tags: violence, death, harassment (not from dex), toxic relationship dynamics, obsession, reader is a bit of a freak, dex being soggy and pathetic
————————
“If I knew you’d look so good in that quarter-zip, I would have brought you out here ages ago.”
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.
“Thank you,” he says. Months of dating still haven’t 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, it’s offered you a quiet refuge for as long as you’ve lived here, and now you’ve shared this little piece of yourself with Dex. A quiet place for both of you to enjoy — together.
“You look pretty,” Dex says, and you know before you even turn to him that he’s been staring at you this whole time. “The sun is on your face. You — you’re glowing.”
“Thank you, baby,” 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.
“Shit,” he says. “It’s work.” His thumb hesitates over the answer button.
“It’s ok, Agent Poindexter. I’ll wait here while you do your FBI thing.” 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 you’re 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, you’re sure to get the run down when he’s finished.
You hear it before you see it — 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.
“Out here alone?” he asks.
You offer a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “I’m just waiting for my boyfriend.”
“Don’t see no boyfriend,” the man says. He stops at a too-close distance, and you cross your arms over your chest, turning your body away from his.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” you say shortly. “I’m just waiting for him.”
The man takes another step toward you. You take a step back.
“So you can’t talk to nobody?” he says. “Or are you just too pretty to talk to me?”
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.
“Hey, nothing wrong here,” he says, advancing into your space again. “I’m just trying to get your number.”
He’s too close, and moving closer. He raises a hand like he’s going to grab at you, and you take a sharp breath, you’re going to yell —
Thunk. The man freezes. His mouth parts stupidly and his hand — the hand that was reaching for you — 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 doesn’t understand what’s just happened, and in your shock you haven’t 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 man’s chest does not rise again.
He’s 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 — your Dex — launched a pen like a bullet through that man’s 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.
“The body,” you blurt out. “The river. Put it in the river.”
All at once, your senses come back to you. You’re 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.
“Now, Dex,” you snap, voice low and hoarse. He’s just looking at you. Just standing there and looking at you with fear in his face.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah. Ok. The river.”
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 they’re 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.
“Throw it,” you say softly. “As far as you can.” He takes the pen from your fingers and hurls it into the water.
——
The sky is dark on the drive back into the city. Dex’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and when the car finally rolls to a stop, you look up to see that he’s 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 you’ve 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.
“I couldn’t let him hurt you. He was - he reached for you, he was scaring you, and I couldn’t let him touch you.” His fingers flex and open, a nervous tick. The room is cold silent. Not even the rush of traffic outside.
“I know, Dex,” you reply. The silence drags only for a moment as Dex realizes you’re 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.
“I was protecting you,” he says. “I’ll always, always protect you. Nothing else matters. You’re the only thing that matters, you’re the only person I love, your the only person who loves - who loves me, and I can’t - I had to -“ his breaths become shakey, rapid. He stops an arms-length away as if he’s 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 don’t offer it to him.
“I know, Dex,” you say again. “I’m not mad. I just . . . I just want to sleep. I want to shower and go to bed.”
His hand falls to his side and his face crumples for a moment, desperate and close to tears. “Ok,” he says. “I can do that. We can shower.” 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 don’t bother asking him to lower it. Dex’s 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 he’s going to speak.
“Don’t,” you say softly. “I don’t want to talk. Not right now. We can do it in the morning.”
Calloused hands clutch at the fat of your waist. He presses himself further, further into you.
“Ok,” he rasps. “In the morning.”
You fall asleep in the vise of his arms.
——
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 he’s 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 there’s a body, cold and bloodless. You swing your legs over the bed and Dex follows close behind. He’s 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. He’s 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 you’ll do about it.
You make it into the kitchen before he cracks.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asks, weakly. “Are you mad at me?”
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.
“I’m not mad,” you answer. “I’m just . . . thinking.”
Dex sniffles. “I did it for you,” he says, voice wobbly. “To protect you. I would do anything for you. Anything. I need you so much it—it hurts.” 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 he’d never felt intimidating to you. Shouldn’t it have been obvious? Dex is a sniper with the FBI. He’s paid to kill. And he’s 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 wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore — that he wouldn’t hurt you?
No. No, Dex would never. He loves you. He’s fiercely protective of you. He’s 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.
“I’m not good,” he says. “I’m not good like you are. I want to be, fuck, I’m trying to be, but I don’t care what I have to do to keep you safe.” He’s shuffled into your space again, his body a furnace next to yours. His fingers grip the fabric of your t-shirt.
“Please, please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just please don’t leave me.”
It strikes you then. The truth of what Dex is feeling. All of the nerves, all of the shaking, the crying . . . Dex isn’t afraid of being caught. He’s 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 you’re going to leave him.
. . . Would you? You think of the body in the grass. Gasping. Twitching. He didn’t have to die. Dex could have scared him, or fought him, or just taken you away, but he put a pen through the man’s skull without a moment of hesitation, and apparently, without any remorse. It’s not the first time he’s 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 who’ve wronged you, the former friends, the exes? He’s violent. He’s dangerous. He’s . . .
He’s crying into your shoulder. Pitiful, gasping sobs that shake his big body as it’s 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.
“Oh, honey,” you coo. “It’s ok. Shhh, it’s ok. I’m not going anywhere.” You wipe the tears from his eyes, even as they’re immediately replaced by more.
He chokes on a sob, an attempt to gather himself enough to speak. “Y-yeah? Really?”
“I promise, baby. You know I would never leave you.”
Dex sighs then, a long exhale of relief, and takes the first full breath you’ve heard from him yet. “Thank you,” he says, sniffling. “Thank you, thank you,” 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 — “did you hear? A body was found in the river” — you’re 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. He’s trying. He just needs patience and love, and you’ll give it to him. The rest will sort itself out.
When he’s 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. You’ll 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.
“I love you,” he says, eyes wide and rimmed with red.
“I love you, too,” you say and press a kiss into his hair. “So, so much.”
Dex has a life to get back to and a future with so much left to learn.
Being a needy freak in theory and never in practice is not for the weak. I’m so mad I’m waisting the years of my peak physical form on tumblr and ao3 it’s embarrassing atp. I don’t even know if I’d be the same horned up me in real life because of distrust and disinterest towards the men I meet in real life.
The whole thing about lust is so weird. I crave touch but I cannot tolerate even sensing that a man is primitive enough to be lead by that desire in my vicinity.
baratheonpilled
amandla
andulkaphoto
2087
theartofmadeline
