to finish getting ready.
Space. He hated that word. It opened like a black hole under his ribs every time she said it.
From the living room he could see the pale stripe of light under the bathroom door, and beyond it the shadow of her movement. He catalogued each sound automatically: water shutting off, glass door sliding back, the faint squeak of her foot against tile. Sheâd be wrapping herself in a towel now, pressing it against skin he could map with his eyes closed. He pictured her exactly the way sheâd looked a half-hour earlier, brushing her teeth, sleep still half in her eyes.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the couch until the leather creaked. Sheâs here. Sheâs here. Sheâs here. That mantra kept him steady. She was the first person who hadnât flinched at the darkness inside him; sheâd even reached for it, like it was a wound she could clean instead of a weapon heâd learned to wield. He could still feel the imprint of her nails at the base of his neck from where sheâd tugged him down to kiss her before disappearing into the bathroom.
Dexâ eyes flicked to her phone on the counter. Heâd already memorized her schedule, the addresses of every place she went, the timing of every commute. The phoneâs lock screen glowed once and dimmed again. Messages. He hated the idea of her attention drifting outward. His heart rate went jagged just imagining it.
The front door waited across the room, a slim vertical of brass and steel. It looked like a threat. When she walked through it she belonged to the world again, all the strangers, all the noise, the unknown angles of danger he couldnât predict. His breath came thin. She has to stay. Just stay. He rubbed a palm over his face, nails grazing his scalp, grounding himself with the pressure.
Water off. A pause. Towel sliding over skin. He could hear it. His pupils blew wide just listening. The space between them stretched. He rose before he even thought about it, pacing two steps toward the hallway. Bare feet on hardwood. Her scent sharper now, steam carrying it out of the bathroom crack by crack. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, eyes fixed on the door. The need for her, the pull, wasnât romantic anymore, not in the simple sense. It was survival, an animal compulsion to keep the only person whoâd ever wanted him exactly where she was.
His knuckles hovered an inch from the bathroom door. Just hovering. He could feel the warmth radiating through the wood, like her presence seeped outward with the steam. His skin prickled. Every second without her felt like a paper cut running deeper and deeper, the sting so small and constant it rewired his nerves. He shifted his weight, shoulder grazing the doorframe.
Sheâd said something about an event tonight. An event, a word so meaningless but it tore at his chest like claws. People. Cameras. Light. A night where her smile would be thrown across a room he couldnât lock. The thought made his jaw clench so hard he didnât even realize he was biting his cheek until after the blood started to gush.
âHeyâŚâ he called, voice pitched like a question but heavy underneath. âYou okay in there?â
Her voice came back muffled through the door: âIâm fine! Just getting ready.â
Fine. Getting ready. Dex rubbed a hand down his face until his palm dragged over the stubble on his jaw, nails biting his neck. His pupils were still blown, breathing short. She was fine. But he wasnât.
Inside his skull it was a loop â Sheâs putting on makeup. Sheâs slipping into a dress. Sheâs walking into a room full of eyes that arenât mine. Every detail turned into a splinter. He tried to breathe it out but it only curled tighter. He hated the way his mind ran ahead of itself like this; hated the way every second away from her dragged him back to the same cold corridors heâd lived in before she existed. Before sheâd put her hands on him and said his name like it belonged somewhere other than a police file.
He leaned his forehead against the doorframe. Closed his eyes. He could picture her drying her hair, looking at her own face in the mirror, maybe humming something soft he couldnât hear. He wanted to push the door open, slide behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and lock his fingers until she couldnât move. The image burned in his mind.
âYouâre taking a while. . .â A laugh followed, brittle at the edges, like it was supposed to be a joke but it wasnât.
Sheâd told him once she liked how intense he was. Liked how focused. He clung to that memory now, because it was the only proof he had that she hadnât grown tired of it yet. That she wouldnât.
Another pause. More muffled movement. The soft thud of something set on the counter. Dexâ head tipped back against the wall. He stared at the ceiling, jaw locked, hands balled. The event. Sheâd have to leave soon, and the city would touch her, and strangers would see the soft parts of her she kept only for him. He could feel the night pulling her out of his hands already and his heart thumped in his ribs.
The seconds stretched so thin they hummed in his teeth. Dex pressed his palm to the wall, forehead still tipped back, every muscle wound. He hated doors. Hated the slice of wood and brass that could shut him out. It didnât matter if it was a bedroom or a bathroom; a door meant she was on the other side and he wasnât. The lock clicked once when sheâd gone in. He took it like a knife between the ribs.
She never meant it that way, he knew that, but his mind chewed it anyway: she wants space, she wants to be without you, sheâs shutting you out. It felt personal, every time. He wanted to be in the warm steam with her, to hold her and watch her face while she got ready. He always wanted to be where she was, even if it was just sitting on the edge of the tub while she brushed her teeth, just breathing the same air. Without it the silence started crawling under his skin.
His hand drifted toward the door, almost knocking. He stared at the tiny flecks in the paint, the way the steam bled through the crack, the faint perfume of her hair products slipping out first. He was seconds from pounding on the wood. Seconds from tearing it open just to see her.
Inside he could hear the soft friction of fabric sliding over skin. She was dressing. The sound dragged a hot wire down his spine. He imagined the dress; imagined her stepping into it, smoothing it over her hips, pulling it into place. All the parts of her the world would see tonight. All the parts that had been his to trace with fingertips now stitched into public fabric.
âOpen the doorâŚâ he whispered under his breath, not loud enough for her to hear. His thumb pressed to the frame like it might leave a print. Open the door. Open the door. Open the door.
And then, the latch clicked. The hinges moved. A blade of light widened, steam unfurling into the hallway. She stepped out.
For a second Dex forgot to breathe. The hallwayâs glow caught on the damp ends of her hair, the shimmer of lotion still not fully absorbed into her skin. The dress sheâd chosen clung in places that made his palms ache to touch. Her makeup was soft but deliberate, a line at the corner of her eyes making her look almost unreal. The chain at her throat trembled as she adjusted her clutch.
âYouâŚâ he said before heâd even formed the words. âYou lookâŚâ The rest broke off into a dry swallow. ââŚbeautiful.â
He couldnât stop staring. His gaze dragged up and down, memorizing every inch. His hands twitched at his sides. The thought bloomed anyway, sour and metallic: other people are going to see this. Other eyes. Other hands reaching out. The city will touch her. The city will stain her. He shifted his weight, still leaning against the wall as she brushed past to grab her shoes.
Why does she want to go out there? Why does she need them when she has me?
Another flicker of an image: him stepping in front of the door, pressing his palm against the frame, saying no. Just stay. Just stay with me.
He swallowed the impulse but it sat behind his teeth, hot as a match-head.
âYouâre sure you have to go?â he asked, too calm to be casual. His eyes followed the slope of her shoulders, the place where the dress dipped at the back. The hall light struck his face at an angle, leaving one eye in shadow and one lit.
She didnât even look up at first, she was bent over in front of a mirror, sliding an earring into place. âI promised Mia,â she said, soft but definite. âI have to go.â
Promised. Have to. Dexâs chest went tight on each word like it was a hook being reeled in. Promised someone else. Have to for someone else. But what about me? He watched her slide the second earring in, the glint of metal against her skin.
He stepped up behind her before he even knew he was moving, hands sliding to her hips, fingers spreading across the fabric of her dress like he had to stake a claim on it. His palms were hot; he could feel her heat through the thin material. He bowed his head until his breath caught against the side of her neck. âCanât I come with you?â It came out almost like a plea. âIâll stay quiet, Iâll sit in the corner.â
She shifted slightly, the smallest lean back into him, but kept her eyes on the mirror. âYou know if I could take you, I would. This isnâtâ itâs not that kind of thing.â She reached to touch his wrist, a small grounding gesture, as if she could feel him winding tight.
His jaw clenched. He looked at their reflection together, his shadow rising behind her. She was so beautiful it almost hurt. The dress wasnât for him. The hair wasnât for him. The little gloss at the corner of her mouth â not for him. Then who? Who gets to see this? Who gets to breathe the same air as her when she looks like this?
His hands slid higher, palms grazing the dip of her waist, then lower again, thumbs circling. His fingers were restless; they needed an anchor. He bent and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, once, then again, harder. The smell of her skin under the perfume steadied him for a heartbeat. He kissed a line upward, to the soft place just below her ear.
He closed his eyes, nuzzling into her hair. Is this what normal boyfriends do? Do they stand here trembling like this, ready to rip the city apart just to keep her home? His thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat.
She was picking up her clutch now, trying to keep her hands steady while he covered her. âDex,â she spoke again, softer. âIâll be back in a few hours.â
A few hours. Alone. Anything can happen. People staring. Touching. Her laughing at something someone says. He tightened his arms, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. âYou donât have to go,â he murmured against her skin. âStay. Tell her youâre sick. Tell her anything. Donât go.â
He knew he was too close, too much, but the thought of stepping back was like opening an airlock. He shifted his weight, turning her slightly so he could kiss her collarbone, then her jaw. His hands slid up her sides, over her ribs, skimming the edges of the dress as if to peel it away. If I keep touching her, maybe sheâll forget. Maybe sheâll stay.
Inside his skull, the questions ricocheted: Why canât she just take me with her? Why does she need them at all? Why isnât this enough? What if she comes back changed? What if she doesnât come back?
His mouth moved almost on its own, following the scent of her perfume, the small tremor at the base of her throat. He hadnât meant to press so hard, hadnât meant to linger, just to touch, to taste, to leave a breadcrumb of himself so sheâd remember him while she was gone. But his focus narrowed to the sound of her breathing, the pulse he could feel beneath his lips. Each kiss became slower, warmer, heavier, until a sharp edge of hunger bled through the softness.
A startled push on his chest broke the trance. Her voice was sharpââDex!ââand she ducked toward the mirror. He blinked, disoriented, only then noticing the hickey blooming on her skin: deep wine-dark against the pale slope of her neck. His hands hovered at his sides, caught between apology and want.
She was already dabbing at it with makeup, muttering under her breath. âI just got ready, Dex. Seriously.â Each stroke of the brush was fast, almost angry. Watching her try to erase him from her skin sent a sting through his chest that felt both humiliating and thrilling. It was proof of how much space he took up, and yet she was scrubbing it away.
He shifted his weight, jaw working, eyes tracking her reflection. In his head the thoughts flared up and curled back in on themselves: Did she hate that I did it? Why is she hiding me? Why isnât she proud? At least now theyâll know sheâs taken.
She caught his gaze in the mirror and sighed. âYou can still see it a little. Great.â The faint bruise was stubborn under the layers of foundation, a ghostly outline of his mouth. She pressed another dab of powder, frustrated.
Dexâ hands clenched against his thighs; the shame burned hot, but under it coiled a grim satisfaction. A piece of him would still be visible out there, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. He swallowed and tried to steady his voice. âI didnât mean toâŚâ he started, but the words tangled.
Because hadnât he? At least a little? Hadnât the thought, mine, been curling at the edges of his mind the whole time?
She moved away from him without another word, a small whip of air rising as her dress brushed past his knees. The scent of her perfume trailed behind her like a ribbon he couldnât grab. Dex stood in the hallway, fingers flexing at his sides, watching her retreat. Every step she took toward the bedroom felt like a subtraction, one more foot of space he couldnât cross, one more second slipping through his grip.
She was silent now, working with quick, irritated motions at the vanity, fixing the line of her lipstick, tucking a stray curl back into place. He could see her shoulders rise and fall, steady, like she was forcing herself to breathe evenly. He tried to swallow the acid bloom of shame in his chest, but all he could taste was copper. His eyes flicked to the faint mark at her neck, still visible under makeup, a secret dark star beneath the powder.
Her bag thumped softly against the dresser as she lifted it. Phone. Keys. Lip gloss. Small click of a compact snapping shut. She didnât look at him. She was already somewhere else, mentally at the event. She started toward the door, heels muted against the rug. His body moved before he even registered it, instinct overtaking the thoughts. Two steps forward, then another. He planted himself in front of the door, bracing a palm flat against the frame, the other resting lightly on the knob.
âDonât go.â His voice came out rougher than heâd intended, but steady in a way that made his own stomach tighten. His pupils swallowed the green of his irises until his eyes looked black. He wasnât touching her yet, just standing there, but every nerve in his body leaned toward her like iron filings to a magnet.
She stopped a foot away, her bag still dangling from her hand. Her reflection wavered in the mirror across the hall: her, poised, beautiful, irritated; him, wide-shouldered, blocking the exit like a sentinel. For a moment it looked like a painting.
Dex stared at her, drinking in every detail, the sweep of her eyeliner, the slope of her throat, the way the dress hugged her ribs. The longer he looked, the less the room felt real. Everything blurred into that one thought curling under his ribs like a hook: mine. The word pulsed through him with each heartbeat, sweet and sour.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the frame. âJust⌠donât,â came softer now, almost a plea. In his head the words were sharper, louder, desperate: stay here, stay here, stay here. Because if she walked out, sheâd be out in the city, a world that had never been kind to him, a world he didnât trust with anything fragile. He realized belatedly he was holding his breath waiting for her to speak, standing between her and the door like it was the only thing keeping the night at bay.
Her voice reached him first, soft as a breath but carrying a weight that cut through his skin.
âI canât, baby. Iâm sorry.â
The word baby did something dangerous inside him. It landed like a hand on the back of his neck, gentle but electrifying, and he felt his chest tighten as if sheâd just wrapped a cord around it and pulled. Sheâd called him baby. That meant she still loved him. Didnât it? Then why was she leaving?
Dex blinked once, twice, everything became unbearably vivid. She was still standing there, bag in hand, lips soft, hair shining, but to him she was already turning away. âWhat did I do?â His voice cracked without warning. He didnât remember deciding to speak. It just slipped out. âWhy are you leaving me? I didnâtâ I didnât screw up again, did I?â His fingers pressed harder into the doorframe until the wood creaked under his grip.
She shook her head, a small, tired movement. âYou didnât do anything, Dex. I promised my friend. Itâs just a couple hours.â
A couple hours. Two hours where sheâd be gone. Two hours where sheâd be somewhere he couldnât follow, where faces he didnât know could lean close, smile at her, drink her in. Two hours without her scent in the room, without her warmth on the mattress, without her heartbeat close enough to lull him out of his own head.
âYouâre not gonna come back.â His mouth moved before he could stop it. The words sounded childish, ugly, but they tumbled out anyway. âYouâll go out there, youâll forget me. People are gonna see you, touch you, and youâllâŚâ He trailed off, jaw trembling. âYouâll realize you donât need me. Thatâs whatâs gonna happen, isnât it?â
She stepped closer, her hand brushing his forearm. âLook at me.â Her voice stayed gentle, but there was a firmness to it. âIâm coming back. I always come back. You know that.â
Every inch of him wanted to believe it. But belief didnât stand a chance against the pounding in his ribs. The space between her words and his fear was a canyon he couldnât cross. âThen stay now,â His head tilted a fraction, like a plea he couldnât articulate. âJust come back to bed. We can shut the curtains, order food, whatever you want. Just stay.â
Her fingers stroked down his arm, trying to soothe him, but even that touch was a knife. Because it felt like goodbye. âDex,â she said softly. âI have to go.â
He caught her wrist without thinking, not hard, but enough to feel her pulse against his palm. âWhy?â His voice trembled now, the anger fluctuating. âYou said I was enough. You saidââ He stopped, swallowing hard, ashamed of the way his throat burned.
She slid her other hand over his, gently trying to pry herself free. âYou are enough. This isnât about you. Let me go.â
Dex could taste panic. Every nerve was screaming at him to hold on tighter, to press her back against the wall, to keep her here just a little longer until the outside world forgot she existed. If she stays, sheâs still mine. If she goes, the city takes her. The panic tipped, just enough, and spilled into anger. It wasnât the clean kind of anger that could be directed outward, it was the jagged, self-splintering kind, born from fear, the kind that felt like betrayal even when he knew it wasnât.
He stayed where he was, braced like a barricade, shoulders squared into the doorframe. His breathing came fast enough now that it misted the air between them, and his palms pressed flat against the wood as though he could fuse himself into it. The panic had settled into his bones, vibrating there, shaking every muscle in microscopic tremors. He stared at her, at the bag on her arm, at the tiny shift of her weight toward the door.
âI need you,â he said, the words raw and uneven. âI donât know what Iâll do if you walk out. You donât get it. Youâre the only thing. The only thing.â His hands came up, fingers hovering inches from her arms, afraid to grab, desperate to grab. âWhy are you leaving me? Why would you even risk it? What if you donât come back?â His voice broke on the last word; his eyes darted, searching her face for an answer that didnât exist.
She tried to keep her voice calm, tried to keep her eyes soft. âI told you Iâd be back tonight. You know I would never leave you.â
He shook his head once, like he could fling the thought out. âTheyâll look at you. Theyâll touch you. Youâll smile at them.â His throat locked, and for a moment he couldnât breathe. âYouâre supposed to smile for me.â
Her hand hovered toward his chest but then drew back, fingers trembling. She could see it now, the way his shoulders shook under his shirt, the shine in his eyes that wasnât quite tears but could be. She knew what this looked like: the spiral, the slope he slipped down sometimes when he thought he was being left.
âHoney,â she said carefully, âI know this feels bad. But youâre safe. Youâre okay. Iâm not leaving you forever. Itâs just a friend.â
He shook his head again, more violently this time. âNo. I need you. I canâtââ He bit the inside of his cheek until it went coppery, trying to quiet the tremor in his voice. âI canât be here alone. Please. Stay. Stay.â
She closed her eyes, exhaled through her nose, weighing her options. Sheâd promised someone sheâd go. Sheâd also seen this before, seen what it did to him when he tipped into this place and no one was there to anchor him back out. If she left him like this⌠would he even still be here when she came back?
Her bag slid off her shoulder, hitting the floor with a muted thump. âOkay,â she whispered. âOkay. Iâll stay.â
For a heartbeat he didnât seem to understand, the words taking too long to reach him. Then his shoulders sagged, some invisible thing snapping inside him. He reached out and touched her face, eyes still frantic. âYeah?â he asked, because he had to make sure.
âYeah,â she said again, more firmly now. âIâll stay.â
He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her cheeks in his palms as though she were something breakable. His whole body felt electric and hollow at once. Relief, shame, need â it all ran together until it left him dizzy. âThank you,â he murmured, over and over, almost a chant. âThank you. Thank you.â
His mouth found hers before the second âthank youâ was fully out. At first it was almost shy, a brush, a tremor, but then it deepened, the kind of kiss that felt less like an act and more like an instinct. He needed the taste of her, the heat of her lips, the press of her breath breaking against his own. The kiss became a tether; every brush of her mouth against his was another inch of rope wrapped around him, keeping him from floating out of his own skull.
She kissed back, gentle but steady, fingers sliding up into his hair. Her warmth under his hands was the only thing he could recognize with certainty. Lips, jawline, pulse, he mapped them like a blind man memorizing a room. He pulled back only enough to breathe, eyes wide and glassy, then kissed her again, slower this time but more desperate. He took it all in like a starving animal and still it wasnât enough. He dragged his palms down her arms, over her hips, feeling each contour like proof she still existed.
âCome on,â he murmured finally, forehead against hers. âCome back to bed.â His thumbs swept over her jaw as if trying to erase any thought but him.
She hesitated, still half-turned toward the bathroom. âI need to take my makeup off first,â she said softly, fingers brushing his.
He nodded too quickly, eyes still on her mouth. âOkay. Yeah. Justâ Iâll come with you.â
She moved toward the bathroom and he moved with her, like her shadow given muscle and breath. His hands found her again before theyâd even reached the sink, sliding over her waist, settling against her stomach, palms flat against the soft fabric of her dress. He pressed in behind her, his chest a solid wall to her back, head tilting down until his forehead rested between her shoulder blades.
In the mirror she could see them both: her reaching for a washcloth, him wrapped around her like a snake. His fingers moved absently at her sides, tracing slow circles as though they were counting her breaths. He buried his face into the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent where her perfume was strongest. Inside his head everything narrowed to sensation: the silk of her hair brushing his cheek, the warmth under his hands, the pulse in her throat against his lips. He pressed a kiss there, then another, unable to stop himself, panic still in his ribs but muted now by her skin.
She leaned a little into him even as she wiped away her makeup, used to this pattern now, the way his need for grounding sometimes crested into clinging. âIâm right here.â
He tightened his arms, chin hooked over her shoulder, eyes fixed on her reflection. She kept moving, cotton pad to eye, rinse, repeat, and he stayed still, carved around her like parentheses. He didnât even notice how tightly he was holding on until his fingertips started to tingle, but he didnât loosen his grip.
She peeled the last traces of makeup from her face, dropped the cotton pad in the sink, and patted her cheeks dry. Dex didnât move until she did, then he fell into step behind her like he was tethered. She crossed the threshold into their bedroom and went for the closet. He was already there when she opened the door, leaning against the frame, taking up all the space. He didnât even pretend to look away; his gaze moved with her hands, her shoulders, every small gesture.
She reached behind her to undo the zipper. Fabric whispered down her sides and pooled at her feet. She pulled a loose, soft T-shirt from a hanger and a pair of worn sleep shorts from the drawer. The cotton looked almost weightless against her freshly cleaned skin. She slipped them on without hurrying, combing her fingers through her hair once, trying to find a sense of normality in the ritual.
She grabbed her phone to tap out a message â Iâm so sorry. Something came up. Canât make it tonight. â the tiny whoosh of the message sending sounded like a door shutting.
Before she could even lower the phone, Dexâ fingers hooked around her wrist and gave a gentle, insistent tug. Not rough, but eager, needy, a current running from his hand into hers. She glanced up at him, already knowing, and he was looking at her with that blown-out gaze, like heâd been underwater and only she could teach him to breathe. âCome lay down,â He backed toward the bed, pulling her with him. The duvet was still rumpled from earlier; the sheets smelled like them both. He sat, then slid back until he was stretched out, tugging her down with him until her knees hit the mattress and she toppled into his arms.
He wrapped himself around her instantly. One arm banded across her waist, the other across her shoulders, his face pressed to the side of her neck. His legs tangled with hers, hooking at the ankles. His breath shuddered once, then slowed, syncing to hers like a metronome finding its rhythm. Her phone slipped from her hand onto the blanket; she let it.
His hands flattened against her ribs. He counted the breaths.
For a heartbeat he could almost believe it was permanent, that if he just held her still enough, the night couldnât find her, the world couldnât call her back.
He stayed there, eyes open, telling himself again and again: Right now sheâs here. Right now sheâs here. Right now sheâs here.
what POV do you prefer to read stories in for the reader?
hi! first of all, i love love LOVE all your writings!! i love the way you depict these characters, especially karen and dex. i've scrolled through lots of daredevil character fics but yours is my fav all the time ngl
i was wondering if you could write daredevil&punisher characters reacting to their s/o who do sh? I've recently gave up to the urge and it would mean a lot to me if i could read this subject in your style. If it's too much, i totally understand.
(I'm a un-english user so apologies if there were any grammer mistakes lol)
characters used á° .á matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley
sensitive content below. please proceed with caution and make sure you are in a stable enough mindset to read. <3
â︾ MATT MURDOCK. đŻ
the first time he notices itâs not visual, itâs tactile. he wonât have to catch you during the act, or wait till you tell him. mattâs world is built on texture and sound, so he feels the change in your skin under his fingertips one night. raised lines, the catch of scar tissue, or the way your pulse spikes when his hand brushes a covered area. he wonât say anything right then; he freezes for a heartbeat, thumb hovering, and you can see his mind racing.
later, his brain pieces together patterns: the way youâve been hiding your wrists under long sleeves even when itâs hot, how your scent shifts (blood has a metallic tang he can detect easily), your heart rate doing that jagged flutter every time the topic of mental health comes up.
by the time he says something, or before he catches you, heâs already known for a while.
he brings it up gently but directly. matt doesnât dance around the truth once heâs decided to speak; he sits down across from you, voice soft, like heâs afraid of spooking you. âi can tell youâre hurting yourself,â he says. âi⌠just want to understand why.â his hands are folded, fingers rubbing his thumb anxiously â thatâs his tell when heâs upset.
internally, it guts him. mattâs whole life is built around protecting people, and the idea that youâre in danger from yourself triggers his protectorâs instinct in a way heâs not equipped for. he feels guilty, like he should have noticed sooner, or like heâs failed you somehow
matt is very careful with touch after he knows. his heightened senses mean he always notices bandages or fresh wounds, and heâll adjust instinctively, holding you where itâs safe, brushing hair back instead of gripping your arms, never making you feel exposed.
he does research, a lot of it. youâll notice new books on his nightstand about trauma recovery, self-harm, and mental health. he even asks karen for advice, framing it as âa friendâ if he has to.
heâs big on replacement coping mechanisms. heâll buy you a stress ball, ice cubes, anything tactile you can use when the urge hits. heâll talk you through it, âif you need to hurt, try this first. or call me. even if itâs 3am.â
matt knows he canât âfixâ you, but he still tries to create small, safe rituals. late-night tea in the kitchen with the lights dimmed, a walk on the roof when he senses your anxiety spiking, a warm hand at the back of your neck grounding you.
if you let him, heâll offer to bandage you.
heâll gently suggest therapy or professional help, but he frames it as support, not judgment: âiâll go with you, if you want. iâll wait outside.â
becomes hyper-vigilant about your tells. the way you go still, the way your scent changes when youâre in a bad headspace. heâll check in more, sometimes almost too much. âyou okay?â âare you safe?â âneed me to come over?â
when you relapse, he doesnât shame you. heâs sad, heâs worried, but he sits down next to you, takes your hand, and says, âthis doesnât change anything. youâre still here. iâm still here.â
he prays for you. not in a preachy way, but quietly, hands clasped at the church when no oneâs around. sometimes heâll light a candle for you.
â︾ FRANK CASTLE. đŻ
frank notices everything. itâs part soldier, part dad-instinct, part trauma. heâd pick up on it faster than most. heâs used to scanning for injuries, reading posture, and cataloguing every detail. he sees the long sleeves, the way you pull your arm back too fast when he reaches for it, the faint scent of antiseptic or iron in your bathroom.
the moment he knows for sure might be abrupt. maybe he walks into the bathroom without knocking and catches a flash of a blade, or he pulls your sleeve up when youâre hurt and sees old scars. his reaction isnât subtle, his whole face changes; he goes very, very still, like a switch flipped.
heâs not a man of speeches. the first thing out of his mouth would be low, hoarse: âwhat the hell are you doinâ, sweetheart?â not angry at you, but at the sight.
heâll close the distance immediately, not rough but firm. he takes whatever object youâre using and sets it aside, almost automatically checking for damage, bleeding, infection, how deep. his hands are steady because battlefield training kicks in.
he kneels in front of you, big hands on your wrists, palms up, scanning. his voice stays low but hard-edged: âlook at me. youâre alright.â
guilt first. frank will think itâs his fault somehow, that his life, his violence, his enemies bled into you. heâll replay every moment he mightâve missed the signs.
heartbreak second. frank carries his heart quietly but intensely, and realizing youâre in that much pain hits him harder than any bullet.
protective rage third. frank has nowhere to aim it. heâs used to âfind target, neutralize target,â but here the target is pain inside you. he has to learn to sit with that.
he becomes hyper-present. frank will hover like a watchdog, not smothering but always there. if you head to the bathroom, you might hear him shifting in the hallway. if youâre late coming home, heâs calling. heâs not trying to control you; heâs trying to keep you alive.
will start removing potential tools from easy reach, blades, razors, even broken glass. he does it subtly, making sure you donât feel punished, just safer.
will bandage your wounds himself if you let him. heâs good at it, heâll disinfect, wrap, and kiss your forehead after, no words.
frankâs a fixer. he wonât just say âdonât do thatâ; heâll set up a whole safety net. numbers of crisis hotlines taped to the fridge, a therapist he âhappens to know,â someone who wonât push you but will be there if you want.
heâs not great with emotional vocabulary, but heâs blunt about love. youâll hear a lot of: âyou matter to me.â âi canât lose you.â âcome here.â
he does not shame you. his tone stays practical. if you relapse, he helps you clean up, sits beside you on the floor, hand on your back, silent until youâre ready to talk.
frank is very serious about your safety outside his line of sight. he keeps tabs, not stalking, but definitely making sure he knows where you are and that youâre okay. if you give him access to your location, heâll track it and only act if something seems off.
frank also starts steering you into activities that build confidence and agency: self-defense lessons, shooting at the range, gym time. not because he expects you to fight but because he knows feeling stronger helps with mental spirals.
can be too protective. his instinct to âlock down the perimeterâ can slide into hovering or scaring off your friends without realizing it. he has to be told explicitly, âi need spaceâ or âiâm safe.â
makes sure you eat. heâll cook, simple, filling food, nothing fancy, and slide a plate in front of you without comment.
memorizes your bad days cues: the way you withdraw, the songs you play, the text style you use. heâll show up with coffee, a soft shirt, or a distraction when he senses one coming.
heâs proud of you for every little victory. if you go a day without harming, if you tell him youâre struggling instead of acting on it, heâll murmur âgood jobâ and kiss your temple. he treats each step as something real, not corny.
â︾ FOGGY NELSON. đŻ
foggyâs the type to notice small changes in vibe before physical signs. he picks up on your tone, the way you cancel plans, how you avoid eye contact. it takes him a while to connect the dots because his brain resists going to the darkest place, but once he sees actual scars or evidence, it hits him hard.
maybe he notices bandages peeking out while youâre doing dishes, or you leave the bathroom door ajar and he glimpses a fresh cut. he freezes mid-step, his hand tightening on the doorframe.
the first words out of his mouth arenât rehearsed. itâd probably be a quiet, almost stunned: âhey⌠what happened?â his face softens instantly, not scolding but aching.
heâs visibly shaken, cheeks pink, eyes shiny, but he tries hard not to let you see panic. heâs a caretaker, and he knows the moment needs your stability more than his emotions.
gut-punched. foggyâs whole thing is being the steady, good-hearted comedic relief in the middle of chaos. realizing youâve been hurting yourself feels like heâs been looking the other way.
deep sadness. foggy is naturally optimistic, always trying to see the good. seeing you in pain will rattle his sense of security.
foggy will gently bring it up in conversation later. âiâve been thinking about the other dayâŚâ he wants you to know itâs not a secret shame locked in a vault, but something you can speak about.
heâll research. heâll read about self-harm, coping skills, and local therapists. starts bookmarking resources.
heâs the type to print out a list of grounding techniques and tape it to your fridge with a silly magnet. heâll say, âi know itâs cheesy, but⌠maybe it helps?â
foggy is an acts-of-service person. heâll start cooking more, making sure you eat regularly, walking you to the subway, calling at night to check in if he canât be there.
builds in tiny âcheckpointsâ in your day. texts like âhowâs lunch?â or âmade it to class okay?â like a friend making sure youâre hanging in there.
will sit up with you on the couch at 3am watching trash TV all night just so you donât feel alone with your thoughts. heâll toss you a blanket, half-asleep but still making you tea.
makes âself-care nightsâ feel less clinical. instead of âwe need to do grounding,â itâs âletâs do facemasks and watch a bad movie.â
heâs careful not to police your body or your privacy. heâs seen what happens when people feel cornered. he wonât try to take sharp objects from your reach, instead, he keeps showing up, offering help, reminding you of your worth.
heâd buy you small, thoughtful fidget toys or sketchpads if youâre open to alternate coping mechanisms. heâd frame it like âi saw this and thought of youâ rather than âhereâs your coping tool.â
heâs not frank, he wonât go punch a wall. but he might cry in the shower or at his desk when youâre not there. heâll talk to matt, karen, or marci in vague terms to unload without betraying your trust.
starts wearing a small token you gave him, maybe a pin, a bracelet, as a private grounding tool for himself. when heâs worried about you, he touches it.
post-it notes. sometimes heâll leave little affirmations around your apartment, not corny quotes, but private jokes or âhey, youâre loved. -F.â
foggy can overcompensate. heâll start dropping everything at work to check on you, burning himself out.
heâll sometimes swing too hard into humor, making jokes when youâre not ready. if you snap at him, heâll look wounded but apologize quickly.
heâs not trained in crisis management. his help might feel clumsy sometimes, like buying you a random stress ball and thinking it fixes everything.
â︾ KAREN PAGE. đŻ
karen is hyper-observant when it comes to people she cares about. she notices changes in mood, tone, or body language almost before you do. sheâs also intuitive about secrecy because sheâs been there.
sheâd clock the small things first: long sleeves on hot days, flinching when she brushes your arm, your avoidance of physical closeness sometimes. it might take weeks for her to build the picture.
she wouldnât confront you cold. karen tends to wait until sheâs sure rather than risk accusing you of something heavy. sheâd do her homework first.
when she finally catches you, maybe she walks into the bathroom when you forgot to lock the door, or she sees fresh bandages while youâre changing shirts, her breath would catch. she wouldnât yell. sheâd say your name softly, like a question.
karenâs first instinct is to ground and comfort, not interrogate. sheâd drop to her knees next to you, keep her voice low and steady. reach out but not grab â âcan I touch you?â â because she knows touch can be overwhelming.
sheâd probably tear up, but sheâd bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying in front of you because she doesnât want to make it about her.
karen has a lot of survivorâs guilt and protective instinct. seeing you self-harm would break her heart because it would feel like she missed something or failed to protect you.
can be impulsive. she might push too hard one day, asking too many questions. if you snap at her, sheâd immediately apologize but then spiral about whether she made it worse.
sheâd also feel this flash of recognition, sheâs been through self-destructive behavior herself (substance use, dangerous decisions). it wouldnât be alien to her.
sadness mixed with fierce determination. karenâs the kind of person who doubles down when someone she loves is hurting.
karen would bring up professional help but in a very âIâm on your sideâ way. sheâd research therapists, hotlines, support groups, but she wouldnât shove them at you. sheâd sit beside you, laptop open, saying, âwe can look together.â
sheâs a journalist. sheâd use her research skills to find articles, coping methods, and then translate them into little practical things, keeping a first-aid kit stocked, buying fidget tools, or bringing you coloring books as a non-threatening outlet.
sheâd also share pieces of her own story in a careful, measured way. not to shift the focus but to affirm youâre not alone.
would check in verbally a lot. âHowâs your head today?â âAny rough patches?â Sheâd make emotional check-ins feel normal, not like an interrogation.
sheâd also make an effort to keep fun, normal conversations going so you donât feel defined by self-harm. sheâs big on âletâs watch a bad movieâ or âletâs go to that diner.â
if she found you actively hurt, sheâd quietly and competently clean and bandage the wounds. sheâs been around enough chaos to handle blood without panicking.
would start keeping a small stash of bandages and antiseptic in your apartment just in case.
sheâd offer to sit with you while you try alternate coping mechanisms: ice, sketching, calling a friend, grounding exercises.
karen knows from her own life how damaging it is to be shamed. she would not take away your autonomy or issue ultimatums. sheâd be careful to frame everything as âletâs do this togetherâ not âyou have to stop.â
sheâd be open to therapy herself if it would help you, couples counseling, support groups, anything.
if you needed space, sheâd respect it but stay reachable. her texts would be consistent and warm: âJust checking in. No pressure to reply. Iâm thinking of you.â
karenâs the kind of person who might go cry in her car after she leaves your apartment, gripping the steering wheel. sheâll journal about it or vent to a trusted friend (without betraying you) to keep herself steady.
she might pick up new self-care habits herself, yoga, therapy, prayer, to manage the anxiety of worrying about you.
she might overextend herself, juggling work and caretaking until sheâs exhausted.
because sheâs survived trauma, she might occasionally project her own fears onto you (âPlease donât do what I didâ) without realizing it.
sheâs also fiercely independent and might struggle with not being able to âfixâ you immediately.
â︾ ELEKTRA. đŻ
she wouldnât ask right away. sheâs calculating. sheâd watch you for a while, trying to figure out your pattern, because she sees the world as a series of threats and habits.
when she finally does catch you, it could be abrupt: she comes back to the apartment unexpectedly, finds you in the act or cleaning up. she freezes, then steps forward like sheâs approaching a weapon, not a person.
elektra doesnât do gentle well. her first reaction might come out as anger: âwhat the hell are you doing?â because panic feels like anger to her. sheâs furious at herself for not catching it sooner and furious at you for being vulnerable in a way she canât control.
sheâs more likely to grab your wrist, spin you around, take the blade or whatever out of your hand than to crouch and whisper. itâs protective but invasive. her voice might be sharp. sheâs trying to keep control of the situation but it comes out like scolding.
if you start crying sheâll go still. sheâs terrible at dealing with tears. she might turn her back, inhale, then force herself to soften: âlook at me. iâm notâ i donât want to hurt you. i justâ damn it.â
sheâd feel frustration and helplessness. elektra is used to acting to solve problems. pain that canât be punched out of someone confounds her. contempt directed at the world, at whatever made you hurt, but also at the âweaknessâ of pain because sheâs trained herself to see vulnerability as a liability. sheâd feel tenderness, buried under the anger. sheâs furious because she actually cares.
would immediately confiscate any obvious means you use, knives, razors, not as a healthy boundary but like an operative clearing a room. sheâs not subtle.
sheâd offer you training. sheâd say âif you need to feel pain, use the gym, come spar with me.â she tries to redirect the impulse to something she understands.
texts âalive?â instead of âhow are you?â
would start dragging you on late-night rooftop runs, sparring sessions, adrenaline-heavy activities. âif youâre going to bleed, at least bleed for something.â itâs messed up but itâs her form of care.
hovering physically. after finding out, sheâd start showing up unannounced, sleeping over without asking, tailing you at night. sheâd act like itâs normal, but itâs surveillance born of worry.
when talking about it sheâd be very blunt: âdid you do it again?â not âhow are you?â but âtell me the truth.â
elektra doesnât really âdoâ emotional caretaking. she might shame you without realizing it, calling it âstupidâ or âweakâ when sheâs actually terrified. sheâs used to control and secrecy, so she might keep your self-harm secret even from people who could help, thinking sheâs protecting you, but actually isolating you.
she might project her own self-destructive instincts onto you â âIâm fine, so you can be fine.â
could become jealous of anyone else you open up to, interpreting it as betrayal.
she might overcompensate by trying to âfixâ you with training, missions, or violent distractions instead of listening.
sheâd buy you things without comment, bandages, tea, a weighted blanket, and leave them on the counter. sheâd invite you to travel with her last minute â europe, a beach house, some safehouse she has â as a distraction.
might try to teach you her breathing exercises from training. sheâd sit opposite you, knees touching, guiding your inhale and exhale until you steady.
sheâs not consistent. some days sheâll be clingy and protective, other days sheâll disappear on a mission and leave you feeling abandoned.
she could weaponize your vulnerability in an argument, not maliciously but because she hits below the belt when sheâs angry. sheâd regret it after but sheâs volatile.
sheâs deeply competitive and might resent the time/energy your recovery takes from your relationship.
â︾ BEN POINDEXTER. đŻ
dex is hyper-observant to the point of paranoia. he notices the tiniest inconsistencies, the sleeve tug, the way you close the bathroom door, the bandaids, the antiseptic. he builds a picture before you even realize heâs clocking it.
will âcheck on youâ without telling you, reading your texts over your shoulder, scrolling through your socials, following your location, calling your friends. so itâs very likely he pieces it together from multiple angles rather than you telling him.
he might actually catch you in the act because he shows up unannounced. you said you were at work late; he drives by, sees your car at home, goes in, and finds you.
if he doesnât catch you directly, heâs still going to confront you because the obsession of âi know somethingâs wrongâ becomes unbearable.
dexâ panic comes out sideways. heâll go pale and quiet first, then swing hard into over-talking. âwhat the hell is this? why would you do that? is it me?â
his fear of abandonment lights up immediately. he thinks: if youâre hurting yourself, youâre about to leave me. or youâre pulling away. he spirals into âyou hate me,â âi donât make you happy,â âyouâre planning to disappear.â
heâs not good at physical restraint in a healthy way. if he finds you holding something sharp, heâs grabbing your wrists, snatching it away, tossing it across the room. it can easily turn aggressive.
his voice might jump between whispering and shouting. heâs trying to stay in control but it keeps breaking through.
he feels sheer panic. his nervous system goes full fight-or-flight. heâs terrified not just of you being hurt but of losing you, and to him those are the same thing. he has so much guilt and self-blame. âi should have seen it, i should have stopped it, itâs my fault youâre like this.â then, heâll feel rage at whoever or whatever he thinks âmadeâ you do it. heâll immediately start trying to identify a villain he can punish. dex genuinely idolizes the people he attaches to, so seeing you in pain feels like his world crumbling.
hypervigilance. he starts watching you constantly. youâll feel eyes on you at all times. he shows up at your job, your apartment, your gym, like heâs âjust checking in.â
interrogation disguised as concern: âwhere are you going? with who? when will you be back? did you eat? are you sure?â over and over.
if you call him out for overstepping, heâll panic, thinking youâre about to leave. heâll deny, deflect, then break down. âi just wanted to keep you safe.â
over-disclosure. if you ever shut down or get quiet heâll start âconfessingâ everything to you, his own violent thoughts, what he ate, who he spoke to, as if by unloading his secrets he can make you do the same.
threats of self-harm (direct or indirect): not in a manipulative sense heâs fully aware of, but because his BPD goes straight to âif you leave, iâll dieâ territory.
unhealthy bargaining: âif you promise me youâll stop, iâll stop [insert thing he does to cope].â
physical closeness. wants to sleep literally on top of you. sits on the bathroom floor while you shower. wonât let you out of his sight for hours.
tries to control your schedule. âif youâre always with me, you wonât have time to hurt yourself.â
might push you to train with him at the shooting range or gym, thinking if youâre physically tired you wonât self-harm.
monitors your phone and social media obsessively. deletes contacts he thinks are bad for you.
he can be deeply insensitive about mental health. heâll say blunt, cruel-sounding things like âwhy would you do that to yourself?â or âare you trying to make me crazy?â because heâs overwhelmed.
heâs jealous of anyone else you confide in. if you have a therapist, a friend, or a hotline, heâll see it as competition.
stalking and surveillance under the guise of protection. tracking your phone, waiting outside your work, following you at night.
he hides his anger but it leaks out in passive-aggressive jabs or little punishments, going cold for hours, slamming doors, leaving cryptic texts.
heâll do the âiâm not madâ thing while obviously mad, sulking, slamming cabinets, going silent for hours but hovering in your doorway.
his sensitivity means he can blurt out mean things without realizing, then be wracked with guilt after.
â︾ BILLY RUSSO. đŻ
he might walk into the bathroom while youâre cleaning up, or catch a glimpse of scars when youâre changing. heâs outwardly calm, but you can see something flicker behind his eyes.
because heâs so invested in control, he masks that panic with a smooth, soft tone. âyou got somethinâ you wanna tell me?â he crouches, tries to make eye contact, but his jawâs tight.
clinginess spike. he canât lose you. from that moment he starts hovering, staying longer at your place, texting you more often, subtly rearranging his schedule so heâs around.
billy has his own history of abuse, selfâhatred, and destructive coping. seeing you selfâharm cracks his persona; itâs like looking at his own pain reflected back.
protective but selfish undertones. part of his drive to help you is genuine care. part of it is ego; he wants to be the one who âsavesâ you, because it validates his own survival narrative.
billy doesnât naturally do emotional support, but he knows curtis does. he might go to him privately, not to dump your secrets but to ask how to âhandle this,â what to say, what not to say.
he doesnât trust therapy. heâll try to show you instead that âif I crawled out of it, you can too.â
starts pitching you his own survival story like a motivational speaker. âlook, Iâve been lower than low. I built myself back up. You can do the same.â he frames your healing as something you choose and build, because thatâs how he survived.
expensive dinners, weekend trips, new clothes, spontaneous plans, anything to make you feel glamorous, wanted, and alive.
he starts checking in constantly. texts like âhow you doinâ?â âwhatâs your head like today?â âyou at home?â â but phrased casually so it doesnât look like hovering.
makes you the center of his world, arm around your waist, pulling out your chair, ordering for you, making sure everyone sees how much he adores you.
when he notices you slipping into a dark mood heâll try to snap you out of it with charm, joking, teasing, lightly touching your face. âhey, look at me. youâre too gorgeous to look like that.â itâs not the most emotionally attuned approach, but itâs sincere in his way.
heâll start dropping little selfâimprovement tips disguised as offhand comments: âwhen I was in a rut, I started running. changed my life.â âever tried boxing? Iâll show you.â
starts dictating your schedule, âdonât stay up so late,â âcome to this gym with me,â âletâs get out of town this weekend,â which can feel suffocating if youâre fragile.
impatience with relapse. if you slip, heâll mask disappointment with smooth words, but you can feel it, a tense jaw, a quiet sigh. he doesnât understand why itâs not a straight upward line.
trying to âsellâ you hope. he frames healing like a business plan. âstep one, step two, step three.â
late at night, âI canât lose you to this. Tell me what you need.â
stands with curtis, rubbing the back of his neck. âI donât know how to help them, man. Youâre good at this stuff. Tell me what to say.â curtis gives him a look, and for once, billy listens.
believes in luxury as therapy. itâs how he healed. so heâll keep throwing you into beautiful spaces, expensive meals, and âpower moves,â hoping the shine rubs off on you.
deep down, heâs scared youâll leave him or that youâll die on his watch. he covers it with charm and bravado, but there are nights he stares at the ceiling next to you, wide awake, jaw tight.
â︾ DINAH MADANI. đŻ
observational, not intuitive. sheâs an investigator by trade, so sheâs attuned to details. changes in your routine, how you dress, unexplained injuries. she notices inconsistencies: youâre suddenly wearing long sleeves in hot weather; you dodge questions about your night; you keep a locked drawer in the bathroom.
she may catch small things. a prescription bottle, receipts for bandages or antiseptic, late-night internet searches left open on your phone.
she works long unpredictable hours. she might come home early and find you in the bathroom. she wonât scream or burst in; sheâll push the door open with that âagent toneâ and freeze, eyes locked, taking in every detail.
dinahâs training takes over first. she gets calm, almost eerily so. she speaks low and steady, like sheâs de-escalating a suspect: âHey. Put that down. Talk to me.â
will not infantilize you, but she also wonât leave you alone in the moment. sheâll physically take the object away if she can do it without a fight, or sheâll position herself between you and it.
after the immediate danger passes sheâll sit on the floor with you, knees bent, trying to breathe slowly so you match her breathing. sheâs more about grounding than hugging, sheâll reach for your hand only if you reach first.
dinah prides herself on being aware. seeing you hurt yourself hits her ego â âhow did I miss this?â the agent part of her is already filing a mental âcase,â triggers, means, risk factors. sheâs running an assessment like itâs a threat profile, but for you.
checks your wounds medically, makes sure youâre not in danger of infection or needing stitches. sheâs matter-of-fact about it, like patching a field injury.
sheâll push hard for therapy or counseling. not a vague âyou should see someoneâ â sheâll research names, call offices, hand you a list.
keeps mental notes on what topics, people, or environments upset you. she wonât always be right, but sheâs trying to build a protective bubble.
talks you through breathing exercises, sensory grounding, or give you tasks, âdrink this water, look at five things in the room,â anything to break a spiral.
might try to involve you in her routine, gym time, morning runs, grocery trips, thinking that having a schedule helps.
can come off like sheâs interrogating you, demanding answers: âWhen did this start? Why? How long? Who knows?â Sheâs trying to get facts but it feels like a cross-exam.
sheâs used to being the one who stops bad things. sheâll overreach, trying to âmanageâ you instead of supporting.
if you self-harm again after she thought things were better, she might snap: âI thought we were past this.â immediately regrets it, but it happens.
dinah is not a hug-and-cry person. she can seem cold even when she cares deeply.
â︾ JAMES WESLEY. đŻ
might see marks accidentally, when you reach for something on a high shelf, bend down, or roll up a sleeve. he wonât gasp or react outwardly. instead, he stores the information and watches patterns.
when he decides to speak, itâs calm, measured, clinical. heâll say, âi noticed these.â not accusatory in tone, but waiting for you to explain.
he doesnât yell, cry, or panic. his face stays neutral, but inside heâs processing strategy. he wants to ensure your safety efficiently without drawing attention.
heâll make sure the immediate physical risk is addressed. bandages, antiseptic, making sure infection is prevented. no hugs, no hand-holding, just action.
will ask pointed questions about triggers, frequency, and risk without judgement. âwhen does this usually happen? what sets it off? who knows?â
he dislikes unpredictability and feels mildly irritated that this is happening without his knowledge. itâs not moral judgment, itâs operational, things need to be controlled.
may briefly wonder if he shouldâve noticed sooner. he doesnât admit it aloud; instead, he tightens his control on the situation.
subtle tracking of your patterns. he notes times, moods, and events that correlate with the behavior. he doesnât hover physically, but he keeps tabs.
will research therapies, medications, or interventions. he may leave a note: âI scheduled a consultation. Review the options.â
expects you to follow a schedule that minimizes risk. mealtimes, sleep, exercise, all observed and gently enforced with reminders.
when discussing self-harm, heâs precise and unemotional. âthis is dangerous. it stops now. hereâs how we prevent it.â no sugar-coating.
asks you to explain triggers explicitly and works with you to minimize exposure. he might even control aspects of your environment to reduce risk.
if you donât comply with his structured routines or advice, he may respond with cutting remarks, âiâd prefer if you followed the plan.â no overt anger, but very pointed.
his attempts to protect can feel intrusive. he wants everything optimized for safety, which can be suffocating.
treats your well-being like a mission. youâll notice he notices small things immediately, a scratch, a bruise, a change in tone, and reacts swiftly, without fuss.
if you ever relapse or struggle, heâll take it as a project to fix. he may plan interventions, track patterns, and never lose composure. heâs a rock, in a very unemotional, strategic sense.
when youâre upset, heâll stay silent until you speak first. he doesnât offer platitudes, but he listens intently and provides solutions or actions rather than comfort.
â a / n : no muse bc we all know he would just be freaky and this is a serious topicâŚ. i really appreciate your kind words and i hope my work can help you even slightly. im really proud of you , i know it can be difficult but im so happy youâre here. :) if anyone is struggling, please know help is out there, and no one will think any different of you for wanting it.
creator's note: i have not been feeling well for the past few days...so i dragged dex into this mess.
warnings: fear of abandonment, very brief mentions of bile/throwing up, sick, vulnerable! dex, dex has a bad fever, not proofread.
word count: 1.9k
His eyes felt heavy, and his cheeks burnt with something far from shame. Dex opened his eyes, gaze immediately darting to the clock above the door.
8:11 AM.
He felt his throat tighten.
Dex immediately sat up, fingers clenching the soft, pristine sheets beneath him. His chest rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths, every inhale scraping his lungs raw. He searched for you, gaze dragging frantically across the roomâempty chair, untouched glass of water, curtains drawn shut but swaying slightly like someone had been there not long ago. His pulse spiked, pounding so hard it felt like it rattled his ribs.
You werenât there.
The realization hit him like a fist. The air seemed too thin, like the room was shrinking. Sweat gathered at his hairline and slid down the side of his face, sticky against skin already clammy. He pulled the sheets closer to his body, as if they could anchor him, but the fabric only reminded him of how clean, how foreign this space felt without you in it.
His stomach churned, nausea twisting into something sharp and sour. He could taste the bitterness of bile creeping up his throat, forcing him to swallow hard. His hands shook violently as he shoved the sheets aside, planting his feet on the cold floor. The contrast made him shiver, but not enough to steady him.
ââWhere are you?â His voice cracked, rasping into the silence like a plea he hadnât meant to say aloud.
He stood, though his legs felt unsteady, like they didnât belong to him. Every step toward the door made his chest squeeze tighter, a horrible weight pressing down until it was almost unbearable. He could feel his own heartbeat in his ears, in his fingertips, everywhere, as if his body itself was panicking at the absence.
He checked the bathroom first. Empty. The faint scent of soap lingered, but there was no sound of running water, no shadow behind the door. His throat closed again.
The kitchen next. Still, still, stillâevery room still. The silence only grew heavier, filling in all the spaces where your voice, your presence should have been.
He gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles blanched white. His breathing was sharp, stuttering, and his mind was already spiralingâhad you left? Had you walked out while he was asleep, without a word, without even a glance back?
His chest burned, a suffocating ache spreading through him. He pressed his palm hard against it, as though he could keep his heart from tearing itself apart.
âPlease,â he muttered under his breath, the word falling more like a sob than speech.
The clock ticked faintly in the distance, dragging his attention back, each second mocking him.
8:14 AM.
Three minutes gone, and you still werenât there.
The room blurred at the edges, his vision stinging, but he blinked harshly, refusing to let tears spillânot yet. He stumbled back into the bedroom, desperate, eyes darting for any sign that heâd missed something, any hint that youâd return.
The sheets still smelled like you. It was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.
Then, a click of the door.
You stepped in the living room, hoodie over your head and one hand shoved into the pocket of your jacket.
âDex?â
Your voice carried softly through the apartment, casual but with that note of concern that always found him, always knew where to settle. You slipped your shoes off by the door and shook the dampness from your jacket, glancing toward the kitchen before letting your eyes sweep the space.
The air felt charged. Thick.
âDex?â you called again, louder this time.
From the bedroom, there was a sound. Not words exactlyâmore like a low, muffled scrape of movement, the shuffle of unsteady feet against the floorboards. You set the grocery bag down gently, every muscle in your body tuning to the unease prickling at the back of your neck.
When he appeared in the doorway, your chest clenched.
Dex stood there pale and drawn, skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. His shirt clung damply to his chest, hair matted to his forehead, and his eyesâwild, unfocused, red-rimmed like he hadnât slept in weeks. His hands were trembling, but when he saw you, his shoulders slumped, relief crashing into his features so hard it nearly broke your heart.
âYouââ his voice cracked, a rasp dragged over sandpaper, ââwhere were you?â
âI just ran out. Fifteen minutes, Dex.â You stepped toward him, but he flinched back a half-step, stubborn in the way he always was when panic met vulnerability. âI told you Iâd be right back.â
He shook his head, as if denying it, as if the timeline didnât matter. His throat worked, but whatever words he wanted to form got swallowed by another shallow, ragged breath. He leaned into the doorframe like his legs couldnât quite bear the weight of him.
You crossed the room before he could retreat further, hands reaching out, firm but gentle, guiding his burning skin beneath your touch. Heat radiated off him in wavesâunnatural, suffocating. His cheeks, his forehead, even the hollow of his throatâall fever-hot.
âDexâŚâ you whispered, fingertips brushing his flushed face. âYouâre burning up.â
He recoiled, a rough, disbelieving scoff tearing from his chest. âNo. No, Iâm fine. Justââ His jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to push yours away but couldnât quite bring himself to. âI thought you were gone.â
The words cracked open in the air, and his voice broke on the last syllable.
You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself before you could let the hurt overwhelm you. âI wonât ever leave you like that. You know I wouldnât.â
He tried to argue, his mouth twisting into something defensive, but then another wave of heat overtook him. His knees buckled, body swaying forward before you caught him, your arms bracing around his trembling frame. He was burning, muscles tense and slick with sweat, his breath shallow against your neck.
âDex, listen to me,â you murmured, holding him tighter. âYouâre running a fever. You need to sit down before you collapse.â
âIâm notââ His words broke, fading into a half-choked cough that left him gasping. His pride wrestled against the obvious, against the undeniable weakness in his body, but the truth was painted on his skin, in the tremor of his hands, the way he leaned heavier and heavier against you.
You coaxed him back toward the bed, step by step, until he finally gave in with a groan, sinking onto the mattress like heâd been fighting gravity itself. His chest heaved, his eyes fluttering shut, but his hand still caught yours, desperate.
You sat beside him, shifting carefully so the mattress didnât dip too sharply beneath his weight. He clutched your hand like a lifeline, his fingers clammy and shaking, but the pressure in them was desperate, almost frantic. You could feel his pulse through the gripâracing, erratic, unevenâand it made your chest ache.
âEasy,â you murmured, brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. The strands clung stubbornly, his skin slick with fever sweat, so you reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. Tilting it to his lips, you steadied his head with your palm. âSip. Slowly.â
He obeyed, though his throat worked unevenly, a shiver running through him even as the cool water slid down. When you lowered the glass, he sagged against the pillows, exhaustion pulling him under again, but he still refused to let go of your hand. His knuckles were pale where they pressed into yours.
âDonâtââ His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but it cracked open in the quiet like a confession. âDonât go again. Please.â
You squeezed his hand, leaning down until your forehead rested gently against his temple. He was burning hot, the fever radiating between you like a fire you couldnât put out, but you held there anyway, grounding him with touch. âIâm not going anywhere. Just breathe with me.â
His chest heaved, uneven, but when you slowed your own breathingâdeep inhales, slow exhalesâhe tried to follow. His breaths rattled, broke, but there was an effort to match your rhythm. His lashes stuck to the corners of his red-rimmed eyes, and you wiped carefully beneath them with the edge of your sleeve, catching the dampness before it could trail down his cheeks.
You pulled the covers up, tucking them snugly around his trembling body. He shifted weakly beneath them, a restless kind of fidget, as though his muscles couldnât settle. You smoothed your hand over his chest, feeling the frantic rise and fall, the heat pouring from his skin.
âLie still,â you coaxed, your thumb rubbing gentle circles over his sternum. âLet me take care of you.â
âI canââ His voice faltered, his throat working against the words. His brows pinched together as though the admission pained him more than the fever itself. âI can do it.â
You shook your head softly, pressing a kiss into his damp hair. âNot right now, Dex. Right now, you have to let me take care of you, yeah?â
Something in his face crumbled then. His lips parted, his breath hitched, and his hand tugged yours shakily against his chest. The weight of his palm pressed it there, like he needed proof you were real, anchored to him. His heart thundered beneath, chaotic and fragile. He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut. ââŚdonât deserve it.â
The words stabbed sharper than the fever could. You whispered firmly, steady in the way he wasnât, âNo, you donât say that. You deserve this, every second of it. You just need to relax for once.â
His fingers curled tighter around yours, his whole body shuddering with another wave of heat. You reached for the cool cloth youâd left by the bedside, dipping it quickly into the bowl of water youâd set out when you noticed the fever rising last night. Pressing it to his forehead, you watched his tense jaw slacken slightly at the relief, though he made a faint, broken sound in his throat, almost like a sob.
âI know it hurts,â you soothed, adjusting the cloth so it lay flat. âItâll pass. Just let me take this from you for a while.â
He made no reply, but his breathing grew ragged again, the kind that told you his body was trying to fight through both fever and fear. So you stayed with him, whispering little reassurances, grounding him each time his fingers twitched like he thought youâd slip away. You hummed quietly under your breath, not words, just something steady and soft, something he could cling to in the haze.
Minutes stretched, the ticking of the clock fading beneath the rhythm of his unsteady breaths. He dozed fitfully, drifting in and out, every time jerking awake just enough to check you were still there. And every time, you wereâyour hand in his, your touch steady, your voice the same anchor.
When he finally sank deeper into the fevered sleep, his grip never loosened. You sat there still, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, watching the way his face eased little by little, the sharp lines of panic softening into something fragile, human, vulnerable.
You leaned close, murmuring into the heavy warmth between you, âIâve got you.â
And you meant it, every syllable a promise youâd keep until his fever broke, until his chest rose with something steadier, until the panic in his eyes was only a memory.
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kruegerspillow Š 2025 âľ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ŕ¨ŕ§
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