✧

𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙄𝙉𝙄𝙏𝙀 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍𝙎 𝙄𝙉 𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙀𝙔𝙀𝙎 [21]

[meicore]

Welcome to meicore, at the time of writing this, this blog is not a writing blog however I do reblog nsfw content

[They/It] [Chinese & Dominican] [21]

I consider myself to be sapphic & nb. I’m also autistic. that should be everything

✧ “Don’t go anywhere I can’t follow”

[northistar]

everybody talks about the concept of dex always hitting the right spot during sex, but what about him doing it so incessantly that it borders on painful at times?

and it's not like he's even doing it on purpose, dex couldn't possibly miss that spot even if he tried. it's just something he knows, a strange kind of awareness that sometimes slips from his mind completely, most likely when he's buried so deep inside you he can't bring himself to think about anything else other than fulfilling what he deems to be his most important task: getting you off. that familiar instinct takes over completely then, the only thought registering in his fucked up brain being to just fucking. hit. that. spot.

every thrust lands with striking precision, your whole body jolting beneath him at each slam of his hips against yours. pleasure hits you so strong it creates a deep pressure just below your navel, your mouth slackening to release sounds that seem foreign coming out of your own mouth. you're sure your entire fucking neighborhood can hear you at this point.

"dex—dex! if you keep—oh my fucking god—we'll have to stop—" you all but yelp, hands flying in an attempt to steady yourself. they land across his back, nails digging into skin with enough force to draw blood.

"no! no no no, sweetheart," dex urges, eyes snapping open to find yours. "i'll go slow then. i'll make it good for you. like this—" the change in pace is deliberate, instantly allowing you room to breathe again once he's no longer pounding into that sensitive spot over and over again. "you like it like this? let me make you feel good, please."

you know it'll give you only a few minutes before dex starts to get lost in it again, but you can't really deny him anything when he looks this desperate—this eager to please you. so you will yourself to nod, even as your head feels much lighter than it probably should, your face contorting into what you're sure is the most dumb, fucked out expression to ever grace your features.

you can let him have this. at least for now.

[clawxmoon]

── .✦ out of time ˎˊ˗

ᯓ SUMMARY │a late-night encounter with your neighbor leaves you shaken as tony - dex - ends up closer to you than he ever should, and the line between familiarity and something more starts to blur.

ᯓ WARNINGS │slow pace, dryhumping, oral fem receiving, p in v, praise, overstimulation, dirty talk, edging, slight choking, pinning, petnames, no aftercare though :( │word count: 5k

you sat curled beneath a blanket, one leg tucked underneath you, a book resting open in your lap. your apartment felt unusually warm compared to the weather outside. a small lamp glowed beside the couch, casting pools of amber light across the room along with some scented candles you lit.

you'd showered less than half an hour ago. your hair was still slightly damp, the ends leaving faint wet marks against the oversized t-shirt you'd thrown on afterward. the warmth from the shower lingered on your skin, making the apartment feel even cozier than usual.

it should have been the perfect night for reading, except you kept rereading the same page because your mind kept drifting. your neighbor. the man from across the hall. you didn't even know his name. all you had were brief encounters in hallways, shared elevator rides, nods of acknowledgement.

you stared down at the page. reading the same sentence for the fourth time and giving up. with a sigh, you lowered the book onto your chest. outside, headlights passed below your window. your thoughts wandered again.

you wondered if he was home, if he was awake, if he ever noticed you watching him the same way you noticed him watching you. you wondered what his voice sounded like. whether it was as sharp as his stare. whether he even knew how much space he'd started taking up inside your head. the thought made you smile at yourself.

this was getting embarrassing. you were imagining a man you'd never even spoken to.

you were just beginning to convince yourself to return to your book when three firm knocks sounded at your door. the sound startled you enough that you nearly dropped it. you sat up immediately, blinking toward the hallway. at almost midnight, you certainly weren't expecting visitors. another knock followed a few seconds later.

setting the book aside, you stood from the couch and crossed the apartment. the wooden floor felt cool beneath your bare feet as you approached the door. through the peephole you could only make out the dark shape of someone standing in the hallway.

curiosity got the better of you. you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

oh.

standing on the other side was the very man you'd been thinking about for the last twenty minutes. rainwater darkened the shoulders of his black jacket, suggesting he'd only recently come inside. his expression remained unreadable, but his eyes settled on yours almost immediately, familiar and unnervingly intense.

then he lifted one hand - dangling from his fingers was a set of keys. for a second, you simply stared at the keys in his hand, then recognition hit.

"oh my god."

you immediately reached for them, relief washing through you. "i've been looking for these all evening."

his gaze followed the movement of your hand. "figured."

your fingers brushed as you took them from him. it wasn't even enough to properly qualify as touching, but you still felt it. a brief spark of awareness that made you strangely conscious of how close he was standing. you glanced down at the familiar keychain attached to the ring and laughed softly.

"seriously, thank you. I thought I'd somehow lost them outside."

"found them in the lobby," he said. "you dropped them earlier."

you looked back up at him.

"and you remembered they were mine?"

"I've seen you carrying them."

the answer should have felt completely normal. instead, it made your stomach tighten. neither of you seemed eager to break eye contact. the hallway suddenly felt much smaller than usual.

you became acutely aware that you were standing in your doorway looking freshly showered and probably staring at him like an idiot. you cleared your throat.

"well." your fingers tightened around the keys. "I definitely owe you one..."

"tony." he specified. you introduced yourself in exchange.

tony... the name doesn't suit him that much, you thought to yourself.

"tony!"

his eyebrow lifted slightly. his gaze remained on you for a moment before shifting away. only then did you properly notice the state he was in.

his dark jacket was soaked through. rainwater clung to the fabric and dripped occasionally onto the hallway floor. his hair was damp too, slightly darker than usual, with a few strands falling forward.

you frowned. "jesus. it's pouring out there."

he glanced over his shoulder toward the building entrance at the end of the hallway. "yeah."

"you got caught in it?"

"something like that."

the man looked like he'd walked through a hurricane.

"something like that doesn't explain why you look like you swam home."

that earned a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. you felt oddly proud of yourself.

"well, my apartment building has terrible timing too."

"how so?"

he looked back at you.

"no hot water."

you blinked. "what?"

"pipe burst." he said it casually. "and maintenance won't be here until tomorrow."

you stared. "you're kidding."

"wish I was."

you looked at him. then at the rainwater practically dripping off him. then back at him. a few seconds passed. no, don't even think about it.

"you can use my shower."

the words left your mouth before you could think about them. immediately afterward your brain caught up.

right. great. amazing.

you had just invited the attractive stranger you'd been obsessing over for months into your apartment to shower. excellent. very normal.

his eyebrows lifted slightly, looking skeptical. "your shower..."

you cleared your throat.

"I mean-" too late. you were already flustered. there was no recovering now. "I have hot water. you don't. that's the entire thought process."

"that's reassuring."

"don't make it weird."

his expression remained perfectly neutral. "I wasn't."

"you were thinking about it."

for a second you thought he might refuse, you expected him to. he seemed like the kind of person who rarely accepted help from anyone. his eyes drifted past you into the apartment. then his gaze returned to yours.

"you sure?" he asked, his question coming out quieter than you expected.

you nodded. "yeah."

finally he sighed through his nose. almost like he was giving in to something. "okay."

you blinked. "okay?"

"okay."

you hadn't actually planned for him to agree. now you were the one standing there staring. his eyes narrowed slightly. amused.

"you're the one that offered."

"I know, I just-" you stopped. because there was absolutely no way to finish that sentence without embarrassing yourself. he waited. "come in" you pointed toward your apartment.

the smile that appeared this time was small. brief but definitely real. you stepped aside and he finally crossed the threshold into your apartment. the scent of rain followed him inside.

you closed the door behind him and suddenly became painfully aware that your mysterious neighbour was standing in your living room. the same living room where you'd spent the last twenty minutes thinking about him. unfortunately, your brain chose that exact moment to remind you of this fact.

you immediately walked into the side of the couch. the impact echoed through the room. fuckkkk, that hurt. you closed your eyes from the pain and tried to ignore what just happened, pretending you were okay.

"I saw that."

of course he did. you rubbed your knee.

"no you didn't."

"pretty sure I did."

"well, as your host, I'm asking you to respect my privacy."

another laugh. somehow, hearing it while he stood dripping rainwater onto your floor made the entire evening feel a little unreal. you laughed alongside him.

you guided him to the bathroom - brought him towels and whatever men's clothing you had. the ones you usually bought to wear at home.

"If you need anything else let me know, tony!"

he thanked you and locked the door, turning the shower on. dex immediately started inspecting the whole place: what brand toothpaste and soap you use, what does your laundry detergent smell like, what scented shower gels do you have. he didn't forget to open some drawers and noticed a few pads and tampons laying around, as well as some razors and first aid kit.

after checking everything out, dex finally stepped into the shower. he didn't mind your haircare and skincare products - he thought they smelled sweet, just like you. he couldn't stop sheepishly smiling the whole time. like he finally got what he wanted without even trying too much - if we don't include the fact that he stole your lost keys earlier the day, and a few months of eye-fucking you two had.

after around 15 minutes, tony was out of your bathroom, dressed in your home clothes. he looked so unbelievably hot right now, hair still wet and messy, clothes a little too tight for his broad figure, his cheeks were pinkish and you could smell your signature scent across the living room.

"everything alright?" you peeked your head up from the couch.

"yep, I guess you don't owe me anymore" he smiled. "you're good". tony started walking over to you, the couch dipping at his weight. fuck, he looked so sexy manspreading right on your couch, drying his hair with one hand, his biceps flexing. this can't be real, you thought to yourself.

you were staring. it was becoming a genuine problem.

“you keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking I’ve got shampoo left in my hair.”

your eyes immediately snapped upward, face feeling warm. “you probably do.”

“wow.”

“check.”

tony dropped the towel onto his shoulder and patted around his head dramatically. after a few seconds of searching, he held up absolutely nothing.

“false accusation. I expect an apology.”

“you’ll survive.”

“barely.”

you rolled your eyes and tried focusing on the random movie playing on the tv because your extremely handsome neighbor looked like he had just walked out of a magazine cover to you. meanwhile, he was sitting on your couch wearing sweatpants that were definitely too small for him and a hoodie that looked like it was losing a battle against his shoulders.

it wasn’t fair.

“you know,” he said after a moment, “this is actually kind of weird.”

“you showering at my place?”

“that too. mostly the fact that your entire apartment smells like vanilla.”

“and?”

“and now I smell like vanilla too."

you laughed.

he looked offended. “I'm serious.”

“that’s your problem?” you rolled your eyes.

"pretty much, I've got a reputation to maintain" you stared at him. he stared back. then both of you lost it. the tension dissolved instantly.

“that’s the dumbest thing I've ever heard,” you managed between laughs.

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

the laughter lingered for a second before fading away. the movie continued playing in the background, filling the apartment with distant dialogue and music neither of you were paying attention to anymore. somehow, the silence that settled between you felt different now. heavier.

tony leaned back into the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest. his head tilted slightly as he looked at the television, but you got the feeling he wasn't watching it either. you tried to focus on the screen. but every time you glanced over, he was still there - wearing your clothes, still smelling like vanilla and your shampoo, still taking up way too much space in your apartment and somehow making it feel smaller.

the realization made your stomach twist. because this wasn't normal. neighbors didn't usually end up sitting on each other's couches at midnight wearing borrowed clothes and they definitely didn't make it this hard to breathe. you swallowed and looked away.

"okay, what is it?" tony asked.

"what?" your head snapped toward him.

"you keep looking at me." his voice was quieter now - not teasing, just stating a fact.

heat crawled up your neck. "you're sitting in my apartment."

tony's jaw tightened slightly. just enough for you to notice. then his eyes dropped to the oversized sleeve hanging over your hand, to your bare legs tucked underneath you on the couch. then back up again, slowly. your breath caught. his expression changed for half a second. something unreadable flashing across his face before disappearing just as quickly.

it was the first time since you'd seen him that he looked uncertain.

"you should stop looking at me like that," he said quietly.

your pulse skipped. "like what?"

his eyes held yours for a second.

"you know exactly like what."

the air seemed to leave the room. you couldn't think of a single response, avoiding eye contact. your eyes dropped to the floor, then to the sleeve hanging over your hand, anywhere except him. meanwhile, tony didn't move. his gaze stayed exactly where it was, steady and impossible to ignore even without looking directly at him.

you could feel it lingering, feel the weight of the silence stretching between you. the room hadn't changed, the tv was still playing somewhere in the background, but everything else seemed distant, drowned out by the simple fact that neither of you had laughed your way out of this one.

when you finally risked a glance back up, his eyes were still on you. not challenging, not teasing - just watching. there was something unusually unguarded about him now, as if he'd forgotten to hide whatever was running through his mind. the silence settled heavily between you, charged with all the things neither of you seemed willing to say out loud.

all you knew was that your heart was beating hard enough to make it difficult to think. the space between you suddenly felt much smaller than it had a few minutes ago, despite neither of you changing position. tony's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

the movement was subtle and impossible to miss. for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely conflicted. like he was arguing with himself, like part of him had already made a decision and the other part was trying to stop it.

"this is a bad idea," he said quietly. the words sounded more like a warning to himself than to you.

you swallowed. "then why aren't you leaving?"

for a moment, he just looked at you. then something in his expression softened.

"I don't want to." the answer barely came out above a whisper. somehow the distance between you disappeared. tony leaned forward slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, every opportunity to break the moment if you wanted to. when you didn't, his eyes flickered between yours one last time.

his hand came to rest against the couch beside you, close enough to make your pulse jump. close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. the air felt impossibly still. then he tilted his head slightly and closed the remaining distance.

It started off as hesitant at first, like he was unsure of it but soon enough tony leaned in closer, deepening the kiss. his hand came up to hold the side of your face - fingers brushing over your jaw. you could feel his desperation with the way he was kissing, it wasn't rough but passionate. his hand went down to hold your throat, softly squeezing it.

you felt yourself getting hotter every second, feeling goosebumps all over your body. you tried to break the kiss to take a breath but tony held it firmly, not letting it go. he pushed his tongue back into you, exploring every part of your mouth.

slowly both of his hands went down to hold your waist, pushing you closer. you used this chance to straddle his lap and he gladly let you. you felt the hardened bulge between your legs immediately, softly groaning at the feeling of him. tony squeezed your waist and pushed you to his chest, your arms wrapped around his neck.

the kiss got intense in matter of seconds, it wasn't innocent anymore. both of you were breathing loudly, holding each other impossibly close. you could feel yourself getting wet, pussy pulsing right on his lap. you decided to grind on him out of desperation.

"fuck" tony grunted loudly and pushed his head back on the couch. he started to push his hips up to feel you deeper. you moaned softly at the new sensation, your clit feeling the friction between layers of clothes. tony's hands moved to grab your ass and push you down on him again. you grabbed the back of his hair out of pleasure and hid your face in the crook of his neck.

tony's voice was low and rough, grunting from time to time. he started leaving kisses on your jaw, going down lower and biting your neck, softly sucking on it. his hands now trailed back up to slide under your shirt. he cupped and squeezed your breasts and twisted one of your nipples.

your moans started to progressively get louder, desperately grinding your clothed pussy on his sweatpants. you felt yourself getting closer, the friction, sensation and heat between your legs getting difficult to handle. you couldn't keep your composure anymore. neither could tony.

"am I making you feel good, pretty girl?" he smiled, whispering in your ear and gently biting it before going back on your throat. "come on, you're almost there, baby".

the praise made your walls flutter around nothing, the emptiness felt frustrating. you felt yourself getting impossibly close to cumming from just rubbing your clit on his bulge.

"fuck, fuck, fuck" the orgasm came crushing down on you. your back arched at the feeling, eyes and head rolling back, exposing your neck to the man under you. he didn't miss the chance to plant lingering kisses all over your throat.

"good girl" tony pushed himself up on you once again to ride out your pleasure and moved your body against him with force. he grabbed your face and kissed you rough and desperately, biting your lower lip.

his fingers tangled in your hair as the kiss turned filthy again - wet and deep and messy. every bite of his teeth sent sparks down your spine. then suddenly he pulled back just enough to yank off his shirt in one rough motion. the dim light caught every hard line of his chest filled with the scars.

without a word, tony lifted you effortlessly into him and pinned you beneath him on the couch cushion. his mouth found yours again but it wasn't gentle anymore.

tony’s hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up slowly - his lips never leaving yours as he kissed you through every movement. when the fabric was halfway off, he broke the kiss just to pull it completely over your head. the second cool air hit your bare skin, goosebumps erupted but tony warmed you fast with his mouth trailing down your neck.

his teeth grazed one shoulder before his tongue dipped into the hollow of your collarbone. each kiss grew hotter, needier, like he couldn’t get enough of you.

he reached behind to unhook your bra that stood in his way without hesitation - impatient but careful not to hurt you.

"you're perfect, sweetheart" he whispered against your bare skin.

tony kissed down your stomach, slow and deliberate - each press of his lips a promise. when he reached the waistband of your shorts, he paused. his fingers hooked into the fabric and peeled them down over your hips with torturous slowness. you could feel every brush of his knuckles against sensitive skin.

his soft lips pressed a kiss through thin panties that were already damp from everything before this moment ever started happening at all.

with one hand holding onto your thigh to keep you spread for him, he dragged those same panties down slowly - revealing everything inch by inch under dim living room light filtering through curtains.

the moment your panties were gone, he lowered his head and licked long, slow, deliberate - right through the center of your folds. a full-body shiver tore through you at the contact.

"tony!" you moaned out loud as your head fell back out of pleasure.

he did it again. then again. each stroke was different - teasing one side with his tongue while sucking gently on sensitive skin. his mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard.

"sweeter than I imagined," tony groaned im your pussy, completely lost in your pleasure.

you gasped so loud it turned into a moan that echoed off the walls. tony growled against you and doubled down immediately: tongue swirling fast now while two fingers slid deep inside without asking permission. they curled just right inside you as he sucked relentlessly.

his fingers, which had been moving slowly at first, suddenly picked up speed - thrusting deeper and faster inside you while his thumb replaced his mouth for a split second to rub tight circles over your clit then he dove back in with force. it was relentless - curving those two digits just right every time they plunged deep. the heel of his hand pressed lightly against your pelvis, adding subtle pressure that made everything feel even more intense

you could hear him breathing heavy through it all - low groans vibrating against sensitive. each sharp inhale from him told you he was getting off on every sound spilling out of your lips

"please don't stop, please" you chanted his name like a prayer as you came apart instantly, your orgasm hit like a lightning strike fast and overwhelming. the way you came from tony’s mouth was messy.

fingers clenched around tony’s hair as waves of pleasure ripped through you. your back arched off the couch cushions and your hands fisted hard in his hair, pulling slightly without meaning to.

"there you go" tony didn’t stop. not even when he felt you shaking under him. he kept sucking gently now instead of aggressively - drawing out every last pulse until it became almost too much. sensitive and overstimulated.

finally, tony slowly pulled back - lips glistening in the low light, then crawled up over you. without hesitation or warning he crashed his mouth into you, kissing messy and deep with all that pent-up hunger still burning inside him.

his sweatpants thudded softly as it hit the floor. he didn’t hesitate when he finally peeled off his boxer briefs - freeing himself completely. hard, thick and aching for attention. you almost drooled at the sight. he kicked everything aside without looking and climbed back onto the couch with you - skin on skin this time. warmth everywhere.

tony hovered over you for a breath - just looking. your lips were swollen from kissing, your chest rising and falling fast. the room was quiet except for both of your breathing. heavy with want. he lined himself up slowly - tip pressing right where it mattered most and paused again, waiting, checking if you were okay with this. when you nodded and arched into him, he pushed forward slowly.

inch by inch, stretching gently as his body slid inside yours, heat meeting heat in the most intimate way possible.

"fuuuuck, baby, so tight f'me" his jaw clenched hard, eyes squeezing shut briefly from how good it felt.

the slow, careful pace didn’t last long. once tony was fully inside - buried deep where you were warm and tight around him. his hips jerked forward instinctively, driving himself deeper with a low groan that rumbled through his chest. the rhythm started steady at first, then faster and harder.

"eyes on me, baby" each thrust made the couch creak beneath you both. tony’s breathing turned ragged, mouth falling open as pleasure overwhelmed every nerve. without warning, one hand shot up and wrapped loosely around your throat. just enough pressure to make your pulse jump under his palm. then he pinned both of your wrists above your head with one strong grip.

"fuck, feels so good" you moaned against his lips.

"oh yeah? you like how I fuck you, baby?" tony teased.

the pleasure was building too fast, like a wave about to crash. every snap of tony’s hips sent electric shocks through your core, each movement perfectly calculated to drag the most intense sensations out of you. his voice alone - low and teasing made your stomach flip.

"tony, please" you could feel him everywhere - the heat of his skin against yours where sweat-slicked bodies pressed together; the way muscles in arms flexed as he held himself up over you.

"please what, baby" he repeated slowly, voice dripping with false innocence like he hadn't just wrecked you seconds ago. his hips gave a tiny roll - not enough to give real relief; just a cruel little tease of movement. he saw it in your face immediately: that perfect mix of desperation and neediness. "use your words," he murmured against your neck, lips brushing skin between syllables.

"please, tony, wanna cum on your cock, please" your voice came out breathless, wrecked already. tony’s expression shifted. the playful teasing vanished in an instant, replaced by something far darker and hungrier. his pupils dilated further; his jaw tightened with sudden intensity.

without warning, he slammed back into you - harder this time. no slow buildup now; just raw force as his hips with renewed aggression. the couch creaked violently beneath you both like it might actually break from how rough and fast things got all of a sudden.

a groan ripped from tony’s chest at the feeling - the way you clenched around him so perfectly. "fuck!" your third orgasm hit like a tidal wave, unexpected and overwhelming, eyes rolling back to the back of your skull. one second tony was pounding into you with that perfect rhythm, the next your whole body clenched around him - walls fluttering as pleasure erupted through every nerve ending.

you gasped his name. he felt the way you squeezed him so tight and that was all he needed. his thrusts turned erratic. desperate. losing their control fast as his own release barreled toward him.

a few more rough pumps and he buried himself deep inside you and came hard - body tensing above yours like a coiled spring finally snapping. heat flooded between you both in waves. the second his orgasm peaked, tony collapsed onto you - heavy but careful not to crush you completely.

his lips found yours in a messy, desperate kiss. when he pulled back, neither of you got very far. his forehead nearly brushed yours. for a second, he simply stared at you, breathing unevenly.

your breath was still coming in slow, shaky waves - post-orgasm haze thick around your mind as you looked around the room. the tv had been playing some late-night news segment after the movie ended - volume low, background noise. neither of you really paid attention before. but then you glanced at it, eyes half-lided, mind floaty.

Benjamin Poindexter. Also known as, Dex - Bullseye. a headline flashed. there was a live shot of him brutally attacking the police - his figure was tall, broad shoulders, that confident stride you’d recognize anywhere. then they showed a mugshot of his face without the mask: dark eyes, sharp jawline, face filled with scars that were still red.

your stomach dropped. tony saw the second your eyes widened - that specific kind of panic, the sharp inhale that wasn’t pleasure-related and the way your whole body locked up. he turned his head slowly toward the tv. without hesitation dex reached for the remote and hit mute first, then power-off button right after.

the room plunged into silence the second the screen went black - no more news, just suffocating stillness. dex’s movements were precise, calculated; even now, there was something terrifyingly methodical about him.

he turned to face you fully. the dim light from your bedside lamp caught his profile - the same scars you’d seen on tv moments ago now in real life: jagged across his cheekbone, a thin line over his eyebrow. His expression wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t calm either.

the silence felt fragile now, stretched so tightly that even the smallest movement seemed capable of breaking it. dex's gaze lingered on yours before drifting toward the dark window across the room. his shoulders had gone rigid.

"I should go," he said eventually.

whatever had been there moments ago was gone. the guarded expression had returned, settling over him like armor. his jaw tightened as he looked toward the door instead of at you.

"tony?"

"dex." he corrected. closing his eyes briefly. that single hesitation told you more than anything else could have.

when he finally stood, the apartment felt strangely empty despite the fact that he was still there. every movement seemed deliberate, controlled, like he was forcing himself to leave before something happened that he couldn't take back.

"thanks for letting me use the shower," he said quietly.

you rose from the couch too. his eyes met yours then. and you saw something dangerously close to the truth. whatever it was, it scared him. the silence stretched. then he gave a small shake of his head.

"goodnight."

his hand remained on the handle. his back to you.

"for what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm really glad you opened the door tonight."

the door clicked shut behind him, and you stood there staring at it long after he was gone. the apartment suddenly felt too quiet.

slowly, you sank back onto the couch, your mind replaying every conversation, every look, every pause that had lasted a second too long. beneath the shock and confusion, you couldn't figure out what had happened. the pieces were all there, yet none of them seemed to fit together, leaving you with more questions than answers.

[aquaticmercy]

HEAR ME OUT!

Bridgerton/Regency AU | Dex x fem!Reader where Lord Benjamin Poindexter duels every man who flirts with you and leaves a trail of dead suitors in your wake.

TW: implied stalking, suggestive sexual themes, parental verbal abuse, duels/murder, obsessive jealousy, dark romance, but daddy, I love him! vibes

Lord Benjamin Poindexter, Duke of Arrowhead, is a violent man. 

And somehow, somehow, you are the problem because you like it.

You are the daughter of a viscount. Unfortunately, you are also a romantic to the point of self-destruction. You want a love match, the kind poets lose sleep over. Your father, unfortunately, wants you married to Lord Daniels, a man thirty years your senior with fine manners, excellent prospects, and the emotional texture of damp bread.

Worse, Lord Daniels looks at you as though you are already his property. Not a woman with thoughts, wants, or a heart of your own, but rather just a pretty vessel meant to warm his bed, bear his heir, and behave while doing it.

And god forbid you have hobbies! He treats your love of plants like a defect, like a girlish little habit he intends to prune out of you after the wedding.

So when you try to make your father understand that you cannot marry Lord Daniels, he does not listen. He calls you a selfish bitch.

You get into a screaming match with him after that. You tell him he is selling you off. He tells you that you are ruining your own future.

By the time you start crying, you’re running out of the house. 

You are not running forever, of course. You are not foolish enough to think you could survive alone outside your father’s house, let alone in the wild.

You just need space from your family.

So you run into the woods behind the estate, skirts damp, gloves dirtied, face hot with rage, needing only to be alone for a little while.

And that is where you meet Lord Poindexter.

Every woman in Mayfair knows of him but none of them truly knows him. Your mother once said he was “a fine match, of course,” then immediately followed it with, “Though there is something rather severe about him.”

Severe is one word. Dangerous is better.

He is hunting alone when he finds you, rifle in hand, coat across his shoulders. He frightens you, a little.

But then he lowers the rifle the moment he sees your tears. “My lady.”

“Your Grace.”

His eyes move over you, like he is cataloguing every sign of distress and deciding who must be punished for it.

You should curtsy and leave. Instead, you talk.

You tell him about Lord Daniels. About your father. About marriage without love. You tell him you would rather disappear into the woods than be handed over to a man who thinks your hobby is an inconvenience.

“I think I would like to marry a man who knows the difference between a daisy and a dahlia,” you say, bitterly.

That earns you another almost-smile. “Daisies,” he says.

“What?”

“You like daisies?”

You blink, thrown by the gentle edge of the question.

“Yes,” you say. “My favourite, in fact. They are not grand, but they survive almost anywhere. People overlook them because they are common, but I think that is rather unfair.”

Dex looks at you. He looks and looks and looks.

“My lady,” he says finally, “I do not think Lord Daniels deserves you.”

Your breath catches in the cold air. “You hardly know me, Your Grace.”

His eyes do not move away from yours. “Not yet.”

Hello?????

What the hell do you mean, Lord Poindexter? 

Because what is that? Who says that in the woods to a crying viscount’s daughter he has known for less than an hour? A madman, maybe. A loaded pistol in human form.

He escorts you to the threshold of your home, kisses your gloved fingers before he leaves, and you spend the whole night staring at your ceiling and thinking about him  like an idiot.

The next morning, Lord Daniels is dead because he had been challenged to a duel. 

Apparently, he has been shot through the heart at dawn by Lord Poindexter.

Oh, Lady Whistledown is frothing at the mouth.

The entire ton becomes rabid, because even the scribe doesn’t know why the Duke of Arrowhead challenged him to a duel. Some say Daniels owed him money. Some say Daniels insulted him at cards. Some say there was an argument over hunting rights. The men insist it must have been something respectable and masculine, because God forbid a duke shoot another lord over a girl he met weeping in the woods the day before.

But you know Dex loaded that pistol for you.

By afternoon tea, Lord Poindexter comes calling, telling your father that he would like to court his daughter.

He brought the biggest bouquet of daisies you had ever seen.

Your father grinds his teeth and hesitates, because Lord Poindexter has just killed your intended.

But also…

He is a duke.

A rich duke.

A handsome duke.

A rich, handsome duke who has come calling with flowers for your mother’s daughter, who, as your mother very gently reminds your father, has not exactly been cooperative with any of the men your father has presented to her.

So eventually, he is allowed into the drawing room.

Your father looks like he is swallowing a knife. Your mother looks like she is watching a scandal unfold in real time. 

And Dex looks only at you. He gives you the daisies like the dead man between you is merely an unfortunate scheduling matter.

From there, it snowballs.

Lord Benjamin Poindexter becomes devoted to you in a way that makes every ballroom feel like a crime scene waiting to happen.

He appears at social events he would once have avoided. He stands at the edge of every room in black gloves, watching you like the rest of the ton is background noise. He asks you to dance, and people are speechless, because the Duke of Arrowhead famously does not dance at balls.

Except now he does.

With you, and only you.

He is not charming with anyone else, though. Other ladies still try to speak to him (again, handsome, rich, duke). They flutter their lashes and smile and ask about his estate, his hunting, his views on town.

He gives them nothing.

Then you walk up and mention that your new fern cutting is struggling, and suddenly this man is leaning in like you have declared war on France.

“What kind of fern?”

“Maidenhair.”

“How much light does it need?”

And you talk and talk and talk, and the other ladies stare because this is not the Duke of Arrowhead they know. This man remembers the layout of your greenhouse, even when he claims he has never been there. He remembers the variety of your roses. He knows the shade your orchids prefer. 

He remembers everything.

And God help every Lord who even attempts to talk to you.

A lord compliments your figure too boldly?

Duel, shot through the head.

A viscount laughs about Lord Daniels and your “unfortunate effect on men”?

Duel, shot in the bowels and bled to death.

A gentleman grips your waist too hard at a ball, and you come crying to Dex because you feel ruined?

Duel. Shot through the liver at dawn so he feels the pain as the light drains from his eyes. 

There are dead lords behind you now. Injured lords. Ruined lords. Men leaving London for their “health.” Men avoiding your side of the ballroom as though you are cursed.

And maybe you should be horrified.

But there is a terrible and satisfying feeling curling inside you every time Dex’s eyes tunnel across a room because another man has made a pathetic attempt to court you.

You feel… flattered. 

Your mother is like, “He cannot continue challenging every gentleman who causes you discomfort.”

Your father is like, “He is making you impossible to marry.”

And you are like…

Is he?

Or is he making me impossible to marry to anyone but him?

Because Dex is not stupid.

He knows what this does. Every duel ties your name tighter to his. Society begins to understand your honour as his territory, your reputation as his concern. 

He wants the whole ton to know that touching you, wanting you, and embarrassing you comes with consequences.

Yes, he wants you ruined if ruined means no one else can have you. And the night Dex actually ruins you, it happens at Lord Ashcombe’s ball.

Ashcombe has been secretly admiring you all season like a man too stupid to notice the bodies piling up behind him. He asks for a dance with you and says it would be rude to refuse the host.

And you know Dex is watching.

Usually, you would say no. But today, you were feeling particularly brave and you wanted to test the limits of Dex’s affections. So you say yes.

Dex becomes murderously jealous almost immediately. 

Dex watches Ashcombe’s hand settle at your waist and crushes the wine glass in his hands. You smile and pretend not to hear the shatter. 

The moment the dance ends, Dex pulls you out to the garden and corners you there. 

The wisteria hangs heavy overhead, purple and soft and romantic in the most damning way. The music from the ballroom is muffled behind glass. Your heart is still racing from the dance, from the thrill of knowing you provoked him and he came exactly as you knew he would.

“What was that?” He demanded. 

And you pout, because apparently you have lost all sense of self-preservation. “Perhaps I am tired of waiting for a proposal.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I will not ask?”

“You have not even asked my father for my hand.”

And oh.

Oh, that wounded him. “I will.”

See, you don’t understand that yet. Dex is not delaying because he doubts his love for you. He is delaying because he is who he is. Because in his head, before he asks your father and puts the ring on your finger, he must clear the field.

He must eliminate every man who wants you and every lord who thinks he still has a chance.

And yes, that is deranged, but he enjoys hunting his romantic rivals for sport. He loves the fact that he gets to prove, again and again, that wanting you is dangerous unless you are him.

But then you ask with sad lashes, “How do I know you’re not lying, Your Grace?”

And Dex goes very still.

Then he kisses you.

His hands are on you at once, crushing your silk dress, dragging you closer. He kisses you like he is furious you ever doubted him. Like your mouth is the only argument he needs. 

You should stop him.

You could.

You do not.

Instead, you kiss him back and sigh a triumphant yes, knowing no other man will have you now. 

Eventually his hands bunches up your skirts and rips your undergarments. You gave a breathless little panic gasp, knowing no lady should let a man touch her like this before marriage.

Dex turns you carefully, presses you forward until he bends you over the garden wall, one gloved hand braced beside yours, the other holding you at the waist like he is both keeping you steady and making a claim.

“You want to know,” he murmurs, voice rough against your ear, “what husbands and wives do?”

Your breath catches.

“I need to hear you say it, Your Grace,” he says. Dex’s mouth brushes the shell of your ear, and you know that is not your title yet. You do not have a duchy. But it is the title you will take if he marries you.

When, you remind yourself, not if.

“Y-yes, Your Grace,” you managed.

“That’s my good girl,” he breathes, gloved hand tightening at your waist.

So Dex fucks you there beneath the wisteria, with the ballroom glowing behind the windows and your fingers trembling against old stone. He takes you, letting you adjust to his size as he ruins you completely and makes you understand exactly what he means to give to you once you are his wife.

He talks to you through it in that low voice, telling you this is what he will give you on your wedding night, and every night after, telling you he would not ruin you if he did not intend to keep you, telling you no other man will ever know you like this because no other man will live long enough to try.

You hate that it works.

You hate that every possessive word goes through you like fire. You hate that you believe him most when he is like this.

And when you fall apart for him, he holds you and kisses your temple through it, ever so gentle. 

He destroys your reputation with the tenderness of a man arranging flowers.

By the time it is over, your legs are unsteady, your mouth is swollen, your skirts are a scandal, and Dex is still pressed close behind you.

Then, you turn your head and see Lord Ashcombe at the edge of the path.

He looks pale and absolutely destroyed by what he has walked in on.

You glanced at Dex in a panic, but he is just casually buckling up his trousers and smiling. 

That's when you realised that Dex wanted you two to get caught.

He knew Ashcombe slipped into this part of the garden to smoke, that’s why he dragged you here, of all places! This was a trap. This was the hunting for sport he loved so much.

This was Dex proving his love in the most deranged way possible: by ruining you just enough to make Ashcombe understand he had already lost.

Dex adjusts your skirts while challenging him to a duel for your honour. 

By dawn, Ashcombe is dead. 

Lady Whistledown is frothing at the mouth.

By noon, Dex comes calling again with more daisies.

Your mother sits down very slowly. Your father says no when Dex asks for your hand.

Dex only raised an eyebrow like it was a minor obstacle.

So he leaves and comes back with a deed. He has bought you the largest greenhouse in the country. 

A scandalous duke with dead men in his wake gives you a kingdom of flowers and expects your father to keep saying no?

Please.

Your father’s protests are running thin. Your reputation is half-shredded. Your mother is exhausted. The ton already speaks of you as though you are his. Men no longer ask for your hand because they enjoy having all their organs where they are.

So finally, your father agrees.

Dex proposes in the garden with daisies everywhere, because of course he does. Because the man is unwell and romantic and terrifying and yours.

He kneels in the dirt like a duke who has never cared less about being a duke.

And you say yes with your whole stupid romantic heart.

Lady Whistledown writes of speculation like the ink has been laced with laudanum. Your mother cries. Your father looks like he’s biting through bullets. The remaining eligible men of London quietly celebrate surviving the season.

And Dex looks at you at the altar like every dead lord was simply the road he took to reach you.

You wanted a love match? 

Congratulations.

You got a love match with a body count.

—

note: reminder! This is a hear me out, so no taglist. Also, eventual full fic of this, yay or nay? (Might take me a year at this point lol)

[yearningpine]

(SUGGESTIVE. Also, established relationship and reader is implied to be part of the Knights)

For a better reference of what Lohen's wearing here, click here (post) or here (trailer where it appears).

You swear you didn't mean to look so hard.

When you swung open the front door to Lohen’s house and called out the vice captain’s name, you expected to see him in his normal knightly uniform (well, as normal as Lohen can be)— because what else would he be wearing on a day as important as orientation day for the new knight recruits?

However, instead of being greeted back with blues and whites, a verbal hello or even a knife to your face, the first thing your eyes land on is Lohen’s bare open chest.

“!? LOHEN?? ”

Your voice booms throughout the whole house, causing Lohen to raise a confused brow before setting aside his newly brewed cup of coffee to face you over the kitchen counter.

“Oh? You're finally here.” Lohen hums in a singsong tone, ignoring your currently confused state. He folds his arms over the counter and slightly bending over surface, exposing even more of his already exposed chest to your frightened eyes. “What a shame that I can't accompany you to the training grounds today. My presence is required elsewhere to keep the new recruits on their toes. Grandmaster’s orders and all.”

Lohen's words go in one ear before going out the other ear. Every ounce of your dying attention trails down from his open chest to the black vest hugging his figure tightly like hands pressing into skin, tightly shaping his lithe, agile body that had grown some muscle from that long five year expedition he went on. The long, dark belt wrapped around his small waist nearly made you gasp like a scandalised maiden. Is it normal for someone to be jealous of a belt? Is it also normal to want to replace said belt with your own hands around his waist? Please? Pretty please?

“I can hear you, you know?”

The smirk on Lohen's face widens as your jaw drops onto the floor. While you scramble to find the words to excuse your leering gaze pointed towards at your own vice captain, Lohen lifts himself off the counter and waltzes in your direction, keeping his eyes on you to pin you in your spot (as if you can go anywhere when your jaw is still on the floor).

Oh my archons he's coming here. He's swaying his hips while coming over here. Surely it's illegal for a man to look so dangerous and seductive at the same time right? Right??

Slowly, gradually, he makes his way to you and lifts your chin up with one hand. His long fingers, no longer restrained by his old gloves, carefully trace your jawline with reverence, leaving a path of lingering warmth of your flushed face that looks ready to explode at any moment. How delicate they look— these fingers that have ended countless lives are now cradling your face like a priceless jewel, taking care of you with hands that have held more weapons more preciously than any precious gemstone.

“Look at you. Even without being able to read your thoughts, I can still hear you as clear as day~”

Lohen leans in closer and brushes his mouth against your earlobe. His lips are dry, the consequences of always being exposed to the cold air out in the wild without taking proper care of them— yet that doesn’t stop him from blowing hot air into your ear. He laughs when you jump in surprise and uses his other hand to pin you in place, roughly squeezing your shoulder to keep you from running away.

“Tell me. What part of my body excites you the most? Is it my chest? My waist? My hands?” He muses. “If you tell me, I might let you have a taste of me before we leave. How does that sound?”

You choke, too taken aback to say a word. Why did he have to make it sound so dirty when nothing was going to happen!?

“Vice cap—”

You barely manage to get his title out before Lohen's lips are on you, silencing every sentence that you had fought to piece together.

Turns out, the air in his lungs aren’t the only thing hot inside of his body. His tongue (the same one you've seen used to snap back at your shared comrades with cold remarks) finds an opening past your lips and leaves a blazing path in its wake, claiming your mouth with the same dominance he shows on the battlefield. With a tilt of his head, he pushes himself deeper inside you, keeping you on your toes as he fights his way into your self conciousness, forcefully filling your thoughts with him and only him with his kisses.

“Tch, not enough…”

Lohen pulls away and clicks his tongue for a brief moment before sealing his lips on top of yours again. This time, he pushes your body to the closest wall and crushes you between it and his body, letting you feel the thin belts dangling loosely around his thighs and his thigh strap all digging into your flesh at once. The rough manuever causes strands of his teal blue hair to fall out of his hair, brushing against your face like a paintbrush drawing on a blank canvas.

A sane person might call this feeling overwhelming but none of you can truly be called sane right now. Not when one of you is currently battling with the forces of gravity to pull you inside of him, while the other of you is letting him do it.

He doesn't give you time to breathe, doesn't want to. His hands grip your hands with the force of a bow with its string pulled, pressing you against the wall until you are squeezed to his body as tightly as possible like the belt you were oh so jealous of. He doesn't even try to pull away with his head starts to feel dizzy from the lack of air. The exhilaration and excitement pushes him to take more, take everything that belongs to you and keep it for himself.

It doesn't come as a surprise to anyone when you showed up to the orientation late with a few bright hickies blooming on your neck.

【Bonus】

“So, why are you dressed like that!?”

You finally manage to ask the one question you have been dying to know.

While you frantically try to find your lost clothing scattered all across his floor, Lohen leisurely buttons up the few buttons on his shirt while humming.

“Like I said, grandmaster's orders. Instead of greeting the new recruits like everyone else, I've been tasked with testing the new recruits. To ensure that they don't pose a threat to the knights nor Mondstadt. ”

“... Did he also ask you to dress in your old adventurer’s clothes, or was that a decision you made on your own?”

“Hm, who knows~ But if I had earlier known that you liked this outfit so much, I would've worn them in front of you much sooner.”

“Please don't. I'm begging you.”

“Then beg.”

[ryuucam]

SURPRISE GIFT!

i love when short guys have such big cocks. and theyre so smug about them too. ugh.

contains venti + dahlia + lohen, virginity loss, dacryphilia, rough sex, shapeshifting <3, creampies, blowjobs

i think that to some extent, venti has the ability to change how only certain parts of his body look like. most of the time, his dick is average - it’s not like he’s showing it freely to everyone! - and it’ll stay that way when he deflowers your pretty pussy for the first time. but he’s so mean, and by the second time you’re sitting all pretty on his cock, he’s suddenly becoming bigger! his shaft is now long and thick, and his fat mushroom tip is twitching. “v-venti.. ‘s so big now..ngh!“ you can whine all you want, but he’s just gonna sit down and enjoy your shy and hesitant bouncing on his dick.

like archon, like follower, so it’s no surprise that dahlia is so similar to venti in that aspect. you can see the outline of his cock from his shorts, and for some reason (you) it’s always half hard and leaky. when he finally pounces on you, he’s like a mad man. if you say something about his size, dahlia’s only gonna get harder and fuck you more! he already is so happy to have such a pretty thing wrapped around his finger that he can’t help but shove his dick in you all at once <3 but you gotta be good, kay miss? be good and take his load.

you spent one too many nights wondering how vice captain lohen’s dick was like. poor you, humping your pillow so lost in thought, so desperate to know what the man of your dreams was packing down there. and when the time comes, and you’re on your knees in front of lohen, all pretty and doe eyes, you realize you were not actually prepared. his cock falls out of his boxers, his fat shaft hitting your forehead. “what, disappointed?” he scoffs, teasing. “n-no, ‘fcourse not, captain-“ “good, aren’t you such a doll?” don’t worry, lohen thinks you look like one even when you’re desperately trying to suck on his cock just to make him feel good!

[honeysucklewatr]

18+ | benjamin poindexter doesn’t miss.

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.

dex never misses and he never will.

[aquaticmercy]

What Makes A Good Man?

Summary : Benjamin Poindexter finds his North Star in a sweet librarian who probably should’ve run. Still, she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x Librarian! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : North star! Reader, fluff (?), angst, hurt/comfort, obsessive love, unhealthy attachment, codependency, possessive behavior, stalking, morally grey reader, explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), sex, orgasm denial, oral sex implied, voyeurism/exhibitionism themes, breeding kink, blip mentioned, conjugal visit, institutional abuse, canon-typical violence, murder, hostage situation, grief, food, pregnancy, towards the end you and Dex are mentioned to have a child called Leo. Dex isn’t the most traditional father in any sense but he eventually does love him for very specific reasons I won’t spoil. Starts two years before Daredevil season 3 and ends during DDBA season 1 (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 22k (whoopsie)

Requested by : A mix of these requests: X X X ( @faszomiskivan )

Notes : This story spans about nine years, so buckle up! Reader basically takes on Julie’s North Star role in canon, and yes, this story does explain how we get there. Enjoy!

FBI Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter didn’t know what to do with pretty.

He understood attraction in the detached, observational way he understood most things. He understood what people found objectively attractive was symmetry, pleasing aesthetics. He would observe little changes in a room when someone “beautiful” entered it. He went through it like a list: people looked longer, their voices gentled, posture adjusted without realising it. Dex knew how to recognise attractiveness because other people gave themselves away around it, because the world was always telling on itself if you paid close enough attention. But pretty was different when it was you.

Pretty was not supposed to make him forget the next thing he meant to say. Pretty was not supposed to sit under his skin like a fever. Pretty was not supposed to be you a school librarian in a pastel cardigan, with a pencil tucked through your hair and ink on your fingers, kneeling between two shelves while a little boy cried into your blouse because another child had laughed at him for reading too slowly.

Dex was at the school for an FBI community safety outreach visit. Nothing serious, nothing field-critical. It was just one of those public-facing assignments meant to make parents feel reassured and administrators feel prepared. He was supposed to stand beside the principal, nod at the right times, talk about emergency response based on a script made by the Bureau, and leave.

Instead, at the end of the day, he stood near the library doors and watched you lower your voice to soothe a child.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Don’t make yourself smaller because someone else was mean to you.”

Dex went still. The principal kept talking beside him. Something about lockdown protocols, fire exits, parent pick-up procedures, and perhaps thanking him for the visit. Dex didn’t hear any of it. He watched the little boy rub his face with his sleeve, watched you reach into your cardigan pocket and produce a tissue because of course you had one ready, because of course you had walked through life expecting the world to hurt these precious little things and had prepared yourself to help.

“Reading slowly just means you get to spend more time with the words,” you told the boy. “That’s not a bad thing.”

The boy sniffled, and you smiled at him.

Dex felt that smile land in his cold heart, somewhere it had no business being.

It would have been easier if you were only beautiful. That would have been manageable. Uncomfortable, maybe, but manageable. Beauty was a fact. Beauty could be observed, catalogued, eventually put away. You were beautiful in a way that seemed unaware of itself, unpolished and terribly human. The cardigan sleeves falling too far over your hands, the loose strand of hair stuck to your cheek, the worn soles of your cheap flats, you smiling so easily for children who probably forgot to thank you for it.

Dex thought you were gorgeous with an alarmed resentment, as if his own body had betrayed him by noticing before his mind had given permission. Then you looked up at him.

Your eyes met his across the library, and for half a second, Dex forgot what face he was supposed to be wearing. You smiled politely, like he was just another adult in the building, not a man with a gun under his jacket teaching staff how to react in case of a school shooting.

“Hi,” you said. “Sorry, do you need the library?”

The principal brightened. “This is our librarian.”

You gave Dex your name. He repeated it silently once. Then again. Then a third time, because it felt like something he should store somewhere safe, somewhere no one else could touch.

“Special Agent Poindexter,” he said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, and your hand was warm. Dex noticed that there was a tiny paper cut near your thumb. 

You were still smiling at him. Not because he was FBI, and not because he was handsome, though he was. You smiled because you were kind.

Fuck. That’s inconvenient.

Pretty made him look, but good made him stay.

That first visit should have been the last. Dex knew that. There was no operational reason for him to return personally. The school’s safety review was a basic one. The principal had his notes, but the follow-up could have been handled by email. A junior agent could have dropped off the printed materials. Anyone could have gone.

But Dex went. That second time, he poked his head to the library, and said hi. You said hi back, right after you told two boys that no, the beanbags were not for wrestling, and yes, you were very impressed by the creativity of the attempt.

Dex couldn’t stop thinking about it for a week.

The third time, he told himself it was because the library’s rear exit needed another assessment. It was technically true. The lock was old, the corridor outside had basically no surveillance, and the staff entrance was too far from the main office. He made it seem like a legitimate concern, when really, it was a neat little justification. Dex was excellent at finding those.

You were reshelving books when he appeared in the doorway, balanced on the tips of your toes as you reached for the top shelf. The hem of your blouse lifted slightly at your waist. It was nothing indecent. Barely anything at all.

Still, his mind went briefly blank. 

He cleared his throat.

You startled, turned, and smiled. “Agent Poindexter.”

Dex liked the sound of it from you. That was inconvenient too.

“Sorry,” you added, stepping down. “Am I in the way?”

“No.”

“Good. Because if you were about to tell me my fiction section is a security risk, I might cry.”

His mouth twitched before he decided to let it. “I’ll leave fiction alone.”

“Very generous of the DOJ.” That’s when he realised you were teasing him. 

Dex looked at you and thought, you have no idea what a dangerous thing that was.

After that, the visits became a pattern.

Not obvious, because Dex was never sloppy when he could help it. He didn’t go every day. He didn’t stand outside the library staring like some lovesick idiot with no self-control. He knew how to make repeated contact look procedural. 

His supervisor barely looked up from the file the fourth time it happened. “Poindexter, you handled the school outreach last week, right?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve got some updated compliance questions. I can send Nadeem.”

Dex immediately shook his head. “I’ll take it.”

His supervisor paused, but Dex kept his face still. “I’m already familiar with the layout,” he said, and what a good excuse that was. 

The whole truth was that he had thought about you every day since the first visit. You came to him through triggers. When he saw children’s drawings in a hallway. A cardigan on a mannequin The smell of old paper. A mug with painted stars on it in a café window, because you had one on your desk.

You were good, and you were pretty, and that combination felt less like attraction and more like orientation. As if Dex had spent his whole life moving without a fixed point and then walked into a school library and found one.

So, yes, he came back to the school. And, yes, eventually, he followed you home.

The first time, he told himself it was because you were the last staff member to leave again and the car park lighting was poor, so he had to make sure you were safe. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and black. You walked out with a tote bag over one shoulder and an armful of books pressed to your chest, juggling your keys between your fingers. 

Dex sat in his car and watched until you pulled out of the lot. Then he followed. He learned the route to your apartment in fourteen minutes. He cleared that you lived in a building with a front door that did not latch unless pulled hard, that the hallway light on your floor flickered, that your window faced the street and your curtains were thin enough to turn your silhouette suggestive when you moved past them with nothing on.

He hated your building immediately. The lock was bad. The street was worse. Your neighbours were careless. The man in 2B smoked on the front steps and watched women walk past like a fucking creep. The laundry room was in the basement. The side gate did not close properly.

Dex catalogued every vulnerability, then sat in his car for twenty-three minutes after your lights went out and told himself this was a reasonable concern.

He was trained to notice risk, and you just had so much of it. You were too open, too trusting, too underpaid to live somewhere safe enough. 

He found out about the money without needing to try very hard.

He figured out your exact job title, your district, and salary ranges within twenty minutes. He knew what you could afford, what you probably couldn’t, what your grocery budget looked like if your car needed work or if the school asked you to buy supplies out of pocket again. And you did, apparently. He saw the receipts in your hand one afternoon when you came out of a discount store with construction paper, glue sticks, tissues, and children’s stickers paid for with your own money.

That bothered him more than it should have. It enraged him. Not because you were helpless. Dex didn’t think that. You were competent in the way good people often were, holding ten pieces of a room together while everyone else assumed the room simply stayed whole on its own. But you were tired and stretched thin. You loved your job, the children, the library with its peeling posters and overhandled paperbacks, but love didn’t pay rent.

I could, he thought. Dex could pay your rent without noticing. He could buy groceries without checking his account. He could fix the lock. Replace the car. Put you somewhere safe and close. That’s… a good reason to ask you out, right?

If he ever had the courage. 

By the fifth visit, you laughed when you saw him. “Again?”

Dex stopped in the library doorway, because he insisted to the bureau that some of the teachers were security risks. “Again.”

“Should I be worried about the state of our emergency preparedness?”

“No.”

“Should I be worried about you?” That caught him off-guard.  Your tone was teasing, but your eyes were warm and curious.

Should I be worried about you?

Yes, he thought. Probably.

Instead, he said, “No.”

You narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion. “I don’t know. Five visits to the school. Either we are extremely unsafe, or you really like laminated evacuation maps.”

Dex looked at the map beside your door. “It’s a good map.”

You burst out laughing.

Dex loved the sound immediately and started to memorise it so he could copy it when you made a joke. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for it. He wanted to know what your laugh sounded like in his car. In his kitchen. Against his mouth.

The thought came so suddenly that his teeth clenched.

You noticed. Your smile softened, and Dex had the devastating impression that you thought you had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay.” You tilted your head. “Good.”

Good. The word followed him home.

So did you, though not physically. Not yet. But your image, your voice, the way you said his name after he told you to call him Dex, the way you remembered he took tea plain after seeing him drink it once in the staff room. The way you handed him a paper cup and said, “I made too much,” as if generosity was just something that spilled out of you naturally.

And then there were the guys around you.

He had watched a math teacher who lingered at your desk too long after school, making you laugh over some stupid story about a parent email. A divorced father at pick-up who asked whether you ever took private tutoring work and then smiled in a way Dex didn’t like. A man you met for coffee one Friday evening, two neighbourhoods over, at a café with steamed windows and terrible parking.

Dex hadn’t meant to follow you there. That was a lie.

He had followed you there because you had worn lipstick, the kind you probably put on in your rearview mirror after work, thinking no one would notice.

The date was unremarkable. The man was unremarkable. He wore a blue shirt, laughed too loudly, and checked his phone while you were talking. Dex watched from across the street with his hands still on the steering wheel and felt jealousy move through him.

The man was wrong for you.

He was careless, dull, and too impressed with himself. He made you pay for your own tea. That alone felt like a crime.

You left to do some off-the-clock work, and your date stayed. Dex waited until the man left to use the bathroom, then walked into the café and passed close enough to his table to see the phone he had left face-up beside his plate. He saw a message from someone named Laura lit the screen with a heart attached.

Dex smiled. That was useful.

The next morning, he sent an anonymous message to Laura. The following week, you didn’t see blue-shirt again.

You looked a little sad about it on Monday. Dex hated that. Then he hated the man more for making you sad. Then he told himself it was better this way.

It became easier to scare off your dates after that. All it took was an inconvenient scheduling conflict, a resurfaced truth, a gentle nudge. One man had an outstanding warrant for unpaid fines. One was married. One was simply easy to scare with the right look from the right federal agent in a parking lot.

By the sixth visit to the school, there was no reason good enough to fool anyone but himself.

A “Penultimate walkthrough,” he called it, before the final walkthrough next week. 

The principal seemed pleased, though you looked amused. “Penultimate?” you asked when Dex appeared outside the library.

“Yes.”

“Should I be honoured?”

“You should feel secure.”

“I do. The biography section has never been safer.”

He looked at you, and you smiled like you were proud of yourself. Dex couldn’t help but copy that smile back. Your expression changed when you saw it, going still for one second, like you liked him, too.

That day, he walked through the library with you while you pointed out doors and windows and places the children liked to hide during reading hour. This corner was where the overwhelmed ones went. That shelf had the books no one returned on time because they loved them too much. The lamp near the beanbag was too warm if left on all day, but you kept it anyway because the kids said it made the corner feel cozy.

“This is where they go when they need silence,” you said, gesturing toward a little space tucked behind a low shelf. A lamp. A basket of soft toys. Books with soft edges. A handmade sign that read: take a breath.

Dex looked at it.

You had made a place for children to be afraid safely. Of course you had.

“You did this?” he asked.

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s not much.”

Dex looked at you. “It is.”

You met his eyes, and for a moment, the library noise faded behind you.

After that, he wanted to give you things. He wanted to give you better shoes. Better locks. A safer car. A warmer apartment. Groceries you did not buy with mental arithmetic running behind your eyes. A kitchen where your tea sat beside his coffee because it belonged there. A bed you didn’t have to assemble yourself. A life where you did not walk to your car alone. He wanted your life folded into his so completely that you never again had to stand unprotected in the world.

It was raining the day he finally asked.

The sky had turned the school windows grey, and the car park outside shone black under the streetlights. Most of the staff had already left. The corridors had emptied, and you were the last one in the library again.

Dex had lingered through a conversation with the principal he barely needed to have after the final walkthrough. He had checked the same exit twice. He had waited near the lobby until your light was the only one still glowing down the hall.

Then you came out with a tote bag sliding down your shoulder and a cardboard box of donated books pressed against your hip. Your umbrella refused to open, and you stared at it like it had stabbed you.

“Need help?”

You startled, then relaxed when you saw him. “Dex.” You laughed, breathless and embarrassed. “Do you just appear whenever I’m losing a fight?”

“Your umbrella is inside out,” he pointed out, before taking the box from you.

You tried to hold on. “I can carry that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you take it?”

“Because it’s raining.”

You looked at him for a second, then smiled, soft and helpless and too fond for his sanity.

“Okay,” you said, as if letting him carry a box was nothing. As if it didn’t make a dark and pleased thought settle low in his chest.

He walked you to your car and put the books in the back seat. He noted the old jumper on the passenger side, the stack of overdue returns, the half-empty water bottle, the evidence of your life that was still not his.

You stood beside him under the broken umbrella, rain misting your hair.

You were gorgeous, he thought.

It struck him then in the stupidest way. No analysis or clinical separation. Just so pretty it made him feel young and strange and almost angry with himself.

“What?” you asked, smiling like you could tell he was staring.

Dex could’ve said nothing. He could have smiled, stepped back, wished you a good night, returned to his car, and come up with another reason to see you next week.

Instead, he looked at you and thought of your whole life together. Then he said it. “Have dinner with me.”

Your smile faded into surprise. The rain tapped against the broken umbrella between you. You blinked once. It wasn’t really a question, was it?  “With you?”

“Yes.”

“As in…”

“A date.”

Your cheeks warmed. Dex watched the colour rise and tilted his head.

“Oh,” you said softly. Then, after a second, you smiled. “Okay.”

Just like that, he got what he wanted. 

—

The first date was dinner at your favourite restaurant, though you couldn’t recall ever telling Dex that.

You paused outside the little place with the handwritten menu in the window, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Oh,” you said, surprised. “I love this place.”

Dex looked down at you, calm as anything. “Do you?”

You laughed. “I come here all the time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The lie was smooth, but Dex said it with such calm that you accepted it because you wanted to. So you smiled up at him and said, “Then we have similar taste.”

His eyes held on your face. “Maybe we do.”

“Maybe we belong together then,” you joked.

Dex’s brain went to a catastrophic halt.

You didn’t see it from the outside, not really. His face barely changed. Maybe his eyes went a little too still. Maybe his fingers pressed once, carefully, against your hand where it rested on his sleeve.

But inside him, his heart lit up white-hot. Belong together.

You had said it so lightly. Dex heard it like a verdict. Like the universe had leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder and said, yes, that one.

He opened the restaurant door for you and followed you inside with your words still burning through him.

You had no idea he had chosen this restaurant because he had followed you there three weeks before, parked across the street while you sat by the window with two friends and laughed over a bowl of pasta. You had no idea he had watched you order the same thing twice. You had no idea he knew which seat you liked, which dessert you split with your friend and pretended not to want more of, which route you took home afterward, how tightly you held your coat closed when the wind picked up.

But yeah, dinner was great. 

The second date was coffee because you were trying to take things slower.

He was already there when you arrived, sitting by the window with your drink waiting in front of the empty chair. Your exact order, right size, right syrup.  He claimed similar taste innocently again. 

You should have been alarmed. Instead, you chuckled and sat down.

Coffee turned into a walk. The walk turned into him standing beside your car, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He looked at your mouth once, then back at your eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even answer. You just stood on your tip toes and kissed him, carefully at first. But his hand came to cup your face, so you made a hum into his mouth and felt him unravel. 

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. You smiled, dazed. 

The third date was dinner at his apartment.

He cooked for you, because apparently Dex did everything like it was a mission and feeding you was no exception. His apartment was neat  and perfectly arranged, but then you were there with your jacket on the back of his chair and your laugh in his kitchen, and he kept looking at those little disruptions were worth you being here.

The food was good, so you smiled and pushed a little harder. “You’re very good at taking care of me.”

Dex went still, and you could’ve sworn his ears went pink. 

After dinner, you kissed him on the couch. That was all it was supposed to be: A kiss.

Yes, maybe Dex made it feel a little too deep. Maybe it was too hungry. Maybe it was a little reckless, considering this was only the third date and you weren't the kind of woman who did things like this. You didn’t tumble into a man’s bed after three dates and let your body make decisions your brain would have to defend in the morning.

Your brain was trying, to be fair. The little voices there had formed a whole committee meeting about it.

This is too fast. This is insane. You have work tomorrow. You barely know him.

Unfortunately, Dex was kissing you, open-mouthed and desperate, his hands tight on your waist, breathing against you like every second of restraint physically hurt him, and your body didn’t seem particularly interested in attending the discussion.

You climbed into his lap because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

Dex let out a breathy moan when you settled over him,  his head tipping back against the couch. His shirt was still on, but you had already pulled half the buttons open, enough to get your hands on skin, enough to feel his chest rise under your palms every time your mouth found his again.

Your skirt was hiked high around your thighs, his fingers trembling at the hem of it.

Dex, who could easily take what he wanted, sat beneath you with his hands on your thighs and waited for you to tell him he was allowed.

You kissed him harder for it.

His mouth opened under yours immediately, wet and so eager that you felt your stomach twist. You threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged once, just to steady yourself, just to feel him closer.

Dex sighed into your mouth.

“Oh,” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes opened, fixed on you. You smiled because you understood then that Benjamin Poindexter liked being told what to do.

He wanted to be good for you. He wanted to earn every sound you made.

You shifted in his lap, and his whole body reacted. His fingers slid higher under your skirt, then stopped again.

“Dex,” you breathed.

His throat worked. “Tell me.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “Touch me.”

He obeyed so fast it made you gasp.

Your panties were pulled to the side with clumsy, shaking urgency, his pants shoved down just enough because neither of you had the patience anymore. It was filthy how desperate it was. There was no time for the bedroom, no careful undressing, no pretending this was slower than it was. It was you in his lap, his open shirt under your hands, your skirt bunched around your waist, both of you panting into each other’s mouths like you had been struck by fucking lightning.

He was so intense you expected him to take over. Because he could’ve flipped you under him. He could have pinned you to the couch and made you forget every thought you had ever had. He had the body, he had muscles, he had the skills. 

Instead, he looked at you like he needed permission to breathe. “Like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, nails dragging over his chest nodding frantically. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Dex listened like obedience was devotion, like your pleasure was a commandment, like the only thing in the world that mattered was keeping you exactly like this: skirt up, mouth open, shaking in his lap while he looked up at you like you were holy.

You knew this was too quick. You never had one night stands. Even three dates was way too quick, by your standards. 

But his hands were on your waist, his shirt was open, his breathing was breaking, and when you whispered, “Fuck, baby,” he shuddered so hard beneath you that all your remaining common sense died on the couch.

Afterward, you stayed folded against him, both of you warm and breathless, your face tucked into his neck.

Dex’s hand moved slowly up your back, careful now. 

You lifted your head enough to look at him. His hair was wrecked. His mouth was red. His eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, though there was still a frightening stillness underneath, satisfied and hungry and already too attached.

You touched his cheek. “I should probably go home.”

Dex went still.

He looked at you from beneath those dark lashes, still flushed, still breathing hard, still beautiful enough to make bad decisions feel like fate. “Stay the night,” he said, trying not to say please.

You swallowed. “I have work tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“My things are at home.”

“You can wear something of mine.”

“I need my toothbrush.”

“I have a spare.”

A laugh slipped out of you, helpless and fond. Of course he did. 

Dex’s mouth barely moved, and it was always a smile.

He looked at you like he needed you to say yes and hated that you could tell. Like letting you leave after this would physically hurt. Like you had crawled into his lap and accidentally turned yourself into the centre of his orbit.

You should go home. Your sensible little inner committee was banging on the table now.

But Dex looked at you like he was unaware he had puppy dog eyes, and you couldn’t say no to that, right? 

So you kissed him once. “M’kay, baby,” you said.

Dex held you tighter then, giving an upbeat little whine as he peppered kisses on your collarbone.

Little did you know, there was no going back now. 

—

The next day, Dex picked you up from work, even though you hadn’t asked him to.

He had driven you that morning as promised, his hands on your waist while he kissed you goodbye like he was trying not to follow you into the school library.

You had spent the whole day after that with his shirt on, but it was terribly oversized on you. Still, you managed to make it look intentional under your blazer, tucked and adjusted just enough that no one could tell. You had pinned your hair neatly, put your librarian face on, and acted very normal. Very professional of you, honestly.

Then the final bell rang, the library emptied, and by the time you stepped out of the front entrance with your bag over your shoulder, Dex was already there, waiting by his car with a suit jacket on and badge hidden. 

You stopped mid-step. “Oh,” you said, lighting up.  Beside you, Jonathan stopped too.

Jonathan, the music teacher. Nice Jonathan. Harmless Jonathan. Jonathan who lived two streets away from you and always carried a canvas tote bag with an embarrassing number of reusable water bottles inside it. He had been walking with you because you didn’t have your car with you and he offered to drive you home because you were both headed in the same direction. 

Dex’s grip tightened around his keys.

You were still wearing his shirt, and this man wanted to take you home? Cute.

“Dex?” you called, surprised.

Dex barely spared Johnathan a glance. He came to you instead, handsome in that frightening l way, his attention fixed you that it made the other man feel like background noise.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Picking you up.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Why?”

Because you were wearing my shirt. Because I spent all day knowing you were out of sight. Because I don’t like it when you’re not with me.

“Your car’s not here,” he said, and that was reasonable enough, right?

“Oh.” You glanced back. “Jonathan was going to offer me a ride. He lives a few blocks away, so—”

“No.” The word came out flat.

You tilted your head, confused. You tried to recover, sweet thing that you were, turning half toward the man beside you. “Dex, this is Jonathan. He’s the music teacher. Jonathan, this is—”

Dex opened the passenger door. “You’re coming with me.”

Jonathan stopped with his polite smile halfway formed.

You looked at Dex for a second, and your sensible little inner voice probably tried to say something about how this was strange. 

Then Dex looked at you, and you melted, because fuck! Some foolish, lovesick part of you found that endearing. He came all this way for me? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonathan,” you said gently.

Dex shut the passenger door after you climbed in and stood there for one extra second, hand still on the handle, the word burning through him. What did that mean?

He got into the car.

The drive started silent. You settled beside him, and Dex saw you cozy up one the corner of his eye and had to tighten both hands on the wheel.

“Tomorrow?” he asked finally.

You looked over. “Hm?”

“You said you’d see him tomorrow.”

A little smile pulled at your mouth. You leaned across the console and kissed his cheek, like you thought jealousy was cute when it came from him.

“We work together, Dex.”

Oh. Okay. Okay. That’s fine, right?

Normal boyfriends were fine with that, right?

Still.

Then, asked if you wanted to come over to his place again because he couldn’t help himself. Because having you in the passenger seat made it feel obscene to let you leave again. Because you were already dressed in his things and smelled faintly like his apartment and he couldn’t understand why the day had to end anywhere else.

You looked down at yourself and laughed. “Dex, I am literally wearing your clothes. I need to go to mine.”

He kept his expression calm, but his fingers went still on the wheel.

You noticed enough to furrow your brows. “I’ve got work stuff to do,” you said. “I’ll call soon, okay?”

He nodded. He could do that. He could be normal. He could drive you to your car and let you go back to your apartment with its bad lock and pathetic hallway light and no trace of him except the marks he had left under your clothes. He could.

He pulled up beside your car outside your building and watched you unbuckle your seatbelt. You said your goodbyes and were halfway out when he blurted out, “I love you.”

You stopped.

Fuck. Fuck! 

He had not planned it like that. Not in the car, and definitely not with you leaving. But there it was.

You turned back to him slowly.

For a second, you bit your lip in shock. 

It was quick. Too quick to say that. You’ve been going on dates for what? Two weeks? 

You supposed he’d been around the school for two months now with the outreach program. But even that didn’t really make sense, right?

So now, your inner committee was no longer holding a meeting. It was pounding on the table, screaming that this was insane, that love wasn’t supposed to arrive between a third date and a school pick-up, that normal people didn’t do this.

But Dex was looking at you like you hung the stars for him. 

So leaned back into the car and kissed him. Gently first, then deeper, because his hand found your jaw like he had been waiting for permission to touch you again since the school gates.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

Oh. Oh.

You left before you could take it back.

Dex watched you wave from your door, hands resting on the wheel, mouth curved in a small, helpless smile he couldn’t seem to stop.

She loves me.

The thought repeated all the way home.

She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

By the time he reached his apartment, he was still smiling.

Then he opened the door, and the smile vanished immediately because you were not there.

The apartment was exactly the same as it had been that morning, clean and perfectly ordered, but suddenly none of that mattered. The couch was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bed was empty. All those neat, controlled rooms had become useless because you weren’t inside them.

Dex stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand and felt his stomach in him turn over.

You loved him, so why were you not here?

The question sat in his head with terrible simplicity. 

You loved him. He loved you. He could take care of you. He had the space, the money, the locks, the discipline. Your apartment was unsafe. Your building was bad. Your neighbours were careless. Jonathan from music lived too close. The world kept touching you and taking from you and making you tired.

Here was safer. Here, it made sense. Here, he could see you.

The thought came fully formed before he knew to stop it.

He could go get you.

He could get in the car. Drive to your apartment. Knock. Tell you that you should change your mind. Tell you the city was unsafe. Tell you your lock was bad. Tell you to pack a bag. Tell you you belonged in his apartment. Tell you until you believed him.

If you said no, he could still bring you back.

He was stronger than you. Faster than you. He was trained. He knew exactly how to move you without hurting too badly. He could overpower you, get you inside his apartment, lock the door, hide the keys, take your phone just for a while. He’d you keep warm. Feed you. Talk to you until the panic passed. He’d do that just until you understood. Because you would understand.

You loved him, so eventually you would understand that this was not cruelty, right?  This was not punishment. This was him seeing the truth faster than you did. This was him making the hard decision because someone had to. This was him saving you from all the places that were not him.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that was kidnapping.

Actually, legally, literally kidnapping.

Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Coercion. Felony. It was bad.

“Oh,” he whispered. Then, after a beat, “Shit.”

His breath went wrong. The heat in him snapped into panic so quickly he nearly staggered. He saw himself then, not as a man in love, not as someone protecting his girlfriend, but as exactly the kind of thing you would need protecting from.

No.

No, no, no.

He backed away from the door like it had opened onto a cliff.

He loved you. He loved you. He wasn’t going to make you afraid of him. He wasn’t going to put his hands on you. He wasn’t going to lock you inside his life and pretend that was the same thing as being chosen.

Even if some awful part of him wanted to. Especially because some awful part of him wanted to.

Dex went to the drawer with shaking hands and pulled out the tapes.

Dr. Eileen Mercer’s voice filled the apartment through a soft crackle of static. “Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex. It just works better with a North Star to guide you.”

Dex sank onto the couch.

North Star.

That was what you were.

Of course you were. You, with your kind heart and your gentle voice and your stupidly good heart. You, making safe corners for children. 

He had simply made the catastrophic mistake of falling in love with the star.  Which complicated things.

Because you were supposed to guide him, not belong to him. You were supposed to be fixed above him, untouchable enough to follow. Not in his apartment. Not in his bed. Not wearing his shirt and saying I love you in his car like you had any idea what those words would do to a man like him.

Dex pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and forced himself to breathe while the tape kept playing through the static.

The apartment was still wrong without you. His hands still shook. The need to leave and get you didn’t disappear just because he had named it correctly. The desire sat there, dark and patient, waiting for him to mistake it for devotion again. But he stayed where he was.

He stayed on the couch with his teeth clenched so hard it ached, listening to the tape like it was the only thing holding him in place.

He loved you. That had to mean something better than possession. It had to.

So Dex sat in the empty apartment and tried, breath by breath, to become the kind of man who could love his North Star without building a sky small enough to trap her.

—

Dex barely made it through the week by hearing your voice through the phone.

You were busy with the school, chaperoning a trip, dealing with children and permission slips and packed lunches and museum gift shops, so he did the good thing, the normal thing. He didn’t show up. He didn’t follow the bus route. He didn’t appear outside your apartment just because he knew you would be exhausted.

Well. Maybe he just did it once, but he didn’t even stop! He just took a quick peek around the block to make sure you got home safe. 

After that, he took it one day at a time.

At night, he lay in bed with the phone pressed to his ear and listened to you talk when you called. You told him about the children, the chaos, the little girl who tried to correct the tour guide, the boy who cried because his sandwich got crushed in his bag.

He hated that he couldn't tell if you were warm enough. Hated that you sounded exhausted and he wasn’t there to put a blanket over your shoulders or press his mouth to your temple or make the world stop asking things of you for five minutes. But he behaved.

When you said, “I’m so tired, baby,” he closed his eyes like the world wrapped a hand around his throat.

When you said, “I miss you,” he pressed his fist against his mouth until the feeling passed enough for him to answer normally.

“I miss you too.” An understatement so violent it almost made him laugh.

Then you came back to regular life, and started spending more time with him. 

And naturally, you started spending more nights at his place.

It was easy. His apartment was closer to the school. His shower was better. His fridge always had food you liked. Your tea was already in his cupboard. Your toothbrush was still in his bathroom from that first night, and the spare charger by his bed somehow became yours without either of you discussing it.

One night a week became two. Two nights a week became most of the week.

Your laundry ended up in his machine. Your favourite cardigan stayed folded in his bedroom. Your substitute teaching papers got graded at his kitchen table while he made dinner. Your commute became easier because he drove you when he could, and when he couldn’t, he made sure your car had petrol, the tyres were checked, and the weird noise under the hood had been fixed before it became a problem.

It was dangerous, how much easier he made your life.

Dangerous because you were a school librarian on a school librarian salary, and Dex had big boy FBI paychecks and paid for groceries without mentally rearranging the rest of the month around it.

You tried to argue about that once. He looked genuinely offended.

“I should help,” you said.

“You do.”

“I mean with bills.”

“You buy supplies for children who are not yours because no one else will. Let me pay for dinner.”

That shut you up, not because it was fair. But because it was kind. Or because it sounded kind. Or because, with Dex, the difference had started to blur.

Your car made a noise; he had it checked. Your shoes wore thin; a new pair appeared by the door. You mentioned once that you were out of your favourite cereal, and the next morning there were two boxes in his cupboard.

By five months, you were barely at your own apartment.

You still paid rent. You still had mail there. Technically, you still lived there. But most nights, you went home to Dex.

Then one night, while you sat at his kitchen table grading reading logs and wearing one of his shirts under your cardigan, Dex said, “You should move in.”

You looked up. “What?”

“You should move in here.”

He said it so calmly. Like he was pointing out the weather. Like he had not been waiting weeks to say it. Like he had not already measured the space in his closet, looked up your lease date, and made sure there was room for your books.

You felt your inner committee rise from the dead.

Babe. What the fuck. Five months. Are you actually considering this? What’s wrong with you? Huh?

So you pushed back, but not very well.

“Dex,” you said, looking around his apartment. “We’ve been dating for five months.”

“I know.”

“Moving in would be very quick.”

“I know.”

But would it? You were at his kitchen table in one of his shirts, your papers stacked on his coffee table, your mug in his sink, your shoes by his door. Half your life was already there.

Suddenly, Dex leaned down and kissed you before you could keep arguing.

He did it because he had seen men do it in movies when they wanted to calm the woman they loved. 

That was how affection started with him, really.  He imitated touch. He put a hand on your waist because that was what boyfriends did. He rubbed circles over your hip because that was what loving partners did.

But then you melted under his hands and sighed into his mouth. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt.

And Dex thought, oh. So that was what it was supposed to feel like.

So after the first time, it no longer felt like pretending. It was no longer fake, no longer a costume he wore to convince you he could be normal.

He liked this. He liked the warmth beneath his palms. Liked the trusting weight of you leaning into him. Liked that touching you made him feel whole.  His thumbs kept moving in slow circles at your hips, more because he wanted to than because he remembered he was supposed to.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes like the words had done exactly what he hoped they would. “Dex…”

“You love me too.”

You laughed softly. “That is a terrible argument.”

“It’s my best one.”

Unfortunately, it was.

You hummed, but you were smiling now, and Dex felt his whole chest go warm.

He kissed you again, a little braver this time, still rubbing those gentle circles into your hips like he had finally found a love language that made sense in his hands.

You sighed, and he smiled against your mouth. It surprised him, even after five months, how much he wanted to be good at this. 

“Okay,” you whispered.

Dex went very still.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him, soft and doomed and already half his. “Okay, baby. I’ll move in.”

—

People got weird when you told them you had moved in with Dex.

Your friends did that careful-smile thing. Your mother went quiet on the phone before saying, “Already?” like the word had three question marks and a police report attached. One coworker just blinked at you over her mug and said, “Wow. That’s… fast.”

You kept giving the same answers. My lease was ending. His place is closer. It makes sense financially. He takes care of me.

Jonathan was the most obvious about it.

You told him in the staff room, after he was complaining about one of his classes committing recorder-based psychological warfare. “I moved in with Dex,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Slowly, he turned around. “Your fed boyfriend?”

“He has a name.”

“Agent Intense?”

“Dex.”

“Right. Your fed boyfriend.” He stared at you. “That’s so fast.”

You sighed. Here we go again. “My lease was ending.”

“You’ve known him for six months.”

“If you count his school outreach, seven actually.”

“That’s not better.”

You crossed your arms, already defensive. “He’s not bad.”

“I didn’t say bad,” he shrugged, “I think more like…  creepy.”

“Jonathan.”

“What? He once looked at me like I was trying to steal you because I offered you a ride home.”

“He’s just protective, that’s all,” you huffed.

“I’m gay.”

“I know that.”

“Does he?”

“He does now,” you said.

“Does he care?”

You opened your mouth and closed it. Because no, Dex didn’t care when you told him. Johnathan was still just another person standing between you and him, platonic or romantic or whatever. Jonathan could have been gay, married, celibate, and allergic to women, and Dex still would have watched him with that flat suspicion the second he stood too close to you.

Jonathan pointed his teaspoon at you. “Exactly.”

Your phone buzzed before you could answer.

Dex: Did you eat lunch?

You smiled and held up the phone like evidence. “See? He’s sweet.”

Jonathan looked at the message, then at you. “Sure,” he said carefully. “Sweet.”

You texted back yes, baby, and when Dex replied within seconds, Jonathan sighed. You ignored him.

After all, Dex cared. That was all.

—

The people who thought the move-in was quick were in for a treat, because one month after you moved into Dex’s apartment, he asked you to marry him in the back seat of his car.

See, you had shown up because summer holidays had made you stupid with missing him. You were bored. You had no school, no library chaos, no children asking where the glitter glue went. Just too much free time and the embarrassing realization that you had become the kind of woman who missed her boyfriend at eleven-thirty in the morning like an addict running out of nicotine patches.

So you brought him lunch and went to his workplace. That was a normal girlfriend thing, right? Except the lunch did not get opened.

Dex had barely gotten the car door shut before you were kissing him, and he had barely made it through the first breath of your mouth before his hand slid under your thigh and dragged you into his lap in the back seat.

“Dex,” you laughed into his mouth.

He made a low and lewd sound into his mouth. Then his hands were on you again, pushing your skirt up around your hips with a little too much force, a little too much need, until the seam gave with an unmistakable rip of fabric.

Dex stared at the torn fabric in his hand with the horrified focus of a man who had committed a federal offence against cotton blend. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“That is not the point,” you chuckled.

“I’ll buy you five.”

You should have been annoyed. But his eyes were black with want, and there was something so obscenely flattering about Benjamin Poindexter accidentally ruining your clothes because he needed you too badly to be careful. So you tightened your fist in his tie and pulled. “Later,” you whispered.

Dex obeyed, because liked it when you pulled him by it. He liked the pressure, the direction, the filthy little reminder that he was still half-dressed for work while you were undoing him in the back of his own car. His mouth opened under yours, hands clamped on your hips like he was trying not to lose the last piece of his mind.

Your inner committee, exhausted from the moving-in situation and still technically on unpaid leave, attempted to return to service.

Babe. This is his workplace. This is a federal garage.

Babe, your skirt is ripped.

Babe, we cannot keep replacing clothes every time this man gets horny and emotional.

Then Dex kissed down your throat and the committee immediately lost quorum.

By the time you were done and either of you remembered he had to go back inside, the windows were fogged at the edges. His hair was ruined from your hands. His tie was loose and crooked. His shirt was open at the collar, your lipstick low enough on his skin that he would need to button all the way up and pray no one noticed. His mouth was swollen. 

You sat in his lap, skirt torn and shoved badly back into place, one hand still looped lazily around his tie. “You have to go back in,” you whispered.

His forehead rested against yours. “I know.”

“You look…”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled. “Compromised.”

Dex’s mouth twitched. His thumbs moved on your thighs, circling through the thin fabric of your ruined skirt.

You tugged his tie gently. “I should let you go.”

His hands tightened, only barely.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, as if he would die if he let you leave without saying it first.

For a second, you just stared at him. Somewhere inside your head, your inner committee walked back into the room, saw the situation, and immediately considered retiring.

Babe, no. Babe, absolutely not. Babe, stand up for yourself!

“What?” you managed to choke out.

“Marry me,” Dex calmly, like the idea had been sitting in him for weeks, waiting for the right opening, and apparently the right opening was you flushed and breathless in his back seat. 

“Dex.”

“I love you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Your inner committee sighed so hard the lights flickered.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “You love me. We already live together. It gives you legal protection. If something happens to me, you’re taken care of. If something happens to you, they call me first.”

“You are making a case,” you realised, though you shouldn't have been surprised.

He just shrugged. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t get married.”

There it was, the simple Dex logic of it: I love you. You love me. Why wouldn’t we?

It was reasonable if you ignored the fact that he was clearly halfway to losing his mind and had probably been planning this long before he said it out loud. And underneath that, there was the thing he did not say. Because sure, the practical reasons were true. But underneath all that, there was the darker, sweeter logic he kept tucked behind his teeth. If you were only his girlfriend, you could change your mind. You could wake up one morning, decide he was too much, pack a bag, and walk out before he had time to kiss you and remind you how gentle he could be when he was trying. A girlfriend could leave in one terrible conversation. A wife had to take steps.

And Dex loved steps. You’d have to go through lawyers, papers, and waiting periods. A marriage would buy him time, and time meant he could come to you, he could hold your face, and remind you that you loved him as much as he loved you. He would never hurt. But if the law could slow you down long enough for him to convince you that leaving was a mistake, Dex couldn’t help loving that, too.

He didn’t say that, though. He only looked at you with his hair mussed and his mouth ruined and said, “It makes sense.”

Your inner committee made one last brave attempt: Babe. Please. We JUST moved in.

But you banged the gavel at the head of your imaginary table and pouted. But look at him! He’s so hot! 

In the real world, Dex was looking at you like you were already his wife, like the ring was only a formality. Then he kissed you, tenderly this time.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.

The committee dropped their clipboard. Fine, you win, they seemed to say, Whatever you say, handsome.

You laughed weakly into the kiss, and Dex pulled back just enough to look at you.

“What?”

You touched his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and felt him lean into it like affection was still new enough to surprise him.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand tightening in his tie. “Yes, baby. I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he looked almost scared by how happy it made him. Then his arms locked around your waist and pulled you close, his face turning into your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“But you really do have to go back inside,” you whispered with a chuckle.

Dex lifted his head. He looked ruined, happy, and possessive in a way that should have made you run but somehow only made you kiss him again. “I have ten more minutes.”

You giggled and pulled him in by the tie.

Your inner committee walked directly into the sea, never to be seen again.

—

Dex let you pick the rings.

The engagement ring first, because he said you were the one wearing it, so you should love it. Then the wedding bands, including his, even though he tried to act like he didn’t care what his looked like. That lasted until you slid a simple band onto his finger in the shop and watched his whole face go still, almost overwhelmed.

A month later, you married him at the courthouse.

It was too soon for anyone around you to feel truly comfortable about it. Your family came anyway. Your friends came anyway. Even Jonathan, looking like he had accepted his role as the last remaining voice of reason, and still failing anyway. On Dex’s side, there was a couple of coworkers standing near the back in neat suits, polite and reserved, present more like witnesses than family.

Dex had no parents, no siblings, no cousins, no childhood friends with embarrassing stories. No one who could say they had known him when he was young. No one who could reassure your parents he was a good person through and through. Just coworkers, Ray congratulating him as the rest of his coworkers stood on the courthouse hallway while your side filled the room with nervous affection and badly hidden concern.

You saw the way your mother looked at him. The way your friends glanced at one another when they realised there was no one on his side who really belonged to him. It made them uneasy, and because you loved him, you rushed to explain it in your head before anyone even asked. His parents were dead. He grew up alone. It was complicated. He didn't have people the way other people had people.

You said little pieces of that aloud, as if it explained half of it away. Maybe to you, it did. Maybe that was a teeny part of the reason you kept choosing him. Dex had no one, and then he had you. But it was also tender, in its own damaged way. He stood across the room in his suit, eyes finding you every few seconds as if checking that you were still real, still walking toward him eventually. He looked alone until he looked at you.

The problem was not that Dex didn't love you. Anyone with eyes could see that he clearly did. That was half the horror, really. 

He loved you devoutly, too much for such a small courthouse. His attention followed you like a sniper scope. When someone hugged you, his eyes moved there. When Jonathan made you laugh, his face soured. When you looked at him, though, everything in him relaxed so completely that even your worried friends had to see it.

The ceremony itself was almost absurdly short, just a few legal words. A few signatures. Then came the ring that he slid on to your finger with a reverence that made your throat ache. His thumb lingered over the band once it was in place, brushing the metal like proof, like possession he was trying very hard to make gentle.

Your family saw it. Your friends saw it. Ray probably saw it too. But no one said anything anymore. They had tried to warn you. They had tried to tell you it was fast, intense, worrying. They had tried to point out all the red flags. But standing there, with Dex looking at your ring like the world had finally given him permission to keep the one good thing he had found, you knew why none of their warnings had worked.

Because you knew they were not entirely wrong. You just loved him anyway.

When Dex kissed you, it was gentle enough to make your mother cry. His hand came to your cheek, and his mouth touched yours like he was afraid of doing it wrong in front of everyone. But you felt the restraint beneath it, the hunger and devotion. The way he kissed you softly because that was what you deserved, even when every dark part of him wanted to hold on harder and bruise and mark his territory.

—

Two years later, Dex was in prison.

Jonathan tried not to say I told you so. To his credit, he really did try. He stood in your apartment after everything went public, arms folded too tightly, mouth pressed into a line while the news tore the FBI corruption apart in digestible pieces. Even family and friends looked at you like this was the ending they had feared from the start.

But you knew better.

Not because Dex was innocent. He wasn’t. You loved him too much to lie about that. He had done terrible things. There were parts of him that had always been hungry for direction, always been too easy for the wrong man to use.

And Fisk had used him perfectly.He had found every fracture in Dex and pressed his thumb into it. The instability, the need to be useful. The desperate, obsessive love Dex had for you. 

Fisk kept you in a basement beneath one of his shell properties and let the world mourn you.

That was the cruelty of it: Fisk did not need you dead. Dead was final. Dead meant there was nothing left to use. But alive, hidden in a cold and windowless place? That made you useful. That made you leverage. Fisk could keep your body locked away while giving Dex a grief designed to break him.

So Fisk staged your death. He built the lie piece by piece. He staged an accident, a fire. The reports say that the body burned beyond recognition was yours, and even had an urn with someone else’s ashes in it with your paperwork attached just in case people started asking questions.

Dex believed it, because why wouldn’t he? Fisk made sure every piece fit. Even Matt believed it for a while. Everyone did.

So when Dex found it, he carried the urn like it was alive. He thought he figured out that Fisk was manipulating him, which was correct. He thought that Fisk had killed you, which was false.

He put the ashes in the passenger seat. He drove to the hotel with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over sometimes, hovering near the metal like it might feel lonely. He talked to it in that broken voice of his, the one he would have been humiliated for anyone living to hear. He told the urn things. He apologised. He told you he loved you.

Then Dex’s spine broke.

And you were found by the cops shortly after, alive. Bruised, starved, shaking under a blanket in the basement Fisk had buried you in, still asking for Dex before your voice had fully come back.

So when they told you he went into surgery under guard, he had fought your way into that hospital room on the only ground no one could deny: you were his wife, his next of kin, his legal family. You should be allowed in, and you eventually got what you wanted. 

During recovery, he looked wrong under hospital lights. The tubes and monitors and bandages made him look less like the terrifying thing the news kept replaying. Guards stood by the door. His wrists were shackled to the bed rails, his ankles too. You scoffed at that but couldn’t do anything about it, really. 

When his eyes opened, he came back fighting. His hands jerked against the restraints, chains snapping taut with a hard metal sound that made one of the guards shift forward.

“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Dex, don’t.”

His head turned and saw you. Suddenly, thoughts halted to a stop.

You had seen Dex angry. Jealous. Focused. You had seen him desperate in your bed and gentle in your kitchen. You had seen him worshipful, frightening, almost boyish with love.

You had never seen him look like that. Like he was staring at a ghost and trying to decide whether believing in it would kill him.

His mouth parted, but sound came out.

You stepped closer, hands trembling. “Hi, baby.”

Dex’s breath broke. “You’re alive.”

Your chest caved in. “yeah.”

“No.” His voice cracked in disbelief. “No, I saw— Fisk said—”

“I know.”

“You’re alive,” he said again, louder now, almost frantic. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”

“I’m here.”

The chains snapped tight again when he tried to reach for you. Pain tore across his nerves, but he barely seemed to feel it. His eyes stayed locked on yours,wild and terrified, like if he looked away, you would vanish and the whole nightmare would become true again.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.”

You moved to him before anyone could stop you. Your fingers found his hand where the shackle allowed, careful around the bruised skin. His grip closed around yours instantly, weak but desperate, like even broken he could not help trying to hold on.

Your wedding ring caught the light. It was a reminder that he was still yours, you were still his, and whatever was left of him seemed to collapse under the proof.

“You’re alive.”

—

Dex was incarcerated after he healed enough to be moved.

Not rehabilitated. Not treated. Incarcerated.

They put him in solitary confinement like that could contain him. Like isolation would ever make him better. Like locking him away from voices and faces and human contact would somehow fix a man whose worst injuries had always come from being left alone too long with his own head.

You hated it. So for three years, you fought to get your husband moved somewhere that might actually help him.

Three years of forms, lawyers, psychiatric evaluations, and rejected petitions. Three years of people looking at Benjamin Poindexter and seeing only what he had done, three years of people looking at you, Mrs. Poindexter, as if you were insane because you still loved him. Three years of explaining, again and again, that solitary confinement was not treatment. And Dex had always been dangerous when he was quiet.

Your old school library job no longer paid enough to carry the life Fisk had torn apart, so you took a better job at a public library. It's a better salary, but longer hours. More responsibility. You now had to think about staff rotas, community programmes, council meetings, difficult patrons, funding cuts, late nights under fluorescent lights while you built displays and answered emails with your wedding ring flashing every time your hands crossed the keyboard.

Every other day, you went to the prison.

Sometimes straight from work, your blazer wrinkled, your tote bag full of library paperwork, your lipstick faded from too many cups of coffee. Sometimes on your days off, when you could pretend the visit was the centre of the day instead of an activity squeezed between legal calls and grocery shopping and a life you had never wanted to live without him in it.

Dex always noticed when you were tired before you said it. He noticed when your shoes were new. He noticed when you had cut your hair, even slightly. He noticed when you had skipped lunch and lied about it. Even in prison uniform, even under the dead light of the visiting room, Dex was still your husband in all the ways that made people uncomfortable and all the ways that kept you coming back.

You told him about your days. You told him about the elderly man who came into the library every Wednesday to read the newspaper and complain about the chairs. The little girl who asked for “a book with a dragon but not a mean dragon because mean dragons have bad vibes.” The teenager who pretended not to care about poetry and then checked out three collections when his friends were not looking. You told him about staff meetings, leaky ceilings, broken printers, new shelving systems.

There were visits where he barely spoke. But even then, his eyes stayed on you. Even then, his fingers moved toward yours. Even then, when you said, “Baby,” parts of him came back to the surface.

You kept fighting because he needed help.

Then one afternoon, after three years of pushing against walls that did not move, one finally gave. The blip, after all, freed some space up. Though you really shouldn't celebrate such a tragedy, it was hard to ignore the fact that this time, it worked in your favor. That day, you carried the news into the visiting room.

His eyes moved over your face, your hands, the folder tucked beneath your arm. “What’s that?” he asked.

You smiled, biting your lip, “I have good news.”

You reached across the table. This time, they let you hold his hand. It was a small mercy. His fingers closed around yours immediately, like he could feel the tremor in you and wanted to steady it without frightening it away.

“A facility we applied to reviewed your case,” you said. “It’s looking good. The transfer is pending final approval.”

Dex didn’t move. You kept going before fear could steal the words from you.

“It’s a secure psychiatric institution. It’s not freedom, I know that. But it’s not solitary. You’d have doctors, actual treatment, scheduled therapy, medication reviews. You wouldn’t be in shackles.”

His face remained controlled, but you knew him too well. You saw the tiny shift in his breathing. 

“It’s going to be better,” you whispered. “Okay? Not perfect. Not easy. But better. You won’t be alone in a box, and we get longer visitation hours, okay?”

Dex was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “That’s good.”

Your laugh came out broken, because part of you still found that endearing. “That’s good? That’s all you have?”

His mouth almost softened, guilty at the thought of offending you. “It’s very good,” he amended.

You squeezed his hand, and for one rare second, the visiting room didn’t feel quite so much like a cage. It felt like a door opening somewhere far away.Then Dex looked up again. “But I hope my request gets approved before I get moved.”

“Request?” You blinked. “For what?”

He held your gaze with the seriousness of a man discussing nothing more important than bills. “A conjugal visit.”

For a moment, your mind simply stopped. “What?”

“A conjugal visit,” he repeated, as if you might not have heard him the first time.

You stared at him. Of course he had thought of that.

In three years of legal petitions, medical reviews, prison visits, and fighting to have him treated like a person instead of a weapon, you had somehow not allowed yourself to think about that part. About being his wife in that way still. About how long it had been since he had touched you without guards and tables and rules between you.Dex had, though.

“Dex,” you said softly, rubbing slow circles on his hand.

“What?”

“You are in solitary confinement.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably not getting approved for a conjugal visit.”

“Probably not.”

His expression didn't change, but he squeezed your hand and your stomach turned over despite yourself. You leaned forward as much as the table allowed. The guard near the door shifted, but you ignored him. You kissed the edge of Dex’s mouth, brief and soft, but still enough to make his breath catch.

“Let’s focus on this, yeah?” you whispered.

His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, the hunger in him quieted, almost obedient. He nodded once. “Okay.”

Your hand stayed in his until the guard told you time was up. Dex didn’t let go until he had to.

—

He got approved. Somehow, Benjamin Poindexter got approved for a conjugal visit.

You read the notice three times in your kitchen, work bag sliding off your shoulder, lanyard still around your neck, your shoes aching from a long day on your feet. The letter was painfully plain and administrative. But it was approved nonetheless.

You stared at it until the paper blurred. “What the fuck?” you whispered.

Because there was no way. There was no reasonable, lawful way that your husband, a convicted killer, a high-risk prisoner, had been granted that kind of access.

You knew then that Dex had done something. Nothing obvious enough to get the request pulled. He might have threatened a guard. Maybe Dex had mentioned a name, a detail, some small piece of information he shouldn’t have known and let them do the rest.

You should have been horrified. Mostly, though, you pressed the paper to your mouth and laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, because all you could think was: That’s how badly he wanted me. That’s how much he loves me.

—

When the day came, you waited in the room alone.

You had done the paperwork, gone through twenty locked doors to get here. You came knowing you had a couple of hours with your husband. And forthe first time in three years, there would be no table between you, no visitor chair bolted too far from his. No guards close enough to hear every word. No one telling you not to lean too far across the table when all you wanted was to touch his face.

A couple of hours was not enough. 

You smoothed your hands over your blouse, then over your skirt, then clasped them together in your lap to make yourself stop fidgeting. You had dressed too carefully without really thinking about it. You had a white blouse, a nice skirt, because Dex liked seeing you in skirts. You were wearing the cardigan you were wearing when you met him.

You stared at your wedding ring until Dex stepped inside. For a second, neither of you moved.

He looked different. That was your first thought, blunt and stupid and immediate. He looked different, because of course he did. Years had happened. Prison had happened. Surgery had happened. His hair was shorter. His jaw looked sharper. But he was also bigger.

You noticed from your previous visits, of course, but seeing him a bit closer now, it was evident. His shoulders filled out the plain prison shirt. His arms looked stronger than they had in the hospital, muscle sitting heavy under institutional fabric, like all the recovery and physical therapy and whatever routines they let him have had made him sturdier.

You blinked before you could stop yourself. What were they feeding him?

Dex’s eyes found your face first, gaze locked onto you. For one fragile second he did not look like a prisoner at all.

He looked like Dex. Your Dex. Your husband, seeing you after being forced to miss you for too long.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His mouth parted slightly. When the door closed behind him, the lock turned, and whatever restraint he had used to walk in there like a normal person vanished.

You barely got to stand before his hands were on your face and yours were on his chest, and the first kiss was so clumsy it almost made you laugh. Your noses bumped. His mouth missed yours by half an inch and caught the corner instead. You made a tiny sound, half sob and half laugh, and Dex froze like he had done something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly, already smiling through the sting in your eyes. “No, come here.”

You took his face in both hands and kissed him properly, softly at first. Then again. And again.

These were little, ridiculous kisses. The kind you had imagined giving him in every prison visit where a guard stood too close. You kissed his mouth, the corner of it, his cheek. You kissed the line beside his nose, the skin under his eye, the edge of his mouth again.

Dex stood there and let you love him, as if he couldn’t believe you still did at all.

His hands stayed at your waist, almost uncertain, like after all this time he still didn’t fully trust that he was allowed to hold you without someone telling him to stop. But the longer you kissed him, the more his fingers settled. The more his body leaned into yours. The more the tension in his shoulders slowly started to melt.

“I missed you,” you said between kisses.

Dex’s eyes closed. “I missed you, too.”

“I missed you so much.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You kissed his cheek again, because apparently now that you had started you couldn't stop. “I missed you in the kitchen. I missed you in our bed. I missed you when I had to fix the shelf myself because you would have been so annoying about doing it better.”

His mouth twitched. “You fixed a shelf?” he asked.

“I tried to.”

His eyes opened with attentive focus you had missed so badly. “What happened?”

“It’s currently leaning.”

Dex stared at you, then he laughed. It wasn’t loudly, or freely. It was small, rough, and almost startled, like his body had forgotten how to make the sound and needed you to remind it. 

You broke a little. “Oh,” you whispered, smiling like an idiot. “There you are.”

His expression changed before he leaned in and kissed you again, not clumsy this time. A kiss that said yes, here, I’m here, I came back up when you called.

His arms moved around you properly then, and fuck, he was solid.

You had expected him to feel fragile, because part of you still remembered the hospital bed, the shackles, the bruised skin around his wrists after surgery. But this Dex was heavy and strong under your hands. When your palms slid over his shoulders, you felt muscle there making your stomach drop and go hot at the same time.

Still, he stayed sweet for a little while.

You had both expected the hunger. But before that, there was Dex touching your hair like he had thought about the texture of it more than once. There was you smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone, relearning him up close. There was him pressing his face into the side of your neck and breathing in once like he had been living on memory for years and memory had never been enough.

“I missed how you smell,” he said, voice muffled against your skin.

You laughed. “That’s creepy,” you said, but smiled into his hair anyway.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, then lower, over the ridge of his shoulder. You felt him shiver when your touch found the edge of the scar beneath his shirt. You paused, but he shook his head against you. “It’s okay.”

So you kept touching him gently. Through the fabric first, then at the collar where your fingers could slip just beneath. The scar was there, and Dex’s breathing changed when you traced it. Not with pain, exactly. It felt more… intimate.

“My baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His hand flexed at your hip. This time, when his mouth opened under yours, the sweetness warmed.His body crowded yours a little more. His hands moved from your waist to your back, then down again.

“You got…” You swallowed, then laughed softly because there was no graceful way to say it. “You got big.”

Dex blinked. For half a second, he looked genuinely confused. Then his eyes dropped to where your hands were spread over his chest. “Big?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I had physical therapy.”

“That is a criminal understatement.”

His mouth twitched again as you dragged your palms over his shoulders, shameless now, because you had earned this. You had earned the right to be stupid about your husband’s arms after three years of prison visits and legal calls and sleeping alone.

“You’re very…” You squeezed his bicep lightly. “Recovered.”

Dex looked at you. “You’re flirting with me.”

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

The sound he made was almost an arrogant chuckle.

He kissed you again, and this time there was no mistaking the heat under it. Then, his hands settled on your blouse.

Not grabbing yet, but touching the fabric at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the buttons as if he had only just realised there was something between his hands and your skin.

You were still smiling when his eyes dropped.

Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on the small gap where one button had loosened, where the fabric had shifted just enough to reveal a flash of black lace underneath.

Dex recognised it at the same time you remembered. “Is that…”

Your face burned hot as you nodded.

It was the black teddy he had bought you for your first wedding anniversary.It was sheer lace at the cups, delicate straps, a low satin-trimmed neckline. Dex remembered the first time you tried it on. You stood at the foot of your bed, pretending not to be shy, while he sat there ruined, looking at you like his brain had briefly stopped receiving oxygen. And now, you had worn it here.

Dex’s thumb brushed the edge of your blouse, right where black lace disappeared beneath it. His eyes darkened. “You wore my anniversary gift under your blouse,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “When you say it like that—”

“How should I say it?” He demanded, and it was a little mean. But that always did turn you on.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Less like you’re about to lose your mind.”

Dex looked back up at you, too focused, too hungry. “I am.”

Oh.

Your hands tightened in his shirt.

The room felt smaller after that, less like a prison facility and more like the bedroom he remembered, the one with your knees pressed into the mattress and his hands shaking at your waist because he hadn’t known a piece of lace could make wanting feel that violent.

His grip settled firmer on your hips. “You have no idea,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “What you do to me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. There he was. Your husband, touch-starved, breathing against your neck like he had waited years to find out if he could still make you tremble.

You smiled, kind and doomed all the same. “Show me.”

Oh, he had a list.

Dex was undressed before you could blink, all broad shoulders and blown pupils, moving with a focused urgency that made the sterile little room feel suddenly too small to hold him. The white walls, the bolted table, the narrow bed, the chemical-clean smell of the sheets, and none of it stood a chance against the way he looked at you.

He had been counting down to this for years. Every prison visit, every supervised touch, every night alone in a cell had led into this exact moment.

His hands were already on your blouse, quick but not careless, tearing through buttons, ripping them off with a precision that would have been funny if his breathing had not been so rough. The black teddy appeared inch by inch beneath the fabric, lace and satin and memory, and Dex looked ruined. 

First on the list: his mouth between your legs.

You understood that the second he dropped to his knees. Dex had barely gotten the teddy off before his hands were already under your skirt, gripping your thighs.

Then his mouth was on you, and every thought in your head broke apart.

“Oh,” you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other twisting in the clean white sheet beneath you.

Dex made a sound against you that was almost a groan, almost a laugh. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. He was not gentle, like he used to be. He was focused, hungry, and touch-starved enough that every reaction you gave him seemed to make him worse.

“Fuck,” he breathed against you, voice rough and ruined. “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

He didn’t let you finish. His mouth returned to you, and the room became nothing but the wet heat of him, the harsh sound of his breathing, the narrow bed creaking under the way your hips moved despite yourself. The sterile little room had no right to hold something this filthy. 

He was still so good, it was unfair.

Dex had always been terrifying when he focused. When he learned something, he learned it completely. And you realised, breathless and shaking, that he remembered everything. Every place that made you gasp. Every rhythm that made your hand tighten in his hair. Every tiny, helpless sound you tried to swallow and failed.

You tried to move back once, overwhelmed, but his hands slid under you and dragged you closer with a low, possessive sound that made your stomach twist.

“No,” he murmured. “Stay.”

So you stayed while he buried himself there like he could spend hours between your thighs if time were not an issue. You stayed while his fingers dug into your skin, while his mouth made you forget the guards outside, the transfer, the years, the ugly world that had kept him from you. You stayed while he took you apart with the kind of devotion that felt less like softness and more like obsession given a mouth.

At some point, you said his name too loudly, and Dex groaned like that was the point.

Of course he wanted them to hear. Of course he wanted the men outside that locked door to know that whatever they thought they had taken from him was still his. You were still his. 

When you finally broke, Dex did not stop right away.

He held you through it palms spread over your thighs, breathing you in like the end of the world had tasted sweet and he couldn’t make himself pull away.

Only when you tugged weakly at his hair did he lift his head.

Dex looked up at you like he had just crossed the first thing off a list and still had every intention of finishing the rest.

Number two on the list should have been obvious when he suddenly looked shy. 

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

Your breath was still uneven. “Dex.”

His mouth pressed briefly to the inside of your knee, like he needed one more second to gather himself. “I want your mouth.”

Oh.

Your stomach flipped so hard you almost laughed. Who were you to deny this man anything? 

You slid off the bed and onto your knees in front of him, and Dex went very still.

His hand came to your cheek, careful at first, thumb brushing your skin like he needed to touch you gently before letting himself want. His breathing changed when you looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide enough to make him look almost feverish.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled before giving him what he asked for.

Dex’s hand stayed in your hair, not forcing, not taking. His head tipped back. His throat worked. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again because he seemed to hate missing even one second of you.

He was big in every way you remembered and worse because you had missed him.

Too much, almost. Overwhelming enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your hands press at his thighs when you needed a second, and Dex stopped immediately each time.

His hand softened in your hair. “Too much?” he rasped.

You shook your head, breathless, stubborn, and a little ruined yourself.

Dex looked like that might kill him. Then you kept going, and he fell apart beautifully.

He moaned your name like a warning, like a plea. His hand stayed on your cheek against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness at the corner of your eye with such tenderness that the gesture felt obscene in context.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You felt him getting close, and you wanted nothing more than feeling him down your throat, but he pulled back, stopping himself so abruptly you almost protested.

Dex stared down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild, mouth parted like he had just survived something.

You blinked up at him.

He gave a rough little laugh, almost pained. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

You smiled slowly. “Not yet?”

His gaze darkened again. He reached down, thumb brushing your lower lip, still shaking from the effort of denying himself.

“I have two more things on the list,” he reminded you, making your thighs pressed together.

Dex helped you back onto your feet with hands that weren’t quite steady, then kissed you so deeply you tasted the restraint he had forced himself to keep.

“Bed,” he murmured against your mouth.

Number three on the list was taking you from behind, of course. 

He turned you toward the bed with hands that were still shaking his mouth at your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. 

He moved slowly at first, because even like this, rough and ruined and half-mad with missing you, Dex was still Dex. He still listened to every breath, every shift of your body, every little sound that told him whether you were overwhelmed or wanting more. The stretch of him made your hands fist in the sheet, your body tensing around the sheer shock of having him again after so long without. His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Breathe,” he rasped. “I’ve got you.”

He took his time even though you could feel restraint burning through him. The way he cursed softly against your skin when you finally relaxed into him, when your body remembered him properly and pulled him closer.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking. “You’re so—”

He cut himself off with his mouth against your shoulder, like the words were too much, like saying them would make him less controlled than he already was.

Then he started moving. God, he hadn’t forgotten you, so of course you were loud almost immediately.

The first sound broke out of you before you could stop it, your whole face burning. Dex’s hand tightened at your hip, and the next lewd mewl came worse. He made a low sound behind you, smug and satisfied in a way that made heat crawl up your spine.

You bit down on your own wrist, trying to muffle yourself.

His hand slid up your body and gently pulled your arm away. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I waited three years to hear you.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

“Let me hear you.”

And then he made sure you did.

He got rougher, hungrier. His body covered yours, his mouth dragging over your neck while his hands held you exactly where he wanted you. The bed creaked under you. The sheet twisted beneath your fists. Your voice filled the room because he kept pulling it out of you, again and again.

At some point, there was a knock on the dorm but unfortunately Dex did not have enough self control to stop.

You looked over your shoulder, cheek pressed flush into the sheets.

The little window opened and a guard looked in. They were worried, you realised. You had been so fucking loud.

The humiliation should have swallowed you whole. Instead, your stomach flipped.

“You okay?” the guard called. 

You could barely speak. “Hmmph, Y-yes!” you managed.

Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

The guard moved away when he realised what he was seeing, face red.

The second the shadow disappeared, Dex’s mouth was at your ear. “You liked that.”

You shivered.

“You liked him checking,” he murmured, darker now. “Liked him hearing what I do to you.”

You should have denied it, but you could not bring yourself to lie, Dex made a rough, broken sound against your neck and moved again, deeper into the heat, rougher now because he was jealous, because some stranger had seen even a glimpse of your face like that and Dex couldn’t stand it. He kissed your shoulder hard and held you like he could erase the guard’s eyes from the room by making you forget anything existed except him.

“Mine,” he breathed. 

You answered with his name, exactly how he wanted it.

Number four on the list started with him denying you an orgasm.

That was how you knew prison had changed him.The old Dex, the one who melted when you praised him, the one who went doe-eyed and obedient under your hands, had been buried under three of whatever this was.

Dex flipped you over before you could come undone.

Your gasp broke against his mouth as your back hit the narrow mattress, the white sheet twisted beneath you, your body sore in the best, most aching way. You were already too close and he knew it. Of course he knew it. He knew your body like he had studied it for a test he refused to fail.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

You made a helpless little sound, half protest, half plea. Dex’s hand slid up your waist, and he was inside you again in no time. 

Oh. you realised, he wanted to look at you when you came. That was all. So sweet. So cute. 

But then you felt him twitch, and you realised that he was close before he did. Or maybe he knew, and he was just too far gone to care about anything else.

“Dex—” Your voice caught. “Dex, I’m not— fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

He didn’t stop completely. His whole body stuttered above yours, rhythm faltering, breath punching out of him like you had hit him in the chest.

“Hmph—fuck.” His forehead dropped against yours. “I know.”

Your eyes snapped open. “You know?”

His hand slid over your stomach, possessive, and the sound that left him was almost pained.

“I know,” he said again, rougher. “I know, baby.”

The words should have sobered you, but you loved him, and you loved that he was still above you, still shaking, still so close you could feel every tremor of restraint tearing through him.

“Dex,” you gasped.

“I thought about it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every night.”

Your body went hot. His hand pressed a little firmer over your stomach, not forcing, just holding there like the thought had been living in him for years.

“You in our apartment,” he murmured, words breaking between breathless little sounds. “My wife, wearing my old shirts. Sleeping alone. Fighting for me. Sitting across from lawyers and doctors while I sit in a– hmmphh— a fuckin’ box.”

“Baby—”

“And all I could think was… fuck—all I could think was I should have left you something.”

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

A baby, he meant.

A living tether. Something that would tie you to him in a way no prison door, no court order, no transfer file could undo. And sure, if you were going to leave him, you would have done it already. No court in the world would blame you for divorcing a killer. No friend, no family member, no sane person would call you cruel for walking away.

But you stayed. And fuck, somehow, staying was still not enough for Dex. He needed proof that some part of him could still belong to you permanently. 

In his mind, twisted and tender as it was, this was not a trap. It was a gift.

His eyes locked on yours, blown dark and terrifyingly attentive even through the haze.

His mouth was against yours, then your jaw, then your throat, never settling anywhere long enough to be gentle. He kept touching you like he could not decide what he needed more: your face, your waist, your hips, the heat of your body. 

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked as you squeezed him a little. “How bad you want it?”

You did want it, but you could barely answer. Every breath came out wrong, caught somewhere between a moan and his name. Your thoughts had gone useless, scattered apart by the obscene tenderness of his palm resting low and possessive like he was already imagining the seed taking root there.

“Dex—” you sighed, trying to bury your face in his ned

“No, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear, rough and hot, as he pulled your hair back gently to look into your eyes. “Don’t get… shit— shy now. Not after that. N-not after the sounds you’ve been making ‘f me.”

Your face burned, but your hands only tightened on him.

His voice dropped lower, filthier, the words breaking between harsh breaths. “My pretty girl wants something from me, huh?”

Your whole body went hot.

Dex’s palm pressed a little firmer over your stomach. “S-she wants me to leave her with something.” His breath hitched, and for a second his voice almost failed him. “Wants to walk out of here carrying more than m-my… hmm— fingerprints.”

You made a helpless sound.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You like that, fuck! You like thinking about it.”

“Dex-please—”

“Yeah?” His mouth found yours, messy and desperate, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed, his control hanging by a thread he was clearly ready to let snap. “My pretty girl wants my baby, huh?”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

Dex saw it the way your body answered before your mouth could.

His face changed, hunger folding into something sickly sweet, almost tender in the worst possible way. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You do.”

Your eyes stung.

You hated and loved how well he knew you all the same.

“Wants something of mine when they t-take me back,” he breathed, mouth dragging along your cheek. “Something they c-can’t put in a cell. Something that— hnghhh — still has me in it.”

You were shaking now, overwhelmed and aching and so far gone that language felt like a thing happening on another planet. Dex was talking to you like he knew exactly where every dark little want lived under your skin, like he had spent three years locked away with nothing but the memory of you and all the ways he wanted to make himself permanent.

“Say it,” he murmured.

You couldn’t, not properly. Dex’s eyes darkened further.

“C-can’t even talk,” he whispered. “That’s okay. I know you.” His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I know what my wife wants.”

Your breath broke.

His forehead pressed to yours, and for one second, under all that hunger, he was shaking with the effort to hold himself back.

“But you gotta tell me,” he said, voice raw. “Tell me no and I’ll stop.”

The restraint from him was phenomenal. Your hands slid up to his face, holding him there, forcing him to look at you while you gave him the answer.

“D-don’t you fucking dare stop,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed it again, like one yes was not enough to survive on.

“Yes–Fuck! Yes, baby.”

His mouth crashed back to yours, swallowing the rest of your answer, and the room disappeared into heat and the terrible intimacy of choosing this with him. His hand stayed over your stomach the whole time, almost reverent, like the fantasy had become real the second you let him have it.

He kept talking against your mouth, the words coming apart as badly as he was.

How good you were. How much he had missed you. How he had thought about you every night. How he wanted to leave something behind. How you would be going home with him in a way no guard could take from you.

You clung to him through it, nails catching on his shoulders, then his back, then the scar along his spine. Dex shuddered when you touched it, a broken sound leaving him before he buried his face against your neck and held you closer, closer, closer, like he could press three lost years into the space between your bodies and make them disappear.

When he finally came with you, he did it with your name on his mouth and his eyes fixed on yours, like he needed you to see every second of what he was giving you.

His forehead dropped to yours afterward, both of you breathing too hard.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The guards outside were silent. The room was wrecked in small damning ways: twisted sheets, scattered clothes, your blouse half on the floor, the black lace halfway off the bed.  

Dex kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.“I missed you,” he whispered, and this time it sounded almost broken.

You closed your eyes and held him there. “I missed you, too.”

—

The knock came fifteen minutes later, and you hated it. “Poindexter,” a guard called, “Time.”

Dex was still against you, face buried in your neck, one arm locked around your waist like pretending not to hear it might make the door stay shut. For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing was still uneven against your skin, and your fingers were still in his hair, and the narrow bed beneath you looked absolutely ruined.

Another knock. You touched the back of his neck. “Baby.”

“I know.”

He didn’t sound like he knew. He sounded like leaving you there might kill him.

You both moved in a rush after that, half-dressed and breathless, trying to put yourselves back together before the guards came in. The sheet was twisted. Your skirt was crooked. Your blouse was missing buttons because Dex had been too impatient, so you had to clutch the fabric closed with both hands while smiling like an idiot anyway.

Then the guards stepped in. One of them looked at the bed, then at you, then at Dex. His face went carefully blank.

“Hands,” he said.

You stepped forward before Dex could turn around.

The guard sighed. “Ma’am—”

“One second,” you said.

Dex bent instantly, like he had been waiting for permission. You kissed him once. Then again. Then to his nose, because one kiss was not enough and never would be.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He looked like he might cry. “I love you, too”

Then they cuffed him.

You hated the sound of metal around his wrists. It meant the world taking him back. At the door, Dex looked over his shoulder, and you stood there still holding your blouse together, still smiling, still ruined.

The guard muttered, “Filthy animals,” as they disappeared into the hall.

Then you heard Dex chuckle, low and rough and proud. Like being filthy with you was the best thing anyone had ever called him.

You stood there for a second, and then you laughed under your breath, too.

Because you loved it. You loved being disgusting with him. Loved that the room looked wrecked. Loved that the guards knew. Loved that Dex would carry that insult back to his cell like a compliment, and that you would go home with the same stupid, shameless pride in your chest.

Filthy animals.

Yeah. You smiled to yourself, still holding your blouse together. Maybe you were.

—

You were pregnant.

You found out before the transfer, while Dex was still in prison, still waiting to be moved to the secure psychiatric facility you had spent three years fighting for. For three days, you carried the secret around yourself like a forcefield. You went to work, answered emails, helped patrons at the public library. You smiled politely at everyone while your whole body felt like it had become a locked room with a miracle inside.

When you told Dex, he knew something was different before you even sat down. His eyes went to your face, then your hands, then the way you kept pressing your palm nervously against your stomach. “What happened?”

You laughed once, shaky and soft. “Nothing bad.”

Dex didn’t relax, so you reached across the table and took his hand as much as the cuffs allowed. His fingers closed around yours immediately. “I’m pregnant.” For a second, it was like the whole visiting room lost sound. Then his eyes dropped to your stomach. “What?”

You smiled through the tears already coming. “I’m pregnant, baby.”

The chair scraped back before the guard could stop him.

Dex moved toward you on instinct, cuffed hands reaching for your face, not violent, not thinking, just desperate to touch. The chain between his wrists caught on the edge of the table, but he barely seemed to feel it. His palms found your cheeks, and then he was kissing you across the table like the whole room had disappeared.

“Poindexter,” the guard snapped.

Dex didn't hear him. Or he did, and for one dangerous second, he didn’t care.

You kissed him back, crying into his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his prison shirt because this was your husband, your baby’s father, and he was making this broken sound against your lips.

Another guard came over. “Back. Now.”

They had to pull you apart. Actually pull you apart.

They had one hand on Dex’s shoulder, another on his arm, dragging him back while his cuffed hands strained toward you and yours reached for him across the table. His eyes stayed locked on your face the whole time amazed and almost frightened by the size of what he felt.

The transfer happened not long after.

The institution was better than solitary. You reminded yourself of that every day. He had doctors now. Treatments, structure. He was not locked alone in a box anymore.

But he still was not free. He wasn’t there when your stomach first started to show, but the institution had better visitation rules than the prison, and the first time you came in visibly pregnant, Dex was allowed to touch you. His hand settled over the curve of your stomach so carefully it made your throat ache, like he was afraid the smallest wrong movement might cost him the privilege.

He wasn’t there when the baby kicked for the first time either, but later, during one of those visits, the baby kicked beneath Dex’s palm. Dex went completely still, eyes dropping to your stomach.

Still, he wasn’t there for the smaller, lonelier things. He wasn’t beside you in the maternity shop when you cried because nothing fit right and you wanted him there so badly it hurt. He should have been there making some too-serious comment about proper shoes, back support, and whether the changing room bench was structurally safe enough for you to sit on.

But even then, you told him everything. Every appointment. Every craving. Every scan. Every tiny development you could turn into words and carry to him.

Then Leonard was born. Leo, for short, named for his father.

Dex wasn’t allowed to be there.

That hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to hide. You didn’t know this, but one of the nurses told you he had become erratic after the call came through that you were in labour. Not violent, but frantic, pacing, asking the same questions over and over, trying to negotiate with people who had no authority to give him what he wanted. By the end of it, they had to force a couple pills down his throat so he could just calm down.

So when you finally called, exhausted and crying, with your son against your chest, the silence on the other end felt too careful.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “He’s here, baby.”

Dex didn’t answer right away. For a moment, all you could hear was his breathing, thin and controlled, like he was holding himself together by force. Then, very carefully, he asked, "Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.”

You could almost picture him sitting there, hand curled too tightly around the phone, trying to make himself calm enough to deserve hearing this.

“Tell me,” he said.

You told him Leo had blonde hair. You looked down at the baby curled against you, tiny and furious, with pale hair against his head and features that already made your chest ache because there was no denying whose child he was.

“He looks like you,” you whispered.

Dex didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded stripped bare.

“He does?”

“Yeah, baby.” You smiled through tears, touching Leo’s tiny cheek. “He looks like his father.”

Still, after weeks, then months, then years of hearing about Leo through you, Dex began to know him in fragments.

Children were not allowed inside the institution, so Leo had never met his father. Dex knew him through the stories you told him in visitation rooms, through the photographs you were allowed to bring, through the change in your voice whenever you said his name. You gave him a picture of Leo asleep with one fist tucked under his cheek. Leo with blond hair and your eyes. Leo scowling at the camera in a way that looked so much like Dex it made him go silent the first time he saw it.

But he didn’t love Leo properly yet. How could he? He had never held him. Never felt the weight of him against his chest. Never smelled his skin, never rocked him through a cry, never watched him fall asleep in his arms. Leo was still partly an idea to him, a child made real through your love before Dex could reach him with his own.

But he loved Leo, in a way, because you loved him.

That was easier. You loved that baby, so Leo mattered. Your face relaxed when you spoke about him, so Dex learned to relax around the sound of his name too. And somewhere in the darkest, neediest part of him, he thought he owed Leo his life because he made you stay.

Leo was Dex’s gift to you, because he didn’t want you to be alone. 

So Dex loved Leo in the only way he knew how at first: because Leo was yours, because Leo was his, because Leo looked like him, and because Leo kept a piece of him in your life while the rest of him was locked away. He loved him for your sake, before he knew how to love him for his own.

—

Leo was three years old when Vanessa Fisk made Dex kill Foggy Nelson.

He was three, serious-eyed, stubborn in the exact way that made your mother sigh and say, “That’s probably his father,” under her breath. Leo had Dex’s watchful stare, Dex’s unnerving ability to go quiet when he was thinking too hard. But he was still a toddler, so the quiet never lasted long. One minute he would be silently studying the wheels of a toy truck like he was investigating a crime scene, and the next he would be shrieking because his banana had “broken wrong.”

He loved dinosaurs, but only “scary ones.” He refused to wear socks that had seams in the wrong place. He called the moon “the night light” and cried once because you explained he couldn’t take it home. He had Dex’s face in miniature and your habit of talking to himself while concentrating, which meant you spent most mornings watching your tiny blond child line up toy animals on the floor and whisper, “No, no, you go there. No, you not listening.”

You were a good mother. You packed snacks. You remembered nursery forms. You cut grapes in half. You kept emergency wipes in every bag you owned. You sang the same bedtime song three times if Leo asked, even when your throat hurt and your body felt hollow from work and worry and loving a man the world had never stopped punishing.

Dex knew all of that through you. Leo liked peas this week. Leo hated peas this week. Leo asked why cats had no eyebrows. Leo threw a shoe at the wall because bedtime was, apparently, “a bad idea.” Leo had asked about Daddy again.

You and Leo had become the one fragile architecture that kept Dex going. Vanessa understood that because Vanessa Fisk understood devotion, even when it was ugly. 

So when she found out about you and Leo, it was over.

She came to Dex with ammo in her metaphorical gun.

This was no way to live, she told him, taking away the meds. Was this what he wanted? To hear about his son in secondhand stories? To let you raise a child alone while other men opened doors for you, helped carry groceries, taught Leo to kick a ball, to ride a bike, to be brave? Raising a child was hard, wasn’t it? You were young. Lonely. Exhausted. Beautiful. How long before someone else started looking less like help and more like a replacement?

Didn’t he want to be a husband? A father? Didn’t he want to come home?

Then, she gave him a photo of you at home, hair tied back, Leo on your hip. How… did she get this photo?

Then she gave him structure: Kill Foggy first. Then he could go to you and Leo.

That was the order of how it went. It was a task, a reward, a way back to the only life he still cared about. And Dex had always been most dangerous when someone took his pain and turned it into a sequence.

So he killed Foggy Nelson. And afterward, when they dragged him back into court, you wanted to see him.

Not because you excused murder. Not because Foggy didn’t matter. But because you were his wife, and you knew that Dex didn’t kill like that out of nowhere.

He wouldn’t simply go on a rampage. He didn’t wake up one day and decide he would burn every bridge that led to you. He loved you too much for that. So you came to the conclusion that someone must've reached into the most frightened part of him, and aimed him again.

You knew that, but the court didn’t care. This time, the court issued an order. It was for your son’s sake, they said. An injunction, no contact. You and Leo were not to be in the same room as Benjamin Poindexter. Not in court, not in visitation, not anywhere a judge could prevent it.

You stood very still when they told you this.

Leo was at home with your mother, probably refusing lunch because the sandwich had been cut into triangles instead of squares.

You didn’t cry. Not when the injunction was read. Not even when Dex was sentenced for the second time. You just listened. Then you got to work.

Because crying would come later, probably in the shower, probably with one hand over your mouth so Leo wouldn’t hear. But right then, there were lawyers to call, motions to file, and records to request. You knew your husband. You knew what manipulation looked like when he was the one pointed like a weapon.

And after court, you went back to Leo. He was sitting on the living room floor in dinosaur pyjamas even though it was the afternoon, blond hair sticking up at the back, one sock on and one sock missing for reasons nobody could explain. He looked up when you came in, toy stegosaurus clutched in one hand.

“Mama,” he said seriously, “Nana said no more crackers.”

You knelt in front of him, your knees cracking with the exhaustion of the day. “Your grandma is probably right.”

Leo frowned like you had betrayed him on a legal level. “I need snacks.”

“You had a snack.”

“I need more snacks.”

“You need dinner.”

He considered that, then lifted the stegosaurus. “Dino needs crackers.”

“Dino can have pretend crackers.”

Leo stared at you with Dex’s eyes. For one awful second, you almost laughed and almost cried at the same time. Instead, you reached out and smoothed his hair down. It sprang back up immediately.

“Daddy has that face too,” you whispered.

Leo blinked. “Daddy?”

You had never lied to him. You told him Daddy was away. Daddy loved him. Daddy couldn’t come home yet. All true, and yet, none of it was enough.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Daddy.”

Leo looked down at his dinosaur, then back at you. “Daddy like dinos?”

You smiled even though your throat hurt. “I think Daddy would like whatever you like.”

Leo nodded, satisfied by that, and shoved the stegosaurus into your lap. “Then Daddy like this one. He bite.”

You held the toy carefully, like it was evidence. “Yeah,” you whispered. “He bite.”

Leo climbed into your lap after that, all knees and elbows, and you wrapped both arms around him. He smelled like shampoo and the strawberry yoghurt he had somehow gotten on his sleeve. He pressed his face into your shoulder for exactly four seconds before wriggling away again because three-year-olds loved affection on their own schedule.

You let him go. You watched him return to his line of dinosaurs, babbling to himself, head bent in concentration.

You opened your notes app and started another list: Lawyer. Injunction appeal. Facility records. Contact restrictions. Dex’s medication logs. Visitor records.

You could be heartbroken later. Right now, you were Leo’s mother. Dex’s wife. And someone had used your family to turn your husband into a weapon again.

And you were going to find out why.

—

A year later, you were watching the news while Leo played on the carpet.

Not watching, really. You were letting it sit on in the background while you moved through the living room with half your attention split into a dozen places at once. Leo’s sippy cup was on the coffee table. His toy dinosaurs were arranged in a careful little line near your foot. A postcard Johnathan had sent from the Bahamas with his boyfriend on the fridge. There was a basket of laundry on the chair you had been meaning to fold since yesterday, and your laptop sat open on the sofa beside you, full of documents, court filings, old visitor logs, psychiatric reports, and all the research you had been collecting like ammunition.

You had been working for weeks. You had names, dates, transfer notices, facility records, connections that were too neat to be coincidence. You had followed the clues until your stomach turned. Dex was going to be moved into general population, and it was not an administrative error. It was not random. It had the Fisks’ fingerprints all over it, even if she was careful enough never to leave them where a normal person could see.

After all, it hadn’t taken you long to find out about the Red Hook charter. That part had been almost laughably easy. Child’s play, really.

The public library had a stack of old municipal records tucked away in the back, half-forgotten beneath outdated notices and donation forms. Someone had slapped a label on the box years ago — NEEDS TO BE SHREDDED — and then, by some miracle of underfunded bureaucracy, no one ever had.

So you had done the one thing you could think of and sent Matt Murdock an anonymous tip. You didn't give a signature or explanation. It was just enough information to make him look where he needed to look. It was just enough to prove to him that Dex was not acting on his own.

Matt went to see him that morning. You knew because you still had someone inside the prison willing to tell you what the official channels never would. A friend, barely. A contact, more accurately. 

Then, that night, the news broke: Benjamin Poindexter had escaped from prison and attempted to assassinate the mayor.

Your husband’s name was on every channel again. Your husband’s face was dragged back into the world as a threat, a headline, a monster with a body count and no context anyone cared to say out loud.

You stood frozen in the middle of your living room, remote in hand, while the news anchor spoke over footage you could barely process. On the carpet, Leo lifted his plastic stegosaurus and made it bite the sofa cushion.

“Rawr,” he said seriously.

You looked down at him and how completely unaware he was that his father had just broken out of prison and tried to kill a man.

Leo was too busy frowning at the stegosaurus with Dex’s whole face in miniature, pale brows pulled together, mouth pressed into a stern little line. “No,” he told the dinosaur, pushing its plastic nose away from the triceratops. “No bully.”

The stegosaurus apparently disagreed, because Leo made it chomp again. Then he gasped, offended by his own storyline. “No. Bully bad.” He picked up the stegosaurus, turned it toward the triceratops, and shook it gently. “You say sorry.”

You stared at him.

Leo bumped the stegosaurus’s head carefully against the triceratops. “Sowwy,” he said in a deeper voice.

Then he made the triceratops pat the stegosaurus on the head. “Okay. Be kind now.”

Your chest tightened so hard you had to sit down.

Leo looked up. “Mama?”

“I’m okay,” you said too quickly.

He stared at you with your own eyes, unconvinced.

You turned the volume down, but not off. You couldn’t make yourself turn it off. You sat there with Leo at your feet and the whole city falling apart on-screen, trying to understand the sequence. Matt’s visit. The transfer. The Fisks. Dex escaping. The mayor. None of it random. None of it was out of nowhere, and you probably were the one to set this into motion the second you gave the anonymous tip.

“Mama,” Leo said again, holding up a toy. “Dino hungry.”

“Dino is always hungry,” you whispered.

“Need snack.”

“Okay,” you said, because your voice was already too close to breaking and arguing with a four-year-old about a plastic dinosaur felt like the one thing you could actually survive. “Let me check what we have.”

You stood and crossed into the kitchen, still listening to the news. The fridge light came on cold and white across your face. You stared into it without really seeing anything: half a punnet of strawberries, Leo’s yoghurt, and Leftover pasta. A little container of cut grapes.

The news anchor said Dex’s name again. Your hand tightened around the fridge door.

You reached for Leo’s yoghurt, then stopped because he had asked for a snack for the dinosaur, not himself, and for one absurd second that distinction mattered enough to make you laugh under your breath.

Then you realised that Leo was… silent. He wasn’t babbling. He wasn’t talking to his toys. Is he okay?

Worried, you looked back into the living room.

Leo was standing in the middle of the carpet, one dinosaur clutched in his hand, his small body frozen in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

He was waving at the window.

No. Not the window. The fire escape.

Beyond the glass, half-hidden in the dark metal lines of the fire escape, was his father.

Oh.

Little did you know, Dex had already been there for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen whole minutes of being half-hidden in the dark, one hand braced against the cold metal railing while he looked into the life he had only known through your stories. At first, he watched you, moving through the living room with the television flickering against your face, beautiful and alive, one hand absently touching your wedding ring while you tried to hold the world together through the sheer refusal to give up on him.

But when his eyes found Leo, Dex forgot how to breathe.

He knew what his son looked like from photographs. He knew he had blond hair, serious eyes, and that little frown you always said was his. But seeing Leo in person was different. It was jarring, how much he actually looked like him. Leo was now a real person to Dex, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in dinosaur pyjamas, scolding a plastic stegosaurus for biting another toy.

Dex watched Leo make the dinosaur apologise. He watched Leo say that bullying was bad. He watched his son choose kindness with no one guiding him toward it.

Oh. Leo looked like him, but he was good in a way Dex had never been able to be without help. Dex had always needed a North Star, someone outside him to point toward right when his own internal compass spun uselessly in the dark. He would always need you that way, always look to you when the world blurred at the edges and everything started to feel lost.

But Leo did not need a North Star. Leo had one inside him. Leo had a functioning moral compass in a tiny body with Dex’s face and your kindness. Dex’s focus, but not his emptiness. Dex’s intensity, but not his fracture. Dex, if someone had loved him correctly from the start.

And that was when Dex understood that he loved him. And not in the distant, complicated love he had forced himself to. Not just because Leo was yours, or because Leo was his, or because Leo had kept you tethered to him while the rest of the world tried to take him away.

Now, he loved Leo because Leo was a good version of him. Because protecting Leo suddenly felt a lot like self-preservation. Like if Dex could keep this child safe, if he could make sure the world never reached into Leo and broke the compass before it had a chance to grow, then maybe some part of himself could be saved too.

Then Leo noticed him.

Dex saw the exact second it happened. Leo’s head turned, eyes lifting past the kitchen table, past the window, to the dark shape crouched on the fire escape.

For one breathless second, Dex couldn't move. He had been caught. Not by the police. Not by guards. Not by Daredevil. By a four-year-old boy. 

Leo didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. Of course not. He was your son, too. He was brave, like you. 

He only blinked, then lifted one small hand and waved.

Because Dex didn't want to scare him, because he did not know how fathers were supposed to wave at sons they had never held, Dex lifted his hand and waved back.

That was when you noticed.

And fuck, he couldn’t wait to be in your arms again.

The second you got the window open, Dex came through it, one hand catching the frame, the other already reaching for you. The sniper rifle was still strapped across his back, cold against the warmth of your apartment.

You barely had time to say his name before his hands were on you.

He pulled you into him so quickly your feet left the floor, spinning you half across the living room with a strength that startled a laugh out of you before it broke into a sob. His arms locked around your waist, your hands flew to his shoulders, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was clumsy in the way only grief and longing could be clumsy. He kissed you like every locked door, every court order, every year stolen from you both had narrowed into this one second.

He tasted like blood and rain.His lip was split. One of his teeth was missing. There were stitches along his forehead and dirt at the edge of his chin, but he was here. Your husband was in your living room with his body against yours and his hands on your back like he was trying to convince himself you were not another trick his mind played against him.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his mouth.

Dex made a broken sound and kissed you again. “I missed you.”

“No, baby,” you whispered, laughing and crying at the same time as you pressed kisses to his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his cheekbones, the scar you’ve yet to trace there. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

His forehead dropped to yours. For a second, he just held you there, eyes closed, breathing you in like he had forgotten the world. His fingers moved at your waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go, that old helpless need in him trying so hard to be gentle and failing only because there was too much feeling in one body.

Then a small voice behind you said, “Mama?”

It went through him all at once, the way a person remembered fire after touching a flame. His hands stayed on you, but his whole body locked up, breath caught, eyes opening with a kind of fear you had never seen in him. 

Because no, Benjamin Poindexter had no defence against a four-year-old boy in dinosaur pyjamas.

Slowly, you turned in his arms to see Leo stood in the middle of the carpet with one sock missing and his stegosaurus tucked under one arm. His round little face was serious, sleepy, and curious. He looked much like Dex, it made your chest hurt, but he was smaller, untouched by every cruel thing that had made his father into a weapon.

“Mama,” Leo asked, pointing the dinosaur toward Dex, “who’s this?”

Dex’s breath hitched, you felt it under your palm.

For a moment, you couldn’t answer. You had imagined this introduction a hundred different ways over the years. Maybe in a supervised visitation room. Or through a phone call. Maybe one day in some future where paperwork finally gave way and Leo was old enough to understand more than he should have to. You had not imagined Dex standing in your apartment with a rifle on his back, blood at his mouth, wanted by half the city, looking down at his son like the universe had placed his missing pieces in a boy that looked like a mirror.

You swallowed.“Leo,” you said softly, voice shaking. “This is Daddy.”

Dex inhaled like the word had gone straight through him.

Leo blinked up at him. “Hi daddy,” he repeated, testing the shape of it.

Dex was still trying to keep himself held together with force and habit and whatever discipline had survived. But a foreign emotion moved across him as you felt your own eyes fill again.

“Hi, Leo,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked.

Leo studied him with the grave suspicion of a child encountering an adult who looked both interesting and badly assembled. His eyes moved over Dex’s face. Then his little brows pulled together.

“Your teeth is missing,” Leo said.

You made a small sound, half laugh, half sob.

Dex blinked at him. “What?”

Leo took one step closer, stegosaurus still tucked under his arm like backup. “Your teeth is missing. Are you okay?”

And that was what broke him.

Not the years he had lost. Not even the word Daddy, though that had nearly taken his knees out. It was the concern in his son’s voice, the immediate, unprompted softness. The way Leo saw something wrong and, instead of flinching from him, asked if he was okay.

Dex lowered himself slowly to one knee, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.

The rifle shifted against his back, so violently out of place beside your son’s little bare foot on the carpet. Dex seemed to realise it too. His hand moved as if to take it off, then stopped, uncertain, afraid to do anything too fast with Leo so close.

“I’m okay,” Dex said carefully.

Leo looked unconvinced. “Mama has plasters.”

Dex looked up at you.Your hand went to your mouth, and you cried properly then, because Leo had no idea what he was offering. No idea that his father had come through the window carrying a weapon and a history no child should have to understand. No idea that asking about a missing tooth and suggesting a plaster was the kindest thing anyone had said to Dex all year.

Dex looked back at him, and saw a person. A tiny person with Dex’s hair and Dex’s nose and Dex’s mouth, but he was human, in the way he never was. He was kind.

Leo was everything Dex had wanted to be and never knew how. Leo was a good version of him.

For the first time in Dex’s life, he looked at someone smaller than him and thought, with stunned humility, that he might have something to learn.

From his son, his better self.

Leo tilted his head. “You want Dino?”

Dex looked at the stegosaurus like it was sacred.

Then he held out both hands, slowly, carefully, letting Leo decide.

Leo stepped closer and placed the dinosaur into his palms.

Dex took it as if it weighed more than the rifle on his back. As if this battered little plastic toy had more power to undo him than any weapon ever made.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Leo nodded, satisfied by the manners, then moved closer. His small hand lifted and patted Dex’s cheek, not quite where the scar was, gentle in the imprecise way of toddlers trying their best.

Dex’s eyes snapped to yours. There was panic there. Wonder. A silent, helpless question: What do I do?

You sank down beside them, one hand on Leo’s back, the other reaching for Dex’s face.  “You’re doing okay,” you whispered.

Leo patted him again, then leaned forward and, with the sudden trust only children could offer, pressed himself into Dex’s chest.

Dex stopped breathing. Then, slowly, so slowly it made your heart ache, his arms came around your son.

Leo fit against him like he had always belonged there, his same-colored hair tucked beneath Dex’s chin. Dex held him as if the whole room might punish him for wanting it too much, as if any wrong movement would prove he didn;t deserve this.

You watched his hand spread carefully over Leo’s back. The same hand that had hurt people. The same hand that had held weapons. That same hand that now shook from the effort of touching his son gently enough.

Leo looked up from Dex’s chest. “Are you cold?”

Dex swallowed. “A little.”

Leo considered that, then turned to you. “Mama, Daddy need blanket.”

You laughed through tears. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Maybe he does.”

Dex closed his eyes.

His face bent toward Leo’s hair, and for a second he didn’t quite kiss him, He only breathed there, close enough to smell the child he had made and never held. Shampoo. Crackers. Life. His son smelled like life.

When Dex opened his eyes again, they were wet. He looked at you over Leo’s head, and the room seemed to fold around the three of you. 

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder, one hand covering his where it rested on Leo’s back. “You’re here now.”

It was not enough, you both knew that. It was nowhere near enough.

But Leo wriggled in Dex’s arms and said, “Daddy, Dino hungry,” with the complete seriousness of a child who had accepted this new adult into his world and immediately assigned him responsibilities.

Dex looked down at him. Then at the dinosaur. Then back at you, for instruction. You tilted your chin like, go on.

“What does Dino eat?” he managed.

Leo gasped, scandalised that his own father didn’t know. “Crackers.”

Dex looked at you, and you nodded, so he also nodded, “Okay.”

Dex knew now that he was meant to love Leo because Leo was his second chance in miniature. 

And Leo had no idea his father would burn the world to keep him safe. Because in the end, that's what makes him a good man, right?

—end.

Extra note : I keep getting distracted from my Dex x reader / ex!Bucky fic, but I promise it’s on its way. In the meantime, my immediate thought after writing this is a sequel where Reader and Dex finds out Leo has powers (is a mutant) and that’s why Dex starts killing anti-vigilante task force. Because he wants to protect his son. (No promises, but let me know if anyone’s interested!)

Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh (Let me know if I missed anyone. If you want to be added, please ask/messege! it gets lost in the comments sometimes!)

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Our own corner | Javier Escuella x fem!reader

Only the two of you are awake tonight and as one thing leads to another, you find yourself in a compromising position behind one of the wagons.

Word count: 4.2k

Tags: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, reader receives oral, fingering, overstimulation, praise kink, slight masochism, semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, rdr2 Javier, both are tipsy

A/N: About time that I write something sexy with him again!

Burning wood crackles, sending embers fly up into the air in swirls. As they rise up into the night, they almost look like tiny, glowing dancers. Most of the camp is asleep and a comfortable silence is draped over the many tents like a blanket. Slow and steady breathing can be heard from the members of the Van Der Linde gang, accompanied by loud snoring from the people who had a bit more to drink before heading to bed.

Outside of camp, beyond the flickering light of roaring flames and dim lanterns perched on top of tables and hanging off branches, the forest starts. Darkness drifts between the trees and behind the shrubs. On less pleasant nights, the barks resemble a set of razor-sharp fangs and the shadows behind are a gaping mouth, bracing to swallow anyone who dares stumble too close.

Fortunately, tonight is not one of them. Instead, it’s slow and cozy. A warm breeze caresses your skin like the breath or touch of a loved one. The flames before you lick at the logs in mesmerizing motions, keeping you entranced. Your fingers are wrapped around the neck of a rum bottle. ‘Guarma’ is written on the label with thick, bold letters. Fidgeting with it, you watch the caramel-colored liquor inside it swirl and slosh in circles.

Tucked away from the others, it feels like Javier and you are in your own little world. Branched off from the weight of life. This is your own small earth with the campfire as your sun and rum as your rivers. It definitely has been flowing in streams. You got this bottle from the money of your first stagecoach robbery you did the other day. You planned and directed the entire job by yourself. Raising your arm, you hold it out to him.

Javier takes it, stares at it for a second before bringing the glass to his lips. As you watch his throat bob each time he swallows, you let your mind drift to certain places. You’ve had your eyes on him for a long time now. How could you not? He’s so devastatingly handsome when his fingers dance across the strings of his guitar or when his singing carries through camp. Or when the blade of his knife seemingly flies over his hand whenever he shows off at five finger fillet.

Form the pale lines adorning his skin, markings from blades that nicked him back when he fled his home to the pristine shine of his shoes. Some of the others make fun of him for being so meticulous regarding his appearance, but you like it. It gives him an air of pride like an exotic bird or perhaps a wild stallion that refuses to be broken in.

“Aren’t you tired?”, you ask and tilt your head to the side. His eyes briefly flicker in your direction.

“No. Are you?”

“A bit, but I don’t want to go to bed just yet.” The hour might be late, but the night is still young for you. After all, how often does it happen that you end up completely alone with the man who has taken residence in your mind? The alcohol’s heat travels down from your chest to your lower stomach.

As he fishes out a white box from his pocket and tucks a cigarette between his lips, you wonder how it must feel to be in that spot. You like to imagine his lips to be soft and warm, perhaps a little wet from his tongue darting out to brush over them. When he holds the box out to you, you curl your own lips.

“Do you want one?”, he asks and you don’t miss the sliver of urgency swaying in his tone. It’s like he wants you to take it. Emboldened by the rum, you shift closer until your shoulders are nearly touching and pinch the cigarette in his mouth between your fingers. When you slowly pull it out to take a puff from it, you believe to detect a hint of his taste lingering on it. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

“Thank you.”, you murmur and watch his throat bob again.

As you hand it back to him, he gapes at it dumbfounded for a hot minute before shoving the stick back into his mouth. A flush creeps up into his face and spreads over his cheeks. Judging by the way his eyebrows are drawn together, one might think that he’s upset over your forwardness. If it only wasn’t for the subtle twitch of the corners of his mouth to indicate his delight.

“You know what? I feel like we don’t spend enough time together.”, you point out, which is not entirely true. The two of you are always together, whether it be late at night by the campfire or early in the morning while sipping at your coffee.

The girls know of your fascination or crush or however your want to call it and something tells you that he does too. Just the other day, you told Karen how much you enjoy watching and hearing him play and he’s been following you around with his guitar ever since. That’s when you figured that he must have overheard the conversation. That and Javier isn’t exactly subtle with his advances.

He’s brass and loud, puffing out his chest and flaunting his feathers like a peacock. You’ve seen it before whenever he tries to woo a lady at some saloon or bar and you always chuckle over it. Until he directed all of it at you and that’s when the laughter ceased, because shit. You’re kind of into it. It went from giggling to chewing on your lower lip while imagining that loud, proud voice turning into a moan and groan.

“You’re so right.”, he hastily answers and you stifle a huff. Knowing him, you could suggest diving naked into a frozen lake and he’d agree.

Raising the bottle, you go to take another sip when you spill some of the rum over your chin. You may have miscalculated the distance or missed the target entirely. Either way, it’s stupid. Perhaps you should lay off the liquor for a few seconds. You’re not downright drunk, but feeling fuzzy enough to qualify as tipsy. The dark liquid rolls down your throat and you catch a few drops with your thumb before they can vanish into the valley between your breasts.

Bringing the thumb up to your mouth, you suck the rum off it and catch Javier’s gaze. His eyes have definitely followed the pearls that had traveled down your skin and now he’s absolutely transfixed on the digit between your lips. Smooth for sure isn’t a word you’d use to describe him. Still, pride swells inside your chest at the reaction you’re tearing out of him.

“I’m bored.”, you declare and panic washes over his face.

“What?”, he stammers and laughs. “Is there anything I can help with?”

Rolling your eyes with such force that it leaves them sore, you wonder whether you should start walking around with a sign around your neck that says ‘I have the hots for you, idiot’.

“Well, that really depends.”, you say. Your frustration has oddly enough gone by unnoticed.

“On what?”

“If you want to find a quiet spot with me.”

The words hang in the air for an agonizingly long time. You start to feel like you perhaps misread all the signs and that Javier isn’t interested in you at all. Suddenly, he flicks the cigarette into the fire and takes your hand. Relief shoots through your body at the response and the certainty behind it. Standing up, you quietly lead him to where the wagons are parked.

They’re off to the side and since they’re so far away from everything important like Mr. Pearson’s makeshift kitchen and Herr Strauss’ medical supplies, nobody has their tent set up nearby. Hidden behind one of the wagons, you lean your back against the wood and chew on the inside of your cheek to avoid the goofy grin that is threatening to spread. It’s been so long since you’ve been with another person, let alone felt the touch that wasn’t purely platonic.

Javier stands in front of you, both hands kind of dangling helplessly by his sides as if he’s still unsure whether you’re genuine with your suggestion.

“Is that how you bed all your women? Just standing there and gawking?”, you tease between giggles and he clears his throat.

“No!”, he protests and as if to proof a point, grabs handfuls of your waist. His fingers dig into the fabric of your blouse and you imagine his fingers moving over you like they do over his guitar. Quick and nimble. Patience running thin, you let your own palms wander across his chest and stomach. Even under the layer of his shirt and vest, you can tell that he works hard. All those jobs that Dutch sends him out on must have done something to him.

One hand travels upward, over the curve of his neck and his soft jaw. Stubbles tickle the tips of your fingers and you curl a loose hair strand around it. Both your mouths hang open in silent anticipation and partly because dealing with the tension is an effort in and of itself. Your chests are heaving from doing absolutely nothing at all.

“Javier.”, you whisper, his name rolling over your tongue like exquisite wine. It leaves your mouth as a breath and he sucks it right in. Next thing you know, his lips collide with yours and you lose yourself in a whirlwind of heat and desire. His tongue slides past your lips and brushes over your own. He tastes of the rum that you shared and the spices that Miss Grimshaw had snuck into the stew.

Your teeth clash occasionally and you trap his lower lip in between them. As you give it a soft tug, you steal a groan from his throat. Growing bolder from the sound, you bite down harsher and you feel his hands tremble over your body.

“Mierda.”, he hisses, grabs your chin and push your head to the side. Your cheek is pressed against the wagon as he dips his head to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck. The tip of his tongue grazes over your skin, licking up any remaining rum that you had accidentally spilled over yourself.

Both of you are moving clumsily. The kisses are wet and sloppy, more as if you’re trying to devour one another instead of catching a taste. You’re past the stage of developing an appetite. Now you’re just fucking starving. Javier’s hands grab fistfuls of your blouse and with one strong pull, the buttons give in under the strain. Fabric tears and some of the stitches come loose. Majority of the buttons are still attached, but some of the less lucky ones were sent flying onto the ground.

A gasp leaves your lungs as the cold night air hits your exposed breasts. He clasps a hand over the tender skin and gives it a firm squeeze. The brashness of his action should have left you in outrage. After all, this is your favorite blouse. But it only feeds the ache between your legs and giving you the sense as if your body is melting away in that spot.

His tongue finds your hardened nipples, swirling around and pressing into them. While he’s busy kissing one, his thumb is playing with the other. Pinched gently between his fingers, he tugs and squeezes, playing you like an instrument. Heat rolls over your body. Your blood is on fire. Flames are dancing underneath your skin, leaving you dizzy and yearning.

The hair on his mustache tickles your skin as his mouth sweeps down your stomach and he drops to his knees. As his hands grip the rim of your skirt to hike it up, your own shoot forward to stop him by his wrists.

“What is it?”, he asks, concern swimming in his voice.

“I didn’t wash off today.”, you point out and wrinkle your nose. What is he going to think when he lifts your skirt and is greeted with the smell of sweat?

Something flashes in his eyes when you mention your situation. Wild and hungry. His hand vanishes underneath the fabric and slides up your leg. When she reaches the delicate skin inside your thighs, you can tell that he can feel your wetness already. And when he’s at your damp bloomers, a smile spreads on his lips.

“I’ll do anything.”, he murmurs as his fingers weasel their way into your underwear and brush over your dripping folds. When he pulls the hand back, you can only stare in awe as he brings them up to his mouth to lick them clean. His gaze flickers in your direction, as if to ask silently for permission. When you nod, his head disappears underneath the skirt and he slowly lets your bloomers fall down to pool around your ankles.

Next thing you know, your leg is thrown over his shoulder and you press yourself against the wagon for balance. Your breath gets caught in your throat and you momentarily forget how to breathe from all the anticipation. The only thing you know is that he’s close. You can tell so from his hot breath hitting your skin and his beard brushing over the thick curls between your legs.

Then two fingers part your folds and a shaky moan leaves him. It takes all your willpower not to grab him by the back of his neck and grind against his face. As much as you’d like to ride that pretty nose of his, you’re letting him take the pace with this one. Something wet touches you then. His tongue. Its tip is probing and prying at your entrance, before pressing flat against your cunt and running along it. He repeats the motion a few times, always pulling back right before he gets to your clit.

Desire clouds your mind, leaving it heavier than the alcohol did. You’re not tipsy on the rum anymore. Now you’re just drunk on whatever Javier is doing down there. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, accompanied by soft whimpers. Eyes closed shut, you spread your arms in search for an edge or handle. Anything you can hold on to. Finally, his tongue flicks over your clit that is slightly swollen from arousal.

Stars explode behind your eyelids and you quickly clasp a hand over your mouth to muffle whatever noise is forcing its way out of you. Javier repeats the motion. The part of him that was so keen on teasing and torturing you has disappeared into thin air. He’s equally as hungry and impatient, lapping at your pussy like a madman. Sometimes there’s a rhythm to it and other times there isn’t.

During one of the latter of the two, you frantically hike up your own skirt until his hair is somewhat exposed and you bury your fingers in the dark, thick locks. Holding him tight in your grasp, you nudge him closer to your throbbing core. It tears a low, filthy moan out of him. His own hands have an iron grip on your thighs as if you’re the one keeping him steady instead of the other way around.

“Yes.”, he groans against your cunt. “Please, ride my face. Oh, please.”

His tongue is sticking out, having completely given up on trying to find a somewhat steady pattern. You grind your clit over it, occasionally missing your mark and gliding over his nose instead. Most of your weight is on his shoulder, otherwise you’d slide down the wagon and topple onto the ground. On second thought, you don’t think that you’d mind it if he decides to ravish you on the forest floor.

Whatever drop he can catch, he’s drinking it up. Drinking you up. With one arm firmly wrapped around your thigh right next to his head, he takes his free hand to reach out for you. Through your desperate thrusts, he somehow manages to find your folds without accidentally scratching you and slides a finger in. The second one follows shortly after, practically being sucked up along.

Curling them up, the tips are pressing against your g-spot and your movements falter. Seizing the brief break, his tongue flicks over your clit once more while he pumps his fingers in and out of you in sync. They stretch your walls and vanish inside you all the way up to his knuckles. Something wet runs along your leg and seeps into your shoe. It’s a shame that he’s hidden between your legs this way. You would have loved to watch him at work, see the flush over his cheeks and your wetness coat his face,

“I’m so close.”, you alert him, but you’re not certain that he heard you. He continues his assault on your sensitive nerves and flesh. The orgasm Javier draws out of your is devastating. All strength flees out of your muscles at once and you have to grip onto the edges of the wagon for dear life to not collapse right then and there.

A strangled gasp passes your lips and your eyes are open wide. Hips spasming, you try to pull away, but his tongue is still lapping at your clit. He’s relentless as he eats you out, while his fingers massage your g-spot with a vigor you’ve never seen a man do before. White dots dance in your vision from the overstimulation and the knot that just loosened in your stomach tightens again. It’s as hard as iron and your body is as tense as a drawn bowstring.

The second orgasm feels like a brick to the face. It knocks the air out of your lungs and you sink. Knees unable to keep you upright, they buckle and that’s the only reason he stops. Lips letting go of your clit with a squelching plop, his arms shoot forward to steady you. Your breath leaves your mouth in gusts of clouds. When his head appears again from underneath your skirt, he’s a mess.

The skin around his lips is glistening in the dim moonlight, his mustache and goatee are completely drenched and his hair resembles more a bird’s nest. His eyes are on fire, almost gleaming in the darkness. While still holding onto you, he stands back up on his feet and his lips find yours. The kiss is a little slower to allow you catch your breath again.

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull when you taste yourself on his tongue. His mouth is slick from both you and his saliva that is escaping from out the corner and rolling along your jaw. Pushing your body against his, you feel him hard against your lower stomach. Lust still pumps through your veins and you pull at the waistband of his pants.

Javier immediately understands and his hands fly down to unbuckle his belt. As he works on the buttons of his pants, you relax against the solid wood behind you and kick the bloomers out of the way that are still hanging at your ankle. Dirt covers the white fabric, staining it in dark specks, but you push that thought to the side. Hiking up your skirt again, Javier positions himself between your legs.

One of them is up again, wrapped around his waist and he holds it almost the same as before. As he draws closer, you feel his tip brushing over the damp skin on the inside of your thighs. Reaching for the base of his cock, you let your fingers glide over the curls surrounding it. They’re thick, yet at the same time so soft. Holding onto his shaft, you guide him to your core that is beginning to ache with need again.

Javier slides in with ease, stretching your walls more than you could have ever expected. More than you could have ever hoped for. A shaky breath pushes out of him and he draws his brows together. Focus is edged into his features as if he’s fighting the urge to cum right then and there. Snaking both arms around his neck, you plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth before sinking your teeth into his lower lips once more.

“I need you.”, you whisper into his ear with a sultry voice. If he does finish before starting, you’re not going to be upset. On the contrary, it would be a compliment. “I need you so much.”

He whines in response and buries his face into the crook of your neck. Sweat coats his forehead, smearing it over your shoulder, but you don’t mind. You’re quite sweaty yourself.

“Thank you.”, he stutters breathlessly.

Before you can even think about asking what exactly he’s thanking you for, he pulls out only to push himself back in. Veins drag along your walls. You feel each and everyone of them. The pace is agonizingly slow, but deep enough that you keep any pleas to speed things up to yourself. Having never caught a glimpse of the length between his legs, you always guessed him to be average at most.

How wrong you had been. It feels like he’s splitting you in half. With each thrust, his tip kisses your cervix, though it feels more like he’s reaching all the way up to your throat. You feel the stretch deep within you, feel how his length caresses your g-spot amongst many other sensitive spots that you had no idea even existed.

Every now and then he stops in the middle of it, trembling and panting. The attempts at composure last longer each time. The first few only took a couple of seconds, but now you get the sense that whole minutes are passing. Your hands drag over his shoulders and slip around his waist to his back. Burying your fingers into the vest, you yank him closer into your body. Breasts pressed against his chest, you’re certain that he can feel your nipples through his clothes.

The action has driven his cock deeper into you. The smack of wet skin on wet skin must have been heard throughout the entire camp. Luckily everyone is asleep.

“You feel so good.”, you coo into his ear and a quiver runs through his muscles. You had no idea that he’d be so responsive to praise.

“Thank you.”, he mumbles into your neck. His voice cracks at the end.

“Yes, that’s it. Right there. Oh, Javier, you’re so good.”

Each compliment dropping from your lips has him speed up. By the tenth or so, he’s fucking you in earnest. His hips snap forward like an animal heat, driving his cock into you relentlessly. The pleasure has you both tense and loose. With your back arched and head tipped backwards, Javier seizes the access. His mouth is over your throat, sucking, licking and biting. It’ll definitely leave marks for everyone to see the next day.

The grip he has on your thigh is bruising, but you barely even notice. You’re too focused chasing your orgasm as his thrusts shake your body like an earthquake. The pace is set is rough and punishing, abusing your throbbing cunt over and over. It’s the best you’ve ever felt.

“Keep going just like this.”, you moan, feeling yourself dance on the edge of a knife.

Whatever answer Javier wants to say is being muffled by your skin. His teeth bore deeper into your flesh, sending a stinging pain through your veins and that is all you need. As the spot that he’s biting burns as if someone put out a cigarette it, his tip is hitting a particularly sensitive spot inside you. The third orgasm of the night washes over you like a bucket of ice-cold water.

It’s both agony and bliss. You feel as if you’re feeling into an endless pit, but at the same time lifted high into the sky. When you clench around his cock, quivering, Javier follows you over the edge right after. Hot ropes of cum shoot into your cunt and he still rolls his hips forward as if to make sure that not a single drop goes to waste.

Some of it manages to leak out and run down both your legs like white pearls. For the longest time, the two of you remain frozen in this position and you can feel him turn soft inside you. When he finally finds the strength to pull out, you feel awfully empty. More of his semen follows, falling onto the ground with a splat.

The night lies completely silent, aside from your heavy breathing and you brush some of the hair strands out of his face that are sticking to his sweaty forehead. The scent of forbidden sex fills the air, clinging to your bodies and clothes. Javier mumbles more words of gratitude as he plants a trail of kisses over the side of your face.

“You’re so beautiful.”, he murmurs. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.”

At a loss for words, you simply grab him by the chin and bring his mouth closer to yours. You slide your tongue past his lips in an attempt to catch one last taste of yourself.

[whosjunglejim4322]

18+

You work for Mr. Charles assisting Dex’s assigned tasks. Things get tricky when he realizes he feels things for his second in command handler after months of working together, and your apartment is too tempting not to break into

Warnings: stalking like y’all know who this fic is about! He’s kind of a creep wow, Raw sex, A little dark!Dex, he breaks in and jerks off in your room, teeny Voyeurism kink, handjob and choking and dirty talk and sweetness, he fucks you in his lap, this should be the poster child for Dex switch agenda omg

Dex couldn’t help it. His hands had worked faster than his mind, and it started off as such an ordinary thought. This is where you sleep, I wonder what it feels like to have your heat so close. Mundane and domestic and the sick fantasy of all that would never be true just became too much for him.

And maybe that’s what ruined him, what made his manhood swell and leak in his briefs because it felt so unreachable until he came here. Until he knew what type of soap you used and where you keep your cutlery and how many pajama sets you have.

You’re at work, likely going through paperwork that makes you look like you’d do something illegal for a full eight hours of sleep. It’s also most likely affiliated with him, recent assignments closed and there are plenty of deposits to be made.

His included.

You’re good at your job. It was one of the many first things he noticed about you, and it made his ears perk up whenever you spoke and the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention.

Like whatever words rolled off your tongue was something he’d want to know, something he needed to know because missing it felt detrimental.

Whatever world you were brought into, clearly far too young, has shaped you into a person who completely understood objective. The cold hard truth of it in the unconventional, and more importantly how necessary it is.

And yet somehow, after he’d come back from something terrible and wretched in nature yet as easy as breathing, disgustingly normal for him with blood still splattered on his suit - you’d have a soft smile. Gentle, like reality held no meaning and the diner is going to close in an hour and you still have to be up for three hours so come with me Dex!

You’d drag him by his jacket like he’s a puppy who can’t be let off the leash too long or he’ll do something you don’t have enough money to pay for.

And he’d follow like he didn’t just end someone’s life hours before, and yet somehow he still deserved to have your hand on him and your late night grin beaming towards him in the midnight streets of New York.

Your energy is like a vortex of something that wants to peel away at him, pick at his brain and settle yourself between matter. He doesn’t get it. In a lot of ways it frustrates him, makes his skin itch a little because people aren’t just like that.

They don’t ask you how you’re feeling when you’ve still got fresh blood on your hands, or steal sips of your coffee and pretend they don’t see you subtly lick the edge of the cup where their mouth just was.

And yet, he felt the buzz in his brain start.

It started as a hum in the back of his skull, and yeah of course it was nice to go out for for breakfast at three A.M with a beautiful woman and chat business that always turned into talking about what movie you’d watched recently and how it changed your life.

And then he’d start talking about a mixtape that meant everything to him when he was nine and had no one but the boys in the orphanage who thought he was a fucking freak to talk about it with.

All because you asked what his favorite song is since he’s always wearing those ancient headphones, and maybe it was the faux compartmentalized safety box that he’d put you in that made it so easy.

Second arm to his boss, to a job he needs because structure had become wonky and he couldn’t have that. Not now, not after everything.

The hum quickly became a horrible, gluttonous, deafening roar.

He had, and still has no rational explanation. He knows the basics, he’s a man, and you’re you and you’re in close proximities and it is literally your job to make sure he is alive and well and every cog in the machine is well oiled.

So at his big age he should be able to differentiate between your professional and personal relationship. You meant something to Charles that wasn’t quite like a daughter, but something close and too parental in nature for Dex to understand anyways. He didn’t know what that even meant.

But Dex has never had a crush.

The word feels so fucking juvenile in his head, something from a life he’s never had and never will have. He has never felt love. Real, true, honest to god love.

He only knows the intensity of something under his skin, something that festers and writhes and aches inside of him. It crawls through veins and tendons and muscle and the framework in his spine and it beckons him.

So it did not take long for you to fester within him. To spread to every thought that wasn’t about his next hit or organizing his weaponry. Even doing the dishes, he wondered what you were doing in that exact moment.

Brushing your hair, your teeth? Were you still asleep and wrapped in your covers that he envied because they get to be bunched between your arms and legs and against your stomach?

You even seeped into the mundane everyday parts of life like something divine and real. When he did his laundry he thought of what you wore to bed and what soap you used and how you smell.

When he made his bed he thought about what your weight would feel like against his mattress, how your frame would ruffle the duvet and he’d be okay with it. And how the springs might creak when he crawls on top of you and kisses your sternum and makes a mess out of the softness between your legs.

Fuck.

He could lie and say he tried to fight it, but he’s more than grown now. He can take accountability. He’s just exercising a little free will, and he’s not hurting anyone, really.

No, this is the most devotional, wholehearted and earnest thing that he’s done in a very long time.

Your room is filled with your scent and he’s bathed in the glow of it like a wash of fresh air. His hands started shaking as soon as he walked in and felt surrounded by you, his belly hot and he really didn’t know what to do with himself with such an opportune moment.

His head went fuzzy, and his thoughts didn’t make sense anymore.

He scoped everything like forgetting would mean death. Your shaggy rug at the foot of your bed, your desk and the half open books and messy papers scattered everywhere. Your laptop still open and your chair rolled away like you got up and never sat back down.

Your bed is softer than his, and fluffy blankets surround your bedposts and there is no creaking of the springs when he sits himself down. You don’t make it in the morning like he does because the covers are still thrown from your spot and crumpled, pillow still indented with the shape of your head.

His fingertips graze the pink fabric and it lights something dangerous and hot inside of him very very quickly.

First it’s his palm on the sheets cause he wants to know if he can feel even the ghost of your heat when you lied here, and then his knees are on the mattress and god you really do smell so sweet, and then his face is in your pillow and he’s inhaling like a mad man.

He lets out a guttural groan, the blood rushing to his head as fast as it is to his dick and in the haze of it all he feels his hips buck unconsciously. Like his subconscious felt your insides too just then.

He doesn’t think about it. He can’t, or he’ll dwell and convince himself that he’s better than this. And he doesn’t want to be.

He just flips himself around, thick fingers fumbling with his belt buckle with all the trembling, and when he’s unbuckled he doesn’t even pull his pants down all the way to his knees before reaching for his weeping cock from the fold in his briefs.

He lets out a sigh of relief when the cool air from your overhead fan hits it, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his thick thighs part a little further. His feet are touching the ground, heavy boots scrunching your rug underneath their rubber soles.

He’s so hard it hurts, the tip is pink and leaking dribbles of iridescent precum down the thick of his veiny shaft.

His hand is as hot as his manhood when he wraps his thick fingers around himself and tugs with a dirty smirk and a half chuckle of disbelief that he’s so pent up. He hasn’t cum in months, and now this is happening.

“Fuck.”

He breathes out, hamstrings tightening along with his abdomen when the callouses tucked inside his fingers graze his sensitive mushroom head.

It’s dirty, and he feels like a teenager all over again because he’s staring at all of your stuff and is envious of everything that’s ever gotten to see you in your most human version.

He’s blushing at the thought of laying on the same bed you do.

He writhes his hips into his hand, pants like a dog in heat. He’s started getting a bit too messy, precum soaking into his underwear at this base. He’s still in a lustful haze when he’s looking off to his right and sees a haphazard piece of clothing that’s barely hanging off of your bed.

He twists his torso and grabs it like it owes him money. It’s inside out but he sees flashes of the white lettering on the front of the green fabric and he moans out loud. It’s one of your favorite tee shirts, you wear it to work at least three times a week and you’ve worn it on your after hours restaurant runs too.

He shoves it to his face, and if he’d done it any harder he’d break his nose but he doesn’t care. The smell of you after a shower and a night of sleep fills his senses, clouds him like a rainstorm and he’s so lost, so deep in it now so quickly.

He whimpers into the fabric, rocks his hips and the sound of his own arousal leaking out of him and being used as lube while he touches himself fills the room. He’s dragging his hand from his tip all the way down, and his head is just images of what you might feel like pulsing around him.

What it would be like if you were here right now on top of him, spread open on his thick lap and taking him to the hilt. Insides all battered and soft and sensitive. Crying his name over and over again. Getting him wet and messy and sticky.

“Fuuuuuck, baby fuck.”

It’s incoherent with your shirt pressed to his nose and mouth, at least that’s what Dex would be thinking if he had any thoughts other than your cunt and the shape of your mouth and the feeling of your cervix.

You’re honestly astonished he hasn’t heard you yet. He’s one of the best you guys have, so perceptive it’s almost superhuman and his reflexes are some of the best you’ve ever seen.

You, however, are quieter. Clearly. And it’s endearing, to see him through the crack in the door and understand almost immediately that he is the human embodiment of starvation and desperation.

It makes you gasp, because he’s so big and dressed in all black in your frilly room and the juxtaposition makes your insides throb. Of course it’s also the sounds he’s making, they’re whiny and loud your his whole hand is wrapped across his mouth with your shirt directly underneath.

It’s seeing a version of him that you never even fathomed would come to life. You didn’t even know it was this serious for him despite the fact that you knew his gaze lingered on you longer than normal during interactions.

Your heart feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and onto the floor with a loud, squelchy thump.

You’re not disturbed, and that’s the most concerning part. But you’ve read up on his file over a hundred times now, of course. You know he’s not…conventional in his proclivities. You know he’s suffered, that it’s altered him permanently.

And you’ve spent time with him in the outside world, away from the murder and secrecy of your work life. You know what a real smile looks like when it spreads across his broad mouth, what a genuine satisfied hum sounds like when he takes a sip of his drink and it’s the right balance of milk and sugar.

And maybe you’ve always had a soft spot for the fucked up ones. For the ones that need to latch onto someone so badly they’d hang on until their fingers bleed. Because all you know how to do is help.

However, you can’t think too much about it right now when you’re distracted by how pretty his dick looks in his big hand and how neatly shaven he is or how his greying hair is getting long and you want to run your hands through it and tuck it behind his ears.

You just know you have to open your bedroom door all the way, so your hands find the cold knob and you’re pushing it open with a tepid step.

Dex stills, everything locking into place all at once. A series of thoughts run through his head very quickly, almost too fast for him to decide on one.

Ultimately, you didn’t break the door down. Or barge in with a gun aimed at his forehead although he’d kind of like that. In fact, you’re looking at him in a way that makes his balls tighten and his manhood twitch in his hold unconsciously. His body is just responding.

It’s not so much shock, or surprise or disgust. It’s like you’re curious, utterly transfixed by what’s taking place despite the fact that he’s staring dead at you and is slowly lowering your shirt to his lap over his erection and his cheeks and neck couldn’t be more beet red under any other circumstances.

“I have cameras, you know.”

Your voice hits him like a punch to the gut, he has to stop himself from doubling over a little because the taboo nature of the scenario is really fucking doing it for him and where someone normal would feel humiliation, Dex feels thrilled.

He’s been caught, and more so, he’s been surveilled while he thought he was being incognito and expertly smart about breaking and entering.

He looks like something scary and hungry right now, you can see his cock bobbing under your shirt where it’s covering him. He’s still panting, hair a little slick with sweat and you wanna lick the bead that trickles over his forehead and down the sharp bridge of his nose.

He looks like a person. Not a case file, not a weapon, not Bullseye. Just a man. And it makes you squeeze your thighs together when his eyes rake over you like he’s not ashamed of what he’s doing right now.

“You saw me come in?”

He asks, and his voice is rough like it has the permission to be when he’s pleasuring himself in your room. Completely wired and completely fucked. He licks his lips without thinking.

And now you’re advancing towards him, and you gently kick the door shut with the heel of your boot and he thinks he might spontaneously combust when it closes with a thud. He watches you like every step means something prophetic.

“I wanna know something,” You ignore his question, and he swallows so hard you hear it. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise when you’re finally so close he can map out details in your expression and feel your body heat in rivelets.

Your eyes are innocent and sparkling, head cocked a little.

You’re enjoying this.

Dex controls the cocky smirk threatening to spread on his face. He adjusts himself because he’s so sensitive and so unbelievably pent up and of course you’d have to be, well, like this.

Looking at him with saucers for eyes, breathing heavy.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

He asks, and now his heart is in his throat because you’re kneeling beside him on the bed, situating one foot under your bum and your weight dips him towards you a little and fuck. He’s ruining your shirt.

“You didn’t even go for my underwear drawer,”

You reach out and touch his face with your middle finger, grazing the scar on his cheek before tracing his jaw and chin. Then you’re pushing his hair back from his eyes and everything in his body starts vibrating.

He’s done something good. He must have, to earn this.

“you just saw a shirt I wear almost everyday and started touching yourself.”

Your hand doesn’t leave his face. It lingers and sears him, if he could see himself it’d be a sore sight. He’s molding himself to the curve of your palm and makes no effort to deny anything you’re saying.

“Thats kind of pathetic, Dex. Keep going.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum from that alone. Nothing in his fantasies, nothing he’s fisted his cock to in the shower or humped his fucking mattress to could ever have conjured a sweeter vision than what’s in front of him.

He stutters when he speaks, trembling all over again with excitement and desire. Somewhere tucked away far and deep, he’s also nervous.

But you asked him nicely, and he can see your pulse thudding and feel how you’re starting to lean into him. He jumps a little when you reach out and pull your shirt off of the protrusion underneath it because it drags against him.

“You know I have cameras, Dex.”

Your breath is against the side of his face and he closes his eyes to savor it as he wraps his hand around the base of his shaft again. The goosebumps on his skin are tingling, and his blood is starting to swoosh inside his ears.

“You wanted me to watch. So move your hand, hmm?”

He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He gives himself a long stroke because doing anything else seems futile and useless and everything that could matter is happening right now.

His forearm is thick and strong and you watch how everything flexes and relaxes with each drag.

“Yes ma’am.” It’s said sarcastically, teasing at the end and yet his voice cracks a little when he says it.

He’s been caught, and you’re here beside him encouraging him with your voice and hands. What more could he reduce himself to?

He’s so beautiful it hurts. You’ll be angry at him later, maybe say some stuff that would humiliate and degrade a regular person and mean nothing to him. You just can’t get over how palpable your presence is to him, how intensely it’s influencing him.

All that strength, and brute and broadness and he’s nothing but this blushing, stuttering mess who’s jerking off with you whispering in his ear.

You grip his jaw with little to no force, and predictably he offers you his neck with his head lolling to the left a bit. The sound that leaves him is guttural and nasty and honest. His whole body jerks at the contact too, but you’re distracted by the taste of his skin.

You get caught up sooner than you expected yourself to. You’re mouthing at his throat, his jaw, his ear lobes. And you can hear the sounds coming from between his legs, sloppy and wet and it’s all him. Not to mention he is practically a lit wire under your touch.

You catch his thick wrist in your hand and the tendons flex harshly in your light grip. He looks over at you and now you’re low lidded gaze to barely restrained lust, noses brushing. You let the air between your mouths burn with the need to vanish.

You swat his hand away and he listens silently, fists your bedsheets instead and god, his pupils completely blow out when your grip replaces his.

“Fuck.”

You let him whimper it into your mouth, swallowing it with your lips against his and there are too many pleasurable sensations at once. His brain is completely empty, not capable of any other thoughts. He tries to use his free hand to touch you, but you shove it to the side and he knows he needs to behave.

He pouts and it’s earnest disappointment, but it doesn’t linger for long.

His tongue is explorative, finding yours immediately like he’s thought about kissing you over a thousand times.

Cause he has.

And he’s so reactive in your palm, you feel his pulse through the veins and he’s twitching with each pass of your teeth over his bottom lip and your nose brushing against his.

“Thought about this for so long.”

He confesses it like it hurts, and you finally move your hand and his pretty hazel eyes roll back. You already miss it, his overawe gaze, and so you grip his thick throat just enough to grab his attention and fuck it does.

“Did you? You’re unbelievable, look at you Dex.”

You’re toying with him now. With his emotions. It seems that anything you say will dial him up to ten and it’s riveting. Your grip on his throat tightens just a little, Adam’s apple bobbing underneath your palm and his pulse fluttering like a moth underneath his flesh.

He looks at you with watery eyes, like everything is burning hot where embarrassment should be. Where shame should be. You lick his open mouth, taunting him despite the slickness between your thighs and the blossoming heat in your gut.

“When did you think about doing this? Tell me the truth, I know you can do it.”

He scrunches his eyebrows together when you start palming the tip of his velvety cock, focusing on the sensitive underside while trying to draw out a response. You tangle your free hand in his hair now, tugging. He makes a pathetic sound through his nose.

“A w-week after I met you, fuck slow down.”

He’s genuinely overwhelmed. You can’t believe it. He’s more capable of submission than you thought, more attuned to your movements and your voice than what seems possible for not having an intimate connection until now.

His scar twists everytime his mouth quirks from your hand stroking him, crows feet crinkling by his eyes.

You tug his head back by his scalp, kiss his throat again and this time you let your teeth graze the surface. Just testing the waters, and his stomach convulses.

You remove your hand and he could really cry. But you can feel that perhaps that was going to do him in, and he’d spill all over his lap and make a mess of your sheets and you just don’t want it to be over yet and neither does he and you both know that.

Shouldn’t he know how much you’ve thought of this too? How many nights you’ve touched yourself to the thought of him? How you came home the moment you saw him on your cameras?

“Please, goddamit.”

He curses, clenches his jaw and he’s only confused for a second whenever you bring your cupped hand up to his mouth. He meets your eye and you nod, he spits at once, and then your palm is back over him with the hot saliva coating his length.

He smirks again because you let out a small gasp you didn’t think he’d notice, his lovesick eyes wondering how your lips could be so kiss bitten and swollen already, how you’re doing so good at trying not to act like this isn’t working you up so bad you’re leaking and aching just like he is.

“You’re so big, I always knew you were.”

His head starts throbbing, you’re getting dangerously sweet on him. Now you’re focused on his cock, switching to the sight between his legs and then his face because you don’t know which one you’d rather admire.

And your body has gotten so close you might as well be on his lap now, your tits against his bicep and your knees knocking his hips. He wants to lift your skirt and bury himself between your thighs, to know what your face looks like when you’re getting fucked by him.

“You’ve thought about it too.”

You just smile at his musing, and it’s sweet and familiar and it’s the version of you that he knows so well and he surges forward to kiss you again. You’re receptive, suckling the bottom and using your grip on the hair at his nape as leverage.

It’s sloppy, wet and loud and he groans down your throat. Your stroking has picked up its pace, focused on the tip where that hot stickiness leaks and lavishing his shaft ever so often. You’ve now thrown a leg over his thigh, pulling it towards you and effectively spreading them apart further.

“Of course I have, look at you. You might never know how much I’ve really thought about you.”

You breathe it out, and his heart feels like it’s grown three sizes, like it’s being mutated in real time. It might be at risk for swelling so badly it bursts from behind his ribs.

He’d chuckle in disbelief if he weren’t ruined, gutted from the inside out.

And now you’re kissing all over his face, his sharp nose, the creases in his forehead and neck. You’re hot to the touch, almost as hot as he is and your movements are full of tremble like you’re forgetting you initially started in a position of control.

He wants you to get lost like he is. He wants you to not be able to control yourself, to have no lingering thoughts about anything other than him and his body and his mouth and how heavy he is in your grasp.

He wants you to consume him, wholly and completely.

His eyes are closed so all he feels is you crawling on top of him and he bucks his hips instinctually, the heat between your legs just above his left knee as you straddle it firmly.

It’s thick, meaty and the rough material of these black cargos he’s wearing bumps right against your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He wants to feel your naked hips underneath where your skirt has risen up around your soft waist, and your breasts in his palm and how your nipples would feel rubbing against his skin.

He feels you right here on his thigh and yet he knows that he wouldn’t risk moving a muscle without your permission as to not end what’s happening.

When you start rutting yourself on the fabric, though, dragging yourself all the way up and then down over his knee, he has to grab your hand and stop you from pumping him for a second

“Just a second…please.” He asks, and you oblige him only because he looks so pretty. God.

“Using your manners, good job Dex.”

You say it like you’re genuinely proud and his eyes flutter shut as you fight his hand and start stroking him again. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter but he is surrendering in a way he’s never surrendered before.

And you’re not lost on it. No, you’re good at reading people too. You can see how the praise colors him in a blanket of warmth and lust and lightheadedness.

But now your clit is throbbing and you feel yourself leaking into your panties, the fabric is sticking to you and drags wet heat against your slit whenever you grind against his thigh.

The sight is just too much for you. Everything is clinging to him, every muscle and ridge and scar. And he is so pliable, so heavy on your fingertips that you don’t know what to do with the reality of it all.

Your hips surge forward again, and a sigh so soft leaves your mouth that he hopes he can hear that sound forever. It’s an immediate realization, a blinding sensation. He sees you with so much clarity.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

It comes out dazed and it takes you by surprise because you didn’t expect to ever hear the word pretty come out of his mouth. And for everything he is, all the horror and all the hurt and all the misunderstanding, honesty slips out of him like loose teeth when he’s around you.

He’s pliant when you pull him to your mouth, and the kiss is raw now because you let him grab your face and his hands feel better against you than your thoughts previously cojurned in half asleep daydreams. They’re big and rough and his fingers are eager just to feel your soft cheeks, the curve of your nose.

His mouth is vicious and his tongue is greedy, and he’s making little plaintive cries in the back of his throat like your lips might be his immediate demise and he’s thankful for it, grateful for it.

“More, give me more.”

You say it like a demand but your voice is thin and weak and he just bucks his strong hips to readjust before using two hands under your ass to slide you over the shaft of his cock.

You’re planted with his length directly against your covered slit and it’s heavy and hot and twitches against you when your body recognizes what’s touching you. Who it belongs to. What situation you’ve gotten yourself into and you know you won’t refuse him. That he can’t refuse you.

Your thighs squeeze together, trapped by his broad waist in between them. You feel him everywhere already, the push and pull. Not to mention you’re sticky where he’s bobbing against you, and his chest couldn’t be more prominent through his shirt when he’s heaving like he is.

“Whatever you want. Take it from me. I’m yours, fuuuuuck f-fuck are you-“

He’s never felt anything like it, the softness of your slit and how you could be so syrupy and wet already, seeping and covering his pink tip in your essence. You’re so hot between your legs it’s making him lightheaded.

And he really is stunned in place. His body reacts for him, stomach tensing and torso attempting to grind up into you and the worst part is that you let him. That you’re allowing any of this.

Because now it’s made a home in him, not just the scrunch of your nose when something makes you laugh, genuinely laugh, or the skin by your fingers that you’ve chewed off, or your cunt rutting against him.

He’s already not the same, whatever infatuation he had is now dangerous and heady and sifting through his head like it’s trying to find ways to make it stop because he really needs this job.

Unfortunately, he needs you more.

Because now he’s gripping your hips and prying his arm underneath your ass to pull your panties to the side and you’re caged against him with the air knocked out of your lungs. He’s solid and strong and you’re clumsy when you reach between your bodies to grab his cock and shove it past your silken slit.

You lift yourself by the knees, and then lower yourself and he’s completely seated inside of you with one exhale and maybe if it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves you.

“Oh god, fuck.” You whimper it out, and he trembles. The stretch is severe.

You cling onto his shoulders and he’s so hyper aware of the pouting of your lips and the scrunch between your brows, your eyes closing like you’re savoring him. He’s should feel guilty for his thoughts, for how insatiable and miserable he’ll make you if you ever try to leave because you’re fluttering around his cock and he’s kissing your cervix.

“Take your time, not going anywhere.”

He encourages, and you don’t really know what to do with yourself because minutes ago you thought you had your head on straight, that you knew how to navigate all of this and all of, well, him.

But he’s big and throbbing against your gummy walls and you didn’t think you could ever feel so full of someone. It’s incredible how he can become Dex so quickly, not the new hire or the assassin or the anti hero or the mercenary.

He’s greying hair and scarred skin and rushing blood beneath you. And when your arms fasten themselves tighter around his freckled neck, he drags himself out slowly, savoring the syrupy glide before pushing himself back in to the hilt.

You melt against him further, body weakening with the intensity and he smiles to himself, satisfied and sanguine at your disarming. At how your hips couldn’t be more loose on top of him, with all that tension and tightness right where he’s disappearing inside of and your voice all gooey and soft now in his ear.

God, he couldn’t have dreamed it would go like this.

“You’re p-perverted for breaking in.”

You taunt him while he begins pistoning himself inside of you, hiccuping each syllable. The sound of your wetness is as loud as his jerking off was, a terribly gut wrenching sound that makes his possessiveness that much worse.

And your words, they shouldn’t make him shudder and convulse the way they do but you’re saying it while he’s fucking you and you just can’t really blame him.

Your fingers are holding onto the back of shirt so tight, your cheek planted against the nook of his jaw and shoulder. You’re putty in his arms, and they’re tighter by the minute in their hold on your middle.

His hips are so powerful, and you wish you could think about how bad of an idea this is. You wish you could break yourself out of your fucked out stupor, but you didn’t know he’d fuck you this good. You didn’t know that he’d be so deep inside you’re sure you’ll be able to feel him tomorrow.

“I know shhh, I know,”

he grunts it against your hair, starts searching for the skin of your neck. He just hovers there with parted lips and a red face and that hot wetness hugging him with each thrust.

“but l-look at us, you feel so goooood fuck, look how it turned out, yeah?”

He sounds dirty, menacingly nasty in what he’s saying and how he’s saying it and most of all how true it is. You love it, it’s terrible that you love it and yet you were buzzing with excitement when you checked your cameras and saw his big frame sauntering in.

The wet squelching sounds between your legs intensify, and somewhere between the grind of your hips and your teeth against his neck you’re crying his name.

“Dexxxx, ohhhh my g-god, baby.”

His hips genuinely stutter and his stomach starts fluttering, you feel him tense and relax three times over and his torso grinds into you a bit harsher than before.

He never thought he’d hear you call him that, and he’s glad you can’t see his face because his expression is so fucked.

That word is reserved for people who care about each other. For people in love. For people who can say soft things and not feel ridiculous and out of place or like they don’t deserve to hear it at all.

“Don’t stop, j-just don’t stop please.” You beg petulantly, hands rubbing his broad back, ignoring the way his pace has faltered and he’s softly panting in your ear.

He laughs, and it’s short lived and airy but you feel it in his chest. He grinds himself deep and unfairly into you, pushing you down on him while he’s fucking up into you. He feels the blunt ends of your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.

“W-why would I stop? I can’t, I can’t.”

It’s true, he can’t fathom it. The thought doesn’t even seem feasible right now. You’re so tight, squeezing around him and he can feel your heartbeat inside of you. Rocks you against him sturdy and hard.

It feels like forever, with him pounding himself into you and your insides being bullied. In reality it’s only about five minutes, and you’ve been sucking on the side of his neck and his earlobe and he’s balls deep - writhing his hips.

Your clit is being rubbed by his pubic mound and you feel so much intensely deep pressure from his thick cock inside you that you’re sure you’re gonna burst. You’ve started pulsing too, milking him for everything he’s got.

He really didn’t know that he could feel things this intensely that aren’t anger or despair.

It starts unraveling when you take yourself out of the crook of his neck and meet his face. He swears he sees a little drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, and you’re looking at him like he’s a completely new person.

Or maybe he’d just never noticed it before, because he was too wrapped up in noticing you. And the idea of you noticing him too felt unrealistic.

But no, no it’s real and happening and you’ve got both hands on his cheeks and your nose is against his, your hips swiveling on top of him and your pussy making a mess on his lap that he’d frame if it were practical to do so.

“It’s all mine now, right?”

You kiss his mouth when you say it, and then your hand is splayed against the broadness of his flexing chest and you’re shoving him back until he’s lying down on your mattress, staring at you with so much devotion it’s scary.

You readjust while he’s still inside of you, leaning over to kiss him again and he knows he’s going to finish in this position. He’s already hiked his feet up on the bed to fuck you good and hard and he hates that his boots are on your pretty covers but he’ll wash them for you.

“I’m yours. My dick is yours. Everything. Take it, just like tha-a-at.”

He’s whining and blotchy, and the strain in his throat makes you double over because you feel the white hot tension move in your stomach when his cock curves into the deepest parts of you.

You want it to be true, all of it, and the physical reality is too much for you to handle.

You shove your face in his neck because you don’t want him to see how completely ruined you look when you cum. No, everything is shaking and you’re trying to close your legs and the tingling and throbbing is working its way through you like a virus that’s got to fever you first.

“O-ohhh god, Dex m’cumming.”

You slur it and he thinks he might pass out because he can feel it happening. He squeezes you harder than he has the whole night, holds your wriggling body firm against his frame when he starts delivering his last round of thrusts into your cunt.

It’s trying to push him out, it’s contracting around his cock and kissing it and weeping for it. He’s never been so high off of anything he’s done to another human being. Not even the most rectified kills have felt like this.

“Oh f-fuck, gonna fill you all the way up, mmfuck, you’ll take all of it honey, yeah yeah yeah.”

He sounds delusional and dizzy, he’s past the point of trying to sound nice or sweet because his balls are tightening where they’re still tucked in his briefs and he has to practice restraint like he’s never known so that he doesn’t crush you in his arms accidentally.

You put your tongue in his mouth when you feel the staccato thrusts, the immediate heat that swells in the space between your walls as he pumps his seed into you. And he’s moaning like he’s hurt, mmm’s and ooohhhhh’s and his teeth on full display like a wild animal from the curling of his lip.

You let your mouth linger on his while he’s twitching and you’re still pulsing.

His hands find your face, and he sloppily makes out with you, almost casually if it weren’t for the tremors in his wrists or the scrunch of his brows or the way he’s keeping himself inside of you while his cock softens.

He’s happy. He realizes that’s the emotion he’s feeling when you look him in the eyes again, and your face still hasn’t changed from that soft and frowny pleasure contorted look quite yet.

You don’t want it to end either.

You’re sobering up, and the ache still isn’t going away. You’ve completely crossed a line that has sent you into a realm you won’t come back from - because now he won’t ever be the same to you.

You know what he tastes like, what he sounds in your ear when he feels good, what he’s truly capable of when he’s got your body in his hands.

“Stay.” You don’t ask, just state it plainly like it’s already decided.

It crushes him from the inside out. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s never gotten and if he didn’t work with you everyday he’d think you were being cruel, offering him such a sweet thing.

Don’t you know it’ll make it worse? That now he’ll be in here every waking moment he’s not working? That he will memorize every part of your life that you think others will never notice?

“Really?”

He asks, and you don’t expect him to sound so small after all of that. To look so pitiful and blushed crimson and spent now, with blonde hair sticking to his forehead.

You nod, kissing his nose and his hands are smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms and over your back. Explorative and greedy and you arch into them.

“You can help me put my window lock back in place, creep.”

His smile is completely and utterly Benjamin Poindexter this time.

[northistar]

bf!dex who puts himself to sleep by eating the soul out of you. he swears he doesn't need medication or any other clinical method to silence the overwhelming thoughts that insist on keeping him up at night, that's why he has you—and that sweet pussy of yours, of course.

he'll go down on you almost nightly if you let him, thick fingers stuffed knuckle deep inside you and curling repeatedly against that sweet spot of yours that he recently found out makes stars explode behing your eyelids, eager mouth blabbering nonsense into your pussy the whole time.

he can make you come more than three times with his tongue and fingers only—the most he has ever achieved without you threatening to pass out beneath him—and probably won't even register your tiny whimpers of "dex, that's enough" until you start kicking and pushing at his shoulders, forcing him to break away from the mess he made between your legs.

he'll climb back on top of you with the most relaxed expression you've ever seen on his face, eyelids heavy already and chin dripping with your arousal. dex drops his head to your chest then, humming a sound similar to a content little cat, then proceeds to sleep like a baby for the rest of the night—snoring and everything.

[the-unseenone]

Dex being his own warning, reader knows he is stalking her but acting none the wiser matter of fact she might be a little into it, suggestive?

Sometimes, when you concentrate hard enough, you can ignore his eyes on you.

You cannot exactly pinpoint the moment you became aware of him. He is not bad at it, stalking you, that is. It's just that you are very good at pattern recognition. It is part of why you will always have job security. It is also because that you are very rigid about your routine and the people that occupy your space on a regular basis. Still, it was a little jarring when he suddenly just... appeared in your periphery. You are sure he did not just spawn out of nowhere. The level of comfort that he operates at indicates a will oiled routine that was followed. But to you it was like he was not here one day and here the next.

You are not sure how to proceed with this whole thing. It's not like you can go to the police, he has not done anything to you nor approached you at all. No threatening messages, no weird gestures and no headless rats. He is just there. Sitting on the opposite side, out of your view at you favorite cafe. Down the street from your work place. And across the street from your window at your home. And side of a few things moving from their original place, He doesn't do anything so you leave him be.

It goes on like that for a while, you following your established routine of going out of your apartment, getting coffee, heading to work, clocking out of work, grocery shopping and heading home. All with the anonymous man following you around. If he was not actively stalking you, you would have been impressed that he is not bored at the fact that you do nothing at all. You even start to get a little comfortable at his presence. Finding comfort at the fact the he is always there and eventually he is part of your routine. You even say a little good morning to him in your head when you get out of your building and see him across the street. All is well in your little life.

That is until you see him in the elevator leading up to your apartment.

Up until now, you have not seen his face at all. he is always out of view, that is by design of course, so you don't know what he looks like. But you have familiarized yourself with him enough to recognize the way he stands, his height and built anywhere. The man that is stalking you is in the same elevator as you and he pressed the same button that you pressed. He is blond.

You give him a little nod and he smiles at you, all charming and sweet, he introduces himself as Benjamin, your new across the hall neighbor.

You ask him about what happened to the previous tenant. He tells you that he doesn't know. You nod and exit the elevator.

The thing is about the place you live is that it is in a remote area out of the city. You picked it that way because you get overstimulated by the sound of the city. The second thing is, it only has two apartments. You and your previous neighbors who kept to himself. Your landlord doesn't live on the property. You are in a building alone with your stalker. So that leaves you with quite the dilemma.

Oh well.

Benjamin is a very quiet person. Aside from the fact that he is stalking you, he is actually the perfect guy. Charming, intelligent, delightful. It is just that...you know.... he is a stalker. You haven't brought it up yet because, really, how to you bring that up?'thank you so much for helping me bring up by groceries, oh by the way, I know that you follow me everywhere.' You think that would put a damper on things so you just drop it. You also asked the landlord about your previous neighbor, he just tell you that the guy suddenly skipped town.

You also change in front of the open window now, when you know for a fact that he is there. So there is that. In your defense, you are a little bored and it not that you are fully nude. You bought curtains that are shear for this exact reason. You think that with all of the monotony in your life the guy kinda deserves some excitement.

You start noticing that his eyes linger on your frame more whenever the both of you cross paths in the elevator. Which is a lot. On your arms and your chest. A lot on your waist as well.

You don't think anything will come out of it. So you just settle on some light stripping and nothing else. And soon. It is also a routine.

That is until he asks you out.

[isntitoddie]

fbi dex vs ddba dex (but not really)

being a making men submissive truther is hard when youre one of dex’s wives because fbi/dd dex is the poster boy for desperate, horrendously pathetically down bad for his partner / north star, cum in his pants from a little praise and your thigh pressing on his clothed cock. and ddba dex is all harsh grips, manhandling because its been so long without his north star, he’ll groan and smirk and tell you to bite down on his neck until you draw blood and tease you if you don’t

gods, everything fbi dex does would be for your pleasure, for your praise. tears in his eyes every time you touch his rock hard cock spurting so much pre cum, loud wet clicks fill the room with every movement of your hand. all soft moans and whispers he tries and fails to hold back. trembling, slightly sweaty hands pushing yours away with no effort behind it whatsoever because he’d rather hold his own head underwater than have your sweet affection gone from him for a second

on the other hand, we have born again dex who is a lot more vocal and desperate of a masochist especially after foggy and prison. this new episode was really important for understanding dex’s thought process. he’d feel a need to make things right, get even but with his north star? he can never make up for that damage so he’ll take or moreso need pain from his north star

born again dex is purposefully provoking you during sex, biting your fingers after he shoves them in his mouth, keeping his lips glued to yours even when you try to pull away for breath, using a bit too much pressure as his nails drag up your thighs and hips and waist, nipping your clit a little too hard. all thats for the moment after when you push him with that cute, taken aback gasp like you just couldn’t believe he’d well… not outright disobey and he’s got that glint in his eye when he drags your hand to his cheek

its as if born again dex knew his raspy ass voice pleading up at you, “hit me” would open the flood gates and soak your panties. and when you do he barely moves besides his eyes fluttering shut as they roll back, youre sure your own hand stings worse than his cheek, blooming red like the sky as dawn approaches. the same red travels from his neck down to his cock jumping on your thigh, wet tip hitting your skin with a thawk!

fbi dex will cry if you hit him. he’d think he’d done something wrong. dex is looking at you with sad wet eyes, parted trembling lips, his grip on you wavering then tightening. his gaze would darken and dex is kissing you with the type of force you’d usually initiate, not sweet dex who’s scared of hurting you, terrified if you leaving him

born again dex is more secure in his north star. he knows you won’t leave. he knows there is no one else for you because you look at everyone like theyre scum on earth, but not him. you look at him like he means something to you. born again dex knows because you swore to him over and over again you love him, you’d never leave and youve haven’t once broken your promises. if dex can’t trust his north star, what else does he have?

its a bit hard imagine giant beefy, gruff voiced born again dex submissive. sub top or power bottom for sure. its just been far too long with the idea, the fading almost ghostly memory of your touch, he lets go completely and lets himself be more selfish and rough with you.

instead if overstimulating fbi dex until his dick gets soft and hes clutching your wrist in his hands, its born again dex using those thick scared fingers of his to rub that soft spot inside you that makes your clit twitch wildly on his tongue until youre screaming his name, trying to push him away.

he’s trying to rile you up enough so you dont notice when your nails sink so deeply into the skin near the long surgical scar down his back blood is drawn. exactly what he wanted

[dexlovebot-deactivated20260602]

If only my big strong Benjamin Poindexter was laying in bed beside me shirtless with a thong on.... He would protect me

[sun-hashira]

Sparks Fly

summary: a surprisingly soft first date with Dex makes it impossible to keep pretending you don’t want him.

who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader

word count: 2.9k (sorry not sorry)

warnings: soulmate au, fluff, mentions of stalking. If I have missed any please let me know!

divider by: @uzmacchiato

a/n: Part 5 of this series! Like before feedback is welcome!

Glitch Series Masterlist

Next Chapter: Untouchable

Previous Chapter: Guilty as Sin?

“You’re the kinda reckless that should send me running…“ — Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift

You had changed outfits eight times before finally deciding you were being ridiculous.

It was a date.

It wasn’t a surgery, or a court hearing, or a life-or-death situation.

Just a date. A date with Dex. 

That has somehow caused your entire bedroom looked like a bomb filled with clothes had exploded.

You stood in front of your mirror adjusting the lace-up straps of your floral-patterned sundress for what had to be the tenth time before sighing softly at yourself.

Karen would never let you live this down if she could see the nervous state of you now.

Your fingers brushed absentmindedly over the soulmate mark resting on your collarbone. The skin there felt warm today. Not burning, not aching, just warm like it was reacting to your nerves and excitement.

Sighing softly, you stepped away from the bedroom mirror and grabbed your bag just as a knock sounded at your apartment door.

Your heartbeat stumbled immediately.

Early. Of course he was early. 

A small smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. Crossing the apartment, you opened the door to find Dex standing there holding a small terracotta pot carefully in one hand.

For a moment neither of you spoke, and annoyingly your breath caught slightly at the sight of him because he looked good wearing a black shirt, dark jacket, and his hair neater than usual. Like he’d actually spent time getting ready.

Stupidly good, you thought to yourself. 

But then the realisation that Dex had dressed up for you made warmth spread low in your chest and stomach.

His eyes moved slowly over you before settling on your face. His expression softened instantly. “You look pretty.”

Heat flushed your cheeks as the honesty in his voice hit harder than any flirting would’ve.

“Thank you,” you said softly before glancing at the plant in his hands. “What’s that?”

Dex immediately held it out toward you. “Lemon balm.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you carefully took the pot from him.

“Lemon balm? Most people give roses.”

“You use it constantly, and you don’t like roses.”

Of course he noticed that. Your fingers brushed gently against the soft green leaves as warmth spread through your chest.

“It helps with anxiety and sleep,” he continued quietly. “And headaches.”

You looked back up at him slowly. “Nobody remembers the things I use at the apothecary.”

Dex’s expression barely changed. “I do.”

God, that shouldn’t affect you as much as it did.

Stepping aside, you let him into the apartment while trying very hard to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt.

“You’re early,” you said, setting the plant carefully beside the window.

“I know.”

“You know most people usually pretend not to be eager.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.

Dex immediately looked at you, focusing like your laugh was a bottle of liquid gold. It did strange things to your heartbeat.

“You’re staring again,” you muttered, grabbing your cardigan.

“I like looking at you.”

“You say things like that very casually.”

“They’re true.”

You shook your head softly despite smiling as you walked toward the door.

“Come on before I decide not to go.”

Dex opened the door for you immediately. “You won’t.”

The confidence in his voice should’ve annoyed you, but instead it made your chest warm. Because for the first time in months, you didn’t want to run from this, from him.

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

The park he took you to was beautiful.

Quiet enough that the city noise faded into a distant hum, trees swaying gently in the warm afternoon breeze as sunlight filtered through the leaves.

You stared at the picnic setup in front of you before slowly looking at Dex.

“…You brought an actual blanket.”

“Yes.”

“And three containers of food.”

“Yes.”

“And backup utensils.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at him. “Dex.”

“What?” The way he tilted his head was awfully like a lost puppy.

A laugh escaped you. “A backup fork?”

“You dropped yours once at the diner and refused to use it afterwards.”

Your chest warmed again because, of course, he knew that too.

Dex watched your face carefully. “You think it’s excessive.”

“I think it’s a little adorable.” The word slipped out accidentally.

Dex froze, actually froze, before a Cheshire-like smile spread across his face. You felt heat immediately crawl into your cheeks.

“Well,” you muttered, sitting down quickly on the blanket. “Now I regret saying that.”

Dex slowly sat beside you. “You called me adorable.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You think I’m adorable.”

“Oh my God.”

The quiet amusement in his voice made you laugh again, and something in Dex’s expression softened so quickly at the sound that your heart nearly betrayed you entirely.

Oh, it’s scary how easy this feels, you thought to yourself, how easy he feels despite how dangerous he is. 

You pushed the thought away as Dex opened one of the containers, and your eyes widened slightly.

“You got food from Pop’s Corner Deli?”

“You like their sandwiches.”

“You noticed that?”

“You buy lunch there every Thursday.”

You stared at him.

Dex paused slightly. “…Was that strange?”

“No,” you said honestly. “Just very…observant.”

“I observe you a lot.”

The blunt honesty nearly made you choke on your drink, and Dex immediately handed you a napkin.

“You okay?” He asked, rubbing your back. 

You snorted softly.

“You cannot say things like that so casually.”

“They’re true.”

There it was again, that impossible honesty that made your heart flutter. Honesty that wasn’t fake or a game. It was honesty that was just Dex, and it was becoming your favorite version of him.

That realisation settled quite nicely inside your chest.

The two of you spent the next hour talking more easily than you expected as Dex asked questions constantly, and not the shallow ones people ask when they’re just being polite, but real ones. 

“What was your favorite book as a kid?”

“The original Fear Street series by R. L. Stine.”

“What made you start working at the clinic?”

“Extra money. I was a poor mid-twenties girl.”

“Do you like healing people?”

“Yes, but it’s tiring sometimes.”

“Do you ever wish you’d left New York?”

“Yes, I have always wanted to travel.”

“What makes you happiest?”

“Plants and chocolate-covered strawberries.”

Nobody had ever asked you questions like they actually wanted to know the answers before, yet Dex listened to each one like it mattered. Like you mattered.

“You ask a lot of questions,” you said eventually, leaning back on your hands as the breeze lifted strands of your hair.

Dex looked completely unashamed. “I like hearing you talk.”

Your stomach fluttered annoyingly at how straightforward he always was.

“Well,” you said carefully, “then it’s your turn.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What? You think you can interrogate me for an entire afternoon without answering questions yourself?” You smiled. 

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Interrogate?”

“You literally asked me what my favourite childhood book was.”

“That’s important information.”

You laughed softly. “Okay then, Poindexter. Favourite movie.”

He answered immediately. “The Empire Strikes Back.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You like Star Wars?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You don’t exactly give off sci-fi fan energy.”

“What energy do I give off?”

You opened your mouth, paused, then grinned. “Serial killer documentaries.”

Dex snorted quietly into his drink.

Actually snorted.

You stared at him in mild shock. “Was that a laugh?”

“No.”

“That was definitely a laugh.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You just made a noise.”

Dex looked deeply offended. “I make noises all the time.”

“That sounded worse than what I meant.” You laughed.

His eyes flickered with amusement as more laughter escaped before you could stop it.

God, it was dangerous how easy he was becoming.

“How about you?” he asked after a moment. “Favourite movie.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure.”

Dex tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

“I’m more of a TV series girl instead of a movie girl.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I’ll watch a movie if it interests me, but I like shows more.” You move from leaning back on your hands to your elbows.

“Well, then, what’s your favourite TV show?”

“Supernatural.”

“Why?” Dex asks, passing you another sandwich.

“Because it’s about two cool brothers hunting monsters like demons and vampires.” You say while taking a bite from the sandwich.

“You like that?” 

“Yes.” 

“I can tell.”

You kicked his foot lightly on the blanket.

Dex looked down at where your shoe touched his before glancing back up at you with something unbearably soft in his expression. Like even that smallest touch meant something to him.

Maybe it did.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “you’re much calmer than I expected.”

His expression shifted slightly at that. “Disappointed?”

“No.” Your answer came instantly. “Just surprised.”

Dex looked away briefly toward the trees swaying overhead. “You make it quiet.”

Your heartbeat stumbled softly. “What does that mean?”

“When I’m around other people…” He paused carefully, like he was trying to explain something he normally kept locked away. “Everything feels loud and irritating. But with you it doesn’t.”

The honesty in his voice settled warmly deep inside your chest.

You looked down at your hands for a moment before quietly asking, “Is that why you keep finding me?”

“Yes, and because you’re mine.”

Another honest, certain answer that no longer made panic claw up your throat. Instead it made warmth spread through you slowly.

A comfortable silence settled afterward as the two of you kept eating, sunlight warming your skin while distant laughter drifted through the park.

Then your eyes narrowed slightly as you watched Dex effortlessly toss a grape upward before catching it in his mouth without even looking.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Dex glanced at you innocently. “What?”

“That sharpshooter nonsense doesn’t count.” You say, pointing at him.

“It was a grape.”

“You’re showing off.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“That makes it worse.”

A smug look of satisfaction flickered briefly across his face before he picked up another grape and held it out toward you.

“Try.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously before taking it. “I’m going to regret this.”

“Probably.” He smirked. 

You tossed the grape upward, tracking it carefully with your eyes, only for it to bounce directly off your forehead.

Dex stared at you for half a second before laughing quietly into his hand.

Actually laughing.

Your jaw dropped. “You’re laughing at me.”

“You hit yourself.”

“You distracted me!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You have distracting energy.”

That only made him laugh harder and louder this time, and the sound made your heart race in your chest as a wonderfully warm feeling spread across your body.

And suddenly all you could think was, Oh, I’m in trouble, as you found yourself relaxing without realising it. Laughing easier, talking more, teasing him.

“You definitely practiced this date.” You said popping a grape in your mouth. 

Dex looked offended with another sandwich raised halfway towards his mouth. 

“I did not practice.”

“You absolutely practiced.”

“I planned.”

“You researched parks, didn’t you?”

“…Maybe.”

You laughed again.

“I knew it.”

“It’s a quiet area,” he defended immediately. “Minimal noise, minimal people, fewer interruptions.”

“You sound like you’re planning a kidnapping or something.” You teased. 

“I wanted it to go well.”

The quiet sincerity in his voice made your stomach flutter softly because suddenly you could see it so clearly. The careful planning, the attentiveness, the nervousness hidden beneath every decision.

This mattered to him. A lot. But it also mattered a lot to you too.

The buzzing of a bumblebee flying near the picnic blanket is what broke your thoughts as you instinctively leaned back slightly so you wouldn’t accidentally hurt it.

Dex noticed immediately, and without a word he carefully cupped his hands around it before standing and walking several feet away before letting it go near the flowers.

When he returned, you stared at him quietly with your chest twisting pleasantly.

“What?” He asked. 

“You moved the bee.”

“You didn’t want it hurt.” The simplicity of his answer made your heartbeat stumble hard enough to nicely ache.

Because nobody besides Matt noticed things like that. They didn’t pay attention to tiny reactions from you, but Dex always did.

Always.

“You’re staring now,” he said quietly.

You smiled before reaching over and fixing the collar of his shirt slightly where it had folded inward. Dex immediately went still beneath your touch, his eyes now fixed on your face.

Your fingers lingered against his collar for a second too long, but neither of you moved away as the air between you shifted softly into something warmer. More intimate.

Your hand slowly slid from his collar down his arm before resting lightly over his hand on the blanket. Dex inhaled sharply enough that you noticed before his fingers immediately intertwined carefully with yours. Like he’d wanted to do it for hours.

And honestly? So had you.

The soulmate bond tingled warmly beneath your skin. But for once it wasn’t the thing overwhelming you.

It was him.

The way he looked at you, the way he listened, the way he noticed everything about you, and the way he touched you like you were something precious. 

“You’re quiet,” Dex murmured softly.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You glanced back up at him slowly. “This is nice.”

Something almost unbearably soft and relaxed crossed his face.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”

And God, you liked this, liked him. Not just the bond, not just the attention.

Him.

The realisation settled strangely peacefully inside your chest. There was no panic, no guilt. Just truth.

Hours slipped by far too quickly after that.

You walked through quieter trails together afterwards, shoulders brushing as the sun slowly dipped lower across the city skyline. At some point your shoulder started aching faintly from the colder evenings and overworking yourself at the clinic earlier that week.

You hadn’t even realised you were rubbing it until Dex’s hand gently caught your wrist.

“Come here.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he stepped behind you and rested his hands carefully against your shoulders. Warmth spread slowly through the aching muscle as he gently massaged it.

Your eyes fluttered shut immediately. “Oh.”

“Tense?” he asked quietly.

“Very.” 

His thumbs worked carefully against the knot of pain near your scar. Not pressing too hard, not rushing, just steady but gentle circular motions.

“You take care of everyone else,” he murmured softly behind you. “Someone should take care of you too.”

Your chest tightened painfully because maybe that was the problem. Ever since your dad died all those years ago, it had only been you and Matt, but it had been years since you two had gotten separate apartments. 

You leaned back slightly into his warmth before realising what you were doing, and Dex immediately stilled before slowly wrapping his arms around your shoulders, testing to see if you would push him away or not. 

His breath caught quietly behind you as you slowly relaxed against him fully, but neither of you spoke for a moment. The parks noise drifted softly around you as the sun painted everything a soft gold.

His arms felt safe…and warm…and peaceful.

You hadn’t realised how badly you needed something peaceful until now. Eventually Dex’s hands slid carefully down your arms before he stepped beside you again.

His fingers brushed yours once. Twice. Then paused before you reached for his hand first.

Dex looked at you immediately, something vulnerable flickering through his eyes before softening into your affection.

And for the first time, you didn’t look away from it. From him. 

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

By the time Dex walked you back to your apartment building, the sky had darkened into soft blues and blacks.

Neither of you seemed particularly eager for the night to end as you stood awkwardly near the entrance for a moment before laughing softly at yourself.

“This is the part where normal people say goodbye.”

Dex tilted his head slightly. “You want normal?”

You thought about it honestly, then smiled. “No.”

Something satisfied flickered across his expression, and you gathered that neither did he. The realisation should’ve scared you, but instead it felt strangely right for the two of you.

Dex stepped slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from him as his eyes searched your face carefully.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

The fact he sounded genuinely uncertain made your chest ache softly. So instead of answering, you reached up and kissed his cheek gently. Right on the scar. 

Dex froze completely as your lips lingered there for a few seconds before you pulled back slightly.

“Yes,” you whispered honestly. “I really did.”

Something in Dex’s expression nearly took your breath away because for once it held no trace of obsession or possession. It was just happiness. Real, genuine happiness.

His hand lifted slowly toward your face before stopping near your cheek, like he was still giving you room to pull away. You didn’t as his thumb brushed softly across your skin.

Then he leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss against your forehead, and your stomach fluttered as your chest warmed. 

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured quietly.

You smiled. “Goodnight, Dex.”

He waited until you got inside the building before finally turning to leave, and later that night, curled beneath your blankets and lying there in the darkness replaying his soft smiles, careful hands, and the look on his face when you kissed his cheek, you finally stopped trying to deny what your heart already knew.

You wanted this. You wanted him.

TAGS: @benspoindexter @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @genya1617 @monikastuff @peanutbutterjellytime3000 @hanniesrock @not-the-teen-witch @its-jackie-bb @that1weirdweebgirl @trulovekay @star-yawnznn @snowwythegloww @ethereal-athalia @musicalfan2026 @mewmew222 @scarlet48 @doesanyonereadthis @skylerepost @disappearintofanfiction @floatingintheupsidedown @abbotfan @ancientbeing10 @sarahskywalker-amidala @artistadistrada2002 @kakuchosbff @weallhaveadestiny @hyperfixations-go-brrr @capri-cuntz @bullseyeshandcuffs @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @muffinbrown @cowboylover00 @hearsaygoose @badbishsblog @celleryxo @thecityofspareparts @miixkl @ninajambrich @iangelofmusic @planetevermore @sadest-bookshelf @paige0103 @bury-me-in-the-star @mrsxchase @kkkeeeiiirrraaa @clowninavan @mossmydarling @lostfallenangelsblog @ofmyownvolitionfics @shoxji

[aquaticmercy]

Like Real People Do

Summary : Dex finds a getaway bag under your side of the bed and assumes the worst.

Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, abandonment issues, obsessive attachment, codependency, established relationship, obsessive devotion, implied suicidal ideation, protective!reader, clingy!Dex, happy ending. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 3.3k

Requested By : Anon

Notes : First Dex fic with a taglist! Please let me know if you would like to be added, but remember, the taglist only applies to fics over 2k words! My 1000-something word short stories won't have tags on them. This fic title is inspired by a Hozier song of the same title. Enjoy!

Dex accidentally found your getaway bag hidden under your side of the bed on a random Tuesday.

He wasn’t snooping. He was looking for the knife he knew had slipped under there this morning when you clumsily knocked it out of the dresser in your hurry to go to work. He was reaching blindly beneath the bedframe with one hand, already annoyed because it was out of place, because he hated when things were out of place, because every missing thing became a hook in his brain until he found it and put it back where it belonged.

And then his fingers brushed canvas.

Huh. What’s that?

Because Dex didn’t believe in minding his business if his business was you, he dragged out the duffel bag from under the bed.

The second he unzipped it, he was frozen in horror.

There was cash inside, and not a cute little emergency envelope. Not “oh, I have some spare money in case someone hacks into my bank account.” It was some serious running money in bundled notes, probably half your life savings if he remembered correctly. It was enough to disappear for a while if you needed to. 

And because Dex’s brain was not a calm place, because Dex’s brain was basically a locked room full of alarms and broken glass and every person who had ever left him whispering see? see? see?, he did not think: oh, that’s a lot of cash. I'm gonna ask her later what it’s for.

He thought: She has an exit plan. She’s going to leave me.

He tried to shake the thought off his head, because it could be anything, right? 

Nope, didn’t work. 

Of course. Of course. Of course she was going to leave. Look at you. Look at what you are. Did you really think she would stay?

Fuck. 

He stood up and left the duffel bag there. He didn’t tear it apart. In fact, it stayed mostly intact, sitting open on the floor like a confession. He was careful with it, because some awful part of him needed the evidence preserved. Needed to look at it and hate himself.

But he destroyed the room though.

He didn’t do it violently, but instead he did it frantically. Drawers were yanked open. Your nightstand emptied. His hands were under the mattress before flipping it, shoved them into the insides pillowcases, behind books, between folded clothes. He was looking for more proof. Looking for the backup bag, a hidden note, a passport he knew had to exist, something to confirm that he wasn’t going insane and you were actually going to leave him. 

But the more he searched, the worse it got.

Every drawer he opened made another mess. Every shirt he threw aside landed in a place clothes shouldn’t be. The lamp was crooked. The blanket was hung by the door. The floor was covered. His breathing got too loud. The room started closing in around him, cluttered and wrong and bad, bad, bad!

And then that became his next spiral.

Great.

Fucking great, he thought as he looked around. 

Now the outside matched the inside of his head.

A ruined room for a ruined man. A mess for a mess.

Dex stood in the middle of it, shaking, staring at all of it like he had done it from outside his own body. 

This!!!! This is why she’s going to leave you!!!!!

He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eye, breathing through his teeth, but it was too late. The mess was everywhere. The thought of you leaving was everywhere. He couldn’t put it back from wherever the hell it came from. He couldn’t make the bed right. He couldn’t get the image of you walking out of his life with that stupid fucking bag to stop replaying behind his eyes.

By the time you came home, he was a shell of himself.

Your keys were still in your hand when you stepped in and stopped cold.

The room was destroyed, but not smashed walls and broken glass and violence for the sake of violence. It was searched, gutted, turned inside out. 

And in the middle of it was Dex, on the floor, his back against the bed.

The duffel was halfway open near his knee, untouched compared to the rest of the room… and he had a gun. 

He had a gun in his hand, pointed at himself, on the underside of his head.

And he hated that too. He hated the neediness. He hated that even now, even like this, some starving part of him hoped you would come home and stop him. Which was pathetic. Which was manipulative. Which was exactly the kind of thing someone should leave him for.

Your blood went cold.

“Dex,” you said, trying to sound harmless; it almost sounded like a coo.

His eyes snapped to you, and it was red and wet with tears. 

It was difficult to imagine him as Bullseye like this, because Dex had always been frightening to most people who knew. You had seen him after bad nights, after adrenaline. 

But you had never seen this before.  That was different.

Dex didn’t wreck rooms. Dex didn’t leave chaos behind him like some sloppy, careless animal. Even at his worst, he was controlled. So seeing your bedroom torn apart was not just frightening.

It just meant something was very, very wrong.

“You’re home,” he said, and his voice sounded scraped raw, like he had been arguing with invisible people for hours.

You didn’t move too fast even though you wanted to. Your heart was throwing itself against your ribs so hard it hurt. But you looked at him, at the arguably most dangerous man in New York sitting in the wreckage of your bedroom with a weapon turned inward, and all you could think was:

Sweetheart

Your sweetheart of a murderous boyfriend, terrified out of his mind.

“I’m home,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to the duffel, then back to you, and whatever fragile little thread had been holding him together snapped. “You were going to leave.”

The words came out so broken they barely sounded like an accusation.

Your gaze dropped to the bag and saw the cash peeking out.

Oh.

Oh, Benjamin.

“Dex—”

“You were going to leave me,” he said again, louder this time, but it cracked halfway through. “You had money. You had a bag. You had—” He sucked in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You had a life under there.”

You took one slow step forward. He flinched.

“You weren’t supposed to find it like this,” you said softly.

His face fell. “So it’s true.”

“No.”

“You just said—”

“No, baby.” Your voice shook, but you kept it gentle. “No. Not like that.”

He gave this horrible little laugh.

“Don’t. Please don’t.” His hand tightened around the gun, not threatening you, but himself. “You can’t make it sound sweet. Please don’t stand there and make it sound sweet when you’re planning to run.”

“I wasn’t planning to run from you.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes.”

His eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” you said again, stepping closer, careful, so fucking careful. “I had a plan. But not that one.”

He shook his head hard, like your words had reached a convinced resistance in his brain.

You looked around the room again, really looked this time, and understood.

He hadn’t destroyed it because he was angry. He had looked for evidence until the room became evidence of him.

It was a ruin made wrong by his own hands. An excuse to hate himself because the alternative was hating you. And Dex could never stomach that. 

Dex followed your gaze and his face collapsed into shame.

“I fucked it up,” he said, barely audible. “I fucked everything up. It’s everywhere. It’s all wrong. I can’t—” His breathing hitched. “I can’t fix it. I made it worse. I always make it worse.”

“Oh, Dex.”

“Don’t,” he snapped, then immediately looked wrecked by his own voice. “You were going to leave me.”

The gun shook.

“I wasn’t.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes,” you said, frustrated now because he didn’t leave you space to get your point across. “I had a plan. So for once in your life, sweetheart, please listen to me!”

And that shut him up.

Horrible choice of words? Maybe. But you needed him to listen.

You lowered yourself slowly to the floor, not too close yet, keeping your hands visible.

“Dex,” you said. “Have you even looked in the bag?”

“I did.”

“No,” you whispered. “Really.”

He didn’t move.

So you reached for the duffel yourself and pulled out the first burner phone.

“One,” you said. Then the second. “Two.”

What? 

You pulled out your fake passport. “Mine.” Then… a second one. “Yours.”

Dex’s face changed in stages.

Confusion first. Then disbelief.

Then a feeling of devastation made him want to crawl across the floor and cover you with his whole body.

You kept going, because he needed facts. He needed as much proof as you can give.

“Two sets of clothes. Two toothbrushes. Cash for both of us. Medical kit.” Your voice went small, almost sheepish. “I… fuck, Dex, forgot to tell you. You know how I am when I get distracted.”

He blinked. He knew— he knew more than more people what you were like when one too many things were in your mind. Sometimes the details just slipped, and he would never use it against you.

“I made it a week ago when you were out,” you explained. “I made it because one day you might come home and say you have to run. And I know myself, Dex. I wouldn't ask questions while you bleed on the carpet. I’m grabbing the bag and going wherever you need to go.”

He stared at the ID that you opened. It had his face on it.

You looked up at him from the floor, surrounded by all the proof he had misunderstood.

“I wasn’t planning to run from you, Dex.” You reassured. “I was planning to run with you.”

Dex stared at you. And his whole body just… gave up, like whatever rage had been keeping him upright finally dissolved and left nothing underneath but panic and shame and love so whole it made him sick.

The gun dipped, his wrist going slack like all the strength had drained out of him at once.

You put your open palm gently on his lap. “Let me have it, baby.”

Dex stared at your hand. You were asking for his gun as if it wasn’t a weapon turned inward, as if it wasn’t the shape every horrible thought currently chewing through his skull made real.

His fingers tightened once, and not because he wanted to keep it. It was because letting go meant trusting you with the part of him that was still trying to punish himself.

You kept your voice soft.

“Please, baby,” you whispered. “I’m going to put it on the table. That’s all.”

His eyes flicked to yours then, wet and ruined.“ You shouldn’t come closer.”

“I know.”

“I’m not—” His lips trembled. “I’m not right.”

“I know.”

Fuck. 

You weren’t arguing. You weren’t denying that this behaviour wasn’t normal. You knew he was dangerous. And still, your hand stayed open.

“Give it to me, Dex.”

His breath hitched.

The room was still a mess around you. Dex’s eyes kept catching on it, dragging over every displaced object like each one was proof of his failure to be a good boyfriend. 

You saw the thought move through him and softened your voice even more.

“Don’t look at the room right now,” you murmured. “Look at me.”

He tried. Eventually, his gaze dragged back to you like it physically hurt.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good. That’s good”

Dex made a sound so small it almost disappeared in his throat.

You put your hand closer, not snatching, not treating him like a threat, even though your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

“Let me put it down,” you said. “Then we can sit. Okay?”

He stared at you for another breath. Then, finally, his fingers loosened.

You took the gun from his hand with the gentlest touch you had ever used on anything in your life. You turned and placed it on the table behind you.

It was far enough away now

Then you came straight back to him.

The second your hands were empty again, Dex collapsed forward like the weapon had been the last thing holding his body upright.

You caught his face in both hands. “Oh, baby.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I know.”

“I thought so little of you.”

His voice barely sounded like his own anymore. It was scraped thin and torn open. 

“Baby,” you whispered. “Breathe.”

“But I did.” His hands caught you frantically, gripping your waist, your hips, the fabric of your shirt like if he let go, you would disappear right there in front of him. “I did. I saw it and I thought… I thought you were like everyone else. I thought you were going to get tired of me. I thought you finally realised.”

Your throat tightened. “Realised what?”

His eyes “What’s wrong with me.”

Oh, fuck.

You took his face in your hands, like you could hold the thought inside him still enough to kill it. “Nothing is wrong with you that makes me want to leave.”

Dex flinched. 

His eyes squeezed shut, and the first real sob shook out of him, helpless and so human it made your heart ache. Because Dex could handle cruelty. Dex could handle being hated. Dex could handle people looking at him like he was a monster.

But this, he never knew how to handle. 

“I love you,” he said, breathless now, panicked by his own need. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” you whispered, and it came out a little mean because you were crying too now. Because how dare he? How dare he look at you like leaving him was something you could physically do? “Please don’t say things like that.”

You kissed his forehead first.

“I’d never leave you.”

Then his temple.

“Never.”

His cheek, still wet with tears.

“Never, Dex.”

You gave more fluttery kisses to the bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. His other cheek, peppering small kisses one after another, until his breathing caught and his face tipped helplessly into your hands. Even now, even wrecked and ashamed and shaking, some part of him still wanted more.

He needed more.

So when you kissed the damp track beneath his eye, he grabbed you.

His hands caught your waist and dragged you closer, desperate and clumsy with it, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was too broken. Dex kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside you. Like your mouth was the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the horrible void his mind had made for him. His breath stuttered against your lips, his hands gripping your shirt, your side, your hip, anything he could touch.

And you let him.

You kissed him back with both hands in his hair, holding him there while he made that ruined little sound into your mouth. 

His hand tightened at your waist.

“Ow, Dex,” you breathed, but it came out with a tiny chuckle against his mouth. Of course this man was having one of the worst breakdowns of his life and still holding you like a claw machine. 

He froze for half a second, lips still parted against yours.

“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, voice rough.

But he did not pull away. He just loosened his grip, palm spreading wide and careful over the spot instead, like he could smooth the hurt away.

“Too hard?” he asked.

“A little.”

His forehead dropped against yours. He breathed out shakily, almost laughing, still crying.

“There,” you murmured, kissing him again. “Gentler.”

He tried. Fuck, he tried so hard it almost broke your heart. His palm opened against your side, broad and shaking, still possessive and needy, still Dex, but careful now.

Then he folded into you.

He put his face against your chest like he was trying to disappear there. As if he pressed close enough, he wouldn’t have to see the room behind you. Wouldn’t have to see the drawers, the clothes, the crooked bed, the evidence of everything he had done while his head was eating itself alive.

Fuck.

This man could kill half the city if you asked him sweetly enough. He could put a fork through a random person on the street if you only pointed. He could turn anything into a weapon. 

But with you, he was on the floor, hiding his face in your chest because he couldn’t look at the mess he made.

Because you were so, so special to him, that the idea of losing you had gutted him thoroughly.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered into your shirt.

You stroked his hair. “Baby.”

“I’ll fix it.” His voice caught. “I’ll put it back. I’ll clean it. I’ll do it right. I’ll fix it.”

“I know you will.” You kissed the top of his head. “But not tonight.”

He went tense immediately, panic sparking under your hands.

“I can. I can do it.”

You shook your head gently before he could spiral again.

“Listen to me. We’re going to get a hotel tonight, yeah?”

Dex blinked at you, breath hitching like the idea of stepping out of the ruined room had not occurred to him.

“And tomorrow,” you continued, keeping your hands on his face, “I’ll get a cleaner in here.”

His eyes flicked past you to the room, panic flashing. “No—”

“Baby,” you said softly. “Listen. I’ll get a cleaner in here tomorrow. They’ll do the big stuff.”

His throat worked.

“And then,” you said, kissing his cheek again, “after they’re gone, you can make a second pass at everything.”

Dex went still.

You saw the compromise land in his brain.

“You can put things back how you like them,” you whispered. “You can check the drawers. You can fix the bed. You can make it feel right again. But tonight, we have to leave the room alone.”

That… was a good idea.

“Okay,” Dex said finally.

It came out muffled against your chest, hoarse and exhausted. He nodded once, like he was trying to make his body accept it too.

You stroked his hair back from his damp forehead.

“There he is,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered shut.

His arms tightened around your waist, but only for half a second before he remembered himself and loosened his grip. He looked up at you, eyes red, cheeks wet, mouth swollen from kissing you. Still wrecked. Still ashamed. But quieter now. Softer around the panic.

“You’ll be with me in the hotel?” he asked.

You cupped his cheek. “Of course.”

His breath left him shakily. “Okay.”

You kissed his forehead one more time. “Come on.”

You helped him stand, reaching out. The room was still messy around you, but he didn’t look at it this time. He kept his eyes on you at the door, his hand hovered near yours.

“Is this okay?” he asked, poking at your fingers while the duffel bag sat on his shoulder. Tonight was gonna barely make a dent on your stash, so there’s no reason to worry about anything, really.

You smiled and opened your hand. “Of course.”

He slid his fingers through yours carefully, like he was afraid of holding too tight again. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.

Then he followed you out without looking back.

— end.

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid (Let me know if I missed anyone)

[marvelimaginesyesplease]

I think Dex would eat you out well past over stimulation, and not even just because he’s being controlling etc etc. No, I think it’d be because he’s so lost in it. I think he’d be straight up whimpering into your pussy, hips flexing while he grinds into the bed, all pathetic and needy and just about ready to cum in his pants because he’s so drunk on the taste of you.

I think you could be crying out above him, over stimulated and near tears, hands in his hair, calling out his name and trying to squirm away and he’d had his arms hooked under your legs, meaty palms pressing down on your hips, brows furrowed while he’s groaning with each lick of your clit. Fuck he loves this, and he loves you, and he needs more.

And when he eventually comes up for air, pupils dilated, lids half closed, and you realize he has cum in pants, chin painted in your release, you’ll only soften.

“Oh baby,” You’d coo, and he’d just let his face fall against your thigh, looking dazed and utterly fucked out. You’d urge him up your torso, kiss him all sweet and messy, the taste of your cum still bitter on his tongue while you urge his sensitive cock into your soaking pussy and oh-

Dex is whining into your neck, grip tight on you while he ruts into you.

He’d eat you out every day if you let him.