🖋️ Notes: Those Dex requests get creatively crazy is disgusting, I discovered something new about myself.
Tags: Sub Dex - GN reader - Smut - Spine play (¿?) - Dry humping - No plot - Fetish (?) - Body Worship - Touch starved Dex - Desperation - Power Imbalance - Posted right after writing
He's tall, sculpted limbs and taut muscles. And right now, all that beefy, sculpted violence is collapsed on top of you as if it's been dismantled.
His body weighs in that special way bodies acquire when they trust you too much. He's shirtless, his back exposed to the flickering light of the movie he's forgotten. Pale skin dotted with freckles, tiny marks here and there, very pretty moles that go down, amusingly close to what's hidden behind the fabric of black underwear, you know there's a few of them on there, such a sign.
His shoulders are broad but not graceful, knotted with restraint, his biceps curl a little where he hugs your hips, thick arms wrapped around you as if he's trying to make himself smaller, failing completely.
But it's his back you focus on. The ridge of his spine, like a path you've walked too many times, with that scar running through it, and you think for the seventh time today that you're not weird, that it's natural, that a person with an attractive back will make everything on top of it attractive, then you realize you just made up that saying as a cheap excuse.
It's a deep, surgical, thick line. That new skin is darker than the rest of his back, somehow it looks obscene.
Divides him cleanly from just below the base of his neck to his waist; rough and raised, like a zipper that got damaged. Your curious fingers travel to trace it with an obsessive, almost cruel care.
A knuckle slides along the groove, slowly at first, as if he won't notice then you feel it, the twitch in his hip, the breath that catches in his throat.
And he moves.
Just a little, only a brush. A slow, embarrassing push of his crotch against your leg—barely anything at first, but it is still enough to tell you something he probably didn't know either.
You feel the weight of his cock through his boxers. Thick, heavy, already straining, even before he's fully hard. You can tell by the way it drags along your skin, so blunt, dripping, and humiliatingly eager. His hips move again, just for an instant, and now he's clearly pressing it there, rubbing it as if he thinks you won't notice, like if your leg is not a part of your body.
His stomach tightens when your fingers slide up this time. His lower back arches, unconsciously chasing your hand, offering you more access. You accept it like it offends you, going down again, trailing that line with precision, and he gasps, soft and breathless against your abdomen. You feel the wet stain spreading in his underwear that he doesn't even try to hide.
His thighs are trembling. Defined and muscular, now tense, as if he's trying not to wrap them around you and fuck you like a pathetic heat-drunk animal. His ass clenches as he thrusts again, this time with more need, pressing his cock against your leg craving that friction, like if it was the only thing his body knows how to do now.
Poor thing is drooling.
Not from his mouth—yet—but from the tip of his pulsing cock, soaking thin cotton, creating a sticky little mess between you both. You can feel it every time he humps again: slick, obscene, his slide occasionally catching on the inside of your thigh pressed against the mattress. Every tiny movement wrings a sound from him, and God, he sounds broken. High-pitched whines, short, hiccupping gasps, as if your hand is touching an erogenous zone. As if the scar is straight up wired directly to his cock.
The way you wish it was somehow makes your cheeks burn, and you're thankful his face is buried in your shirt.
You place two fingers on the small of his back just to press, feeling the bone beneath the sensitive skin, and he thrusts hard, instinctive and sudden, and this time he whimpers, a soft, stifled whine of helplessness, such a shivering mess. He presses his face against your belly wanting to disappear into it. But he doesn't stop moving.
He can't.
His cock jerks against your thigh with every brush of your fingers over that scar. He's dripping so much it's overflowing, dark, wet, needy. You don't need to see it to know that his abs tense every time he rocks forward, the muscles bunching and tensing beneath his skin, glistening faintly with sweat. His whole body is working for it now. All that trained coordination reduced to a mindless rhythm: thrust, grind, whine, repeat.
He smells like desire. That unmistakable, intoxicating mix of sweat and arousal you're used to, and that slight saltiness that comes when someone's too far gone to care. His leg slides higher up yours, clinging to it as if he's anchoring himself, using you as leverage to thrust harder. He gasps, shudders and he makes sounds no grown man with that interesting criminal record should ever make.
And yet, you say nothing.
You just touch his scar again, slower now, dragging your nails across it. Light, teasing, brushing against the part of the pain that's satisfying. As if he weren't already on the verge of losing it. Like if you weren't watching a trained killer collapse on your lap, his cock twitching against your thigh like he's a desperate sweet thing who never learned to control himself.
You don't need to speak.
Your silence allows him to be this way. It allows him to pretend he's not doing it for himself, that it's happening to him, that he doesn't choose it. That his body isn't betraying him with every slick, little pathetic thrust of his hips.
He'll come like this.
You can feel it building. In the tension of his thighs, the tightness in his gut, how his rhythm falters and stutters and then starts again with a breathy, embarrassed moan because the friction didn't go where it should go.
You keep your hand right there, simply tracing that broken seam in his back, pressing on his most vulnerable part while he clings to your leg like an animal, ashamed and helpless and so, so close to breaking down.
And after he does?
He will not say a word.
He'll just sob into your shirt. He'll keep going until he's exhausted and the mess inside his boxers stick to his raw flesh to the point of drying out. He'll cling to you and beg you to scratch that skin, and you'll decide if you want to use your mouth on his scar while his cock rubs against the sheets.
Tags: Sub/Top Dex - GN reader - Angst smut - Infidelity - Reader has a boyfriend - Unhealthy dynamics - Abandonment issues - Codependency - No specifications of reader's genitals
Your hips throb under the merciless weight of his grip, each thrust pounding through you with a rhythm that’s lost its grace, sloppy with exhaustion and need after round upon round of unrelenting hunger. The burn of it leaves your body trembling, stretched raw, every drag of his cock sliding through you, spreading slick heat that seeps down to ruin the sheets beneath.
The sticky mess clings to your thighs, soaking into the softness of the bed until everything reeks of sweat and sex, until there’s no clean space left between you.
His breath comes ragged in your ear, hot and uneven, the sound breaking apart into low sobs that scrape his throat raw. Sweat beads at his hairline, spilling down his cheek, the salt of it smearing on every inch of skin where there is connection with yours. His mouth never leaves your throat, desperate and clumsy, open kisses pressed into tender flesh, as though he’s trying to drink something out of you. Those kisses feel less like a claim and more like a plea—every mark he leaves another reminder that he can’t stop, won’t stop, not even when his body falters.
He clings as if the act itself is keeping him alive, as if letting go of you would undo him completely.
Every sound that tears out of him is steeped in desperation—high, broken whimpers spilling into breathless moans that shudder against your skin, as if each one carries the threat of him losing his mind. His body trembles above you, muscles tight and unsteady, arms wound around you in a grip that feels like the collapse of his limbs.
He clings so fiercely you can’t tell where you end and he begins, his weight sinking into you until you’re fused together, slick and shaking. His rhythm falters, stuttering, as though every thrust is a fight against the terror of losing you, of waking to find you gone.
He buries himself deeper like he could crawl inside your chest if you let him, chasing not just your body but the impossible promise of what lies beneath your skin and only there, he can quiet the hunger that keeps eating him alive.
Suddenly, his voice breaks against your neck, little words forced out on a ragged choke, raw and trembling with need.
“D–Do you think he’ll notice them?”
The question splinters in the air, small and ruined, dripping with a false shame that sounds almost convincing if not for the desperate whine threaded through it. He never speaks during sex, he never asks questions, he can be loud, he can cry until his throat hurts, but words are never involved.
“P–Please... Please will he notice them?”
He sounds shattered, pathetic, like he wants you to believe he regrets the marks he’s grinding into your skin—even as his mouth lingers, even as his hands bruise deeper. You wish, for one cruel second, that the shame were real. But it isn’t. It never is.
Your chest tightens, every breath caught tight as guilt scorches through you. Shame coils low in your gut, twisting itself into a knot so sharp it makes you sick with the weight of it, with the sheer disgust at yourself for letting it go this far.
And you should shove him off. You should put an end to it now—should have ended it long ago, back when there was still room for decency, back when you still had the chance to choose. But you didn’t. You stayed. And now the wrongness clings to you like heat, impossible to shake, binding you to him even as your mind begs you to stop.
But instead of letting the remorse hollow you out, your body just betrays you—your thighs cinch tight around him, pulling him deeper with a need you can’t smother, your back arching helplessly into the press of him. The shame gnaws at you even as you move, every motion a confession, every desperate shift of your hips an admission that you want what you swore you shouldn’t.
Because no matter how safe your boyfriend is, no matter how gentle, how unwavering his love for you is, he doesn’t make you ache like this. He doesn’t leave you gasping and undone, doesn’t drag you past the edge of control the way Dex does, he doesn't let you take the control like Dex does.
You told yourself you wanted someone better, someone good, someone whole—someone who wasn’t broken like this. But craving has its own gravity, and it drags you back again and again, pulling you straight into him, into the sweet contradiction between chaos and stability that only Dex can ignite.
And he feels it. In the way you clench around him, in the way you can’t quite leave him no matter how guilty your eyes look when he catches them in the dark, when you think no one can see, he knows how utterly incapable you are of quitting him.
He knows you’ll never choose him out loud, never in the daylight. He knows he’ll never be the one you introduce, the one who fits neatly into the life you’re trying to build.
But he’ll still take this. Every hidden bruise, every gasp you smother against his skin.
He will take being the secret, the mistake, the wound that will never fully heal. He’ll take it even though it guts him, because letting you go would destroy him. You are the only thing that steadies him, the only thing that silences the chaos in his head long enough for him to breathe. And if that means sharing you, if that means splitting what keeps him alive with someone who doesn’t deserve it — he’ll endure it. He’ll take anything, as long as it means you don’t leave him.
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🖋️: Hi hi guys, requests will probably be opened here. We have to think about the rules we'll absolutely not point out and yada yada, but no promises because we (me) can be pussies sometimes so idk. Thanks for enjoying the products of my sleep deprivation.
It's past eleven and you can already feel the dampness on your neck, along with short, ragged breaths against your skin that leave you with a lump in your throat that's hard to shake.
Which means it's time for him to leave.
He has started crying for the second time tonight, and it is nothing but exhausting for you to have to submit to this self-destructive routine where you play a role that you abandoned so many months ago but that keeps appearing in your hands without your consent and it is thanks to him.
Dex's shoulders tremble under the hand you have resting on them, you let out a sigh that doesn't hide your tiredness and he continues to hiccup, pressing himself closer and you feel suffocated.
You muster the courage to speak, reaching your limit tonight.
“Leave,” you murmur, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, but there’s no reaction from him. He remains in his position, completely ignoring you.
His weight seems to sink fully onto you when you move, trying to push him away. There’s a small, muffled sound from his lips that are pressed against the skin of your neck, and that’s when he finally deigns to speak.
“Just—Just for tonight.”
You manage to hear him and close your eyes, frowning at the annoyance of having to hear those words again.
“Leave.” you reply.
“Please.”
“Put your fucking clothes on and leave.” You spit out in disgust, and he tenses up over you, finally pulling his face away from your wet, bruised neck, showing his face.
He braces both hands on either side of your head against the mattress for support as he stares into your eyes full of pure malice and his are so red and glossy, pupils dilated that the hazel is almost nonexistent now, his eyelashes wet with those poor tears, and a pout forms on his lips, making you feel nauseous, and you mentally brace yourself for another of his pathetic, empty promises.
“I swear— I swear to you it'll only be for tonight this time, and I'll leave tomorrow, in the morning, before you wake up, you won't even—” he hiccups, not even being able to let the words out. “Notice I was here.” he doesn't like how you remain silent, just staring at him with ragging repulsion and he feels sick.
His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes and the lack of change is making him feel anxious. “Say something, please, please tell me it's okay.”
The last part is just so hilarious, and there's a smile full of fake humor forming on your lips.
“Tell you it's okay?” you ask incredulously, smiling at him, and there's a glimmer of hope in those bright eyes until he's hit with the reality that you're mocking him without pity.
“Why would I tell you it's okay for you to stay here after I kick you out because I'm tired of you coming around?” You raise an eyebrow, waiting for an answer he won't give you, and at least he's buying you time to continue.
The situation is making you want to laugh out loud because he looks so embarrassing on top of you, there's an intense, hot sensation building up in your lower abdomen, and you lick your lips to continue, letting out an involuntary laugh.
“You're a fucking headache, Benjamin.” you say between ragged giggles, kind of hysterical, saying that name knowing perfectly well how much it irritates him, and more tears are welling up in his eyes after that. “Doesn't matter how much you cry like a baby, I won't let you stay. At least be happy that I let you in in the first place."
After that, Dex frowns, hurt by your words, by the use of the wrong name, then he swallows the lump in his throat and, still, ignores you again.
“Let me stay.”
You sigh, shaking your head. “No,”
His mouth opens and closes rapidly, his breathing quickens slightly, and his hand flies swiftly to your neck. You grimace, not even surprised, and before he can tighten his grip on your throat, you clench your fist and punch him in the cheek, making him stagger and tremble from head to toe, a small, involuntary whine escaping his lips and now his tears are falling down his flushed cheeks, thick and pathetic, and God, you regret it because now he'll get worse.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says in a small, childlike tone, as if he’s losing his voice, and his arms weaken.
Dex falls on top of you again, burying his face in your neck once more, snuggling closer and sobbing and you roll your eyes, contempt mixed with interest preventing you from shoving your finger deep inside his ear until it hurts him.
He continues apologizing against your neck, hiccuping about leaving right now, telling you that he’ll leave you alone for real this time, that he’ll finally change but that he will not bother you again.
───── · Tired of being watched by him no matter where you go, you confront him to demand basic respect for your boundaries and tell him to find anything else to do that doesn't involve tracking your every move. . . Unfortunately, he obeys.
TAGS: Gender neutral reader | Crack fic with plot | Light angst at first | Roommates AU | Attachment issues | Obsessive behavior | Creepy Dex | Stalking | Implied people pleaser Dex | Absurdity | Idk what this is
You find him seated cross-legged on the living room floor with an oasis of lethal order in front of him when you enter to your home.
As you approach, your eyes are drawn to each weapon laid out in neat rows, fitting together like a puzzle despite their different shapes and sizes. The disassembled pistols are arranged in orderly rows in the center, their metal parts aligned with geometric precision. The knives are placed at identical angles, arranged sequentially, even the dirty rags you can make out when the light helps, are folded impeccably beside them. There are several small bottles on the other side.
Dex is whistling casually with his shoulders relaxed as his hands are moving meticulously, rubbing the rag on the weapon in his hand. He only breaks his concentration when you're close enough for him to say a little goodnight.
And the problem you have with that is that his tone of voice is too familiar to you; he can't hide the amusement dripping from it, and you're aware that, thanks to your silence—which speaks volumes—he already knows what you're going to start complaining about.
So clever, it makes you sick.
Exhaustion seeps into your bones with every step you take toward him, the irritation building in your chest, ready to explode as you start “stop it,” your voice is sharper than any knife he's polishing.
Dex doesn't tilt his face up to see you; his eyes glance up at you, needling with such creep stare and if it weren't for this angle, you'd realize he's about to give you a little smile.
Instead, what actually comes next is him raising an eyebrow, a hint of confusion in his expression, pausing briefly before continuing with his activity. “Stop what?”
His innocence is so feigned it manages to surprise you.
“Stop following me around every time I step foot outside.” It sounds more like an order than an answer to his question. Your fists clench at your sides. “Seriously, you have to stop.”
He sighs at the aggressive, scolding undertone of your demanding voice. His eyes drop to rest on the cloth in his hand, which slides along the edge of a gorgeous kunai. His firm fingers massage the solid material through fabric, and you feel jealous of his calm demeanor because you can't afford to feel that way.
Dex places it with the others when he finishes polishing it, perfectly aligned, before picking up the next one and then saying, “wasn't following you.”
That's it. He doesn't give you anything more.
His attention fully returns to his weapons now, as if you've already been dismissed and you just close your eyes taking a deep breath, trying in vain to contain the anger that rises at how he acts so ignorantly, so dismissively.
It's exhausting and terribly sad that he lies to your face like this when you know he's been breathing down your neck for so long.
You know him too well, you can feel his breath on the back of your neck every time you go out, a prickle behind your head when you go out to eat with your friends, when you're walking around campus, anywhere, even at work, from afar. You know he's there in the distance, watching you.
The ironic part is that you can't hate it how you want it because there's something strangely comforting about it; you like having the knowledge that no matter where you are, someone lethal is paying attention and nothing gets too close without him knowing first.
Even so, that doesn't take away how suffocating it can become and the fear that runs through you when he's behind you, because if he's watching you, who's watching him?
This leads to the overwhelming stress of work and college; it's already too much to worry about to also feel afraid about him going out while the AVTF is on the streets, committing their disgusting brutalities at night like ravenous predators.
You're aware that they won't approach him because it's clear that Dex is a target who must be eliminated from a distance, which would lead to chaos that would be even harder to stop, engulfing people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time without knowing it, people walking at night whose chances of being caught in the crossfire are never zero, terrified and with no way out of what will explode when the authorities discover that Bullseye is prowling the same streets every night.
Turning them into collateral damage.
Those animals would do horrific things to civilians to get information about him. Hurting innocents before planning to reach their dangerous target.
Your imagination takes flight, and the images that appear in your head cause a lump to grow in your throat, making you swallow hard in an attempt to get rid of it so you can continue with your little intervention.
Dex continues working, but you know he's listening closely; he can probably even hear the change in your breathing, how your voice falters before you speak again, this time in a more controlled way.
“I understand it’s hard for you to have nothing to do when I’m not around,” you begin carefully. “But Dex, I’m working. College is killing me, and sometimes I need time to be with my friends or just by myself.” Your lips seal, waiting for a reaction, but he knows you're not finished.
“You can't be following me around when that happens,” you continue, stepping closer, “you can't risk being discovered by someone including my friends... They know exactly who you are.” This finally makes him look up at you, his gaze now completely fixed on you. “And I know they would never say anything if they found out I live with you, but this is my way of protecting them, and if you keep following me everywhere they could—” You sigh, shaking your head. “...It's dangerous.”
He doesn't hide his negative reaction to your words. A small crease forms on his brow, becoming more prominent as you continue, and you hear him humming, absorbing your words. What he can process is that you're asking him to get away, to do something different than keeping an eye on you, and he can't do that to a certain extent.
Dex sighs, and you think maybe there's hope, maybe he'll agree with you, but he just looks up, and you can't tell if he's challenging you with that look.
“I said I wasn't following you... I went out to visit our counselor friend,” and there's a grain of truth in that, but that thread of truth is woven into a lie.
And you stare at him, feeling your composure crumble.
“Come on.”
“Hmm?”
“Don't treat me like I'm stupid,” you hiss. “Don't even think about it. You're good at hiding but you're terrible at lying,” you whisper dryly. “Don't give me that shit because I'm not our neighbor for you to lie to as you please, Tony.” you spit the false name he uses on his daily basis in a mocking tone and he rolls his eyes for then grin with amusement at your irritation.
“This isn't a joke,” you insist, raising your voice despite you trying to remain calm. “I like my time alone when I get it. But what do you do when you have yours, huh? What do you even do?”
That question hits him like a slap, and you don't stop; the absence of his smile gives you the urge to continue.
“You need a job,” you continue, relentless. “Something to do with your life besides following me around and that isn't just your little ‘good deeds’ while you’re stalking Daredevil like the guy didn’t throw you off a roof after you killed that attorney, man, your gay shit makes me want to kill myself in front of you.”
That elicits a genuine, natural reaction.
He smiles sharply, so smug and proud, with his bunny teeth on full display like you just said the funniest thing in the world and you can’t stand it. You’re tired, exhausted, your job sucks, your assignments are about to be due, and he’s laughing at you, not even trying to help and you close your eyes tightly taking a breath, trying to push away the need to grab one of the neat knives and slit his throat.
“All you do is kill people, eat crackers, and follow me around!” you spit suddenly, the words tumbling out. “And when you’re not doing that, you’re doing the first two.” Your frustration keeps you talking. “Your brain needs to be occupied with something, obviously that’s why you need to focus on anything other than what’s screaming inside your head, but oh my fucking God, focus on a job, Dex.” You order him, crouching in front of him, careful where you place your knee and your hand slides to the back of his head, your fingers threading on his short hair until you grasp it roughly and Dex tenses, frowning, but doesn’t back away.
“You are smart, dedicated, you know how to pretend when it suits you... you have amazing skills, you aren't—ugly and can be so charming and sweet for your own benefit.” Your grip tightens just slightly, “You could work somewhere where nobody cares about anything. A kitchen, night shifts. Sometimes you can’t even sleep, Dex, you could drive a damn taxi all night and just…” you huff out a breath, “anything. You could find a hobby if you don't want a job.”
“I have one.” he mutters, piercing eyes burning yours.
You let out a humorless laugh. “Throwing paperclips at flies when you're bored isn't a hobby.” You release his hair from your grasp, remaining crouched in front of him and he keeps his head down, his fingers pinching the rag in his hands, and you feel bad for a second.
“Why are you doing this?” you hear him whisper and when his gaze flickers back at you his expression is blank, stripped of everything.
“Because you’re drowning me,” you admit, quieter now. “And I care about you too much to just ignore you, that's why I'm asking you to do something ”, Dex frowns because of the softness of your voice, as if your suggestion wasn't directly an order.
“I am doing something.” His voice sharpens as his eyes lock onto yours. “So why are you telling me to stop? I’m helping you. I’m doing it right. I don’t want to stop, and I’m not going to. You don’t get to—to tell me what to do.” his words quivered for a second there, but it was so tiny your brain didn't catch it.
He keeps going when you remain silent. “I never tell you what to do,” he adds, leaning forward slightly until your breaths intertwine and you are glaring at him, annoyed, despising his response when he adds at the end. “So don’t do that to me.”
“You are not helping.” you declare and you see the twitch in his mouth, slowly losing his composture.
“I keep this place stable for you.” he spits.
“Because you need to please me even if I don’t want you to!” you fire back immediately. “Don’t you see that? I offer to pay rent. I try to help you when you're dying on the floor and you refuse, you even threaten me. And yeah, I’m grateful when you take care of everything this place needs—but sometimes I feel useless, Dex. I want to contribute. I want to keep this shitty place standing too.” your voice trembles, cracking when you contine. “We’re in this together.”
“Yeah, we are so why are you ditching me?” he shoots back, a hoarse laugh slipping out as he's feeling his eyes suddenly wet and you freeze. “You just contradicted yourself, why?” he asks in a small voice, and you turn away from him, standing back to your place before you say something you can't take back.
“You know exactly what I meant,” you mutter.
The silence lingers, and when you turn around to look at him again, you see that vulnerability and fear in his eyes; all his previous behavior disappears, replaced by that part of him that you have seen too little of for your liking, and it hurts to see him this weak and exposed, small where he's sitting, thinking, processing, feeling so many things at the same time that he can't fully express them, burning his throat as his chest rises and fall, you think about getting close again, but you are tired of doing the same thing every time he cannot accept what you tell him.
“Stop following me,” you say firmly, “or I will leave.”
His eyes widen slightly, not so much surprised because his mind was already warning him that you would say that, but hearing it is much worse than just imagining it.
“You won’t,” he says immediately, not able to stop what comes out of his mouth.
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Or what?” you challenge, “you’ll kill me?”
His hands curl into fists and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, clenching his jaw and you don't wait for an answer.
“Find a hobby.”
Those are your last words before walking to your room, closing the door with a quiet click that feels louder than any slam.
Dex stays on the ground, his heart pounding, the air suffocating him with a nonexistent toxicity in its element. The silence is dulled, becoming a loud, familiar buzz that used to be under control most of the times and his blurry gaze is dropping, taking in each weapon, observing the organization, and feeding off the control he wields over them with just a glance.
Thoughts overflowing in his mind beg him to pick one up and let whatever happens, happen, because your words are still penetrating his brain, burying themselves in every flaw in his neural connections, making him feel as he did in those times when he was lost, alone, trying to find structure in less-than-ideal forms, and suddenly he misses those tapes that burned before him.
The blond man closes his eyes tightly, relaxing the tension in his shoulders, adjusting his posture, twisting his neck from side to side, clenching and unclenching his fists.
He inhales, exhales.
Again.
And when he opens his eyes, there's a relaxed smile, regardless of how his body is throbbing all over, how the control was about to slip away, and your last words are all that stick in his head in the end.
Hobby, hobby, hobby, hobby, hobby…
If you want him to find a hobby, he'll find a fucking hobby and make you proud, so proud.
Days pass after the argument.
And for the first time, Dex stops following you.
As expected, you had to test whether your argument had finally paid off first, and so you did for about three days, taking longer routes home, stopping to enjoy the fresh air, double-checking once or twice just to be sure, and finding nothing. It was liberating, and you feel good, trusting that Dex will take care of the suggestions while you're busy enjoying the space you demanded.
At home, everything remains the same.
However, Dex moves carefully around the apartment, replaying and taking into account everything you said and evaluating what he can do to make it up to you and help you feel good again.
During this process of improvement, he gave you a detailed list of how much you could contribute towards the bills, without much debate about him keeping the larger amounts. Both of you also discussed which days you would alternate cleaning and which days you would do deeper cleanings, among other things. He also gave you simple tasks that you could do without affecting your studies or work to contribute. Of course, if you ever can't do them, he will take care of them without hesitation.
Although it all stemmed from that intense conversation, the topic hasn't been mentioned again even once. You both act as if nothing happened, as always, but the positive change is palpable, and you keep in mind that Dex thinks about the argument every minute.
The guilt remains under your skin because you believe you were harsh, and yeah, maybe you said some things out of pocket, and yeah, you were also overwhelmed; both can coexist.
You still bother him as always, he still watches you obsessively, but he doesn't leave when you leave.
Things are going well.
It's late one night when you return home.
Your keys jingle softly as you push open the door, and you find Dex sitting at the table with a laptop in front of him and you're one hundred percent sure he didn't buy it, so there's no need to ask.
You pause, staring at him for a second and he doesn't even look up when you enter, completely absorbed, his posture slightly hunched forward as he listens intently to the voice coming from the device. You walk over to him, curious, and on the table is a small knitting kit along with thin white and blue yarn resting on the left, and you focus on the video, your eyes wide with curiosity, drawn to the title.
Knitting for Beginners: Basic Chain Stitch Tutorial.
You can't help but smile with pleasure. Dex's hands move with careful precision, a hook between his fingers, yarn looped and pulled with methodical intent. He takes his sweet time with each step and grumbles under his breath when he makes a mistake.
The sad reality of a perfectionist: he's not good at something he has just started learning.
He's watching, pausing, rewinding occasionally, but every movement is clean. He's memorizing the rhythm, scanning the video, rewinding it with a quick click when a step isn't clear. You feel good seeing him like this. You want to ask him so many things, but you don't interrupt.
For once, he's focused on something that isn't you.
And you're not about to ruin that.
You put a hand on his shoulder and feel him relax at the touch, and while his fingers are busy, he mutters “night” with a small smile.
“Goodnight, Dex,” you murmur back, turning away to head to your room.
And the next morning, you wake up earlier than usual, wishing anyone would investigate in depth the phenomenon of waking up early on weekends while on weekdays opening your eyes is a chore.
You're yawning while rubbing the back of your neck, and stop just outside your room when you find him already at the table.
Correction, Dex hasn't moved.
He's in the exact same position as last night, laptop still open in front of him. The only change is the natural light illuminating him, and the final results of his nighttime process are placed besides the laptop. You raise an eyebrow, curiosity urging you to basically run over to him for a good look, and the laptop displays a different video.
This one's not for beginners. The person on screen works quickly, hands moving in a blur, creating something intricate, multicolored, moving those hands in hypnotic loops.
Dex mirrors it perfectly.
His hands move faster than they should for someone who started last night, two strands of yarn running through his fingers, switching seamlessly, tension controlled with surgical precision.
It looks like he's been doing this for weeks.
There's disbelief settling in your chest; it's just too impressive. His brow is furrowed, his mouth tightly closed, and his gaze is intense over the screen.
“Dex…?”
He hums, clearly waiting for you to speak while he's still on his thing and you take a good look at what he's doing.
It's beautiful.
A compact, clean spiral with colors that blend smoothly into one another; there are no loose stitches, the yarn obeys him so devotedly leading it into becoming art, and your surprise must be evident, because he finally looks at you with an expression full of pride, with a touch of arrogance.
He says nothing.
You let out a little laugh, shaking your head slightly, making no attempt to hide the joy you feel.
“…of course you can do all this in one night, freak.”
“Mhm,” he smiles.
That's the moment when nothing will ever be normal again.
Hours later, a navy blue cushion appears on the sofa, with the same muted spiral pattern he was knitting that morning.
Then another cushion appears the next day.
After that, a throw, folded perfectly over the armrest.
Five days later, you return home and find a thick, heavy, circular rug, with a spiral much larger than the one on the cushions. It's placed in the small living room, and he seems pleased with it.
“Dude—”
“I made it.” he doesn't even look up when he says it, hands already working on something smaller.
The thing intensifies, spreading like a pretty mold, reaching the bedrooms.
Now there are covers on the beds, custom-made with impeccable edges and no imperfections; he doesn't expect you to use them suddenly, they're a silent suggestion. But they're so soft and large that you do consider it.
After the large comes the small... Oven mitts, coasters, table runners.
Your eyes widen as you realize there are also holsters for guns, holsters for all his weapons that don't even look good, but it's obvious he does it for reasons other than just aesthetics.
Each one fitted so precisely over his weapons it makes your skin prickle.
“…Are they necessary?” you begin, asking somewhat worriedly, picking one up and frowning because it looks like a sock.
“They protect the metal.”
You don't know what to say.
At some point, he acquires an open bookcase that appears out of nowhere. It's very tall and full of compartments; inside there are countless of yarn organized by thickness, texture, and color. The dark tones are grouped together, the light ones separated, the materials arranged like a catalog display.
Now there's polyester fiberfill too, bags full, carefully stored for stuffing.
The sofa is piled high with cushions, the kitchen looks nicer, the apartment becomes… warmer, so soft, and you hate how much you love it because, if you analyze it too much, you worry about how his dark circles are spreading.
But you stop thinking about it when he gives you an adorable keychain; it's small and it's about something you love, with such a pretty shape, recreated in wool with incredible attention to detail.
You stare at it for a while in your hand, so well made, so soft and cute. “For me?”
“Yes,” he says, looking at you with a slight smile at the corner of his lips. This time there's no arrogance; he's pleased to see the gleam of adoration in your eyes for the little gift.
“It's really nice, thank you.” you say eagerly, feeling the need to hug him and slap his face for being lovely whilst concerning.
A month has passed and he hasn't stopped; on the contrary, it's getting worse, because now Dex is always knitting and you feel like you're losing your mind.
Sitting, standing, talking… he always has yarn in his hands. His fingers move without him even looking, looping, pulling, hooking unconsciously, muscle memory doing the work, and you've seen him talk to you while finishing an entire section of yarn work without even looking down.
With thicker yarn, he doesn't even need a crochet hook anymore because his fingers work with experience.
One of the worst parts is that you don't even know which rich piece of shit he's currently terrorizing to get money for his fixation because, obviously, this is expensive, he enjoys very specific textures that are not easy to find anywhere.
And it's Sunday morning when you finally grasp the gravity of the situation.
You're on the couch, half asleep, watching the news more out of habit than interest, and that fucker is nearby with a ball of yarn between his dangerous fingers like a big cat; you just can't quite place him, but you can feel his presence.
“…In other news,” the reporter says firmly, pulling you from your thoughts, “several AVTF agents were found dead under unusual circumstances.”
You frown slightly, paying closer attention to what's on screen because Dex hasn't been out much since finding his new reason for living, so who could possibly be killing members of the task force? You wonder as the reporter keeps speaking.
“They were discovered with what appear to be small handmade dolls—”
The screen displays images, and your eyes widen immediately.
They're plushy, small knitted figures, clothed in dark blue and black, adorable little masked dolls.
Perfectly shaped little… Bullseyes?
The reporter mentions that each stitch was placed directly over the fatal wound on the corpses.
Like a signature... And you can't believe a single thing you're seeing and slowly turn your head.
Dex is already looking at you and the TV, and oh he's wondering if you'll make the same face when you discover that little chip inside your beloved keychain. He's wondering if you'll like his next project which is a life-sized replica of you so he can have two of you as friends.
The mere thought makes him smile with excitement, and he winks at you, so happy for his actions.
Ddba!Dex with a reader who chokes and slaps him during sex. We all know he is a masochist
(Love your work <3)
(aw thank u!)
dex groans as you wrap your hands around his neck, his thrusts growing sloppier as he bucks his hips into you. "mhm, like that, sweetheart.." his words a dazed mumble as you tighten your grip slightly, his eyes screwing shut in pleasure for a moment — you slap his face gently, "eyes on me, dexie— c’mon." a soft whimper leaving you before his gaze is meeting yours once more — his gaze slightly heavy and lustfilled as you lock your lips around his waist. bites and scratches littered all over his body as he continued to pound you through the mattress, a pleasured groan leaving him as you rake your hands through his hair and drag your nails down his broad back and shoulders.. his mind fogs up at the feeling, swearing to himself this is what heaven felt like. as you dig your nails into his skin he snaps gently, spurting inside of you without warning, "wh— ugh, dex!" you whine, smacking his face lightly. he could cum from just your hits alone….
a lil spiderman inspo but what about reader having a thing for dex in his suit and mask, so she kisses him one time on the mouth over the fabric of the mask and he finds it adorable 🙈
Imagine one night you're at Dex's apartment while he's out doing... whatever he does at night, and you decide to wait for him on the couch instead of under the covers, pretending to be asleep.
That gives you the opportunity to see your boyfriend enter the apartment through the window in all of his masked glory. The sight alone makes you giddy, but it is nothing compared to the absolute vision of his massive body walking towards you.
As if pulled by gravity itself, you stand up, and his gloves hands immediately find your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.
"Sweetheart, it's late. You should be sleeping," he says, but his voice is slightly muffled by the mask he's wearing.
Suddenly, you're hit by the overwhelming urge to kiss him, and before he has time to take off his mask, you smash your lips against his clothed ones.
"I just missed you so much," you mumble, barely pulling away.
A low chuckle escapes Dex's lips, but he can't deny how good it feels to see his girl so desperate to kiss him.
"Oh, yeah?" he retorts, sounding smug as fuck.
You nod briefly before kissing him again, and again, and again, until it turns into a full-on make up session. His mask is completely damp around the mouth and chin area, but neither of you care.
It might come as a surprise to absolutely no one that when the night turns even more steamy the suit and mask stay on.
A/N: This wasn't really a fic, more of a drabble, but I hope you don't mind. Actually, it was kinda fun to write. Maybe I should start writing more of these little thoughts.
Overstimulating FBI!Dex (18+ mdni! smut under the cut)
tags: sub!Dex, dom/sub undertones, gn!reader, handjob, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, calling Dex baby and good boy, praise kink, dacryphilia, implied aftercare
Streaks of the sticky white fluid were smeared across the expanse of your palm, a few stray droplets running down on the sides of your hand that you didn't quite manage to catch. It was doing a good job of lessening the friction between your hold and his flushed cock, making the continuous glide easy and smooth. Dex was all teary-eyed under your attention, mouth agape and unable to finish a full sentence, choking on his own moans with every heaving breath.
"Please please please!”
"Hm? What was that?”
A purposeful swipe of your finger over his tip had his strong thighs trembling, a distraught whimper escaping his throat. He was so sensitive after coming once already, pleasure racking up his spine sharp enough that it was bordering on painful. His hips kept jumping erratically every time you made another stroke, as if his body couldn't decide if it wanted more of your touch or was trying to escape the sensations.
"Speak up, baby.”
His mouth opened to answer immediately, obedient as he always was, but you didn't let up and kept the same rhythm going. His head was trashing almost violently against the pillows behind him, and his hands kept twisting the sheets, knuckles going white from the grip he had on the material. You knew he was close again from the way his stomach was contracting, and the feeling of his cock pulsing incessantly in your hand.
"Gonna come for me?”
The teasing tone of your voice had him nodding furiously without a second thought. Dex started thrusting upwards into your hold desperately, even more of those almost pained, high-pitched noises leaving him with every drag over his aching member.
"Come on then, spill into my hand.”
A sharp twist of your wrist was all it took after the command registered in his lust-addled brain, and Dex was suddenly coming again with a strangled sob. You kept your motions steady, pumping him through his second release, not stopping even when he was empty and left weakly twitching in your hold. His whole body was shaking now, the intense pleasure and the overstimulation against his reddened cock simply too much to bear.
"No more, please-”
"You're my good boy, aren't you?”
Your syrupy tone, combined with that specific phrase had him bobbing his head in agreement automatically, even though he was still quivering under you. Always so eager to please, even when he was drained dry and had nothing else left to give. Flattering.
"You can do one more, right Dex?”
"I can't, can't-”
Despite the sobs wrecking his frame and the verbal refusal, his hips kept jerking up into your hand with every stroke.
"Doing so good, always listening to me.”
"I've been good, so good, I did what you asked, please, please-”
With tears streaming freely down his face, Dex kept babbling near incoherently, chasing a release he was not fully aware of anymore. With a firm rub over the underside of his cock, right where you knew he was especially sensitive, his third orgasm tore out of him with a sound that was almost tortured. Only a small amount of watery, nearly clear cum dripped from his slit this time, finally spent completely.
Loosening your grip as the tremors of his body gradually ceased, you eventually stopped touching him entirely, letting his softening member rest against his stomach. Turning your attention to his tear-streaked face instead, you climbed upwards on the bed until you were directly above his line of sight. With your clean hand, you cupped his damp cheek gently and leaned down to press soft kisses against the warm skin.
"Did so well for me. My good boy, you're alright.”
With every soothing word and peck, Dex slowly came back more to himself between long blinks and calming breaths. When you saw his eyes clearly focus on your face after a few minutes, you rewarded him with a proud expression.
"There you are. Took that so well baby.”
"Thank you.”
Dex thanked you quietly in a hoarse voice, still not completely down from the high and mouth not fully cooperating just yet. He nuzzled into your palm on his cheek with a small, but genuine smile, and your heart threatened to give out with how much you wanted to shower him in affection. You'd do just that; he deserved all the praise for a job well done, after all.
the damp room smelt of sweet sweet sex, large hands splayed against your hip so tightly it could of turned purple, “fuck keep going” dex whines watching your tits bounce as you rode him. “shut up” you say through hot breathes of desire, as your hand reached out and gently squeezed his neck, drawing out a thick hungry moan. “fuck, yes! harder” dex moaned, his cock twitching inside your tight cunt. you squeezed harder watching as his eyes rolled back into his head, the tip of his bulbous pink tip hit your spongy part repeatedly. dex bit his lip as he started trusting up, “shit!” you whine through your teeth wondering where he even got the courage to do that. dex was completely fucked out, mouth opened wide, eyes screwed shut and his muscles contracting every time you squeezed your hand around his neck. his hips were loosing their rhythm as the seconds went by, thrusting erratically it was so pathetic. you were so close, not even realizing you were fully squeezing his neck to the point where it hurt, the sudden pain and lack of air, the feeling of being completely at your mercy, is what throws him over the edge. his orgasm crashes through him so violently. his vision fogs up with black and white little dots as he struggle for breath. you soon follow after, milking his cock dry of whatever he had for you. both of you breathing heavily in the silence of your room. dex leans further to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, “haven’t done that in a while..” he says with a sheepish smile.
Thinking about having a massive work crush on Benjamin Poindexter.
You like your job as a receptionist for the Bureau. It has nice benefits, you get to wear cute outfits to work everyday, and it's not as busy as some would think, allowing you to read magazines and play sudoku most of the time.
But the real reason why you look forward to going to work each monday morning is the beautiful agent who happens to work in the same building.
People around you immediately picked up on you infatuation — how could they not? Whenever he walks past your desk, you are quick to fix your hair and try to look busy, but your eyes always betray you.
But how could they not linger on his figure when he looks like that? Expecting you to function properly in his presence is just cruel.
"I'm not telling you this to be mean or anything, but I've heard that he's kind of... weird."
Hearing this words from one of your coworkers doesn't surprise you anymore. They're hardly the first ones to try and warn you about agent Poindexter, but the more they try to talk you out of your silly crush, the more into him you seem to be.
The reason you simply nod at their words and keep going on with you shift, as if they had never said anything in the first place, is because he's never been weird around you. He is a bit awkward sometimes — you'll grant them that — but you find it endearing.
Little do you know that Dex is actually obsessed with you.
Some of his coworkers have pointed out how how much time he spends at your desk, and they're not wrong. But how could he ever stay away from you?
Those moments when he gets to lean on your desk — getting a sniff of your sweet perfume — are the best moments of his day.
He want to impress you so bad, telling you about his missions, sometimes even exaggerating some details, just to get an impressed look out of you. And what if sometimes he rests on your desk in a way that makes his arms look particularly good?
Impressed you are, eyeing him with so much desire in your gaze that he feels intoxicated, desperately needing more of it. More of you.
The first time you see a glimpse of what your coworkers have been warning you about is when another agent tries to flirt with you.
He too tries to impress you with stories about the field, but when he does it, he just ends up sounding arrogant and full of himself, instead of brave and charming.
As he keeps talking, tentatively inviting you for drinks sometimes, you feel someone's heavy gaze resting on you. When you lift your eyes, you make eye contact with Dex, and what you see, just for a brief second, is not the endearingly awkward man you're used to.
Oh, no...
The man you see looks capable of killing the agent in front of you, just to keep you all to himself.
It only lasts a moment, but you swear there was something behind those eyes.
The look doesn't scare you, per se. What scares you is the fact that it doesn't make you want him any less.
It actually makes you want him more.
A/N: Just a little dynamic I would love to expand in the future. Feel free to send your thoughts in my inbox :))
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 it’s part of a dream, something your brain made up to justify the way you’ve been sleeping with one ear open. You don’t get the luxury of pretending for long, because it comes again—soft, deliberate, and it’s definitely not a branch scraping glass or a neighbor’s door slamming downstairs. It’s 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 can’t make out much beyond the vague shape of your dresser and the line of the curtain, but you don’t 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 you’ve walked it a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a corridor in someone else’s life. You keep the gun up, not waving it around, not shaking, just steady, and you listen with everything you’ve got. There’s no heavy breathing, no footsteps scuffing. That’s 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 doesn’t quite reach.
He’s 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. He’s dressed dark, of course, and he’s not moving like he’s trying to spook you. He’s still in that unsettling way that makes it feel like the apartment belongs to him now, like he’s been there longer than you have and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
“Step into the light,” you say, and your voice comes out flat, the way it does when you’re 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 he’s been standing there listening to you breathe. “You still sleep with it that close.”
Your grip tightens before you can help it. Your aim doesn’t 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 he’s filing it into place. You take another step forward without meaning to, then stop yourself before you get too close. “What are you doing in my apartment, Dex?”
He says your name, and he says it like he’s allowed to, like he hasn’t earned the right to have it in his mouth. It hits you anyway, because your body is stupid and memory is worse, and there’s something about hearing him say it that makes your grip tighten on the gun until your knuckles ache. “I needed to see you,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
His shoulders lift a fraction, not quite a shrug. “It’s the only one I have.”
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. “How did you get in?”
He glances at the window. “You already know.”
“I want to hear you say it,” 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 that’s either healing or never fully fades when a body’s 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.
“I came up the fire escape,” he says, and then his eyes flick down for a second, to the gun, and back to your face. “You didn’t change the latch.”
Your pulse jumps, not because he’s wrong, but because you hate that he knows. You hate that he’s cataloging details like he’s always done, like he can’t help it, like your life is a pattern and he’s already traced the lines. “You could’ve knocked,” you say.
He gives you a look that’s almost dry, almost amused, and it doesn’t belong on his face after everything. “Would you have opened the door?”
You don’t answer that, because the truth is complicated and ugly and it doesn’t deserve to be spoken out loud with a gun between you. “What happened?” you ask instead, because something had to have pushed him here. “Did someone follow you? Is this some kind of—” 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. “No one followed me.”
“Then why are you here?” you repeat, and you keep your voice sharp enough to cut. “Why now?”
His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, then closes again. For a second he looks almost… careful, like he’s choosing words in the same way someone chooses where to step on thin ice.
“I got out,” he says finally, and his voice stays quiet, but there’s a roughness under it that wasn’t there before. “And the first night I was out, I didn’t come here. I didn’t 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.”
You don’t let yourself soften at the sound of him trying. You keep the gun up, because you remember the things he’s done and you remember how quickly trying can turn into something else when it’s Dex Poindexter doing it.
“How many nights did you make it through?” you ask.
His gaze holds yours, steady as the muzzle pointed at him. “Not enough.”
Your breath comes out harsh. “So you decided to break into my apartment.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I decided to see you.”
“You don’t get to decide things for me anymore.”
His expression shifts at that, something tightening behind his eyes like he’s swallowing down a reaction. “I’m not asking for permission,” he says, and then he adds, almost softer, “I’m here. That’s all.”
“That’s not all,” you snap, and the gun wavers a fraction before you force it steady again. “You don’t show up like this and pretend it’s nothing. You don’t get to stand in my living room like you didn’t—”
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.
“Stop,” you say immediately.
He stops, but the fact that he moved at all sends heat crawling under your skin. He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar on his cheek you don’t 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 you’ll put a bullet in him if you have to.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m not,” you lie, and it’s stupid because he’s right. The tremor is small, but it’s there.
His mouth twitches. “You used to shake when you were angry.”
“Don’t,” you warn him.
He doesn’t stop, because Dex has never been good at stopping once he’s latched onto a thread. “And you used to hate it when I noticed,” he continues, and his voice is almost gentle now, like he’s trying to smooth something over with tone alone. “But you always let me.”
“I don’t let you do anything,” 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. “Take one more step and I’ll put you down.”
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 he’s approaching an altar instead of a weapon. You don’t 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 doesn’t jerk away, he doesn’t 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. “There,” he says, voice low. “That’s better.”
Your stomach flips, half disgust and half something you don’t want to name. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He breathes out through his nose, and you can feel it in the space between you. “A lot.”
“Back up,” you order, but he doesn’t move an inch. Your grip tightens again. “Dex.”
His eyes stay on yours, and there’s something in them that’s so naked it makes your throat go tight. It’s not a plea, not exactly, and it’s not a threat. It’s 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 it’s 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 doesn’t do the decent thing and back away.
“On your knees,” you say, and you make your voice mean it.
For a beat he doesn’t move, not because he’s refusing, but because he’s watching you like he’s memorizing the exact set of your mouth, the angle of your wrist, the way you’re not stepping back. Then he nods once, slow, and he lowers himself like he’s 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.
“Like this?” he asks, and the question comes out calm, almost polite.
“Don’t talk to me like you’re doing me a favor,” you say, and you keep the muzzle angled down at him, not because you’re easing up, but because the geometry changes when he kneels. “You don’t get to play nice now.”
His eyes flicker, and something tight pulls at the corner of his mouth like he wants to smile and doesn’t trust himself to. “I’m not playing,” he says. “I’m doing what you said.”
“Good,” you tell him, because you need something solid to hang onto. “Stay there.”
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 doesn’t look away from either like he’s proving he can take it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “You shouldn’t even know where I live anymore.”
“I didn’t forget,” he answers, and he says it like it’s a simple fact instead of a confession. “I missed you.”
You swallow and your throat aches, because you can hear the old softness threaded through the words and you don’t want it. You don’t want the version of him that sounded like that when he was in your bed, when he’d tuck himself behind you and pretend the world couldn’t touch him if he had you in his arms.
“Don’t,” 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 he’s holding onto a ledge. “I missed you, baby,” he repeats, and he doesn’t push the nickname like a knife. He says it the way he used to say it when you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, the way he’d 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 you’re afraid it will disappear if you loosen your grip. “You don’t get to just show up,” you tell him. “Not after everything.”
He doesn’t argue, and the lack of fight is almost worse than if he’d tried. His shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath, and his hands stay up where you can see them. “I know.”
“You don’t get to stand in my living room and look at me like that,” you add, because anger is easier than the other thing pressing up behind your ribs. “You don’t get to say you missed me like it means something.”
His throat works like he’s swallowing down something sharp. “It means something to me,” he says, and he says it like he hates himself for it. “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“You should be,” you say. “If you had any sense left, you’d be begging.”
His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he looks almost like he wants to laugh and can’t find the sound. “Do you want me to beg?” he asks, and his voice stays even, but there’s a tremor under it that makes your teeth clench. “If you tell me to beg, I will.”
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 doesn’t change, but his posture does. It’s 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 he’s testing whether you’ll stop him.
“Hands up,” you order immediately.
He freezes with his hands halfway down, and he lifts them again without complaint. “Okay,” he says, soft.
You take a breath that scrapes, and you try to keep your voice sharp enough to protect you. “You think you can come back and act like this,” you say. “You think you can walk right into my life and—what? Remind me of how it felt? That’s your plan?”
“I don’t have a plan,” he says, and his eyes flicker with something that looks like frustration, not at you, but at himself. “If I had a plan, I wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night,” 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 he’s checking where it is, like he’s measuring distance in his head the way he measures everything. When his eyes lift again, they’re too steady, too direct. “You’re still holding it like you mean it,” he says.
“I do mean it.”
“I know,” he replies, and he sounds almost relieved by that. “That’s why I came.”
Your jaw tightens. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t move his hands, but his fingers flex once like he’s fighting the urge to reach. “You don’t lie to yourself,” he says. “You never did.”
“That’s not a compliment,” you tell him.
“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” he says, and then he adds, quieter, like it costs him to say it out loud, “I needed something real.”
You stare at him, and the room feels too small for the two of you, because he’s taking up all the air with that gaze and you’re 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 you’re furious that he can make you feel anything other than disgust.
“Get up,” you say, and your voice is steady again because you force it to be. “Slow.”
He watches your face like he’s 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 he’s standing, palms open beside his head, and the sight is almost absurdly intimate, like you’re the one holding him in place with nothing but a word.
When he’s upright, you lower the gun just enough that it’s not pressed against him anymore, but you don’t 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 he’s trying to take it from you, but like he’s following a gravity he can’t resist.
“Stop right there,” you say, even though you don’t 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 he’s 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 don’t. You never used to miss it.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say, and it comes out harsh, like you can say it hard enough to make it true.
“I know,” he answers immediately, and the speed of it makes your throat tighten because he isn’t pretending. “I’m not here because I think it fixes it.”
“Then why are you here,” you demand, “if you’re not here to fix it?”
His voice drops, and it’s barely above a breath. “Because I couldn’t stand not knowing if you’d look at me.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the grip. “You’re looking at me right now.”
He shakes his head once, tiny. “You’re looking back,” 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 he’s watching you like he can see every ugly thought as it passes through you.
“Don’t,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you mean by it, because it’s too late for a dozen different kinds of don’t.
He holds still like you’ve pinned him there with your voice, and then he leans forward just enough that his forehead almost brushes the gun again. He doesn’t touch it this time, like he’s learned the boundary you’re actually holding, and he stays in the thin space you allow. “Tell me no,” he says, and his voice is steady even when his eyes aren’t. “Tell me no and I’ll go.”
You stare at him, and the word sits in your mouth like a coin you can’t swallow. You could say it—you should say it, but you don’t.
Dex’s 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 you’re tired of being the only one pretending you aren’t about to do something you’ll regret.
You kiss him.
It isn’t gentle, and it isn’t sweet, and it isn’t anything like an apology. It’s 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 doesn’t believe he’s allowed, like he’s waiting for you to shove him away, and that pause makes your pulse kick hard.
“Don’t—” you start, pulling back just enough for the words to hit his mouth, but you can’t finish because he swallows the rest of it when you kiss him again.
“I’m not,” he murmurs against you, and it’s breath and sound, barely a sentence. “I’m not.”
His restraint breaks in slow motion. One hand lowers first, hovering near your waist without touching, and he waits like he’s asking permission without using words. When you don’t 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 doesn’t force you, he just follows the contact like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding himself together with rules and silence and the idea of you, and now you’re here and his hands don’t 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. “This isn’t—”
“I know,” he says again, and his eyes flick to your lips like he can’t stop himself. “I know.”
“Say it like you mean it,” you challenge, because you need something that hurts more than this does.
He nods once, and his voice comes out rougher. “It doesn’t fix anything,” he repeats, and there’s no argument in him, no illusion. “It just… makes it quiet.”
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 he’s 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 it’s 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 he’s trying to hold himself to a line he’s drawn and you’re daring him to cross it.
“Look at me,” you say, because you want to see if he’s still there in his own eyes.
He does, immediately, and he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. “I’m looking,” 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 don’t answer with words. You answer by pulling him back into your mouth, and his hand tightens at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him from floating apart.
When the kiss deepens again, it’s messy in the way you remember, not because it’s out of control but because it’s full of everything you haven’t said. His hands roam—your side, your back, up to the base of your neck where his fingers curl like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—and he keeps checking you with tiny pauses, tiny hesitations, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away and he’s bracing for it even as he kisses you like he can’t live without it.
You don’t push him away; you keep him close, gun still hanging loose in your hand and angled toward the floor, because you haven’t decided what any of this means and you’re not going to lie and pretend you have.
Dex stays pressed to you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks, and when he kisses you again it’s slower, heavier, like he’s 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 he’s bracing for the part where you tell him to leave. “Tell me to go,” 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 you’re daring him to believe you. “Don’t go.”
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 he’s anchoring himself, and he kisses you again like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for days and you just cut the last thread.
“Thank you, baby,” he breathes against your mouth, the nickname soft enough to make your chest ache. “I missed you.”
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
notes: i just finished watching born again a couple days ago and did not plan to write for dex this fast but teehee i started thinking of this while watching diner scene edits and... yeah. formatted somewhere between headcanons and a fic because my brain is just brrrr right now. anyways, hope everyone likes this!
I just can’t stop thinking about DEX becoming absolutely obsessed with the pretty waitress that has just started working at his usual diner.
He noticed you right from the start. Beautiful thing like you, with your pretty little skirt, taking an order just two tables away from him? How could he not? He is always alert, always vigilant, but even if he wasn’t, there was just no way he could have ever not noticed.
His foundations shifted and his stars were redrawn the first time you asked for his name. And he laid his claim, quiet and fervent, when he gave you it.
It seemed like a coincidence at first, at least to you, how he would always be seated somewhere along the section you were waiting for on any particular day. And along the way, it was easy to see just how he had become your favorite client just after weeks of starting at your new job.
He would always greet you with a smile, and he would always be kind, and he would always be respectful. He never tried to peek under your skirt, or talk to you like you were less than him only because you were re-filling his coffee cup, and he always left a good tip on his way out.
He was so unlike all other men that came into the diner, that it was just natural for your smile to always be a little brighter whenever you looked his way, and DEX reveled in your attention the same way an apex predator would on easy prey: never getting his fill, licking his whiskers, readying his beak, hunger rising from his stomach at the mere thought of having more.
He did not want to scare you away.
He wanted your attention to remain on him because you wanted to keep it there, and did not mind waiting for that to translate to being the holder of your affection as well. he was patient. He did not believe in second chances, and he did not believe in salvation; he believed that good things took time, and you, with your sweet smiles and your pretty little laugh, would be the best of them all.
And that was how, a couple months after your friendship started, he offered to help you carry in the produce boxes your boss was so adamant you hauled into the kitchen.
Because, well, DEX was your friend by now.
Somewhere along the way, he began staying for a little longer after eating so you could join him for a cup of coffee during your break. He started walking you home whenever he arrived to the diner later during the day and finished eating just at the same time you were finishing your shift. After all, it was just such a coincidence, but it was still the right thing to do.
And DEX, because he was such a good friend, was not about to let you hurt yourself only because your boss was too much of a bum to get off his ass and haul the boxes inside himself. And if that had somehow translated into him finally being able to feel your lips against his skin as he pressed you back against the wall of the deserted alleyway at the back of the diner?
Well, that was just a reward for his patience.
Because, God, it had been worth it.
Months of aligning his schedule to yours so he could come in just when you were free, and months of watching you from a distance to make sure you were still just his, and months of beating other patrons up in the very same alley whenever they smiled at you for a little too long.
Yeah, it had all been worth it.
Because now he's on his knees, with his head buried under your pretty little work skirt, as he pulls your panties to the side and licks a stripe down the expanse of your sopping pussy.
God, you're dripping for him.
Your tight hole is clenching around nothing as he sucks on your clit, moaning against your mound when he realizes you taste just as sweet as he had imagined.
He has his hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you closer against his face, his fingers pressing deliciously against your soft, supple skin, and he wonders if they will leave a mark. He wonders if that will have you thinking of him when you're by yourself tonight. And he wonders if you will look at them when you’re touching yourself, thinking of him.
He knows he will.
So DEX lays his tongue flat against the bud, pressing against it, and then leans back just a little until he can spell his name with it on your clit.
He does it once, twice, and your thighs are shaking around his head, and your slick is dripping down his chin. He's marking you as his, laying his claim, moving his hands up your legs until he's squeezing your ass under your panties, and spelling his name over and over until you're panting and writhing and moving your hips against his face, matching the rhythm of his tongue.
He realizes his dreams have never compared.
"Oh, my sweet girl," he mumbles, words slurred and sloppy when he speaks them directly against your cunt. "You taste just as good as I had imagined. made me work so hard for it, mhm? Such a sweet, sweet prize for me.”
He presses his face further in-between your legs, moving down so he can use use tongue, oh so long, oh so warm, inside your pretty little hole.
His nose brushes against your clit every time he moves his tongue against your walls, and moans, and pants, and has to restrain himself from beginning to hump your leg when they begin to flutter around him. He wants to fuck you. Oh, how he wants to take you back to his place and lay you back on his bed, spread your legs wide, and split your cunt open with his cock. He wants it so, so badly, and he merely figures he will have to work a little harder for it.
“You like it when I eat you out like this?" he grunts, hot and wet, and a lick points out every word. “Mhm, can tell. Droolin’ so much for me, aren’t you? Drippin’ down my chin, sweet thing.”
He lands a slap against your ass, kneading at the skin after the contact, and returns his other hand back down to rest on your thigh. He spanks your ass again, harder, and his other hand caresses the skin of your thigh, softer.
God, you're so perfect. You're so, so perfect, and you're his, you're just his.
"Dex, 'm gonna—"
“Gonna cum, mhm? Gonna soak me? Let me taste this perfect cunt properly?" he breathes out, and moves back up so he can spell his name against your clit again, just one more time. Please, just one more time before you cum, just—
Your eyes are squeezed shut as your orgasm has your cunt gushing into his mouth, and he takes it all because this, after all, is his prize. A broken, breathless moan breaks past your lips, and you move your hips harder, faster against his face, and he lets you take, and take, and take as much as you need.
It’s his honor. This moment—This earthly bliss is just his to revel in.
And so DEX smiles and uses his fingers, long and lithe and rough, to lower your panties down your beautiful, shaking legs until they pool around your ankles. He's grinning with all of his teeth, content, satisfied, when he straightens and smoothes your skirt back into place, pressing a kiss to your forehead and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
And then he pockets the lace while holding your gaze, and knows, just knows, that he will always be the only one you smile so, so beautifully for.
he’s always precise. targetted care in his movements like he’s planning what he’ll do before he does it. you find him smiling faintly when you blink at him, stammering at how he’d hit a target so far away.
even if the target was just a garbage can.
at the park, he grabs a stray kite just before it gets out of his reach. the string loosens from a little boys fingers as you walk by. though dex’s hand slips out of his pocket before the boy even lets go and dex’s thick fingers clasp around the string.
you just barely saw him do it, but you did nonetheless.
dex catches cups that you accidentally knock over and doesn’t let them hit the ground. you’ve just drunk a glass of water and mindlessly set it on the corner of the table. dex is already eyeing you from across the room. he crosses before you turn to him and your elbow hits the cup. your eyes shut in anticipation of glass shattering. but instead, he reaches out and catches it behind your back and sets it right back down.
at josie’s, dex doesn’t just hit the red target on the dartboard easily but he’ll also pin things from across the room. when you’re sipping your terrible drink and giggling at your stupidly attractive boyfriend, he’s still throwing darts with his arm around your waist. not missing a single shot. but a hooded figure grabs a purse from a old woman and dashes out from her grip and dex sees it before you do. he throws his dart from across the damn bar and it hits the man, right in his hand holding the purse.
the man screeches in pain, his hand pinned to the splintering wood that was probably older than you. the purse falls from his hand immediately and dex picks it up to return to the older woman. she thanks him graciously and you’re eyeing him with lustful intent as he makes his way back over to you.
“what?” he blinks and freezes at your gaze. “i’m one of the good guys now.”
your eyes trail down his figure and then up again, intensely slow. he blushes hard and tries to hide his growing smile. though you grip at his shirt and urge him closer, rasping his name like a plea and a demand he’d never deny.
“i wanna go home now.”
dex nods quickly and takes your purse in his other hand, ushering you out of the bar as fast as possible.
the apartment door shuts behind the two of you only after you’d already been pushed towards the couch. dex bounces a fidget to you’d bought him off the counter and it hits the front door, pushing it shut hard. his hands on your waist move meticulously as they begin shedding your layers. barely even touching the button of your jeans as he opens and pulls them down. his rough hands trailing stupidly soft up your spine, dragging the fabric and sending shivers up deliciously.
his hips seem to have the same motivation of his mind. precise, perverse, and insatiable.
before you can part your lips to let any sounds out, he swallows them down like something rare. he fills it with little sounds that destroy you instead. his lips like sweet nectar to your sensitive ears that amplify every thought with visions on him.
because dex fucks like he fights—skilled and unfair.
every push of his hips, pressing against yours. every thrust more devastating than the last, stealing your breath repeatedly. over and over. he learns and he adjusts without you saying anything. he listens to your body and to the sounds you make to guide him aimlessly. he smiles when you lose yourself in the feelings. watching you twist just for him to hold you there and keep you from squirming. dimples evident as he laughs lowly and holds your hands above your head.
“right there sweetheart? you like when i touch you there?” cooing by your ear and pulling away to watch. because dex loves to watch.
he’s so precise in his movements that he purposefully touches the depths of you. just enough before it’s too much for you. mouthing down your jaw while he kisses your cervix. letting your moans bless his ears while you clench around him. dex kisses you through it but he doesn’t stop. he keeps moving and teasing. coaxes you through your high and tumbling into a new one while he resumes his ministrations.
he’ll beg you to let him come inside you but you both know you’ll let him anyways.
“let me do it,” he pants against your skin, “let me give you everything.”
the most sultry seduction, wetting his lips as he speaks. the honey tongued words drowning you in bliss as he holds your hips with roughened care. the sound of his skin on yours and the hard muscle of his abs under your fingers when you trail your palms down his torso.
how can you deny him? how can you deny yourself?
you’re nodding before you can think about consequences. you’re trying to wrap your legs around his waist when he pushes them up higher and higher. letting your ankles hang off his shoulders with your knees pressed to your chest.
dex fucks you faster, running his free palm down your bodies to tease you further. rubbing tight circles with his thumb while you fall into a pleasurable pain that you recognized as overstimulation. thrusts sloppy as he loses his own train of thought.
his mind filled with nothing but you, you, you.
his worst obsession. his biggest weakness.
you gasp as you feel him finally let go, painting you white between his shattering, relentless thrusts. pushing back through his broken groans as he pulses against your walls. nothing ever goes to waste with him. he’s precise with where he wants to fill you until you’re dazed. blissed out when he finally stills.
he stays buried inside, hand lifting to grip your cheeks. squeezing just enough to make your lips pout and part to spit directly on your waiting tongue. not letting a drop escape. pulling out with a wet sound you’d burned to memory, he makes quick work to collect the two of you and push it back inside. sealing it with a kiss that stole your breath effortlessly.
WARNINGS — blood. injury. a few kinks here and there. cliff hanger. (might continue)
background noise — Desire by Meg Myers
shivers
( benjamin poindexter x afab!reader )
word count — 884
you catch bullseye waiting outside your apartment like he just happened to be there. he smirks, acting like it's a coincidence, until you step closer and notice the fresh cut above his eyebrow.
you reach up to wipe the blood away. for a split second, he forgets to be dangerous—his eyes stay locked on yours, and neither of you moves until someone passes by, forcing him to pull away first.
as he moved further back, taking his eyes off of you, you remained completely still. something inside you was just so profoundly captivated by him you’d often forget how to act around him.
although he was a usual guest at your apartment complex, every look exchanged between the two of you sent shivers down your spine. could’ve it been the heat in his eyes whenever they travelled down your body or simply your instincts telling you to run and never look back. you knew he would never hurt you, it would rather be you the one hurting him, but deep down he was still a killer.
“will you keep on staring or would you mind welcoming me inside,” he smirked, his elbow resting on the wall aside him while his hand was scratching the back of his head “we don’t want the neighbours making any assumptions; do we?” he shrugged.
you stepped aside, making just enough space for his arm to brush against yours as he was going inside “sporting another cut i see?” you asked out of concern sooner than simple curiosity.
he ignored you, just like every single time you were getting all up in his business.
“dex…?” you pushed. “what is it with you and locking yourself up every time i’m concerned about your safety?”
sitting down on the couch next to your window, dex watched as you walked over to the kitchen island. “i don’t need your concern. i told you. i can take care of myself.”
don’t start an argument. don’t start an argument. you repeated in your head over and over again until you noticed his gaze was once again inspecting every inch of skin you were showing. and there was plenty of it considering it was somewhere past 11 pm on a friday night. somewhat flustered, palms getting sweaty and shorts riding up from all the pacing around, you decided to head straight for him and let your lips collide with his in anger.
“you’re…” a slight grin was forming in the corner of his mouth as he kissed you right back. “hot when you’re angry.” dex planted grabbing you by the waist.
wrapping your legs around his lower abdomen, he assured you were holding tightly before getting up and moving towards the only bedroom in the apartment. you loved how easily he could grab you and move you around. you always had a thing for a man twice your size and dex was the perfect candidate. not only was he as muscular as any normal female would dream about but his body was also somewhat tall enough to tower over you.
“don’t ever fucking” you moaned against his lips still irritated about earlier “talk to me like that again.”
you put your hands against his hard chest and broke apart the deep tension forming.
“baby, come on…” he threw his hands up in the air grunting “you know i don’t like this sensitive stuff. i kill people. one cut doesn’t change me in any way.”
“don’t baby me after you fucking told me to not ‘baby you’. go grab a towel, you’re bleeding again.”
“piece of shit” he cursed under his breath, on his way to the bathroom.
———
“what did you come here for in the first place?” you questioned him while wiping the blood off of his forehead, careful not to get any of the already forming crusts to fall off.
catching him flinch from your touch, you quickly distanced the now red stained cloth from his face. “oh so now you’re the one scared of me? ain’t i the one supposed to be frightened by your presence, bullseye?” you added; tone flat.
“don’t act so stupid” dex hissed “it’s not the first time we do this. and i see it’s not going the way i was expecting it to go”
what did he mean by that? was sex the only reason these occasional visits were a thing? you thought the two of you had something more going on.
gaping at him, the only thing you managed to get out was “are you being fucking serious right now benjamin?”. your shoulders tensed.
narrowing his eyes when you quickly backed away from him, he let out a delicate grunt. “i care about you. i’ve been consumed by your existence ever since the first time i laid my eyes on you, but you know we will never work, baby.” he clenched his jaw, contemplating whether leaving that up in the air was terrible judgment.
suddenly the air in the room shifted. once again, the shivers from earlier found their way back to you—except this time it hit you like a cold slap across the face. you were able to tell from his expression that he was aware of the war he started.
A/N — wow this is my first ever fanfic pretty please be nice i tried! i still have a lot to work on with my writing, i’m not the most creative girl either so it’s pretty bland. anyways if you guys like it i might give it a try and continue this but until then that’s all i got.
i did not edit so ignore any grammatical mistakes please !!
Could you write a oneshot of daredevil finding out where bullseyes apartment is so he breaks in to try and find information but what he didn’t expect to find was Dex’s sweet gf curled up on the couch watching TV (who even knew someone could put up with Dex??) and she’s very confused but offers him tea and he just awkwardly sits down and has a conversation with her without revealing why he’s there but then suddenly the front door opens and Dex (in his lil bullseye getup 👀) walks in and sees Matt sitting across from his overly friendly gf and freaks out bc he thinks he’s there to hurt her and immediately goes to attack her but Matt points out the fact that his girlfriend is sitting right across from him and could get hurt (or worse, find out he’s a terrible person! Who knew!) so Matt also won’t leave and his girlfriend (who thinks that they just work together) is like “he should stay for dinner!” And Dex is forced to deal with the situation somewhat civilly to avoid hurting his gf but also getting daredevil away from the only person he really cares about.
Thank you sm!!! I love your writing
hellooooo!! :) thank you so much💙💙 this is an amazing idea and i can absolutely try!!
Matt climbs up the side of the apartment building, using his unique senses to find the exact window. He follows the scent of Dex's clothes and is able to locate his bedroom window. With a pick of the lock, he's in.
He's finally going to find out what kind of life the infamous Bullseye lives when hes all alone. His apartment is probably a mess. Matt wouldn't be shocked if there were even a couple of bodies.
As he stealthily climbs inside the window, he immediately hears a slow and steady heartbeat coming from another room. His movements stop and he focuses.
Thump....thump....thump....
Its coming from right outside the bedroom.
Dex isn't supposed to be home. He knows Dex is out right now in his little vigilante costume probably wreaking havoc on the poor souls of Hell's kitchen.
As he steps closer, he hones into his senses. The room smells of fresh linen, freshly brewed coffee, and a sweet...perfume?
Matt steps towards the bedroom door and his hand brushes a piece of fabric that's hung on the door handle. His fingers trace the feeling of it, and he immediately puts it back on the knob once realizing that it's a bra.
Hes sick to keep that from his victims, Matt thinks.
He can hear the TV is turned on in the other room and even recognizes the show that is currently playing. "The Vampire Diaries".
He vaguely remembers Karen talking about this show one time. Something about some brothers that fall for the same girl? Whatever it doesn't matter.
He probably just forgot to turn the TV off before leaving. Not a big deal. The heartbeat he hears is likely someone above or below him.
His hand is careful to not make any noise while opening the door. As soon as steps foot into the living room, he hears another heartbeat. A smaller, faster rhythm.
Meow.
Seriously? He owns a cat? Matt took Dex to be anything but an animal person. He literally used to hit little birdies with rocks as a child.
He bends down to pet the kitty on its head.
puuurrrrrr!
"Well hello there", matt says while scratching the kitty's head.
The first heartbeat he heard suddenly sky rockets and he hears a gasp.
The TV is paused and the remote is held up and aimed right for him.
"Who...are you?", a quiet voice asks.
Fuck.
It all makes sense now. The neat and tidy bedroom. The freshly washed bedding. The sweet perfume scent. The bra.
Does Dex have a....girlfriend?
He holds his hands up, feigning surrender to you.
"Uh- I'm sorry to intrude. I-I work with Benjamin. He goes by Dex mostly. I think this is his apartment", he needed to come up with a lie–fast.
Your heart instantly slows as the panic in your bones settles.
Your vision focuses and you begin to notice what this strange man is wearing. He's in a red body suit with a helmet on. And the helmet has...horns?
You think back to the man your boyfriend mentioned a couple days ago.
"He's a real piece of work, baby. Puts on his devil costume and roams the city, protecting people", he had told you.
It clicks inside your mind who this man is.
"Ohh you must be the mysterious Daredevil, right?",
Matt curses himself for not figuring it out earlier. For coming to his apartment in his stupid Daredevil suit.
"Uh- yeah...that's me", he gives an awkward laugh as the cat rubs up against his calves.
"I think she likes you", you giggle at pumpkin. Your sweet calico baby. He nods and looks back towards you curled up on the couch.
"You must be....", Matt trails off, looking for you to finish his sentence.
"Dex's girlfriend", you say proudly. He can practically hear you grinning ear to ear.
"Hah, wow...he never mentioned a girl before", he gives an awkward chuckle.
"Really? That's odd. We've been together for almost eight months now", you tell him.
Eight months? If Matt wasn't already flabbergasted at the whole girlfriend thing, well he is now. How the hell does someone put up with that mentally unstable man for eight whole months?
Matt pets pumpkin once more before falling into a long, uncomfortable silence. His senses are going crazy. He can smell your shampoo from the shower you took and the cherry vanilla lotion you applied to your skin.
"So...would you like some tea, Mr. Daredevil? I can make you some. Dex won't be back for a little while if you'd like to wait", you offer him.
How naive, He thinks to himself.
You're comfortable with inviting a man into your apartment. A man that you don't know. That's dressed in an almost bulletproof tactical suit. Dex sure does train you well, huh?
One little on the spot lie fooled you. Too easy. But who is he to pass up tea?
"Sure, that'd be great."
You push the blanket off your lap and make your way to the kitchen.
"Don't be shy, sit down", you wave him over. Luckily, he's very good at acting like he can see. You don't have to know that he's blind.
As you're brewing some hot tea for him, he walks into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table. He tries to imagine Dex sitting here eating dinner with you. Does he help you cook? Is he nice to you? How would anyone ever put up with a shithead like Dex?
He finds it hard to imagine Dex doing anything nice for you.
You join him at the table, setting down two cups of tea. The sudden movement jolts him from his thoughts and he smiles, "Thanks".
"So what brings you here?", you ask him.
He shrugs and brings the mug up to his lips, sipping the warm liquid.
"Ah, you know. Work stuff. Just needed to talk to him about some business", he gives you a courteous smile.
You nod. You've heard that same line from Dex several times. You know that he's Bullseye and that he has a pretty dangerous life. But he does keep you in the dark most of the time. Its for your own good.
"I see. Well next time, why don't you use the front door? Any friend of Dex's is a friend of mine!", you reach over, giving his upper arm a gentle squeeze.
How are you so friendly with a man that you just met? Dex is an absolute idiot. He needs to teach you some protocol or something for when a stranger climbs through your bedroom window at night.
"Uh–yeah. Okay. Thank you. I'm used to using windows–you know...the whole vigilante thing", he takes another gulp from his mug.
"Its no worries", he hears the crackling of your saliva as you raise the corners of your mouth. You're smiling at him again
Another wave of silence settles over the both of you.
As matt opens his mouth to speak again, he can hear a set of heavy footsteps approaching. He focuses on the sounds outside of the apartment and hears labored breathing.
"You touch her, you're dead", Matt can hear a man whisper from down the hall.
He smirks for a second right before the front door is swung open.
You jump, accidentally spilling some tea on yourself before looking towards the sudden noise.
You see your boyfriend standing there in his Bullseye suit, knives slung across his waist and arms. He immediately rushes towards Daredevil, grabbing him by his collar and lifting him, slamming him against the kitchen wall.
"The fuck are you doing in my apartment?", Dex whispers through gritted teeth into Matt's ear. "You here for my girl? Did you touch her?", Dex's heart is pounding so hard, Matt can feel it through his suit.
Matt's eyes move towards you. He gives you a sweet grin and then looks back at Dex.
"You might wanna let me go, buddy. Look at her", he nods over to you.
Dex begrudgingly cranes his neck to look at you. You're standing there staring at them with a look of pure fear on your face. He can barely see your bottom lip quivering as your eyes dart back and forth between the two men.
He looks back towards Matt who is now smiling widely at him. Dex uncurls his fingers from Matt's collar and takes a small step back.
"Is everything okay...?", you ask them. You rush to grab a dish towel, wiping your shirt off.
Matt pulls Dex into a squeezy hug, patting his back, "Yeah yeah, everything's fine. Think I just startled poor Benjamin here."
You look towards Dex. "You okay babe? What happened?"
"Nothing hun. Just...been on edge lately", he gives you a forced half grin while squeezing Matt's shoulder.
"Good call. Wouldn't want your poor girlfriend to see the real you", he pats Dex on the back and pushes him a few feet back. Dex's attention turns to you and he crosses the kitchen in a second.
"You okay?", he asks, placing his hand on your cheek and inspecting you for any sign of harm. "He touch you? Hurt you?"
You giggle and lay your hand on top of his.
"What? Why would he do that? Matt and I were just chatting. He was actually waiting for you. Said he needed to discuss something with you...?", you inform him.
He gives Matt a nasty look while pulling you close.
He knows deep down that Matt would never hurt an innocent person. Though he can't help but to get overly protective, knowing the hatred that Matt holds for him. He needs you too much to ever let anything happen to you. Dex would plunge a knife into Matt's forehead in a heartbeat if he found out that he put hands on you.
Matt watches the way Dex is with you and is genuinely taken by surprise. He had no clue that the infamous and crazed vigilante could ever be sweet to someone. After seeing him kill innocent people countless times, he would have figured the man to be single for his entire life. Matt can barely keep a relationship himself while living a double life. His pride almost take a blow from this. Almost.
You pull your boyfriend into a hug and he half melts in your embrace. He's just glad to see you still in one piece after having been alone with his enemy for god knows how long.
"Why don't you stay for dinner? Dex never has friends over!", you ask Matt. Dex immediately stiffens up and grabs your hand.
"I don't think that's a good-", you shush him and urge Matt to sit back down.
"Oh hush Benjamin. Matt, here. Sit back down", you help him back into his seat and hand him his tea.
"Dex, why don't you catch up with him for awhile while i get dinner ready, kay?"
You push Dex into the seat directly across from Matt and begin busying yourself with food preparation. Dex's knuckles are white with how balled his fists are and his eyes are locked onto Matt. He begins to take off his holsters and set them on the table, displaying all of his knives.
"You try anything, one of these ends up between your eyes. Got it?", Dex threatens.
Matt puts his hands up and shrugs.
"Im only allowing you to stay because its making her happy. Now what the hell do you want from me?", he questions.
"Thought I'd stop by and gather some intel. Wasn't expecting a woman to be here...", Matt admits.
Dex grips one of his knives, aiming the blade at Matt under the table.
"She's very special to me...", he releases the knife. It shoots into the chair right between Matt's legs.
Matt chuckles and leans forward.
"You think I'd hurt an innocent? I'm not you, Poindexter."
That hits hard as he can hear Dex's heart speed up and breathing become quick.
Dex goes quiet and tries his best to ignore him until you return with the dinner you've made.
As you place the food onto the table, you get comfy beside Dex and lovingly rub his arm. "You boys getting along?"
Matt gives you a warm smile and thanks you for the food.
•*•*•*•*•
After finishing up dinner, Matt offers to help you clean up.
He's standing at the sink with you, washing the plates and silverware.
"May I ask you something?", he asks.
You nod.
"How is it...being with him?"
"With Dex?", you turn towards him. Matt nods.
"Its good. He's good", you state. You sound so sure of yourself.
"He treats you well?", he asks, drying the plates off.
You take a deep breath in and exhale slowly.
"If i'm being completely real...I've never felt more loved in a relationship than I have with him", you say while looking back towards Dex who's still at the table. He's glaring at the both of you, twirling a pocket knife between his long fingers.
Matt seems genuinely shocked by your very honest answer.
"Well, that's all that matters, right?", he smiles and looks around.
"Top left cabinet", you point. He nods and puts the plates where they belong.
As your putting the clean forks away, you feel a sturdy hand placed on the back of your neck. Dex is behind you.
"Baby, I'm getting kind of tired. Why don't I walk Mr. Murdock out", he offers while massaging the muscles in your neck. You nod and look back at him. He's looking down at you with a stern look. Matt can see he's struggling to control his emotions.
"Thanks again for dinner, would love to do it again sometime", Matt winks at you and moves to walk. You hurry towards him, pulling him into a friendly hug.
"Sure thing!", you tell him. Dex watches you with complete surprise and disgust as you willingly show another man affection. Why don't you hug him instead? What did Matt do to deserve your love? He practically rips Matt from your arms and drags him to the door. He opens it and pushes Matt out into the hallway.
"Try anything like this again, and you won't live to see another day, Murdock."
He pulls his devil mask over his face and looks at Dex.
"Aw cmon, sweetheart. Your girl thinks you're really good. Wouldn't wanna let her down, hm?", Matt nods behind Dex to where you're still standing in the kitchen.
"Fuck you", Dex slams the door in his face and huffs. His face is warm and he can feel the rage boiling inside of him. He leans against the door, trying to focus on his breathing, momentarily forgetting that you're still there.
He feels a pair of arms snake around his torso and squeeze, startling him.
"That was nice, hm?", you whisper into his back.
He places his hands atop of yours and turns around in your embrace.
"Y-Yeah, baby. You're a wonderful chef", he kisses your forehead and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. All he can think about is what could have happened if he hadn't checked the cameras in the apartment and seen Matt there. Dex feels a huge weight fall off his shoulders as soon as Daredevil is gone from his private home. He was never supposed to find you. Now he has to constantly worry whether you'll be safe or not. He tried so hard to keep you out of his dangerous life and hide you at home but Matt just couldn't mind his own business.
He buries his face in your neck and presses his fingertips into your sides, reminding himself that you're still here. With him.
You're the first one to pull away, resting your hands on his chest. You trace the bullseye spiral that is on the fabric of his suit.
"You don't like him, do you?", you ask with a small pout.
He scoffs and looks to the side. "What gave it away?"
"I know you, Dex. You can't hide anything from me", you snake one hand up around the back of his neck and pull his face down to meet yours. You hear a slight change in his breathing and he grips your sides a little harder. He nudges his nose against yours and begins to lose himself in you.
"I don't know...I like him", you tell him. His eyes shoot open and he pulls back.
"You don't know him like I do."
"Well he was nice to me", you shrug. "And he seems to like you."
He lets out a dry laugh with no humor behind it.
"Yeah he just adores me, baby", he tells you. You're not really sure why he sounds like he's joking but it doesn't really matter. He pulls you in again but this time he grabs the backs of your thighs, hoisting your legs up and around his thick torso.
"I don't know...hes kind of cute too", you tease. He shuts you up with a hard press of his lips to yours. You react and kiss him back with the same brutal force.
"Stop", he places a wet kiss on your jaw, "Talking", another on your throat, "About", and one on your chin, "Him."
You let out a content sigh at the feeling. "I wanna hear you say my name, not his."
You remain silent as he continues his sloppy torture on your neck and jaw, "Say my name."
"Dex-", you gasp as he bites your earlobe.
Your arms automatically wrap around his neck and your head dips back to allow him better access. He begins to walk you towards the couch and you already know where the night is headed.
a/n: sorry this took me a few days to get out !! i've been sort of busy. lmfao i lowkey made matt kind of evil😼 idk i just feel like it worked with this idea. you know after the shit dex has put him through, it makes sense for matt to taunt him a little😌 I hope this is was a good read💙☁️
Borrowed Habits
Synopsis:Your way of life has become Dex's. You make the empty spaces in his life start to feel a little less empty. After all, if he does everything you do, how different can it be from being with you?
Gemma says:ugh I had a better vibe when I planned this but she'll be right... I'll do better next time🫰🏼
Warnings:Stalker!Dex being creepy, what a surprise!! W.C:1.3k
Over the months that Dex has been stalking protecting you in his own special way, he’s gained new habits to satisfy some part of his brain that craves the domesticity that he watches you experience.
At first he didn’t want it to be a habit of having to run into whatever diner you ate at to quickly have something to eat before following you home. But it was purely tactical, fuelling his body in case he needed to intervene in keeping you safe from some immediate danger.
People are unpredictable monsters these days.
But having to scarf down your exact order and then proceeding to try to follow you home again wasn’t time efficient. Dex adapted. He always does.
He timed your arrival after vigorously studying your routines so he could collect his order and eat it in his car while you ate in the restaurant. There were few times where he messed up the order and didn’t have the same meal. On those nights Dex didn’t feel right, his stomach growled and his brain itched. His diet was the same as yours; you tasted the things he tasted, and he tasted the things you tasted. His body adapted to be like yours, and it didn’t want to adapt back.
But when his hunger was at bay, his mind craved something more — it craved the taste of you.
The flavour of his meal would sit on his taste buds, but the faint aftertaste is what helped soothe the newfound craving. Would that faint aftertaste be sitting the same on your tongue? Would that be what you would taste if you kissed him? Would he be able to taste this on your tongue?
Dex knew it was a stupid thought, but even then it still felt stupidly rational. The lingering flavours brought him closer to you in a way, and being close to you is the only thing Dex wants.
That change in routine wasn't meant to happen, but it turned out to be a better decision, so why not try something new to get a deeper insight into your life?
You seem to love music. Dex can’t be sure, but when you're back in your apartment, you're always swaying and dancing along to something.
He’s thought about installing cameras to not only pick up on what you're listening to but also to obviously monitor your safety in a better way. But only a creep would install cameras unbeknownst to someone else; what Dex is doing from a distance is just plain protection.
So when the streets are missing the familiar buzz of traffic and distant chatter, Dex turns the radio on to a low volume and simply imagines that this is what you're listening to. When you disappear behind a door, he can’t help but imagine and wonder if you're still dancing.
He smiles to himself, letting himself think deeper about that. Maybe he’d come home to you and immediately wrap his arms around your waist and sway you along with him. He can picture your laugh as you follow along with his movements away, potentially trying to tease that he can’t dance. It’s stupid, but he can almost feel the warmth of your skin against his palms as you rest your arms around his neck and lean into him.
Slowly, he nudges his head down, resting his forehead against yours and—
You're not with him anymore. The warmth is gone. He isn’t in your apartment anymore. The radio host's voice replaces yours.
He blinks rapidly, slamming his hand on the radio, killing the once joyous sound. That wasn’t meant to happen; he's meant to be with you right now. Each strained breath makes his chest rise and fall rapidly as his eyes instinctively lock back onto you as you return back into sight.
Only then does the anger subside. He’s still got you; you're not going anywhere — not under his watch.
He still watches you for a little longer, following your movements through the window until you begin winding down for the night. Eventually, the lights in your apartment start disappearing one by one, and Dex knows you're getting ready for bed. He doesn't leave until you're asleep. He never has; he needs to know that you'll be okay. So he waits until your bedroom light goes dark and waits till he's sure he sees no movement. Only then does he finally start the car and pull away from the kerb.
When he gets home, he makes dinner, often putting on whatever music he thinks you might be listening to and settling into his own evening routine. Every now and again, he'll stretch out on the couch, letting himself imagine you're sitting beside him. On the bad days, Dex will cook a meal he's seen you make hundreds of times. He'll sit at the table and let himself believe you cooked it for him because you’d do that if you knew he was coming home to you.
He'll glance across the table, expecting to find your sweet smile waiting for him—instead, there's only the empty wall. Dex's smile fades as he stares at the spot where you're meant to be. He can taste you through the food, but why can’t he just be with you? He's already doing everything right.
Whatever. He’ll have you again tomorrow. When he climbs into bed, he looks over to the left side of the bed. The side he sees you sleep on every night.
Left alone in the silence once more, Dex outstretches an arm over the cold sheet where you should be right now. If he were in your apartment, his arm would be around your waist. He would pull you against his chest. You always seem to get cold whenever you sleep. Dex has seen it; he’s seen you clutch your duvet with an iron grip as you contort your body to find any warmth on your mattress. If he were with you, he’d keep you warm.
The mere thought of you tucked up against him, head nuzzled in his neck and limbs intertwined, makes his chest tighten with emotion.
He can picture it so easily it almost hurts. A sleepy little sigh as you finally settle against him is etched into his mind like he’s heard it before. The feeling of his hand resting over your back, keeping you pressed against his chest, makes him breathe a little easier. You wouldn't have to feel the cold with him, and he'd make sure of that.
Dex catches himself curling his fingers into the sheet as if they were your skin; he’s so close to having you there with him.
Even in his dreams, every thought is devoted to you. Though Dex doesn’t dream much, you're always there with him when he does. Your hair messy against the pillow while your face still stays softened with sleep. He remains wrapped around you – keeping you warm like he promised. He doesn't know when that promise came about. It could've happened the first time he saw you shivering beneath your duvet, but it doesn't really matter. ‘A promise is a promise’ is what Dr Mercer had once told him, and he took that to heart.
Morning comes, and Dex wakes before his alarm, stripping him away from the bliss he had with you. His hand instinctively reaches across the mattress, craving the comfort you give him. For a moment, disappointment settles in his chest when he yet again realises you actually aren't there.
Hope isn't all lost, though; you’ll be getting up soon! That makes Dex smile as he gets ready for the day. By the time he reaches your apartment, your curtains are still closed. Good, he can be with you when you wake up. He gingerly settles into position and waits with an anticipatory grin on his face. When he spots movement beyond your curtains, he sighs with relief — just because he couldn't wake up with you doesn't mean you can't wake up without him.
nsfw content — sweaty sex, sweat kink yes, dex eating you out, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, grinding, nipple stimulation, riding, cream pie, messy, dex is clingy, there is a p!link hehe, do not be fooled by the word count cuz this is very porn without plot
1.4k words
the sun seemed to be in a particularly bad mood. it felt like you were on a free trial for hell. and to make your lucky day even better, the air conditioner wasn’t working properly.
dex had really tried to fix it. he’d spent a good portion of the afternoon messing with it, checking everything he could think of, only to eventually admit defeat.
so your only option was to use the electric fans. which... weren’t helping much either. they were moving the air around, but they couldn’t actually make the room any cooler. you’d even turned one toward the window, hoping to push some of the trapped heat outside and get fresher air in. it was stupid. absolutely stupid.
your apartment was on a high floor, directly beneath a roof that had spent hours absorbing the afternoon sun. the heat had seeped through the ceiling and settled into the apartment, making every room feel stuffy and oppressive. the fan could only circulate that same warm air.
you were in hell.
your only savior was the little handheld fan in your palm, which was probably one exhausted motor away from dying. it wasn’t cooling the apartment either. of course it wouldn’t. it was only pushing enough air across your skin to make the heat slightly more bearable.
the heat also meant dex hadn’t been getting much physical affection from you. in your defense, it was hot. cuddling would suffocate you. and apparently, dex took this personally.
“you haven’t touched me all day,” he complained from beside you. he sat there looking just as miserable, his skin damp with sweat.
you continued fanning yourself. “dex, it’s very hot.”
“you’re avoiding me.” his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“i’m avoiding your body heat,” you answered quickly.
“that’s the same thing.”
“no, it isn’t.” you shook your head.
“feels like it.” he shrugged, stubbornly. “baby, please. just sit close to me.”
you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “and get hotter?” you gave him a sarcastic little nod.
dex only sighed. then he moved closer anyway. his skin touched yours. you immediately looked at him, ready to complain about how sweaty he was, but then your eyes wandered.
oh god.
his biceps were glistening with sweat, the sheen making every line of muscle look more defined. his white tank top was damp too, clinging to his chest and shoulders. it wasn’t helping. neither was the way he smelled.
he was sweaty. warm. fresh from sitting in the oppressive heat for hours. and somehow, instead of pushing him away, you found yourself unconsciously pressing your thighs together.
dex rested his forehead against your shoulder. he placed a few small, lazy kisses against your skin, seemingly content now that he’d finally gotten what he wanted. his hand settled on your thigh. his fingers squeezed gently before relaxing again.
then he rested his nose against your warm skin for a moment, angling himself toward the little stream of cool air from your handheld fan.
you watched him quietly. it was so hot that you could feel everything. the fabric of your clothes against your skin. the damp strands of hair sticking to your neck. the warmth lingering beneath your skin. every little touch seemed magnified by the heat.
and dex’s hand was still resting on your thigh.
his eyes slowly drifted to your chest. you weren’t wearing any bra under your tank top. he could very clearly see how sweaty your fucking tits are. the middle of them glistened with sweat. his mind got pretty much occupied with the thought of just licking that sweat off your skin. he stopped himself from those thoughts with a kiss moving up to your collarbones.
which wasn’t enough. neither of you was particularly composed anymore.
his lips went higher and higher up your neck until they reached your jaw. and before you could even think further, before you could stop yourself from experiencing this moment, you turned off your hand fan and placed it down. his lips reached yours. you immediately kissed back. it was a messy, sloppy kiss.
his hands went to your hips, placing you on his lap. he pressed your body closer until you were pressed against him, controlling your hips to grind on him so he could feel your nipples rubbing against his chest.
he groaned into the kiss as he felt your hardened nipples. you started undressing each other until both of you were fully naked.
just like how he was thinking earlier, he licked a long strip from your chest down in between your tits, tasting the salty sweat off your body. his tongue didn’t stop there. it kept going until he was kissing your sweaty pussy. oh, he absolutely loved that. you could very much tell from how he growled before putting his mouth over it, giving it a harsh suck that made your legs wrap around his neck.
he was eating you out really hungrily. the scent went straight to his brain. something that seemed to control him, making him eat you like it was the last meal on earth. add in your own wetness from the heat and the arousal, and he’s got a mess he can drown in. his nose rubbed against your slick skin while his tongue flicked against your cunt, licking long strips that earned loud gasps from you and a tug on his hair.
then, with just a few more strokes of his tongue, you finally came undone. soaked and trembling and slick with his spit, your own juices, and all that glorious sweat. his chin and lips came away soaked and shining. even then, he still couldn’t stop. you had to whine and push his head away because he kept on licking you through it.
“dex- gosh…! dex- wait- ” you panted hard as you closed your legs and moved his head away. he gave a few last gentle laps before completely pulling his mouth from your pussy to give you a break.
when you finally had enough breath, he ate you out some more, making you cum three times before he even fucked you.
you’re on top of him, letting you take the lead as... well... a little something for eating you out until your legs were shaking.
his cock was so hard and he hadn’t been using it because he was too busy making you feel good.
he held his breath as you slowly slid his cock inside you. his thighs clenched and the grip he had on your hips tightened. a grip he was trying to loosen but couldn’t. as soon as he fully entered you, “oh... fuck…” he let out a deep exhale that he’d been holding back. his head fell back into the couch. he licked his lip as he closed his eyes. “you’re so warm, baby.”
then you started bouncing up and down on him. slowly but deeply. your hands running down his body. both of you were sweaty because of the hot air the electric fan was still blowing. the back of your thighs were slippery against his skin.
when you got tired, he took care of you. really good care. adjusting his position to a better angle and widening his thighs to fuck you better. pulling you against him and kissing your forehead before slamming his hips up and down under you. fast and hard. it earned continuous wet slaps of your skin against his. you couldn’t keep a sound from escaping your mouth. you kept on moaning, whining, cursing, whimpering, and whatever else you could let out.
dex was breathing hard and moaning deeply while still giving sweet kisses on your face and licking the sweat off your skin.
the orgasm builds slowly for both of you. your clit is swollen and sensitive, and every time he presses against it, the friction is almost too much but just right. he pulled you closer to him for a hot sloppy kiss. you breathe into each other’s mouths, sharing the same air and moaning into each other’s lips.
a few strokes later, his cum spilled inside you with a grunt. you came at the same time. whining against his skin as you buried your face in his neck. biting down on his skin as you clenched around him.
as you both calmed down, panting hard, his cock stayed buried inside you. just feeling each other throb while your walls clenched around him. both of you ended up much more sweaty and warm.
maybe sweaty hot sex is one way to cope with this hellish sun heat.
requested by anonymous <3
really enjoyed writing this especially since i live in a tropical country 😭
summary: cuddling with Dex and finding his spinal scar
wc: 1.2K
pairing: ddba!dex + gn!reader (fem!reader tag for reach)
cw: mentions of death, mentiones of injury, mentions of surgery, gender neutral reader, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n
a/n: this one was requested by anon, first half is their prompt (we're basically co-writers yuppie), enjoy✨
You're sprawled on the couch with Dex on top, full from lunch, warm, sleepy. It's your first time fully cuddling with him, it took a bit of adjusting to find a comfortable position but now you're both in heaven.
One of your hands is on his shoulder, the other running through his hair. Everything is going great, he's relaxed enough to melt, until the hand that was in his hair brushes too low and finds the start of the scar along his spine and he freezes. Full on, body locked stiff, eyes wide, suddenly very awake and aware of your hand and what it touched.
His brain starts doing what it does, running laps around all the different scenarios in which you find out about his scar and feel disgusted that you ever even touched him or looked his way. He starts panicking internally, trying very hard to not break down on top of you, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating or uncontrollably crying.
While that happens, you've noticed the shift and are trying to check on him.
"Dex?"
"Are you ok?"
"Sweetheart, can you hear me?"
It takes you holding his face in your hands, lifting it up until your eyes are level, and you calling his name two more times to get a reaction. And what you get is the most heartbreaking sound you've ever heard. A mix between a whine and a sob. His breath is short, his eyes glassy. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the rejection, but he really doesn't want it to come.
He didn't think it would get that far, so fast. He didn't have time to come up with reasons, excuses, stories. All he has is his scars and his frozen brain refusing to dig him out of the ditch.
You don't even know what's wrong yet, all you know is that you were caressing his hair and his neck... and then you remember the odd texture you felt, and it clicks. It wasn't the tag of his shirt.
You ask if you hurt him, start apologizing, and he blurts out "you're ok with it?" As if a scar was optional, or gross, or embarrassing. And all you want to do is reassure him, hold him close, tell him that his painful experience isn't something that should push people away just by sight or touch.
“Am I okay with what, love?” you ask carefully, wanting to gently nudge him towards the answer rather than just assume things. He huffs, hiding his face into your shoulder. The words come out muffled as he nuzzles deeper. “You know what…” he replies in a sheepish, teary sound, clenching the fabric of your shirt between his fingers.
Poor thing, you thought to yourself, can't even bring himself to tell you what's bothering him.
“Hey…” you coo, treading through his hair with gentle fingers, your other hand stays on the small of his back, steady and grounding. “Tell me, baby, what's wrong?”
“It's th- the s- the scar…” he stutters out, trailing off on the last syllable. His body is tense with embarrassment, breath shaky and uneven. You snake your arms tighter around him as you press him closer to your chest, letting your warmth seep into him through your skin and clothes.
You feel your shirt dampening and the wet fabric clinging to your collarbone but you pay it no mind. Right about now your thoughts were occupied with your big strong boyfriend sobbing into your shoulder because of some mysterious scar? “What scar, sweetheart…? Please, tell me, I- I really wanna help…” you murmur into his hair, pressing your lips to his head between words.
Dex sighs and finally manages to gather some courage to mumble: “The one… mhm… on my back…” Your eyebrows fly up in realisation. Ah, there it is. “Can I see?” you probe carefully, still hugging him tight, as if letting your grip loose even slightly would lead to Dex disappearing into thin air. After receiving a weak nod from him you hook your thumb under the collar of the simple gray tee he was wearing and lift the fabric enough to expose the skin of his back to your sight.
There it was. The long-ass scar which started at the nape of his neck, going down his spine and ending at the tailbone. Straight line right through the middle of his back, obviously from a surgery, an old one, but still more pinkish that the surrounding skin, with tiny bumps on either side, where the sutures had been.
Oh. That's the scar. Your breath must've hitched at the sight because Dex tensed up even more in your hold with a pitiful whimper. You let go of the fabric and pull him closer.
“Hey, it's alright… it's alright…” you continue to coo at him like one would at a stray kitten. “It's just a scar… Wanna tell me how you got this one? Hm?” You still cradle him like he's fragile, still murmur reassurances into his ear, still don’t run away in disgust.
At that Dex's sobs get louder, body shaking in embarrassment. Is he supposed to tell you the truth? How he, the best sniper of the FBI SWAT squad, excelling every test including intellectual ones, got fooled by a stupid obese crime boss, whose life he so foolishly saved just doing his job well, into being his pawn assassin? That the said crime boss got the person, whose proximity was keeping him sane, killed off? And that when Dex tried to get revenge on that boar-sized fucker, he broke Dex's spine like a twig, instantly paralyzing him? Tell you that he was laying there in the puddle of his own piss and shit the whole time before the ambulance arrived, not sure if he’ll be able to walk again? Maybe he should tell you how the general anesthesia didn't work well and how he woke up in panic on the table, face down, with surgeons fussing over his vertebrae while the only thing he could see was the OR floor?
The flood of memories washed over Dex's mind, bringing a new load of tears to his eyes. His broad frame shaking in your arms while he hides his face shamefully in the crook of your neck. He can't help it. The pain. The wreckage. He never mourned his past before, never felt the need to. Or maybe didn't want to be seen as less strong or brave by you. But here, in the safety of your embrace… all pretence is stripped away, leaving him a wailing, trembling mess.
Oh god. No no no. Your heart is clenching at the sight of your boyfriend spiralling because of some stupid scar. You feel your own eyes well up with tears. Poor baby. You hug him even tighter, tilting your head to nuzzle your face into his hair. You were pressing frantic kisses all over the top of his head, crying silently with him and murmuring something between kisses. “It's okay, baby, it- shhhh, it's okay… I love you, love you so much… I love all of you, with all your scars and wounds and whatnot… I have scars too, y'know? I'll show you… we can be bruised and broken together… I promise, it's okay…”
Dex's sobs finally subsided and he carefully lifted his head to look at you with wet red-rimmed eyes.
