Plot Summary: After witnessing Prince Aerion’s cruel tilt, you slip away from the stands to help the injured knight in the healers’ tent only to be joined by Prince Baelor Targaryen. Far from prying eyes, quiet conversation, shared wine, the future king lets himself be seen as only a man for the night.
Warnings: NSFW. 18+ only. explicit sexual content, consensual outdoor sex, penetrative sex (multiple positions: cowgirl + missionary), slow & intimate, praise, soft dom vibes from Baelor, thigh-holding / pinning open, external ejaculation, light power imbalance (prince x lady) , references to tourney violence & injury, wine drinking, aftercare, sorta strangers to lovers, not proofread.
Authors note: me and my girl love our husband @itsjml. It’s been along time since I have written anything from the Westeros universe. What better way to come back than for the heir to the iron throne.
Please reblog to support fellow writers ❤️
Another fine day as the sun hung high over Ashford Meadow, as you, a Lady of House Willum, sat among the lesser nobility in the stands. You're close enough to feel the thunder of hooves but far from the royal pavilions where the true power watched.
The joust between Prince Aerion Targaryen and Ser Humfrey Hardyng drew every eye. Ser Humfrey was a crowd favourite, a knight who'd already unhorsed a dozen men that day.
The charge came. Lances leveled.
Then the unthinkable: Aerion's lance dipped low and definitely deliberately as he pierced the neck of Ser Humfrey's mount instead of the shield.
Disgust rose in your throat like bile. The stands erupted, some in cheers for the prince's "victory," others in murmurs of outrage. But you could not sit idle and watch Ser Humfrey cry out in pain any longer as he’s dragged away. Slipping from your seat, you gathered your skirts and hurried toward the healers' tents at the edge of the field.
Inside the pavilion, the air smelled of blood, sweat, and milk of the poppy. Ser Humfrey had been laid on a low pallet, his face pale and slick with sweat from being in pain.
You inwardly cringe as you spotted that his leg was grotesquely swollen beneath his torn breeches. A maester knelt, probing the break with careful fingers while another prepared splints.
You approached without hesitation, you'd tended the sick in Willowbrook's villages since girlhood and now was no different.
"May I assist?" you asked the nearest maester, rolling up your sleeves. He glanced at your fine gown, then at your steady hands, and nodded.
You worked quickly: fetching clean linens, holding the leg steady as the maester set the bone with a sickening grind that drew a choked cry from the Ser.
You murmured soothing words, pressing a damp cloth to his brow and offering what comfort you could. "The Seven will see you through this, Ser. Breathe slow." Your voice was calm, though your heart pounded with anger at the prince who'd caused this cruelty.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the tent flap. You looked up and froze.
Prince Baelor Targaryen stood there, his olive skin gleamed in the lantern light, dark eyes shadowed with concern. He'd watched the tilt from the royal stand; everyone had seen his jaw tighten at Aerion's dishonour. Now he stepped inside, broad shoulders filling the space,
"How fares Ser Humfrey?" he asked the maester,
his presence commanding yet gentle.
"Badly broken, my prince. He'll live, but the leg... it may never bear him fully again."
Baelor's gaze shifted to you then, lingering. Recognition flickered. Perhaps it was from the feast nights before, when your laughter had caught his ear across the hall. "My lady of Willum," he starts, "You lend your hands where others turn away."
Heat rose to your cheeks. "It is no more than duty, my prince. House Willum has always aided where we may. And this..." You glanced at the suffering knight. "This should not have happened."
He nodded, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Aerion's lance found the wrong target. I saw it plainly." He knelt beside the pallet, placing a hand on Ser Humfrey's shoulder. "You fought honorably, ser. Rest now. The crown will see to your care."
Ser Humfrey only managed a weak nod.
Baelor rose, offering you his hand to help you stand from where you’d knelt in the dirt. His palm was warm and steady. “Walk with me a moment, my lady? The air outsid is fresher.”
You accepted, letting him guide you from the tent into the cooling evening. Stars began to prick the sky as you walked in silence for a few paces, the grass whispering against your skirts.
“I wanted to thank you properly,” he said, voice low. “For what you did in there. Ser Humfrey was in agony, and most would have averted their eyes or offered empty platitudes from a safe distance. That kind of mercy… it is not common,” he looks at you, fondness in his eyes, “even among the highborn.”
“It was nothing more than what anyone with a heart would do,” you murmured. “He suffered needlessly. Cruelty like that—”
You broke off, the words turning bitter on your tongue before you could stop them.
“Like Aerion’s,” you finished, the name slipping out sharp. “He struck the horse on purpose. I saw it. Everyone saw it. He laughed while a good man screamed beneath a dying beast. How can anyone call that knighthood? How can—”
You caught yourself, cheeks burning now with embarrassment as much as anger. You looked away, toward the darkening horizon as you quickly realise who yoh were standing with.
“Forgive me, my prince,” you say quickly, “I spoke out of turn. Aerion is your nephew. Your brother’s son. I should not have said anything.”
Baelor stopped walking.
He turned to face you fully and he did not look offended. If anything, his expression was one of weary understanding. “No apology is needed,” he hums quietly. “You spoke the truth. I saw the same thing you did and I felt the same disgust rise in me.” He picks a wildflower close by, twirling it between his fingers.
“He is my nephew, yes. But blood does not absolve dishonour, and it does not blind me to it.” He exhaled slowly, as though the admission cost him a great deal of coin. “I have spent years trying to guide him, to show him what our house should stand for rather than what it could destroy. Some days I wonder if the fire in him will ever bend to reason.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. “Here…” he speaks soft, taking your hand and pressing the flower into your palm. His thumb brushed once, almost absently, across the back of your hand.
“My lady, would you accompany me for a drink? Alone. Somewhere quiet, away from the noise and the eyes.”
Your heart gave an unsteady thud but you met his eyes. “Yes. I would like that very much, my prince.”
A small, genuine smile curved Baelor’s lips.. He offered his arm again, and you took it gracefully. You suppress a surprise gasp as you feel that his forearm was solid beneath the linen sleeve.
Together you left the clamour of the tourney grounds behind, slipping past the last row of pavilions and into the open meadow that bordered Ashford’s lists. The grass was already damp with evening dew and beautifully silvered by the rising moon. For a while neither of you spoke, content simply to walk side by side.
Eventually Baelor broke it. “Aerion has always preferred spectacle to honour. I fear he will never understand the difference.”
You walked on a few paces before answering. “My father used to say that true strength is measured not by how hard a man can strike, but by how gently he can hold back when he could destroy.”
Baelor looked at you then, really looked. “Your father sounds like a wise man.”
“He was,” you begin softly. “He died three winters past. Fever took him quickly. After that, it fell to me to look after Willowbrook’s people as best I could. The river floods some years, the harvests fail others.”
You look up to the moon, smiling to yourself. “You learn quickly that a lord or lady cannot sit above suffering and still call themselves worthy.”
He nodded slowly. “I envy you that clarity. The throne room is far removed from such truths. One forgets, sometimes, what the realm truly needs.” There’s a small frown on his face so you offer him a smile and an ever so light nudge.
“And yet here you are, walking in a meadow instead of feasting with the highborn.”
“Feasts grow tiresome when the conversation is all flattery and veiled threats.” He gave a quiet laugh. “Besides, the company is better out here.”
Heat crept into your cheeks again “You flatter me, my prince.”
“No,” he said simply. “I speak plainly. You are kind in a way that costs you nothing and everything at once. That is rare.”
The meadow sloped gently downward toward a small copse of willows and alders.
A low fire already burned in a shallow pit. It was clear that it was someone’s forgotten camp. A wineskin and two battered tin cups had been left beside the flames, along with a folded cloak. Baelor paused, glancing at you.
“Shall we?”
You nodded, and he led you to the fireside. He spread the cloak on the grass for you to sit, then settled beside you.
Your eyes open wide as he sits close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. He doesn’t seem to mind however as he he uncorked the wineskin, poured dark red into both cups, and handed one to you.
You clinked your cup lightly against his. “To kinder days,” you smile.
“To kinder days,” he echoed.
The first sips were quiet, warming. The fire crackled softly, sending sparks spiraling upward into the night. Gradually the conversation drifted. You both spoke about the tilts from today and about which knight had ridden the finest that day. He would comment about how the Reach’s golden fields would look amazing from dragonback (he wished desperately that the dragons didn’t die out before his time).
Then he asked about Willowbrook. It surprised you that he wanted to know about your humble life but he listened as though every detail mattered, asking gentle questions that showed he truly wanted to know.
At length the fire had burned lower, the wine warmer in your veins. You shifted closer without quite meaning to, drawn by his warmth against the night chill. Fortunately, he did not move away.
You looked into the flames for a moment, gathering courage, then turned to him.
“I have never met a Targaryen like you,” you told him truthfully. “The stories speak of fire and blood, of ambition that burns kingdoms down. But you…” You searched his face, the sharp lines softened by firelight. “You are kind.”
Baelor regarded you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he set his cup aside and reached out, brushing the backs of his fingers lightly along your cheek. The touch was feather-soft, almost hesitant.
“Kindness is not the legacy my house is known for,” he murmured. Your eyes softly close as his thumb traced the curve of your lower lip. “Most days I feel the weight of what we are supposed to be more than what I wish to be.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, “It has been… a long while since I allowed myself anything like this,” he admitted quietly, the confession sounding almost surprised, as though he had not meant to speak it aloud. “Since I let anyone close enough. Since I let myself want.”
The admission hung in the air, raw and unguarded. You felt your own breath catch.
“Then let yourself want now,” you whispered.
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.
You met him halfway.
The first press of his lips was careful, tasting of Arbor red and woodsmoke. You sighed into it, parting for him, and he deepened the kiss with a quiet groan that vibrated against your mouth. His hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair; the other found your waist, drawing you closer across the folded cloak until you were half in his lap.
He kissed like a man who had forgotten how good it could feel; like every brush of tongue, every soft nip at your lower lip, was something he had denied himself for years. Your hands slide up his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart beneath. When you tugged lightly at the laces of his tunic, he helped you without breaking the kiss, shrugging the garment off.
You broke apart only long enough to breathe, foreheads resting together.
“You tremble,” he murmured against your lips, one hand smoothing down your back in a soothing stroke.
“So do you,” you answered, smiling a little.
He huffed a soft laugh, the sound almost disbelieving. “I suppose I do.”
His mouth found your neck then with open kisses and gentle scrapes of teeth that made you arch against him. You felt him harden beneath you, the evidence of his want pressing insistently against your thigh through his breeches. Your own body answered with a rush of heat, a slick ache building low in your belly.
“Baelor…” His name came out half plea, half wonder.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes searching. “Tell me to stop if it is too much,” he said, voice thick. “Or tell me what you want.”
You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the faint stubble along his jaw. “I want you,” you reply simply. “All of you. Here... Now.”
Something fierce and tender flashed across his features. He kissed you again with hunger and began to work the ties of your gown. Layer by layer the fabric fell away until you knelt bare before him in the firelight, skin prickling with both chill and anticipation.
He looked at you like you were something holy.
“Gods,” he breathed. “You are…”
He did not finish the sentence. Instead he pulled you down with him onto the cloak, rolling so you straddled his hips. His hands roamed over your breasts, your waist, your thighs… he was learning you with slow, worshipful touches.
When you reached between you to free him from his breeches, he groaned low in his throat at the first stroke of your hand along his length.
You pump his cock slowly before you guide him to your entrance, slick and ready, and sink down slowly and stretch around him.
You both stilled for a moment when he was fully sheathed, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together again.
He whimpered, utterly undone and the sound sent a fresh wave of heat through you.
You began to move with a slow roll of your hips, grinding down in languid circles that made him gasp against your mouth. His hands gripped your thighs as though you were the only thing anchoring him to the world. Every downward motion drew another quiet, helpless sound from him; his head tipped back, throat working, dark eyes half-lidded and gleaming with pleasure.
“You feel…” he managed, voice wrecked. “So perfect… so good…”
You leaned down to kiss him again, swallowing the next soft whimper as you circled your hips just right. His hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples in time with your rhythm, sending sparks straight to where you were joined.
The pace stayed slow, torturously intimate. He wanted you to feel every inch of him, and wanted him to feel every flutter and clench around him.
Sweat gleamed on his skin in the firelight. He looked up at you with something like awe, lips parted on ragged breaths, utterly lost in the sensation of you moving above him.
After a while, the need shifted.
“Lie back,” he whispered. “Let me feel you like this.”
With a low groan he rolled you both until you lay beneath him on the cloak, legs parting to cradle his hips. He settled between your thighs, bracing on his forearms so his weight rested mostly on his elbows, keeping you sheltered from the cool air. His eyes never left yours as he guided himself back inside you in one slow, smooth glide.
You both moaned at the new deeper angle, every inch of his cock pressing against places that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
He began to move in long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a planned slowness. Each stroke dragged against your walls, building heat in lazy, rolling waves. His forehead pressed to yours; his breath fanned hot across your lips.
“So beautiful,” he whispered between thrusts. “So warm and tight around me… my lady…”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to bury him deeper. Your hands roamed his shoulders, his back, feeling the flex of muscle with every slow roll of his hips. Soft whimpers escaped you each time he bottomed out.
As the pace built ever so slightly, he slides one hand down to grip your thigh, fingers splaying wide and firm to hold you open, pinning your leg back against the cloak. The angle opened you further, letting him sink even deeper, his cock dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust. The new position made the sounds louder. Wet, filthy slaps echoing in the quiet night as he fucked into your pussy with, each one hitting harder and better, drawing keening cries from your throat.
“Like that,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours, watching every flutter of pleasure across your face. “Take me… gods, the way you sound… moaning for me…”
His mouth found yours again in messy, open-mouthed kisses; then across your breasts until your back arched and you cried out softly.
When the pleasure coiled unbearably tight, you clutched at him, nails pressing marks into his shoulders.
“Baelor…please…”
“I’ve got you,” he rasped, thrusts growing just a fraction deeper and a fraction harder. “Come for me… let me feel you…”
The words tipped you over. You shattered around him with a broken cry, walls fluttering and clenching tight. He groaned your name, hips stuttering as your release pulled him along.
At the last moment he pulled out, hand wrapping around his slick length. Hot pulses spilled across your belly in thick, warm streaks, painting your skin as he shuddered through it, head bowed, breath harsh and uneven.
For a long moment he simply rested above you, weight carefully braced, chest heaving. Then he shifted to the side, lying beside you and drawing you into his arms. One hand reached for the edge of the cloak, using a clean corner to wipe you clean with tender strokes.
He kissed your temple, your cheek and then the corner of your mouth. “You’re shivering,” he murmured, pulling the cloak fully over both of you and tucking you against his chest.
“Only a little,” you whispered, curling into his warmth. He held you tighter, fingers tracing lazy circles along your spine. “Rest now,” he said softly, pressing another kiss to your hair. “I’ve got you. All night if you’ll let me.”
You smiled against his skin, already drifting in the cocoon of his arms and the quiet crackle of the dying fire.
cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean he’s a murderer so
BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — 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 doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”
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 he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.
ben does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.
he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.
he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.
always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s 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. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.
his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s 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.
can’t sleep unless he’s 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. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.
keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”
loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t 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 it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.
has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.
likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s 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. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”
notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.
he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.
your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).
he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.
he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s 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, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll 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. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll 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 — 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 — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.
his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.
he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”
can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.
refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.
has ‘rules’ 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 — 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 he’s spiraling.
he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.
gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.
but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.
has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.
“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s 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.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.
panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t 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 doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.
gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”
clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.
keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.
memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.
he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.
he’s watching everyone — 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 “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re 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 “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)
calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.
won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”
he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.
takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.
he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.
he’ll 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 — and behind his eyes, he’s 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 — he’s the most focused man alive.
stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.
doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll 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 he’s 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? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”
gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.
has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.
so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”
doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.
knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll 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 he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.
he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s 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. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”
and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.
he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”
he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”
thinkin abt how BENJAMIN POINDEXTER is the sweetest man behind closed doors to you. like yeah, to the world he’s cold, precise, terrifying, but when it’s just you and him? he’s tucking you under his arm like you’re made of glass. he makes your tea just right, remembers how you like your pillows fluffed, kisses the inside of your wrist just because. the same man who can kill with a paperclip clutches your pinky in the grocery store like it’s a lifeline. his voice drops to a whisper when he talks to you, like even his words wanna be gentle. it’s fucked up. it’s beautiful. he’s your own little anomaly.
dailybridgerton
titsay
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
areudirty
snowghoul
romaincrisis
