𝙟𝙖𝙮.𝙣𝙚𝙩

⋆ 21 ⋆ capricorn ⋆ she/her EMH enthusiast, multifandom advocate

[rr-after-dark]

Stupid - Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: When you’re lost in a sub drop spiral after being ghosted, Jack’s the one person who realizes what’s actually going on – and knows how to fix it.

Tags/Notes: hurt/comfort, getting together, sub drop, established friendship/maybesomethingship, dom!jack, sub!reader, light daddy kink, lots and lots of praise, body worship, inspection kink, fingering (f), oral (f), aftercare/sweetness, this is really just a very very soft bdsm fic establishing a dynamic it’s not anything wild and is very tame, also langdon is mean in this sorry

Content Warnings:  the sub drop depicted here is very self-hatred/self-punishment focused. there is also a scene where reader and langdon are handling a complicated high stress emergency birth, jack to the rescue, but if that’s a potential trigger the scene can easily be skipped past. also a major grey’s anatomy season 11/12 spoiler? in case?

Author's Note: this won the weekly “(finish your) wip wednesday” poll by a whopping .8% so just know your vote matters more here than in your national elections!

Word Count: 16.5k

Stupid.

That’s the only word you’ve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.

So stupid it hurts.

You’re gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. It’s a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. You’re being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. You’re trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like it’s been since Friday night.

Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didn’t do your laundry this weekend. Couldn’t. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If you’re being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless – and in med school. Good work, Lefty.

Turtleneck it is.

The whole bus ride over – you miss the first one, of course – you’re just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if he’s messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence that’s had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.

Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurse’s station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say as you check in with Dana. “I missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-”

“Save it, kid, we need you working ASAP.”

She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, “Right. Of course. Thank you.”

You turn around – and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.

“There’s my favorite fourth year,” he sighs sharply. “Late and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.”

“Sorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-”

“Can it. We’ve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.”

You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you can’t breathe all of a sudden. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“From you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t.”

It cuts you deep. Frank’s been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like you’re stupid.

Because you are.

And everyone knows it.

The universe apparently can’t even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into – shoulders bumping too hard – is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Oh god. You can’t look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, “All good. Don’t worry.”

I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, “It’s good to see you, ace. Didn’t see your check-in on the shift board earlier.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldn’t be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. “Fuck, I know, I’m sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds and…”

As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, “And?”

He’s the first person so far who hasn’t interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what would’ve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. “Nothing. Just a hard weekend. But, y’know, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so I’m getting back on the horse.”

He shakes his head. “Hand those off to Javadi; we’ve got an MVC coming in.”

You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. “Dr. Abbot, I, um, I think I’d like to keep Dr. Langdon’s patients instead. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. “Are you sure? I’m guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.”

“No, I- I don’t mind.” Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, “I’m, um, I’m kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.”

Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll page Javadi.”

Relief floods you.

The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.

Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You can’t act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-

“I can see you overthinking something from here.” Jack’s hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, “Of course. Thank you.”

But he doesn’t move his hand. And he doesn’t drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and it’s too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, “I mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.”

His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isn’t an off day. This isn’t a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t always have to be,” he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You don’t catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, “Find me if you need me, okay?”

With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. “Okay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.”

And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.

For once, you’re thankful that Langdon was being a dick. He’s pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. She’s healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but there’s something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist that’s been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.

Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.

As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jack’s scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. He’s done two full laps before deciding concretely that you aren’t with any patients and you aren’t handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.

Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. “Whitaker forget his leftovers in there again? You’re mean-mugging the shelves.”

Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, “I thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didn’t.”

He doesn’t miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that you’re trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.

That’s when Jack realizes.

The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way you’re speaking.

You’re dropping.

Well, more accurately, you’ve dropped. You’re in the middle of it now.

Jack’s been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, he’s always putting out fires that someone else started. When he’s with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someone’s universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he would’ve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.

He’d had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how you’re always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily – but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you can’t find, the details are slotting into place.

With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly,  “Sit with me. Have half my sandwich and we’ll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.”

You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. “That’s okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- It’s alright. I’ll order something to the hospital.”

“You won’t,” he counters. Soft. Certain. You’re lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you won’t be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, “Sit.”

It’s uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.

Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jack’s decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.

So you sit.

He sits with you.

You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, “Where’s your water bottle?”

Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich – Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmer’s market fillings – with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, “I left it in my locker. I’ll go and grab it in a minute.”

He shakes his head and stands. “I’ll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?”

The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, “I forgot to put it on this morning.”

Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your personal life – if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake – but he knows a good partner wouldn’t leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just ‘one of those days.’ Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You can’t push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.

Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, “Just eat. I’ll be right back.”

Jack swears he’s never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he can’t outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you haven’t touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you haven’t had a full meal since…whenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. “Here. Drink some.”

You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs you’re creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows you’re putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You don’t want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesn’t push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.

Before you know it, you’ve actually finished eating. You hadn’t felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.

Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. “Good job. I’m proud of you.”

The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know it’s silly. Proud of you for…eating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But that’s not what your brain’s saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, “Thank you.”

Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. He’s not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong – makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid – then you’re never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. You’ll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesn’t handle your drop correctly.

While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. That’s what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal he’s kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, he’ll inherently help more than if he didn’t dedicate time to it.

He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And he’ll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and don’t push yourself too hard. That’s what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If he’s careful, you won’t even notice the role he’s going to step into until you’re sure on your feet again.

He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. That this isn’t an admission of the feelings for you that he’s been shoving deep down for – if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by – years. You’re older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way it’s made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.

So helping you through this certainly isn’t about his feelings. It’s for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.

Really.

After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, you’re more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least you’re on time today, so there aren’t any jabs about your arrival – which is good, considering you’re ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now they’re just pissing you off. You’re fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.

While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You don’t bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. You’d made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best you’ve done on your own since Friday.

But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. “Morning, ace.”

“Evening, Dr. Abbot,” you reply without looking up.

“Just wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-” which Jack had personally asked her to do “-and you got tens across the board.”

That perks you up slightly. “Really?”

He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You don’t notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, “‘When I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. It’s the most validated I’ve felt by a medical professional in a long time.’” Jack’s smile is affectionate. Proud. Like he’s really seeing you for who you are. “Great work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.”

Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didn’t screw everything up yesterday.”

Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, “You didn’t screw up anything.”

“But I didn’t help with that car crash and-”

He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it – maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that he’s slowing down your inner monologue – makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, “Being a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. It’s the beginning of your career; I’d say that’s damn good.”

After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. “You’re being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.”

“I’m always nice,” he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, “What’s your go-to?”

Grimacing, you reply, “I usually get a bear claw, actually.”

“I’m glad I remembered correctly.” Jack takes the smaller box he’d set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. “Got one for you special.”

Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, it’s with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like it’s an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, “You remembered my favorite pastry?”

He chuckles, “The gray adds ten years; my mind’s not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming I’m ancient.”

You giggle, “No, the gray is sexy.”

You only realize you’re saying it when it’s already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jack’s cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, you’re so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word that’s been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, “Sorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- I’m sorry. I’m still, um, waking up.”

Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you don’t care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. They’re smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When he’s satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, “Don’t apologize. Eat.”

There’s no way out of eating the hearty pastry – it’s not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him – so, even though your brain is still screaming that you don’t deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesn’t move and you can tell it’s a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you don’t notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.

After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, “Good job. We can get going now. You’re shadowing me today.” Nodding in another direction, he informs you, “We’re starting off rounds in trauma four.”

He didn’t offer you any other options, so you can’t go searching for them. The thousand directions your day could’ve gone in fizzle away into one path: You’re shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind. 

You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.

Things make more sense when you’re under Jack’s direct supervision instead of Langdon’s or even Dana’s. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know there’s a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesn’t melt you; it builds you. He’s scaffolding.

You’re just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. You’re taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdon’s voice a few rooms down.”

“Lefty, get in here!” He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. He’s tying on your gown before you’ve even gotten a look at the patient. “You’ve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?”

Gloving up, you nod and confirm, “A handful – supervised.”

He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. There’s a lot of blood around her head and neck; you can’t tell what’s wrong. But Langdon focuses you: “OB’s on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. She’s nearly crowning; we’ve gotta get the baby out.”

Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones you’ve both observed and assisted. “How far apart are contractions? Where’s she at?”

“Two and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.” He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. “Should be simple.”

“Got it.” You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, she’s able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdon’s gruff grunting, “Head is out. You’re doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and we’ll be done and you’ll both be on the road to recovery.”

She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard she’s fighting it, you can tell she’s tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.

You watch the next contraction wash over her – and the baby’s head doesn’t move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, “Doctor, I think I’m seeing shoulder dystocia.”

Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, “You’re going to need to deliver the posterior arm.”

The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you aren’t even sure which one that is. You haven’t done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, “Should I go and get-”

The patient slips out of consciousness before the question’s out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, “Just pull!”

“No, that’s-”

He’s not listening to you.

He’s not listening to you and the baby can’t take a breath yet.

I know that’s not the right thing to do. That’s not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?

You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just can’t do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. “Dr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-”

Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, “Shut up and let me focus.”

You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The baby’s face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know there’s time. But that time is ticking by fast.

You know it’s more dangerous for you to try something you’ve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the baby’s straining face and whisper, “It’s okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbot’s gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.”

After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, “Dr. Langdon, I don’t know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I can’t move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-”

Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. “You don’t need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!”

The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. “What the hell is going on that I’m getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?”

Langdon’s hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, “Seriously, Lefty? You paged our-”

You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, “Baby’s presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I can’t do this. I don’t know how.”

Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdon’s doing procedures you could’ve handled while other help came, he barks, “Langdon, why the hell haven’t you switched with her?”

“Because I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-”

“She’s a fucking student, Frank!” Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, “You can let go, ace. I’ve got him now in plenty of time.” You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heart’s pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, “Go get some air. You did the right thing. I’ll find you after.”

It’s another half hour before Jack’s able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he would’ve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.

He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so you’re completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesn’t startle you. He’s met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. “Dr. Abbot?”

Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. You’re sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You haven’t stopped crying since you left the delivery; he’s sure of it. “Hey, ace.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.” Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, “How are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?”

“Baby’s up to the NICU for monitoring, mom’s in surgery.” Jack sighs – heavier than you’ve ever heard – and tells you, “Langdon shouldn’t have put you in a position like that knowing full well you’re a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick could’ve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. I’m filing a report.”

You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. “I should’ve-”

“Should’ve what? Ripped a baby’s arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that you’ll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, “You did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to listen, you called for help. Langdon’s gonna take it poorly because he’s an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.” He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, “Makes me even more certain you’re going to be a great doctor.”

You can’t even say thank you. Your throat’s too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything you’ve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jack’s eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.

Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: “Can I hug you?”

It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.

Then you nod. It’s tiny, meek, hesitant.

But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. You’re weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jack’s shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.

With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, “Match your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.”

You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.

As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, “Good. That’s good.”

“Jesus, this is so stupid.” You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like they’re parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. He’d never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, “Sorry for being so – I don’t know– ridiculous the last few days. This isn’t- I promise I’ll be better. This is- It’s a temporary thing. I promise.”

Jack takes your face between two hands. They’re calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, “I’m here for you – even if it isn’t.”

You’re silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Jack almost scoffs. “Because you deserve it.”

The response is so immediate you have to believe it: “I don’t.”

Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, “Who made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?”

You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but you’re spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. “I- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how I’ve been acting but-”

“It doesn’t sound crazy.” He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. He’s treating you like gossamer. “I understand.”

Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, “You don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so you’re pressed against the wall.

Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.

In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. It’s not frightening and you can tell he’s not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and you’ve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years – protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash – you’ve seen a flash of how he’s looking at you right now.

But you never realized what it is.

Then he repeats, “I understand.”

And it’s clear as day after a long night shift.

“I’m here for you, ace, because I understand completely.” He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, “Until you’re through this, I’m here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?”

The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isn’t your dom, he still sees the truth of what’s happening. That’s enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath – no shaking – and give a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” he corrects gently. “I want you to call me Jack from now on.”

Dr. Abbot – Jack – wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.

As you’re collecting your backpack from the locker room – you haven’t been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body – Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frank’s shadow eclipses your light.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. Quickly. Like it’s a shameful secret. “I was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. I’m gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, y’know, first steps. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, doctor,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “I understand.”

“Alright, good. We’re cool, then. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow, Lefty.”

You sigh and force a smile. “Bye, Dr. Langdon.”

As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, “Why do they call you that anyway? You’re right-handed, yeah? Must’ve started on day shift; I never heard the story.”

The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you can’t shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, “Langdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I don’t think it’s funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I don’t think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.” You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, “Lefty. Because I can’t do anything right.”

Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.

Rage shreds his ribs apart.

He doesn’t exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon – having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his ‘no groveling to Robby’ rule – but he knows one thing for certain: Nobody’s calling you that in his ED again. Nobody’s going to make you feel small. Not while he’s dedicating himself to building you back up.

Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, “Come on, let’s go to the skills lab. I’ll get us food after. I’m gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.”

You don’t freeze because you’re in Jack’s orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, “What? Why?”

Jack doesn’t even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, “Because you’re not fucking stupid.”

By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? You’re doing it because you know that Jack’s going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.

Jack’s waiting at your bus stop.

You hop into his field of vision and laugh. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Thought you could use some company for your walk,” he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. “Weather’s gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.”

You can’t contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, “Anything in particular we need to check in about?”

He starts simple: “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.”

Jack nods, making a mental note. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Eggs on toast,” you tell him. The way it feels like you’re reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, “And I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.”

“Good job. Really good job.” He gives you a smile that’s nothing short of hunky. “I know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?”

You shake your head meekly. “I was way too tired. I didn’t shower before my shift, either.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yeah, and flossed.”

“That’s enough for today,” he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, “Have any plans for your week off besides R&R?”

“I think I should probably take it easy,” you admit with a sad little sigh. “I want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.”

“That sounds like a plan. I’m off, too; we can call when you need accountability.”

You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he can’t see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. “Perfect. Thank you.”

He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. “It’s no trouble, ace.”

The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesn’t mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. He’s too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurse’s station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.

Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday who’s still admitted. At the same time, Langdon’s approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. “Evening, Lefty, ready to-”

Jack’s bark – from more than ten feet away at the nurse’s station – interrupts him: “Langdon, c’mere a second.” Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurse’s station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdon’s close, Jack says, short and direct, “I don’t want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Job’s hard enough as it is.”

Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jack’s shit list when he’s already deep in it. “Aw, but Lefty doesn’t mind, do you?”

Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, “If I hear you call her that one more time, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

You try to squeak out, “It’s okay.”

When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. There’s nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. “It’s not. It’s really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.” After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frank’s never seen his eyes so dark. “Don’t say it again. Or you’re gonna be ‘Righty.’”

Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. “And what’s that mean, gramps?”

“You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.” Jack lets go of Langdon’s shirt and shoves the center of his chest. “Better yet? Stay away from her. Until HR’s reviewed your case from yesterday, I don’t want you within six feet of her.”

“I think that’s a little bit of an overreaction to-”

“You don’t want to see me overreacting,” Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. “Do your job. That’s it.”

The shift is a killer. The kind you’ve been dreading all week. It’s non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.

But, every step of the way, there’s Jack. He’s a whirlwind, but he’s always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when he’s not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. You’ve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jack’s been the scaffolding, but you’re still the structure he’s been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jack’s healing, you’ve remembered that you’re worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that can’t truly be taken from you.

You’re so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, you’re practically glowing because you’re so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isn’t in any of the usual spots. Because it’s become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(

His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.

You’re in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.

Jack’s right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. “Good morning, ace.”

You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. “Morning, Jack.”

His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, “You’re smiling again.”

“I’m happy,” you hum in return. “I did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.”

Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. He’s been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. “I’m sure you were. That’s my girl.”

Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if you’re at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, “It’s been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.”

Eyes linked with yours, he assures, “The feeling’s mutual.”

You want to ask if that’s the only feeling that’s mutual.

But you can’t bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you can’t imagine blowing it and losing the foundation you’ve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, “You really don’t think it’s kind of, I don’t know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?”

Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. “Pathetic?” He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, “When you open yourself up like that to a partner, it’s sacred. It means everything. You’re saying, ‘hey, here’s all of me,’ even if it’s new. For someone – anyone – to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back up…” He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Honestly, that makes me fucking sick. You’re not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.”

You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. “Sounds like I might need to raise my standards.”

“If the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, I’d definitely agree.” He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, “Where do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?”

“FetLife.”

“Figures.” Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like it’s a beer. “He block you on everything right after?”

You cringe and confirm, “Mhmm.”

“What a dirtbag.” 

“Mostly I’m just mad at myself,” you admit sheepishly. “I was being-” at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording “-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasn’t as thorough as I’ve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-”

You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesn’t need to know how that sentence was going to end.

It still goes straight to his cock.

Because he knows.

I really need to be hurt.

I really need to be punished.

I really need to be worshiped.

I really need to be dominated.

Spanked, slapped, bruised, beaten, adored, ordered around, tied up, kissed, devoured, owned.

Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how he’d give it to you. But this isn’t the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, “We’ve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.”

You giggle at the idea. “You’ve made some reckless kinky decisions?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he laughs. “Last one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.”

Your eyes widen. Jack’s being playful with you. It’s…everything. “Seriously?”

“Ended up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.” He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. “I had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.”

Your brain’s positively tingling. “You’re a switch?”

“No,” he confirms, saying it like the idea’s ridiculous, “but I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I don’t screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.”

Fuck, that’s hot.

You want to drop to your knees.

He can taste it in the air.

Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, “So stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; that’s all you can do.” Then he opens up his arms and offers, “C’mere.”

It’s impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jack’s warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.

“You’ve done such a good job this week. It’s so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,” he murmurs against your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, “Thank you, daddy.”

The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like you’ve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. “Oh god- Oh god I- I’m so sorry. That wasn’t- I don’t know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck I’m so-”

“Don’t you dare,” he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything that’s ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. “Don’t you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress you’ve made this week.”

Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like you’d feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating now. You can’t bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize he’s not shutting you down but letting you in.

When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, “My sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that you’ve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.” Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, “Would you let me take care of you?”

Your heart’s fast-beating in your throat.

The sun’s risen now and the sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

Jack’s pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesn’t move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, “I need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?”

“I think-” You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. “I think I’d like that, Jack.”

He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like he’s breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. “Wait by my car at the end of your shift.”

It’s actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jack’s gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, “You still okay with this?”

“Completely and totally,” you confirm – but your voice shakes a bit. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you don’t even have words for.

Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m nervous,” you admit, biting your lip for a moment.

Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. “We need to work on that habit.”

Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. “We?”

He gives you a cute, sly smirk. “I have a funny feeling that I’m going to be holding you accountable very soon.” Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passenger’s side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, “Tell me what you’re nervous about.”

It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jack’s arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy it’s hard to think straight. When you’ve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, “I just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, y’know, something big. Something good and important and- and real.”

His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. “And that makes you nervous.”

“Yeah.” You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. “Really nervous.”

His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. “I’m sure I can fix that in no time.”

Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. “Touching my thigh certainly isn’t helping with the nerves.”

“Your nerves aren’t a bad thing,” he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. “That just means you care about how this goes. You’ll feel better the more comfortable you get and you’ll get more comfortable when you realize I’m not going anywhere.” Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, “I’m nervous too, if that helps.”

You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. “What could you possibly be nervous about? You’re the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. I’ve seen enough Grey’s to know where that gets you.”

He eyes you and chuckles. “Brain dead due to a delayed CT scan?”

“I meant more ‘able to fuck any med student you want,’ but I’m absolutely thrilled to know you’ve seen the show.”

As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house you’ve ever seen, he replies modestly, “Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck a student before.”

Giggling so that you don’t have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, “I don’t believe you for a second.”

Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. “Cross my heart.”

He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When you’re on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. You’d pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.

Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, “Don’t be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.”

“It’s nice,” you say, really only speaking so that you don’t retreat back into your nerves.

He nods toward the nearby couch – plush boucle like a cloud – and says, “Sit down; I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes.”

He sets both your bags on the floor and says, “I’ll grab you something of mine to wear.”

Once you’re sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where he’s abandoned his. Your heart stutters. He’s so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, “Just relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. You’re going to find out what Jack Abbot’s bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. That’s obvious from, well, everything  about him.

Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. “Not the sexiest meal I could’ve offered, but I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”

“Leftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,” you assure him, digging in right away. After you’re satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, “Didn’t think we’d be doing it tonight or didn’t think we’d be doing it at all?”

“Tonight,” he replies. Blunt. Immediate. “I didn’t want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasn’t going to let you go home thinking you’d made a mistake by calling me-”

“Don’t say it,” you blurt out. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’m not allowed to say it?” Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when he’s being torturously cutesy, “Daddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.”

You shriek, hands flying over your face. “Jack, please!”

“Oooh, I love that one,” he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if you’re way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, “Please, daddy, stop it, daddy, I’m so embarrassed, daddy, it’s too much, daddy.”

Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jack’s lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. “Fine, fine! It’s not embarrassing, you win!”

Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, “I liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasn’t for the last time.”

And then you’re kissing him.

You physically can’t stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. You’ll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, “It definitely wasn’t the last time.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Good girl.”

And you know you’re done for. You’re soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. He’s got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.

Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.

The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but they’re hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You don’t dread; you want.

After clearing your plates – he insists that you don’t need to do anything – Jack offers you his hand and says, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”

You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack’s hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.

It’s perfectly neat, which you’d expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. It’s his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, there’s a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.

Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, “Have a shower. I’ll use one of the guest bathrooms.” He throws a wink at you and adds, “Figured you’d like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.”

You scrunch up your face. “Okay, you’re not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Don’t make things harder for yourself for me.”

“You’re so considerate,” he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, “You’re so fucking special; you have no idea.” After another beat, he goes on, “All the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too – lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I don’t have to strain, voice-activated lights so I don’t have to move. New construction perks.”

“That’s awesome,” you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, “I’ll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.”

He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say ‘just stay here with me whenever you want,’ he’s grateful for your thoughtfulness. You’ll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, he’d tease you unrelentingly for how you’re ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought you’re having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, “Shower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. There’s supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out – an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising – next to a pill case that’s clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.

Showering with Jack’s products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. You’re wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a lover’s touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. It’s built for showering together. God, you’ve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isn’t even in the room.

After your shower, it’s time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring – how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? – but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. There’s so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. He’s also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he must’ve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.

Once you’re dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs you’ve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.

Your whole body’s tingling with anticipation.

Suddenly Jack’s voice behind you snaps you back into reality. “Snoop to your heart’s content?”

You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, “I absolutely did.”

He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. “Find anything you like?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want to share with the class?”

You shake your head and giggle, “Uh-uh.”

“Keeping your cards close to your chest I see.” He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one you’re wearing, and praises, “You look good in my clothes.”

“You look good. Period.” Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like he’s holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”

“And you’re exceptionally sweet,” he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, “How are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?”

You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, “Horny.”

As he chuckles – you’re getting addicted to his low raspy laugh – you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.

You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.

Then Jack’s hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, “Not today, baby.”

Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, “You don’t want me?”

Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, “I want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.” Touch as soft as if he were handling a Fabergé egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, “But I’m not going to fuck you today. Right now, you don’t need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.”

Hope and gratitude pools inside you. “From now on?”

He smiles at you, so warm it’s like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. “This week I’ve realized I can’t go on pretending I don’t want you to be mine – and only mine.”

You repeat gently, “Yours.”

“Mine.” His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. “If you’ll have me.”

You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, “I need you. I want you.”

“Then I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when – because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.”

As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, “If you’re not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?”

Jack’s lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, “I’m going to worship you.”

“Jack, I-” You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he replies easily. You can tell he’s being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, “Let me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?”

Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, “I’ll try.”

“That’ll do for now,” he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, “I’m going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?”

“Very okay,” you confirm breathily. The word ‘toy’ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. “And you don’t have to ask permission.”

“I do,” he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. “Until we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, I’m always going to ask when I start something new. You’re in charge here.”

Even though you nod, you definitely don’t feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture he’s thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. It’s borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. That’s what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.

In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,“Be good.”

God, he’s reading your mind.

Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isn’t going to be an issue for Jack.

And he’s noticed.

Of course he has.

On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, “Widen your stance.”

Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks you’ve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, “You’re already being so good for me, baby. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Breathily, you moan, “Jack, if you’re not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.”

His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to get you off.”

You whimper. Literally whimper.

Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time he’s talking. Unrelenting touch. “Look, baby, sometime soon – very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it – we’re going to sit down and have a good long talk. I’m going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. You’re going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. You’ll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want – no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And I’m going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom you’ve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.”

With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow that’s way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know he’s craving. His self control is honey.

Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, “Until then – until I know everything I need to know – you have to be good and take what I’ll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. You’re still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; I’m not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And I’m always intense when I’m fucking.” His eyes own yours and he goes on, “I’m just gonna get you off enough times to know you’ll sleep well in your new daddy’s bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?”

You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.

Jack tuts, the sort of sound you’d make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, “You have to use your words with me. You’re gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but I’m big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.”

You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. You’re so desperate for him that you’re stupid all of a sudden – stupid in the best way. Not the ‘stupid’ you’ve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. It’s anticipation and toes curling and trust. You’ve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.

Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, “I’ll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.”

You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, they’re so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: “Touch me, daddy.”

Pure want blows Jack’s pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.

“There’s my good girl,” he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. “On the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable – don’t try to pose yourself for me. I promise you’re always going to look sexiest when you’re not overthinking it. Understood?”

With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bed’s silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, “Understood.”

He gives you an approving nod – so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until you’re fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, “Jesus, your body is…fucking perfect. No other way to say it. I’ve imagined this so many times I can’t believe you’re even more gorgeous than I pictured.”

“You’ve pictured me naked?”

Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, “Absolutely. I’ve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.”

Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.

“And your hips,” he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you can’t help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.”

Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. He’s looking at your body like you’re a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, “These may be the prettiest nipples I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.”

You let out a self-conscious laugh. “That’s your medical opinion?”

“Purely objective, I assure you,” he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. He’s positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you would’ve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, “Yup, the best. Objectively the best.”

Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, “Only thing better is this pretty face of yours.” His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. “I’m going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.”

You believe him.

You believe him.

In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely it’ll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, “Fuck, you’re gonna take care of me, too, aren’t you?”

You nod, all mischievous and coy. “I’m gonna be your new favorite hobby.”

“I don’t have a single doubt about it,” he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more – your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair – he orders, “Now look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.”

He knows you’re fucking soaked, so there’s no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jack’s brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. “I said look at me.”

Your doe eyes lock onto his.

He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, “Thank you, daddy.”

Jack smiles in earnest. “You’re welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.”

You half-giggle/half-moan, “Yes, sir.”

Jack snickers. “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl.”

Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jack’s rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.

You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. It’s slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide you’re ready to cum – you’re grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas – it’s champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jack’s greedy hand and wrist.

The whole time, there’s his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, that’s it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.

When you’ve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesn’t. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. Not until he’s satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. It’s an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.

With you falling – no, leaping – into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. He’s finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high  of you.

He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows you’re close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. You’re relaxing into him now – no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongue’s attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when he’s pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jack’s hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jack’s ears.

You cum again and think that has to be it – you’ve never even been together before, for Christ’s sake – but Jack doesn’t let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but you’re the exact opposite – bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, “Too much, Jack. I- I can’t-”

Because it’s new and you’re at where you’re at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, “Think you can do one more for me, baby girl?”

Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, “I- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.”

He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, “The good kind of ‘dunno anything’ or the bad kind?”

“Good kind,” you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. “Feel really good, Jackie.”

“Jackie,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Been a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.”

You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. “Is that okay?”

He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, “Honey, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as you’re mine. You’re too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.”

You give him a silly grin. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” He turns you both onto your sides and asks, “Now, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?”

You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, and murmur, “You pick.”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, “Not this time. We’re not skipping any steps here; I can’t learn what you need when you need it if you don’t know and tell me first.”

You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. “I think I’m ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?”

Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. “You are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where I’m making all the decisions and you’re just my dumb little slut following orders, you’re safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.”

You poke him in the chest and giggle again, “You’re whipped already, Dr. Abbot.”

“Yeah, I am,” he admits freely. “All I want is to be yours.”

Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like it’s no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong. 

He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” You do so without question and get met with another lovely ‘good girl’ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that you’re coming down. Jack’s brow furrows in concentration like he’s performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth he’s cleaning.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, “Swish and spit.”

Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jack’s guidance is so natural for you. It’s easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, that’s worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, “You don’t have to do all that.”

“I’m going to,” he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, “I take care of what’s mine. When you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.” He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. “I always tend to my pet.”

Support me on ko-fi if you'd like!

[reveluvjay]

This being my first Abbot fic has set the bar so fricking high omg I'm gonna be chasing this feeling for the rest of my life

[mattdexx]

they need to drop the HD versions of these pics ASAP i need to see his tits properly

[reveluvjay]

PROPERLY‼️‼️‼️

[northistar]

bf!dex who looks way too pleased with himself when you get angry enough to hit him.

you two make a very disfunctional couple, that much could be said. you patch him up from knife and bullet wounds more often than you go out on dates, and you're constantly arguing about dex's obsessive, infuriating need to keep everything in your life under his control.

on particularly bad fights, you make him grovel for days.

dex will mostly spend them chasing you around your apartment while you pretend not to notice the hulking mass of a man stalking you around every room, an inevitable presence you couldn't get rid of even if you tried. he says i'm sorry and please talk to me and i'll do anything while you try your best to remain unphased, even if the undeniable lack of remorse in his voice only fills you with even more rage.

one day you turn on your heels and slap him across the face.

it's a sudden, sharp crack that echoes around the room like a gunshot. his head turns to the side and stays there, because you struck him hard enough for dex to freeze like that for a moment before he blinks once in surprise, tongue moving inside his mouth to poke the inside of his cheek.

you can see it in him, the change that happens when dex registers the sting and the heat that starts spreading across the side of his face, the shape of your fingertips painting his skin a crimson red. his mouth curls then, lips tugging into a smile as his eyes flutter closed to savor the impact.

you make a disgusted sound, and because you're still pissed, even more mad now than before you realized you can't even hurt him without his deranged brain turning it into this, you snarl: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

dex only laughs in response, seemingly pulled out of his trance by the sound of your voice. it's the first time you've spoken to him in hours, and something inside him hums in satisfaction at finally earning back your attention, even if you're still scowling at him with an intensity that would make a lesser man feel the urge to bolt.

to dex, though, the only thing worth registering is that he has your eyes back on him once more, your touch back where it belongs—on his skin, burning across his cheek as physical proof.

he reaches out to grab your hand, fingers enclosing around your wrist and lifting your arm with enough gentleness to make you hesitate upon the thought of pulling it right back, then guides your palm to lay flat against the other side of his face.

"i'll let you take it out on me all you want, we both know i deserve it," he says, soft eyes fixed on yours despite the haze of rage still clouding your vision. "but if you really want to hurt me, then you'll have to hit me harder, sweetheart."

[reveluvjay]

STOPPPP there was someone in the 'x reader' tag that rlly wanted a fic like this I hope theyre having an amazing day (just like me nowwwww HEYOOOO 🤪🤪🤪)

[strangelure]

Stroking fbi era dex until he’s hard and squirming send tweet 😵‍💫

FUCK. fbi!dex whos never been touched like that before, giving him gentle purposeful slow strokes so he doesnt float away too quickly, him whimpering high and needy straight into your mouth “you’re so good at that, fuck! its so good-”, hips lifting up pathetically to seek the friction of your hand, he keeps one hand wrapped around your wrist like maybe he intends to make you stop, but he never does, he just sighs a little broken "please” every time you reach the tip, you keep doing it until hes so hard hes leaking out, thrashing with every stroke, tossing his head back like he cant bare the obscene sight of your hand wrapped around him and smeared with the heavy flow of what he’s about to shoot out

[reveluvjay]

I NEED THAT DESPERATELY

[multi-fandom-imagine]

☀️Summer Heat || Russell Adler ||

A/n: Bell is alive AU / established relationship. Bell and Wood's share a sibling relationship.

Fem!Bell , Russian Bell , Short! Bell.

The storm rolled in slow, it wasn't dramatic...at first nor was it loud.

Just thick clouds crawling over the horizon while heat clung to the safehouse walls like wet fabric. The air outside had gone strangely still hours ago, the kind of heavy silence that made the trees stop moving and the birds disappear.

You hated it immediately. "This country is disgusting in summer.”

Woods snorted from the couch without looking up from his beer. “Says the Russian.”

“Yes,” you deadpanned. “Because my homeland does not feel like Satan’s sweaty asscrack.”

Mason immediately folded over laughing clutching a water bottle while Hudson pinched the bridge of his nose.

Adler, sitting at the kitchen table cleaning his pistol with the patience of a saint, didn’t even glance up.

“You’ve complained about the weather for six straight hours.”

“Because it is attacking me personally.”

“You said that about the sun yesterday too.”

“The sun knows what it did.”

Woods barked out another laugh. “You two are basically married.”

“We are basically armed,” Adler answered flatly.

You pointed dramatically at him. “See? Romance.”

Another rumble of thunder rolled somewhere far off.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then the entire safehouse dropped into darkness.Silence rang out through the safe house as Hudson let out an audible sigh. “Goddammit,” he muttered.

Woods groaned loudly from the couch. “Aw hell no.”

Rain suddenly slammed against the roof in violent sheets.

Not gentle rain.

Not peaceful rain.

Absolute apocalypse rain.

The kind that sounded like the sky was actively trying to fistfight the earth.

Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, illuminating the living room in sharp white for half a second before darkness swallowed everything again as the loud sound of thunder rang out.

“Well,” Mason sighed. “That’s probably not good.”

The air conditioning dying made everything instantly worse.

Within minutes the house felt sticky and unbearable.

Woods abandoned the couch dramatically. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re 39,” Hudson replied. “Not eighty.”

“Same thing in this heat.”

You were already sprawled face-first across the kitchen table. “I cannot breathe.”

Adler finally looked up at you. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You love me because I am dramatic.."

“That’s not why.”

You lifted your head slightly. “Then why?”

Adler stared at you for exactly one second too long before returning to cleaning his weapon. “That remains classified.”

Woods made gagging noises. “Jesus Christ.”

Another crack of thunder shook the windows.

The storm intensified fast after that.

Rain hammered the house so hard it almost drowned out the constant arguing inside. Water streaked down the windows in sheets while lightning flashed every few minutes, briefly illuminating the safehouse in pale silver.

The boys eventually migrated toward the kitchen where the candles were.

Mostly because it was slightly cooler.

Mostly because everyone was bored.

You sat backwards on one of the chairs, chin resting against your folded arms while sweat clung to the back of your neck.

Your tank top had started sticking to your skin almost an hour ago. “This is psychological warfare,” you muttered.

Mason pointed at you with a flashlight. “You’ve said that about six things today.”

“Because America keeps inventing new suffering.”

Woods opened another beer. “You almost got taken out by a lawn sprinkler earlier.”

“It moved unexpectedly.”

“It rotates.”

“Like I said.”

Adler finally stood from the table, holstering his pistol before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

The cold air escaped for only a second before the refrigerator shut again.

You watched him approach from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt slightly, his sleeves were rolled up showing off his biceps just enough as the storm outside briefly lit the sharp line of his jaw.

Annoyingly handsome.

You hated that for yourself.

Adler handed you the water bottle. “You’re overheating.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re five foot nothing. You’d survive a nuclear event out of spite.”

“That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Woods gagged again. “Can you freaks stop flirting for ten minutes?”

“No,” you and Adler answered simultaneously.

Mason nearly choked laughing.

Another hour passed before Hudson finally disappeared upstairs to sleep.

Woods followed after complaining dramatically about “swamp ass.”

Mason lasted another fifteen minutes before abandoning ship too.

Eventually the safehouse grew quiet except for the storm.

Rain.

Thunder.

The occasional creak of old wood.

And you.

Still suffering.

You sat on the kitchen counter now, legs swinging slightly while Adler leaned against the opposite side of the island nursing black coffee despite the heat.

“You know,” you said quietly, “in movies summer storms are romantic.”

Adler raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yes. In reality I am damp everywhere and angry.”

“That sounds about right.”

Lightning flashed again.For a brief second the kitchen glowed silver-blue.

Adler looked unfairly attractive in low light.

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously as you puffed out your cheeks. “This is your fault somehow.”

“My fault?”

“You brought me to America.”

“You came willingly.”

“You smiled at me once and ruined my judgment.”

That finally earned a laugh from him, a real one too, the one that was low and rough.

Not loud, but genuine enough to make warmth bloom in your chest despite the miserable heat.

You slid off the counter and wandered toward him barefoot.

The hardwood floors were cool beneath your feet.

Adler watched you approach with the familiar look he always got around you nowadays , equal parts exhausted and helplessly fond.

You stopped between his knees where he leaned against the counter.

Then dramatically collapsed against his chest.“I am melting...I am not built for heat.”

“You’re fine.”

“No. Hold me while I perish.”

“You’re not perishing.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist anyway.

Adler sighed softly, though one hand immediately settled against your back out of instinct.

Warm.

Steady.

Safe.

Thunder rolled outside again.

You pressed your cheek against his shirt. “…Still hate summer.”

His fingers slid slowly through your hair. “You complain a lot for someone currently using me as a body pillow.”

“You are large and cold. Like expensive refrigerator.”

Adler snorted quietly. “You compare all your loved ones to appliances?”

“Only the useful ones.”

The rain continued hammering the roof and for a while neither of you spoke.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Slow.

Calm.

Grounding.

Steady.

Your eyes started drifting shut before another violent crack of thunder startled you awake as you jumped slightly then scowled.

Adler’s hand immediately tightened against your waist. “You scared?”

“No.”

Another lightning strike hit somewhere nearby. The thunder that followed rattled the damn windows.

You buried your face deeper into his chest instantly grabbing a fist full of his shirt. “…Maybe little bit.”

Adler looked down at you knowingly. “You nearly fought Woods with a sparkler last week.”

“He deserved it.”

“But thunder scares you?”

“It is loud and judgmental.”

He laughed again quietly. Then, without a word, Adler shifted, guiding you with him toward the old couch in the living room.

You practically melted the second he sat down and pulled you against him. Your legs tangled with his automatically, head against his shoulder.

His arm draped around your waist as outside , the storm raged harder and inside, the room stayed dim and warm and safe.

You traced lazy circles against his chest.“…You know,” you mumbled sleepily, “when I first met you, I thought you were terrifying.”

“I was.”

“You still are.”

“Good.”

“But now you are also shaped like a pillow.”

Adler looked down at you. “You flirt weird.”

“You like it.”

“…Yeah.”

Your lips twitched softly.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows now instead of pounding.The storm was finally starting to calm.

Your breathing slowed gradually against him.

Adler kept one hand running slowly along your spine.Protective.Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore.

Half asleep, you mumbled against his chest. “If power does not come back tomorrow…I vote we invade Canada.”

“Why Canada?”

“They seem less sweaty.”

Adler pressed a kiss against the top of your head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Mhm.”

Then quieter. “But you love me anyway.”

His arm tightened slightly around you. Outside, thunder rumbled one last time across the horizon.

Inside, Adler rested his chin lightly against your hair and closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured into the dark. “I do.”

[reveluvjay]

Literally ascended reading this holy shit

[lordescult]

freezer bride, your sweet divine

author's note: sorry for the quick ending. this was sitting in my drafts for a week and idk how to end it so i just ended it.

masterlist.

word count: 1,275

plot: you get a traumatic brain injury but your fiancé is hard at work helping you remember your life.

warnings: reader has amnesia. i LOVE PATHETIC FBI MANIPULATOR DEX. manipulation. implied and slightly described stalking. potentially dead dove in a way. minors DNI. reader and dex are not really together if you couldn't tell.

you were kneeling with a box of your things in his apartment. you didn't recognise a lot of it and looking at it was making the wound on your head throb like crazy.

it made you feel so off-put, you didn't know why. your stomach would twist and your mind would scream and it all went straight to stabbing you in the eyeballs.

"baby?" dex's voice came from the other room. the door opened and there he was. he looked worried, ready to chastise you again for forgetting the rule about doors. "why's the door closed?"

you turned, head on the bandage on your head in mind-numbing contemplation. "i forgot," you tried your best at looking apologetic.

closed doors weren't allowed when you were injured, apparently. sure, fine, that made sense. you had been getting dizzy really easily and sometimes vomiting, all side effects of whatever pills you were on and a traumatic brain injury.

yesterday, you had fallen on carpet. you were convinced he was going to chain you to the bed.

he didn't say any more about it, his gaze catching the box. "any luck?" he asked. his hand twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you, comfort you in your confusion. then, he did, still standing above you, his hand moved to press your head to his thigh as he rubbed your head, to comfort you. certainly, this action was for himself, obviously.

his fingers found your scalp, threaded through your hair. he began to rub firm circles, the kind of pressure that usually made you melt. you would assume. you wondered how different you were since the accident.

"nah," you sighed. you let it happen, you didn't hate it. you didn't know what you liked either. "i still don't recognize anything, it's all just... stuff."

"that's the amnesia," he said. "things don't feel familiar. it's disorienting. it's supposed to feel wrong."

you didn't respond, moving your head off his thigh to pick up a scarf that you grimaced at.

his hand didn't leave your head, he just moved with you. his thumb brushed the shell of your ear, tender and what you imagine to be loving. "brains are weird and you're still healing. give it time."

you went for jogs most days. if you didn't jog on a given day, you would still walk.

he liked going with you, even if you didn't know it. and didn't know him.

you didn't know him yet, not really.

you'd only crossed paths a few times, he was in FBI SWAT and you were a whole other team. most recently, you smiled at him once, when you were on his floor to meet with someone else. but that's not where it started, it was training. you were at quantico together.

he told himself he was just working up the nerve to speak to you, it had just been a few months of this. watching your routines.

he watched from just slightly down the street as you left your building. you always looked both ways before you started down the street. he would wait ten seconds before following you, at most, he was thirty yards behind you.

you turned onto 11th avenue. the light was red, you looked both ways, like you always did. but that delivery truck came out of nowhere.

he didn't even hear you scream, didn't hear a sound. he didn't know if that was just his body's reaction to seeing you hurt, or if it was the reality of what happened. silence.

blood pooling from the back of your skull, your hand twitched like it wanted to reach for it, but your eyes were fluttering shut. he didn't evne remember running towards you, shouting about calling 911. he almost was ready to pick you up and carry you himself, preparing to run you to the nearest hospital.

the emt almost didn't let him come with you. he thought of you, alone in the hospital. so he said he was your fiancé.

he didn't know why he said it. why didn't he say boyfriend? why not husband?

when you had been unconscious in the hospital, he had went to get a ring. he didn't know why. he didn't know you'd wake with amnesia. maybe he thought he would propose later, take this as a meet-cute opportunity more than anything else.

until they told him you didn't remember him, the man who brought you in, who everyone believed was your fiancé, then another plan formed in his mind.

when you woke up days later, he said he found it where the accident happened and slid it right onto your finger.

"dex... maybe i could sleep in your room tonight?" you had been sleeping in the guest room. for your comfort. you sounded so shy, unsure.

his thumb paused against your scalp and you felt it immediately. but then he started rubbing those slow circles again, steadier this time, grounding himself more than you.

“you wanna sleep in our room?” he repeated.

he was also correcting you about what he wanted to believe. or maybe it was more about what he wanted you to believe. and he was your only tether to the truth of your reality; you had forgotten everything else, and the only things that you knew about your life, your personality, your likes and dislikes, came from his lips.

his room? no. it was our room.

"we could just try it tonight, maybe? see how it goes?" your expression almost turned embarrassed as you looked up at him. "i keep waking up not knowing where i am. maybe i would just feel better if you were... beside me, i don't know."

he stared at you. he imagined you in his bed so many times it made him sick. so many scenarios ran through his head from before the accident, most of them making him stiff in his pants.

when he would watch you through your webcam through the laptop you forgot to close when you passed out, or through your bedroom window. he wondered what the weight of you against him would feel like, what the sound of your voice sounded like at 3 a.m., he wanted to know if you would curl up against his warmth, or turn away from it.

it wasn't crazy for him to think about this. he already knew your coffee order, your jogging routine, among the many other routines in your life he used to mould his around just to catch a glimpse of you.

"yeah," he breathed, a bit too fast. "yeah, of course."

that night, he tries to be perfect. he keeps his distance, careful not to overwhelm you like he hadn't been petting your head like a dog earlier.

the mattress is firmer than the guest room's. the pillows smell like his laundry detergent, like him. you wonder why, if this is your shared room, it doesn't smell you?

he lies down on his side, keeping space between you. "all good?"

you nod, staring at the ceiling, you try to relax, but you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. the same feeling you get when you're being watched in an empty room.

in the middle of the night, you wake up. you feel him, right behind you, his front pressed to your back, one arm draped heavily over your waist. he's breathing slow against your hair, but just a little off. is he pretending to sleep?

his arm feels less like an anchor and more like a lock. when you shift, his arm tightens out of some reflex. his body automatically locks up in panic when you pull away from him. just as quick as his grip tightened, he's relaxing again.

"shh," he whispers, voice thick with false sleep. "go back to sleep, baby."

[reveluvjay]

If you listen rlly closely you can hear me screaming MORE from the top of my lungs

[buildinguplikewaves]

the monster in me (loves the monster in you)

PAIRING: Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader

SUMMARY: Newly appointed "good guy" CIA!Dex gets a handler. It goes about as well as you expect.

WORD COUNT: 5K and some change

WARNINGS: canon compliant, eventual smut, eventual violence, attempted slow burn (we'll see how long i can hold out), dex is a good guy now (delusional), reader is totally "normal" (also delusional), rom-com elements if you like your rom-coms between two morally bankrupt troubled people, withholding information about reader for plot reasons, actual serious tags to follow

AUTHOR'S NOTE: No beta. Despite outlining a whole Bucky Barnes universe fic, this somehow ended up being my first Marvel contribution to fandom and my first attempt ever at a reader fic. Wilson said he wanted Bullseye to have a crazy girlfriend. This is my take on that request. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE: the coffee catch-up job

[AO3]

When Dex followed Mr. Charles onto a plane to Washington DC, he expected to be brought to an office, like his work with the FBI. He'd wear his gear, get his assignments, and do the job. A routine he could follow. The dependable kind. The kind that used to quiet the noise in his head. It had been easier to mimic and mirror in an office environment. Stability had been the goal back then. However, it was clarity that had blossomed in the months that followed his near-death and second chance at life at the hands of Daredevil. It was as if he had seen a new light. A different perspective. Understood his true purpose. To balance the scales. To provide his skills. To eliminate evil. The life of a real goddamn hero. A good guy. Dex felt the corner of his lips tug. A small smile. A bit of pride. How could he not take pleasure in that fact? He was one of the good guys now and, like all heroes, Dex had to overcome the odds and deal with the challenges that were thrown at him.

It was hard, but noble work.

That afternoon, the current challenge was... being in public.

At a mall.

Maybe mall was too small a word for the massive shopping center he found himself in. Countless stores and people at every turn. High end brands so expensive that one item would have cost about what Dex used to pay a month in rent in New York. He stood at the center of the plaza, eyes surveying as people moved from store to store. Their arms were loaded with bags. Probably thousands of dollars worth of junk. It was not what Dex imagined when he received a call from the hotel lobby front desk that morning and was informed that a car had been sent to him. The driver had picked him up from the hotel and dropped him off here. No Mr. Charles and no further instructions.

A small reprieve came when the phone in his coat pocket went off. He retrieved the ringing device, staring blankly down as it continued to ring. His phone was tucked in his back right pocket. This phone wasn't his at all and certainly wasn't in his pocket when he left the hotel room that day. He turned the phone over in his hand. It was flamingo pink and buzzing along to some pop song he wasn't familiar with. The caller ID name was a single sparkle emoji. What the absolute fuck? Dex answered the call, eyes sharp as he scanned the area. He gave no greeting, instead waiting for the other end of the line to speak.

It was your voice that came through.

"Took you long enough."

It was the kind of voice that curved around each word spoken. Made each sentence feel like an invitation. Casual. Kind in tone. Light. More than a little playful. Not at all the voice he expected to fill his ear. It was unfamiliar. Not just your voice, but the sound of someone -- anyone -- speaking to him warmly. It instantly set Dex on alert.

"Who is this?"

"Do you always take so long to answer calls or do you have an aversion to the color pink that I should know about?"

Dex frowned at his question being answered with a question. It instantly drew a giggle out of you. He turned where he stood, eyes trying to lock onto whoever was clearly watching him.

"You're going to be a fun one. I can already tell."

PING!

"See you soon."

The line cut. Dex dropped the phone from his ear, thumbing through the screen until he opened the messages. A simple instruction. The name of a coffee shop. The intention was clear. He was meant to go there. He pocketed the phone as he began to move, only slowing when he neared a store directory. The coffee shop looked like a local spot. The kind that decorated with the intention of providing customers with good vibes and fun aesthetics with their cups of coffee. It was the kind of decoration that Dex just didn't understand. It served no purpose. It didn't make the coffee taste any better. Dex didn't order a drink, instead opting walk past the small line towards the table in the back corner. Unfortunately, the table was located beneath a neon sign that read 'IT'S A MUG STORY (BABY, JUST SAY YES)'. He placed a chair on one side of the table before sitting directly across from the chair. Back to the wall. No surprises.

Well, one surprise.

You.

Dex's eyes flickered to the register at the sound of your voice. It was soft and sweet as you thanked the barista. He watched as you adjusted the handbag hooked on your arm before you took two to-go cups in your hands. You turned and looked over in his direction, eyes landing directly where he had chosen to sit. A smile spread across your lips as you made your way over to the table. The long peacoat you wore was a rich royal blue. It also was cinched at your waist and hung over your curves in a way that could only emphasize the swing of your hips as you neared. More importantly, it also concealed most of your body, which made it difficult for Dex to note any sort of weapon in sight.

"There's my guy," you happily said, setting down the cups on the table, "Made it here just in time for drinks too."

Instead of taking the seat across from him, Dex watched as you curled your fingers around the back of the chair and drag it over to his side. You set the chair far too close to his own. It was the lack of distance often reserved for close friends. The kind of dynamic Dex had absolutely no experience with. He sat straighter in his seat as you dropped down into the seat beside him, hooking the strap of your handbag on the corner of your chair. It was all too... friendly. Like this was something the two of you had done countless times. An act that Dex knew to be untrue since he had no idea who the hell you were.

"You will not believe how many coffee places are in this shopping center," you continue on, as you tug at the sash around your waist. You loosen and shrug out of the coat you wore, moving to hang it onto the back of your seat, alongside your purse. "Eleven. Such a strange, uneven number for one location and way too much caffeine in a five block radius. Have you--"

Your words are cut with a soft gasp as Dex pressed the tip of a blade into your side. Not enough to pierce, but enough to get your attention. In your distraction, you missed the way he reached into his jacket. Dex watched your face, waiting for the act to drop. It never comes. Instead, he watched as you look down to where the blade was. An incredulous look touched your face. Like somehow he was in the wrong in this exchange.

"Well, that's just rude," you pointed out, too casual for someone currently with a knife aimed in your direction. "I went through eleven coffee websites trying to find the best one in anticipation of today and now I'm going to have a hole in my fourth favorite shirt--"

"What is this?"

"I thought it was a lovely little coffee catch-up," you instantly replied, confusion in your eyes as you looked at him. "But apparently sweet treats trigger the fight response with you, which feels very strange, but who am I to judge? I'll note it for the next time, I guess."

You leaned back in your seat, clearly disappointed as you cross your arms over your chest. Dex tried not to acknowledge the way that motion dipped the fabric at your neckline on your fourth favorite shirt.

"Figures Mr. Charles would stick me with a total--"

"Mr. Charles," Dex jumped in, grasping onto the first thing that made sense to him that day.

The name earned a nod from you, as well as the beginning of what Dex anticipated was another earful.

"When I agreed to this arrangement -- and god did I not even want to agree to it in the first place -- I specifically requested--"

"Hey, no. Stop that," Dex stopped you, lightly tapping your side with the tip of the blade, "Focus. Who are you and why am I here?"

He had the good sense to stop you before you could throw yourself into a long winded response.

"Five words or less," he ordered.

You remain silent, looking pointedly from Dex's eyes to the blade in his hand. He relented after a beat, drawing his knife and concealing it back in his jacket. Once it was out of sight, he watched as you considered your next five words. You took your time, eyes aimed skyward as you thought. Once the words came to you, you sat up straighter, ready to play.

"New recruit."

You grinned, hands in the finger gun position as you pointed to him.

"Handler."

You motioned to yourself.

"Coffee catch-up."

You make a show of wiggling manicured fingertips at the two coffee cups that sat on the table still. You nodded. Not so much to Dex, but to yourself. Apparently a self-congratulations after a job well done. Dex's face pinched slightly in thought. You were... strange. Far too sunny and unsubtle. Your eyes were too expressive, your smile too welcoming. There was no fucking way you were CIA.

"That can't be right," he muttered to himself.

"It's right," you nodded, seemingly in understanding and not understanding at the same time, "Five words or less. Catch-up has a hyphen. It's a common error. People think of the action of catching up when really the hyphenated version is when you're trying to describe--"

"I thought Mr. Charles was the guy."

That gets a scoff of a laugh out of you.

"Oh, he's definitely the guy," you replied, a light roll in your eyes as you spoke, "But even the guy has to answer to someone and he's got so many players in the game that sometimes even the best of coaches need some assistance."

You find yourself slowing slightly as you took in the sight of Dex. He was clearly trying to work through the information in his mind. This was a new development for him. One that you weren't sure he approved of.

"Seeing how Mr. Charles didn't take it upon himself to break the news to you," you softly probe, "I'm assuming the gift basket I sent to your hotel room was probably really weird without the context."

Dex's brows furrowed in further confusion.

"I didn't get a basket."

It was your turn to look confused.

"Room 303 at the Four Seasons?"

Dex shook his head.

"Room 302."

Fuck.

"Well..." you said, mildly embarrassed as the realization hit, "Your across the hallway neighbor received a very confusing care package consisting of assorted fruits and snacks, a bath bomb shaped like a toaster, massage balm, a t-shirt of cartoon George Washington with the words 'WE THE PEOPLE SERVE NO KINGS', and one of those musical greeting cards that plays a song when you open it."

"Musical greeting card," Dex slowly repeated.

"Private Eyes by Hall and Oats," you confess, "It all seemed like a good idea at the time, but honestly? Halfway through shopping for items I just started grabbing things that looked fun and the theme I was going for just went out the window. I promise to aim for a more consistent theme next time."

You shift in the chair, turning your body towards Dex to face him fully. Dex watched as your shoulders dropped slightly. Disappointment was evident on your face.

"Man, I really dropped the ball not getting your room right," you added, solemnly, "Such a rookie mistake. That's going to haunt me for at least the rest of the day. Like, head in my hands in the middle of the night, unsettled sleep kind of haunt. The massage oil is actually one of my prouder moments too. It's topical CBD and really helps with aches and pains. I figured you'd need it after jobs. I put a lot of consideration into it and now some random is going to use it and not understand..."

There was something in the way you looked broken up over the whole thing that cracked something inside of Dex. He found himself fighting back a smile, a short breath of a laugh escaping his lips in spite of himself. The sound seems foreign coming from the man beside you and throws you for a moment. Then, as he came to expect, your expression brightened instantly.

"If you still want the basket, I have no doubts a man of your... abilities can obtain it. Just try to avoid leaving a body, if you can manage that," you suggested, before you motioned to the to-go cups. "Anyway, I tend to try out hot chocolates when I go to new places. I got you a black coffee though. I made an educated guess. You just seem like a black coffee kind of g--"

"You know who I am," Dex cut in.

"Sure do," you chirped out a confirmation, reaching out to draw the hot chocolate closer to you. Your eyes widen in anticipation as you did. "It's the perfect amount of chilly outside and it'll make the drinks so much more enjoyable. We should take advantage of the weather and make this coffee catch-up a coffee walk-n-ta--"

Dex stops you with a touch of his hand to yours before you could lift the cup from the table.

"You know what I've done," he tried to draw your focus back to the point once more, "What I'm going to do... and you still accepted the assignment?"

"I'm aware of your escapades," you replied, voice lowered to keep things between you, "My line of work was similar. Minus the violence and bloodshed and irreparable destruction left in the wake. So I guess it's actually not really all that similar when I really start to think about it..."

"Focus," he found himself telling you, earning an impatient huff from you as a result.

"You have targets. I had marks. Instead of your... y'know, tools," you explained, hand mimicking stabbing the air with a knife, "I used my words to... liberate specific types of people from a range of excessive and costly objects or semi-regularly an undisclosed amount of government issued currency."

That got his attention.

"You're a thief?"

You sniffed at the accusation, nose crinkling in distaste.

"Thievery is a thing I do, not who I am."

Dex didn't rise to the bait.

"You're not CIA," he hissed out.

"Technically speaking, neither were you until recently," you reply back in kind, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "At least you weren't until you signed whatever contact Mr. Charles put in front of you, same as me. If anything, I'm CIA-adjacent—"

Dex pressed a hand to your upper thigh when you tried to rise from your seat, forcing you back down. You freeze at the feeling of his fingers against the fabric of your jeans and the warmth that radiated from them. His hand remained as he seemed to search your eyes for answers you both knew he wouldn't find.

"Why would the CIA give me a grifter as a handler?"

In a totally mature act of rebellion, you slap at his hand. The sheer audacity caused the desired effect. He drew his hand back just long enough for you to slip out of your seat. You hurriedly grab your jacket and purse before taking the first two steps to leave. Dex watched as you appeared to second-guess yourself, turning back towards the table. You lean in quickly, voice dropping low enough that he alone could hear you.

"Probably for the same reason they gave me a murderer instead of an agent."

You made a point to grab your to-go cup before turning on your heels and storming off. You manage to clear the entrance of the coffee shop before he's half a step behind you. You feel the sharp point of a knife at your back. The second time that day you found yourself in this position. Dex looks about as calm as a guy like him could look to the general public. To-go coffee cup in the hand people could see. A blade threatening to cut into your spine in the other. He kept that hand blocked from sight, his large frame overshadowing yours as he crowded your space behind you.

Typical.

"You got a car?" he asked you, earning a nod in response. The order that follows is unnecessary, but spoken anyway. "Take me to it."

The walk to the parking garage takes less than ten minutes. You both spend it in uncomfortable silence. The car is tucked away in the corner of the garage, far from the other cars parked on that level. You dig the key out of your purse as you near the car. Dex watched as you unlocked the doors, tossing your coat into the backseat and storing your purse at the floor of the passenger's side. He ignores the way you need to bend at the waist to do the latter. Surprisingly, you turn back to him, motioning for his coffee cup with your free hand.

"It's a rental," you told him, unfiltered in your honesty, "I don't want to spill. They charge you more if you spill."

Dex watched you for a beat until you muttered a hasty c'mon, fingers making an impatient grabbing motion until he relents and set his to-go cup into your hand. You take the time to secure both cups in the center cup holder before sliding into the driver's seat and shutting your door. Then you waited. For him. He stared at you for a beat before rounding the car, situating himself into the passenger's side seat and closing the door.

"We're not driving yet," he pointed out, as you buckled yourself in.

You frowned down at the buckle in your hand before undoing the lock and letting the strap zip away.

"Force of habit," you said, "You should always wear a seat belt while in a car."

"I'm not here to talk about driving habits."

"I know you're not," you sighed out, "As evidenced by the knife poking holes into my fourth favorite shirt again. I mean, I know knives are your thing, but--"

Dex's arm shot out, large hand reaching out towards your face. Large fingers gripped your cheeks, squeezing them until you stopped speaking. He turned your face until you met his gaze. He tanks the dirty look you send him as an acceptable loss, shifting his body to face you fully.

"Focus," he instructed, feeling your nod under his fingers before releasing your face. He pressed a finger to your lips when he saw you draw in a deep breath to speak again. "Stay on topic. Start where we left off. Why did Mr. Charles pair you with me?"

You wait until he dropped his hand from your face before responding.

"My best guess is they're covering their bases. No way they'd risk one of their own with us. If I decide to cut my losses and skip town, it wouldn't be some random agent I'd ditch and run from. It'd be you. If I screw you over, I get Bullseye on my ass. If you decide to go into business for yourself and the result gets me killed... Well, they'd consider it an acceptable loss compared to the alternative. Either way, they can wipe their hands of a problem with minimal to no true loss on their end."

You pause, waiting for Dex to respond. When he didn't, you continued.

"The other reason seems pretty clear. There's a non-zero chance we cover each other's shortcomings. You take out targets. No question, no hesitation, no pesky little thing called guilt. You've got the mind for it. You've definitely got the build for it. Nerves of steel and the skill to execute it. The perfect hired hand."

Dex's lip curves into a smirk.

"I'm not hearing any shortcomings, sweetheart."

"Write it all out and you'll read like a perfect candidate, but guys like Mr. Charles don't just read what's written for all to see. He'd have dug deeper until every dark and dirty little secret of yours is lined up alongside all of the potential for good, then he'll weigh his options. Is it worth it to take on someone like you if the endgame means a job well done? For the CIA, it's a risk they're willing to take ten out of ten times."

"Someone like me?"

Dex watched as you ran your eyes over his face. You seemed to take in every curve and scratch there. He wondered what you saw. If you'd see the carefully crafted persona he had wore for years before or the man he became when he finally dropped the mask and simply existed.

Your answer was simple.

"Someone broken," you replied, softly, "You spend enough time gaming people and it gets easier to spot the flaws at a first glance. I can read it all over you. The cracks. The chips you tried to smooth over. The spaces you left sharp. You're broken... but the government doesn't mind you broken if you prove you could be of service. So yeah... You're broken, but useful. Just like me."

You picked up the to-go cups from the cup holder, flashing him a small -- albeit sympathetic -- smile as you hold his cup out to him. An olive branch of sorts. You waited until he took his own cup before taking a sip from your own.

"You get gold stars in the physical and even the mental of the job," you continue, knee bouncing as you spoke. "But not the emotional. You can take the shot no problem. Maybe you even intimidate the target into position or wait them out until they're in your sights. Not every target can be where you want them to be every time though. Some take maneuvering. Convincing. Some targets you might also need something from them. Something more than the lack of heartbeat. Information, objects of importance--"

Dex's free hand reached out to tap the knee you were bouncing. A silent request to stop. You shift in your seat, letting his hand fall away, but forcing your knee to stop nonetheless.

"That's where you come in then," he offers, nodding for you to continue before taking a sip from his cup.

"Where you view people as pawns to knock off a board permanently, I see them as moveable pieces. Same game, different approaches, but -- when working in tandem -- it can produce the desired results."

You drop your gaze down to the cup in your hand, free hand tracing circles around the to-go lid.

"You have a killer's instinct. You wear a mask and get the job done through brute force. You conceal your identity, but over time your mask has become one of your calling cards. People know to be afraid when they see you dressed up, but for the most part you're able to walk freely without it. I don't conceal my identity when I go to work."

Dex watched as your eyes flickered up to meet his. There was a glimmer in them now as you spoke. He listened as you continued, excitement growing in your voice as you did.

"I become a hundred different people instead. All with their own different histories and personalities. I know what each of them did for a living. I know each one of their dislikes and likes. Their preferred drink, what flavors and scents they associate with. I know what their comforts are, what makes them scared, what they torture themselves about in the middle of the night, what turns them on... and I use all of those things to get my targets to relinquish anything and everything I want from them. All while convincing them it was their idea all along to do it."

You sigh wistfully, as if reliving each and every one of the lives you previously cultivated.

"So that's your deal?" he asked, drawing you back to reality, "You got the gift of gab?"

"It's a bit more nuanced than that," you pointed out, an easy laugh on your lips. "But pretty much, yeah. I give good gab. It's one of my favorite talents, among other things. When you discover a gift, it feels like a waste not to use it to your advantage."

Dex leaned back in his seat, thumb absentmindedly tapping against the side of his to-go cup. What you said -- as lengthy as it was -- made sense. He knew his reputation. The CIA wouldn't risk losing an agent, even with his sudden change in allegiance. It shouldn't have surprised him to find out they reached out to someone else to work with him. You were a talker, but seemed capable enough. If what you said about your skills were true...

"You'll gather intel and extract what's needed," he said, "Then you'll get the targets in sight--"

"And you'll go on to do what you do best," you completed for him. "It's violent and manipulative and exploitive and dangerous and disgustingly perfect, if I'm being honest."

You laugh. Soft at first. Almost in disbelief. Dex watched with a mix of confusion and fascination a your laughter grew. Louder. Harder. You laughed with your whole body. Head tilting back and arms clutching your side. Tears nearly spilling from your eyes. You laughed until it looked like it hurt. Dex had laughed before. A reserved sort of laugh he gave to former coworkers. The odd chuckle. It was the laugh he'd mirror to make other people believe he was like them. He laughed other times as well. When his mind felt freer, he'd laugh. A deep laugh. A dark laugh. After he succeeded on a hit or felt the satisfaction of getting away from a scene. Your laugh felt different though.

It wasn't for anyone.

Only you.

Well, now for you and him.

"This'll be fun," you decided, more to yourself than to Dex.

With that, you set your cup in the cup holder and moved to buckle yourself in. A silent signal that you were going to start the car. Dex had no choice but to do the same. You were a stickler for safety apparently. At least when driving was concerned. You flipped on the radio, cranking the volume before peeling out of the parking spot.

"You said you had more talents," Dex said over the sound of the radio.

"I did say that."

Dex waited for you to continue, speaking again when you didn't.

"You chat my ear non-stop this whole time, but you're choosing to not share now?"

He watched as your lips curved in satisfaction.

"Some things are better experienced in the heat of the moment."

The rest of the drive is spent in silence. Song after song filling that silence as you drove. Windows down, wind whipping your hair all over. Somehow, it was enough. You killed the music once you slowed to a stop outside of Dex's hotel. The car stays idle at the designated drop off sidewalk. You take a quick second to smooth your hair before flashing him a smile.

"All things considered," you admitted, "I'm going to consider our first coffee catch-up a roaring success. If you can resist poking holes into the shirt I wear to the next one, I'm confident it'll top this one."

Dex blinked.

That was what you took from this conversation?

"Right..." he slowly said, unsure how else to respond.

Your hand found his when he moved to unbuckle his seat belt. It remained there when you spoke again.

"Phone," you simply said, holding out your other hand. When Dex didn't immediately move, you explained further. "When you see Mr. Charles next, it might be best to keep this first meeting out of the conversation. He doesn't look it, but he's one of those undercover alpha types. He wouldn't appreciate not having things reveal themselves on his terms, which means I need the phone back. Don't worry. I'll give it back at our second-first meeting. It'll be like the first time. Only not as fun, because I'll be handing it to you."

This stays between us.

That was the understanding. A secret meant to be kept between confidants. It was a concept Dex had tried to imitate with others. In his professional life with Nadeem, even in his personal life with Julie... Neither of those times worked out well. Both of those times his mind was not his own though. Not the way it was now. That meant things were different. Good guys kept their secrets, because it was necessary. They even had companionship. People they trusted. People in their corner, willing to die for them. Matt has that. Sure Dex eliminated one of those people, but he had others. He had Karen Page. Dex knew from experience the kind of force she was in Matt's corner. The kind of unyielding loyalty that only comes from people who believe in their hero. Perhaps this was the universe's way of reinforcing his decision to join the side of the angels. Another balance of the scales. The old him wasn't allowed this kind of fellowship, but this new him? The better him?

This he can make work.

Dex nodded before reaching into his pocket and handing you the pink phone. He slipped out of the car after, to-go cup in hand. He shut the passenger side door, leaning in beside the open window with his arm resting on the hood.

"I never got your name."

"I got a hundred of 'em," you said, humor in your eyes, "I can give you one of them today, but it'll be different by tomorrow."

"What do I call you?"

"As long as you keep me alive, you can call me whatever the hell you want."

You flip the radio on and let the music blast through the speakers once more. Dex stepped back from the curb as you waved farewell, music fading into the sound of traffic as you tear away from the sidewalk and drive off. Dex smiled into his coffee cup as he turned to return to his hotel room. Well, after a quick detour to retrieve the package from the room across from his own. You had intended for him to have it. Seemed like a waste not to recover what was clearly his.

It's hours later when Dex gets the call from Mr. Charles.

"I had back-to-back meetings with some serious VIPs, but I've got an assignment lined up for you. We'll be getting you in touch with a... Well, a handler of sorts."

Mr. Charles's voice poured in from the speaker phone as Dex removed the countless decorative tissue papers from the care package.

"Think of her as your own Girl Friday."

"She got a name?"

Mr. Charles let out an exasperated sort of laugh.

"Several. Real one is unfortunately sealed away. You two can figure out a solution to that issue when you meet. You'll love her. She's, um... spirited, but useful. Gets the job done."

Dex picked up the package and carried it over to the hotel bed, placing it beside phone. He poked through the snack bags and fruits, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he did.

"Sound like a real peach," Dex dryly replied, picking up a peach from the basket and examining it before dropping it back into the package.

"That's the spirit! I'll send you the time and location tomorrow. Welcome to the team, Bullseye."

Dex ended the call not long after, settling onto the bed completely. Back to the headboard, he pulled your care package closer. He found the card tucked between the ridiculous cartoon t-shirt and the small container of balm. Against his better judgement, he opened the card. Sure enough it began to play a song. Private Eyes. His own eyes moved over the hand written note inside before setting he card down -- still open -- so the song could continue.

'Making sure no one messes with your front so you better watch my back! XOXO'

[reveluvjay]

I love when humans create 🥹

[livfastdieyoung69]

murdock!reader who thinks about dex a lil too much pt.2

(og post) DDBA spoilers included!

Your milkshake is good. The waitress behind the diners counter is nice, she even gave you an extra cherry. A man came up to the counter a while ago, berating her over something small and stupid.

You wanted to bang his head against the counter until you could see his brain. You would have, if he hadn’t stormed off, you think. You should have.

He was bothering her, and spitting insulting words at her like bullets. You could feel it begin to break through her hard skin, hell, it almost broke though yours. Considering the cruel things that run around inside you, you assume that’s a difficult task. You know this is supposed to be a bad thought, wanting to harm a man so much, but it doesn’t feel like it. He was bad, so you must be good for wanting to get rid of that. Right?

There’s no sense in dwelling on it. The man is gone, and your milkshake is halfway empty. Matt isn’t here to listen to your heartbeat grow louder and faster at the grotesque ideas you let run through your head, so you let them continue.

Something is…wrong, maybe; not bad. Not really wrong either, but it tenses your shoulders and freezes you against the counter. Just Different.

There’s a static in your mind that you never realized was there clearing away. Goosebumps rise over your skin, trickling up your arms until the hair on your neck is rising. Something is clicking into place that’s only even been there once. You think of the church. You think of him overtop of you, with that wicked smile and your legs on either side of his hip. You think of the sound he made when the blade sliced through his skin.

He’s here. Nothing is wrong, because he is finally here next to you and whatever is in you is spreading through the air to reach whatever is in him.

You know it before he sits two seats away and converses with the waitress. You stare straight ahead, unmoving. You feel him turn, to look at you, when the nice lady starts making his banana milkshake. His grin makes you shiver, even when you can’t directly see it. You feel him, in everything, when his voice smooths over your name.

“Hi, again.” It’s all he says, before turning away from you and thanking the woman while she places the milkshake in front of him. You throat is closed, but your mouth has opened just a bit, gasping for air. He’s on the phone. You can’t hear what he’s saying over your own heart beating in your ear, but his voice is like silk, and rumbles deep in your chest.

His milkshake is gone in record time. You haven’t touch yours since he walked in and all of the brutal, crawling, disgusting feelings that have spread all over you disappeared. You still stare forward, with pitched breath, and knuckles whitened from your tight grip on the edge of the counter.

There’s sirens nearby, but it’s New fucking York so you think nothing of it until AVTF is crowding the diner and scared customers cower away from the counter you sit at. You should run; but you’re still stuck. These people want your brother, who knows what they’ll do to you. But Dex is here. Dex is here, and he isn’t moving either, except to raise his hands, so it must be okay.

You turn to truly, fully stare at him for the first time when an AVTF officer yells over his other shoulder. He winks at you, straw in his mouth and his hands raised before he turns the other way.

You watch the agents eyes widen at the sight of him. He’s on the ground then, and before you could understand what’s happening the place is chaos incarnate.

You stand from the stool out of instinct, watching Dex throw knifes with precision that doesn’t seem possible. There’s a buzzing in your mind that replaces all of your usual disturbing thoughts. It feels good; really, really good.

Dex turns to you for a split second, when he notices you’re doing nothing but standing in the way of direct fire and gaping at him with heavy breath and sultry eyes. He rushes to you, and pushes his forehead against yours while he grabs your hips and pulls you up onto the counter. He doesn’t have to tell you what to do, because you could feel it in him, you could see it in his eyes.

Seconds after you dive under the counter next to the waitress, bullets are firing and Dex is overtop of you again. The church, your mind flashes back. This time, though, there is no cruel intent on each other. His clothed hand brushes over your face while your fist grabs a hold of the holster strapped over his chest. His hand glides down, and pulls you back up with him when the bullets stop. You stand in front of him when he bounces the silverware from the counter. His chest brushed over your back when he walks over in front of you, to a man with a dog. You follow after him, because the buzzing in your head tells you he needs you to.

Dex pulls his mask back off to lean down and talk to the quivering man while you step over a dead AVTF agent. God, his face is so pretty. You want to trace over the scar on his cheek, thumb lowering until it’s right over his lips. You want to watch him take it in his mouth, and look at you with those sharp blue eyes. You want to run your hand through his pretty, soft hair, and tell him how good he makes you feel just by behind right here next to you.

“Oh, don’t worry,” He tells the man, grin so audaciously gorgeous. The silverware in his hands is thrown back into another agent. “I’m one of the good guys.”

You believe him. You have to. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be one of the good guys either. And Dex, there’s no way he’s bad, with that pretty face and how he stops all of the bad in you.

He reaches out to you without looking behind himself, like he knew you would follow. He did; the buzz in his mind told him so. Your breath hitches again, when he pushes your back against his chest and grabs one last knife off of himself. He was keeping it for you, buzzes in the back of to mind, when he guides it down your arm and holds your hand in his.

“It’s Bullseye!” The agent screams from the ground, and once he’s finished, Dex bends your arm back with his and you let the knife fly from your fingers. You sink farther against his chest while the man groans in agony, and you watch the life leave him together.

Look at him, the buzzing tells you. You glance up behind you to find his crinkled crows eyes gleaming. There’s obsession there, maybe, but you know that’s in your eyes too.

“I missed you,” He tells you softly, with an equally as sweet grin. His hand squeezes yours, which shakes from the adrenaline of watching all the blood spilt.

“I missed you, too, Dex.” You whisper, out of breath, but more importantly, right where you need to be. You won’t be leaving him, now. Matt and all of his righteousness doesn’t matter here, pressed up against Dex and surrounded by all of the cruelness that has wanted to leave your mind for decades.

[reveluvjay]

Life after reading this

[dontyouworrydaddy]

ok i’m having some #thoughts… what if fbi!dex and reader were dating before the whole fisk bullshit and when he went to the mental hospital, reader never visited him. he was so confused and hurt bc u told him you’d never leave him, so when he escapes prison, the first thing he looks for is u. he shows up to your apartment and sees a kid standing behind u, the right age for dex to be the father…

Scared of Life

Benjamin Poindexter x fem! Reader

warning: hurt/comfort, angst, depression during the pregnancy, your daughter being a little possessive over you

A/N: WAIT I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCH OMG???? Thank you so much for the request, I hope you like this <333

Dex remembered promises with terrifying precision.

Most people forgot small details over time. Words blurred together. Memories softened around the edges until they became easier to live with. But Dex’s mind didn’t work like that. Every important moments burned itself deep beneath his skin like shrapnel he could never fully remove.

Especially when it came to you. Especially that night.

You had been laying half on top of him on the couch, wrapped in one of his shirts while some terrible late night cooking show played quietly in the background. Dex barely remembered the show itself. What he remembered was your heartbeat against his chest. The warmth of your fingers lazily tracing the scars on body. The way you looked at him like he was still human even after learning all the ugly parts of him.

“What if I get bad again?” he asked quietly. You lifted your head almost immediately after that. Confusion crossed your face first before sadness slowly replaced it. Like the question itself hurt you more than him.

“What do you mean?” Dex shrugged slightly beneath you, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of your face.

“People leave eventually.” His voice stayed flat when he said it, almost detached. “Usually after they realize I’m too much work.”

Your expression tightened instantly. You shifted upward until he had no choice but to look at you. Your hands cupped his face carefully, thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw.

“I’m not people.” you whispered softly. Dex stared at you for several seconds without speaking.

Then quietly:

“You promise?”

Your forehead rested against his.

“I promise.” That promise became the thing that haunted him most after Fisk destroyed everything.

Because you disappeared. Completely.

No visits during recovery. No calls to the hospital. No messages. Nothing.

At first Dex thought maybe you were hurt. He asked about you constantly during the first few weeks until doctors started exchanging uncomfortable looks every time he brought up your name. Eventually one nurse admitted nobody matching your description had visited him once.

That answer hollowed something inside him immediately. Still, he made excuses for you.

Maybe Fisk threatened you. Maybe the FBI forced you away. Maybe you thought he hated you now after everything that happened.

But as weeks turned into months, the silence became impossible to explain away. Dex sat alone in sterile hospital rooms replaying every conversation you ever had together until it drove him half insane. Every memory became evidence against himself.

Maybe he scared you too much. Maybe you saw what he really was. Maybe loving him finally became exhausting.

Eventually the worst possibility settled heavily into his chest and refused to leave. You abandoned him.

Just like everyone else always did.

The realization destroyed him more thoroughly than Fisk ever could. Because Dex loved catastrophically. His body craved you like oxygen. He was utterly miserable and obsessed with you. Once someone mattered to him, they became stitched directly into his nervous system. Losing them didn’t feel emotional.

It felt physical. Like skin being ripped apart. Like he was told to stab himself over, over and over again.

So when Dex finally escaped months later, bruised and angry and barely holding himself together beneath layers of violence and betrayal, there was only one thing he needed before anything else. You.

He found your apartment just after midnight.

The building sat in a quieter neighborhood than your old place. Smaller too. Safer. Warm yellow light glowed faintly through the curtains while flower pots rested carefully beside neighboring doors.

Dex hated how normal it looked.

You used to talk about wanting normal someday. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere without constant sirens and blood and fear clinging to every street corner.

Apparently you built that life without him. The thought twisted sharply in his chest. Dex stood outside your apartment door listening carefully before moving closer.

Two heartbeats. His expression darkened instantly.

You moved on???

His jaw tightened hard enough to ache before he reached for the lock. The mechanism clicked softly beneath practiced fingers. The door opened silently.

The apartment smelled exactly like you. Vanilla candles. Laundry detergent. Coffee. And your parfum in the air made it worse.

For one dangerous second, Dex nearly forgot why he was angry.

His eyes moved carefully across the room. A blanket tossed over the couch. Crayons scattered across the coffee table. Tiny shoes abandoned near the kitchen.

Tiny shoes? Dex frowned slightly.

Then he heard your voice somewhere deeper inside the apartment.

“Lily, if you’re still awake, I swear to god-” Small footsteps thundered instantly through the hallway. A child’s laugh followed.

Dex froze completely.

You appeared seconds later wearing oversized sleep clothes, hair messy like you’d been trying unsuccessfully to get someone into bed for the last hour. The second your eyes landed on him, every bit of color drained from your face instantly.

The air left your lungs so sharply he heard it.

“Dex.” His name sounded fragile coming from you. Emotional enough to make something ugly twist inside him all over again. You stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. Dex stared back just as hard.

You looked tired. Not physically exhausted exactly.

Just worn down around the edges in ways he didn’t remember. Softer somehow too. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, old stress lines near your mouth, and despite everything crashing violently inside him, Dex still thought you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Then anger surged back hard enough to choke him.

“You left.” The words came out rougher than intended. Your expression cracked immediately after hearing them.

Before you could answer, another figure peeked around the hallway corner behind you.

A tiny human, a little girl. Maybe five years old.

Dark curls slightly messy from sleep. Big eyes narrowed suspiciously at the stranger standing inside her apartment.

Dex’s breathing stopped instantly.

Because she looked like him.

The eyebrows. The cheekbones. The expression.

Even the way she tilted her head while assessing him looked painfully familiar. The little girl blinked once before gasping dramatically.

“MOMMY!!!!!!” Dex barely had time to process what was happening before the child suddenly shoved herself directly in front of you with shocking determination.

“MOMMY GET BEHIND ME!!!!!” she yelled loudly. “THERE IS A MAN HERE.”

Dex stared blankly. The tiny girl spread both arms protectively in front of you like she genuinely planned on fighting him herself if necessary.

You looked one stress induced headache away from collapsing entirely.

“Lily, sweetheart-”

“No!” she shouted. “I saw this happen on the big screen.”

Dex blinked slowly. The child pointed accusingly toward him.

“You cannot break into our house.”

Dex frowned slightly. “Technically I already did.”

“THAT’S WORSE.” You made a strangled noise beside her that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

Dex looked deeply offended instead. The little girl squinted harder at him.

“You look sus… uh… susbizi- Mommy what was the word for weird dangerous looking people.”

“Suspicious, baby. Suspicious.”

“YOU LOOK SUSPICIOUS!!”

“I look suspicious.”

“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes critically. “And your face is weird.”

Dex actually looked wounded by that statement.

“My face is normal.”

“No it’s not,” she argued immediately. “You look like a sad potato.”

You physically turned away to hide your laughter. Dex stared at the child in complete disbelief. Then suddenly her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed further.

“Oh my god.” Your face lost every remaining trace of color.

“Lily-”

“You have my eyebrows.” Silence filled the apartment instantly. The little girl looked between both of you several times before gasping loudly enough to wake the entire building.

“MOMMY.” You covered your face with both hands immediately.

“IS THIS THE GUY YOU SAID WENT ON VACATION WITH PEPPA?”

“Yes, Lily. That’s him.” honestly? what were you supposed to tell her when she asked you where her dad is. So you came up with the excuse that her father is on vacation with… peppa the pig.

“So… that’s your secret husband?” she asks innocently.

“What? No!”

Dex looked equally alarmed. “Absolutely not.”

The little girl pointed directly at him again.

“You’re the daddy my mommy told me about.” Dex forgot how breathing worked. You looked ready to die on the spot.

Lily marched directly toward Dex after that with terrifying confidence before stopping directly in front of him. She planted both tiny hands on her hips while staring up at him with the exact same intense focus he’d seen in mirrors his entire life.

“Okay,” she announced seriously. “Here are the rules.”

Dex blinked once. “Rules.”

“Yes.” She pointed between herself and you. “Mommy is mine first.”

You made another choking noise somewhere behind her.

“I’m not sharing,” Lily continued firmly. “Even if you are my dad.”

Dex stared at the tiny child standing in front of him issuing territorial warnings like a mob boss. Then very seriously:

“You don’t wanna share your mother.”

“No.” She crossed her arms harder. “She’s my favorite person.”

Something inside Dex cracked slightly hearing that. Because he understood immediately. Because you’re his favorite person, too.

Unfortunately for him, Lily apparently inherited every protective instinct he ever possessed. It was as if your genes didn’t even try other than her getting your eyes.

“You can stay!” she decided after several seconds. “But if you make mommy cry, I bite.”

Dex nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

“She actually bit a pre school teacher once.” you admitted weakly.

“He was rude to you!” Lily defended instantly. Dex nodded again like this was perfectly rational behavior. Honestly, the fact that he seemed proud should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The next hour passed in complete emotional chaos.

Lily interrogated Dex like an FBI agent while simultaneously climbing all over you possessively anytime he sat too close. She demanded answers to increasingly bizarre questions while Dex answered every single one with complete seriousness.

“Do you know dinosaurs?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Velociraptor.”

Lily gasped dramatically. “That’s mine too.”

Dex looked absurdly pleased by this information.

Meanwhile you sat frozen on the couch trying unsuccessfully not to emotionally collapse watching them interact.

Dex looked at her like she hung the moon itself.

Eventually Lily began falling asleep curled against your side while still glaring suspiciously toward Dex anytime he moved too suddenly.

Her tiny hand clutched your shirt tightly even half asleep. Dex watched her carefully from the opposite side of the couch.

Memorizing every detail about her. About his daughter.

Then Lily’s sleepy eyes slowly lifted toward him one final time.

“You better not go on vacation again.” she mumbled quietly. The room fell completely silent. Dex froze instantly. Lily yawned softly before curling closer against you.

“Mommy gets sad sometimes.” she whispered sleepily. “She cries when she thinks I’m sleeping.”

Dex looked at you immediately. And the pain on his face nearly destroyed you. After carrying Lily carefully into bed together, the apartment finally fell quiet.

The second her bedroom door clicked shut, all the tension both of you had been avoiding rushed back violently.

Dex stood near the kitchen counter while you lingered several feet away uncertainly. Neither of you knew how to begin unraveling five years of grief.

“She’s five.” you said softly. Dex nodded once.

“She likes dinosaurs. Hates cherries. Talks a lot about wanting to build an animal farm. Thinks every stray cat belongs to her.” His expression softened briefly before tightening again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There it was. The question he keeps asking himself the whole time.

You looked down immediately because suddenly meeting his eyes felt impossible.

“Because I was terrified.” you admitted quietly. Dex stayed completely still.

“After Fisk.” you continued shakily, “people watched everything connected to you. Hospitals. FBI contacts. Your apartment.” Your throat tightened painfully. “Then I found out I was pregnant.”

Dex looked physically unable to breathe.

“I kept thinking if anyone found out about her…” Your voice cracked slightly. “They’d use her against you. Against me.”

Tears blurred your vision.

“So I disappeared.” Dex’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“I wanted to visit you,” you whispered. “God, Dex, I wanted to so badly.”

His breathing became uneven instantly.

“But every time I thought about bringing her near any of that…” You shook your head weakly. “I couldn’t do it.”

The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too small for all the pain sitting between both of you.

“The pregnancy was horrible without you.” you admitted softly after a moment. Dex closed his eyes briefly.

“Not because of her,” you said quickly. “She was an angel. Felt like she knew I wasn’t doing well and tried to not give me a even harder time.” A weak laugh escaped you through tears. “But because every scary part of it made me want you.”

His face crumpled slightly.

“I wanted your arms around me when I got sick.” Your voice shook harder now. “Wanted to tell you when she kicked for the first time. Wanted you there during ultrasounds.” Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now. “I wanted to lay against your chest and hear you tell me everything would be okay.”

Dex physically flinched. Like every word hurt him. Like you just stabbed him in his heart.

“I needed you,” you whispered brokenly. “And I couldn’t have you.”

For several seconds, Dex said absolutely nothing. Then suddenly he crossed the room. His hands cupped your face carefully. Like he needed physical proof you were still real.

“You protected our daughter.” he said fiercely. You cried harder instantly.

“You should hate me.”

“No.” The answer came immediately.

“I thought you abandoned me,” Dex admitted quietly, eyes burning into yours. “But you were protecting her.”

Your chest hurt painfully.

“I waited for you every day,” he confessed. “Every single day.”

Something shattered inside you hearing that. You wrapped your arms around him instantly.

Dex made a quiet sound against your shoulder that almost didn’t sound human at all. Relief hit him so hard it physically shook through his body. His arms locked tightly around your waist while his face buried against your neck like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“I will never leave you again.” he whispers loud enough for you to hear.

[reveluvjay]

Stop itttt this reminds me of when my professor brought her bad ass daughter to my beginning movement class bc she was at preschool biting ppl

[whosjunglejim4322]

i think dex wouldn’t like naps because of how strict his routine is, but i do think he’d entertain his partner if they loved them. but like wrong. he’d hold them during their nap, but he’s not sleeping in the slightest. way too stiff. awkward as hell. just staring at the wall with furrowed brows as he thinks about what he could be doing instead, but puts up with this because he love you

Anon ur actually a genius and this is soooo Dex actually wow

Dex can’t think of a good reason to take a nap, truly. There are numerous other things, more important things he could be doing. But it’s a standard he’s set for himself. So when you, his frequent nap taking lover, decides to crawl into bed at 3pm on your off day, he already knows the drill.

Because 1. He doesn’t want you to sleep alone. Like, dreaming without him? Not being able to watch your eyes move underneath your lids while you snore softly into him? He’d prefer torture.

And 2. Anything could happen when you’re napping. You’re vulnerable in broad day light, and if he decides to go into the living room and sharpen his throwing knives, what if someone sneaks through your bedroom window?

Worse, what if you miss him?

He already knows where you’re going when you roll yourself off of the couch, legs no longer draped over his lap and the show you’re watching forgotten about. His attention span didn’t last the first 30 minutes of it, instead he rubbed your calves and played with the fraying blanket.

“Gonna lay down?” He asks, and your sleepy nod is all he gets back as a response.

You’re trotting through the living room, into the hallway and then your bedroom with him right on your heels. He unfolds the neat covers for you, ruining the perfect job he did at making the bed this morning.

He doesn’t mind because it’s you.

Because the ruffling of the blankets and kicking of the sheets and cocooning of your entire body into the comforter is home. It just means everything will smell more like you, it’ll be warm.

He settles behind you, fitting his big body against you like missing pieces of a puzzle. You’re already wriggling against his front, and he wraps his arms around your middle - bicep slotted underneath your head, your usual preferred napping position.

“Don’t leave.” It’s muffled against the pillow and his skin, and you say this everytime.

He lets out a huff, kisses the side of your face that’s not covered and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“M’not, go to sleep.” He grumbles, though you’re smiling and he can feel you already drifting into the realm of the drowsy and unconcious.

Thirty minutes later and he hasn’t moved a muscle. He has found an outlet for his boredom, though. He counts each breath you take. How fast and how many come within a minute. He even takes two fingers and gently holds them over your pulse, counts the steady rhythm.

His mind threatens to wander, but then like clockwork you’re wiggling and tossing and turning, and he’s forced to readjust as you nuzzle yourself as close to his torso as possible. It’s an intrusive feeling, and he loves it.

So all and all anon, Dex sees your nap time as a cold hard mission for him to get through. He’s only content because he’s holding you, envious too because of not being able to sleep much at all. Let alone this peacefully.

(He also goes thru ur phone when you’re napping too, 🤭)

[reveluvjay]

Me within two seconds of sleeping beside him

[babybellabale]

needy and jealous (ben poindexter x reader)

dex wasn’t supposed to love you and you definitely weren’t supposed to get jealous over the older waitress maybe flirting with him.

warnings?: age gap (both consenting adults), ddba dex, reader is jealous and has dex wrapped around her finger, love confession, lowkey angst, pinv, kissing, licking, the whole works.

it was late, way too late at night. if your parents found out you were locking your front door as silently as possible at 3 am in the morning, your head would be on a stick.

but they weren’t getting fucked by dex, so they wouldn’t get it.

you should be asleep, you had a long day. 2 classes at college, followed by a lunch with your grandparents at a golf course. to end the night, a four hour shift at your local diner. in all honesty, the urge to sleep was strong.

but the ache between your legs was stronger.

your secret fuck buddy lived in the apartment complex right outside your neighborhood, it wasn’t sketchy but you probably should have kept your pepper spray in your purse.

the street was quiet, a street lamp on the end of the street was flickering every 4 seconds. and you felt this eery feeling someone was watching. no matter how many times you scanned the area, you saw nothing.

you turned the street, rows of trees were to your left, at the end of the street was dex’s apartment. as you were walking you felt a hand grab at you from the trees.

a hand muffled the shriek that came out of you, a hard large body slammed you against him and whispered into your ear, “relax sweetheart” “its me” he chuckled.

that voice was all too familiar and your heart went back to its original place. you elbowed the figure behind you and he laughed.

“what the fuck, dex?” you exclaimed.

dex intertwined his fingers with yours and brought them up to his mouth and gave your knuckles a peck. “i couldn’t let my girl walk alone so late at night, wouldn’t be very gentlemen-y” dex smirked.

he dragged you into his embrace, and his addicting scent infiltrated your nose.

“I wouldn’t have to make this daunting walk if you could just sneak into my house” you replied back partially annoyed.

dex clicked his tongue, “and risk being caught in your fancy neighborhood? no way, princess.”

you rolled your eyes, dex tapped you on the ass catching you. “bad girl” he whispered.

by now, the both of you had reached his front door. once the apartment light had turned on, you were able to take in dex.

‘that’s why i do it’ you reminded your self as your gaze fell all over dex.

dex was wearing a black t-shirt which molded around his biceps. his sweatpants hung dangerously low on his waist and with the buldge between his legs you could tell he wasn’t wearing his boxers.

his hair was roughly combed over and his grey stubble was covering the hard sexy jawline and chin cleft he had. the dark green eyes which were checking you out were dilated and filled with need that mirrored yours.

“i missed you” dex whispered, walking closer to you. his hands grabbed onto the coat you were wearing. something told dex you weren’t wearing much inside…

dex smirked as he caught you looking shyly away, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear as you whispered back “i missed you too”

dex stood still momentarily until he wrapped his hands under your ass and threw you over his shoulder. you laughed as you clawed onto the edge of his shirt.

when he placed you back on the bed, his t-shirt came down with you. you suppressed a moan at the sight of his body. he was just muscle on muscle. thick, thick biceps and veiny forearms. his abs were tight and flexed hard. the light dusting of hair all over his chest and arms which felt so good rubbed across your naked body. best part was the prize at the end of his v line.

a pleased sigh left dex’s mouth as he settled on a velvet stool that sat across from the bed, “take it off..” he murmured with a slight smirk. his hands clasped and elbows resting on his thighs.

you shrugged off your purse and uggs. and played with the belt that kept your coat closed. the arousal between your legs grew as you watched dex take in your exposed legs when you placed one leg over another.

“if i don’t.” you asked with a raise of eyebrows.

“i rip it off.”

this time you couldn’t hold back a moan, untying the belt, you paused and looked up at dex. “come.” you coaxed.

dex rose up and grabbed your jaw in his hand, he knelt to the floor and your pussy clenched at the puppy eyes he gave you.

with unwavering precise hands, dex peeled off the coat and let it drop on the bed. he was gifted the sight of the prettiest matching set he had ever seen on you.

the cami was dark navy and the white lace of your bra peaked from the top. matching shorts were tight on your legs, and dex would bet his life that you were wearing matching panties underneath.

dex kissed on your thighs while you ran your fingers all over his head and neck. his lips were chapped and rough against your soft skin. the trail of kisses moved higher up till he was gently making out with your clothed pussy.

he rested his chin on your thigh while his hands wrapped around your lower calfs. you felt like a god, seeing a big strong guy on his knees for you.

you petted his hair and cheek, dex closed his eyes in submission. “i didn’t see you at bel aire this, afternoon” dex asked.

the sudden question made you snap out of your thoughts, “yeah i was at the golf course with my grandparents. took the night shift today.”

“what? did you visit today? oh baby i should’ve told you but it completely slipped my mind. im sorry” you pouted.

dex smiled, “it’s alright, just stopped by. figured you weren’t there when i saw madelyn instead.”

that had your blood boiling, your movement froze and you straightened up. dex obviously noticed, he peered up at you with brows furrowed.

“you saw madelyn?”

“yeah”

“did you talk to her”

dex let out a confused chuckle, “yeah a little bit”

“what’s a little bit?” you ask moving your thigh a bit which led dex to move his chin.

“she asked me if i was looking for someone and wanted a coffee- whats going on” dex asked brushing his hand up your arm.

madelyn cooper was a waitress at the same diner you worked at, she was older than you. more mature, head screwed on tighter, and she was a huge flirt. you remember the gossips, she lured men in like a siren. the type of woman who touched men’s arms when she laughed and leaned too close when taking orders. she worked late shifts with you and somehow always found reasons to mention dex.

you looked at dex, he wasn’t your boyfriend. dex was a guy you were seeing. no one knew about you two, how can they? dex was a vigilante and you were a college girl with a bright future. he was up for grabs by the hands of women like madelyn. in all honesty, you were in love with dex. what started as a one night stand, is now a relationship that you didn’t know you needed.

he was there for you, looked out for you, pleased you in ways no one could ever.

“nothing” you murmer sliding further back into the bed.

dex knew you were inlove with him, it was quite easy given how expressive your eyes were. he felt the same way, but he knows he can’t.

he brought up madelyn on purpose, dex knew how much you hated that women. rightfully so. dex hated that woman too, she laughed obnoxiously loud and was incredibly messy. he hated messes.

“it’s not nothing.” dex joined you on the bed, he moved your legs to rest on his lap as he rested his head on the headboard. your body angled to face him.

you huff and look at dex, needy dex who cant go without touching you in some way. “i think you should stay away from her.” fuck, you dont sound intimidating at all. more insecure than intimidating.

dex smiled, crooked and so fucking sexy, his eyes were smiling too, rough lines around his eyes, god you were sexy when you were jealous.

“you jealous?”

“no.”

“liar…” dex shook his head once.

“she flirts with every man that walks in,” you snapped, removing your legs from your lap “and you’re—”

“what?” dex tested, his grip tight on your legs so you dont move away. you look up at him which was a big mistake because he was staring at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“you know what,” you muttered.

dex leaned closer, his eyes fell to your lips. “say it”

you stayed silent. what can you say? ‘you’re mine’ ‘because i love you’

dex tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was trying to take apart every emotion underneath your skin. he dragged you closer, your ass knudging his lap.

“You think I want her?” he asked softly.

you couldn’t reply, you were scared to lose him, cared too much about him, knew too much about him to let go. dex’s hand suddenly came up, fingers curling under your jaw.

“look at me.”

“you know where I am every night,” he said quietly. “you know who’s in this apartment every night with me?”

your breathing hitched. “me..”

“you, sweetheart” oh, dex was dangerous because for all the awful things dex was capable of, he never lied to you.

“then why do you keep teasing me about her?”

his thumb brushed slowly across your jaw while his other hand grazed the soft skin of your legs.

“because,” he murmured, “you get possessive, and make me feel wanted. i like it.” he admits

heat rushes straight to your face. dex smiles and you fall in love all over again.

“you’re insane.”

“i know.”

his hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. your heart nearly stopped.

“i like it when you care” dex admits once again.

you sarcastically laugh, “maybe that’s my problem”

dex goes still. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

you laughed under your breath, but it sounded sad even to you. “it means i think about you all the time.” your voice cracked slightly. “and i know i shouldn’t.”

the expression on his face changed instantly.

“you think i don’t?” he asked quietly. dex looked down for a second, jaw tense like the words physically hurt to say. “you make me want things i can’t have.”

your chest tightened painfully.

“but i chose this.”

“that doesn’t make it safe.”

“i don’t care.”

“i love you.”

the words slipped before you could even realize what you said.

dex froze, you immediately look down, mortified. “please forget i said that, im sleep deprived.”

but his hand tightened gently against your throat, forcing your attention back to him.

he slowly leaned in, lips an inch away from yours. his pink tongue poked out barely and licked against your lips. his warm breath felt so good against your lips, “say it…again”

you whined, your hands gripping at his shoulders. “i love you”

dex let out a guttural groan of relief and need, he smashed his lips into yours. you fall back on the bed and dex crawls in between your legs to kiss you.

his big naked frame cages you under him and all your problems disappear.

“i love you” he says inbetween pecks against your lips.

your back arches off the bed and you grind up into dex who begins to grow painfully hard.

eyes shut in pleasure he licks down your throat and his fingers pull your cami straps down.

you push him off of you, but dex is too strong and doesn’t feel it. “dex mmmh” you whine trying to get him off.

he snaps out of his daze and leans back. you sit up and remove your cami and shorts.

you look perfect in white, the lace feels so soft against dex’s fingers as he feels up your pussy. his eyes track your face expressions.

“get on ur hands and knees”

you moaned in response and obeyed. dex kisses you on your ass and hooked his teeth into your waistband before letting go with a snap.

he licked and pecked up your lower back and unclasped your bra, he took in the red marks of the bra digging into your skin.

“you don’t have to wear something you dont want to” dex murmured soothing out the skin

“i like to” you reassured softly.

dex placed a hand around your stomach and reeled you in, your back against his chest, he bunched your hair and kissed your shoulders and nape of your neck.

you were losing your shit, his touch leaving fire. his rough hands palmed your breasts while still kissing anywhere his lips could reach.

“dex please” you cried.

you found your self sitting on his lap, his body leaning against his headboard. dex slid his fingers into your panties and took them them, keeping them on his side table. (you were never getting those back)

you pulled his sweats down and pumped his dick in your hand. dex hit his head against the headboard, your soft hands making him think he’s in heaven.

“oh yeah” he panted as your dragged his dick through your wet folds.

dex’s hands grabbed onto your waist, the tight hold definitely leaving bruises. you pushed his dick into your pussy and a shaky sound of relief escaped your mouth.

you cried out his name as you felt him deeper and deeper. he was so big, his big dick, his big hands which were sliding up and down your back.

mouth agaped, dex took the opportunity to shove his thumb into your mouth. you licked and sucked on his thumb, you felt your drool string down your chin and dex’s lips swept it all.

your knees were getting tired, riding dex was so tiring yet rewarding. “dex” you cried.

“come on, you can do it” dex whispered into your neck.

he caught a nipple in your mouth and just let it sit there in his mouth as he felt you ride him.

“please”

“please?” he mocked, his thumb came to run circles on your clit and you drop your head on his shoulder.

you mercifully nod and dex flips you onto your back and thrusts into you throwing your right leg over his shoulder.

this opens you up so much more and his dick reaches places that has you a withering mess beneath him. you tighten your hold on his shoulders, you bite onto his shoulder as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

the moans bounce off the walls of dex’s apartment as he spills into you, you come right after with whiny groans of his name.

his heavy weight falls over you and the suffocation feels so good. you both lay there for what feels like hours before dex rolls off of you. immediately missing the touch of you, dex pulls you into his arms.

“i love you” he whispers. “no one makes me as pathetic of a man as you do, sweetheart”

you blush at his words and turn to face him, he’s so close to your face. you take a moment just to take him in. his pretty eyes, rugged sexy scar on his perfect cheekbones. you lean down and kiss him on his chin dimples and dex’s jaw falls open.

“i love you too, dex”

———————————————————————————

ooooo this is T, ugh im so needy for dex im gonna cry :(

[reveluvjay]

No you don't understand I need MORE 👹👹👹 I NEED A 15 MOVIE DEAL, 4 SPIN OFFS, AND 901746 MORE CHAPTERS IMMEDIATELY

[sweetjellytea]

kinky love

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

synopsis you finally have a reason to invite dex to your apartment and it quickly spins out of your control. at least you get to keep the knife. or, dex keeps getting in your head when you're trying to get into his.

notes this was originally two parts but i combined them because i saw no way to separate them.

tags suggestive content (mdni), nothing crazy just sexual innuendos, fluff, humor, awkward situations (i mean it this time), fantasizing, descriptions of violence, suicidal ideation, feelings, flirting, morally gray reader (?), mentions of sexual assault (not by dex), discussions of canon events

wc 6.2k

series masterlist part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

The knife you swiped from Dex stayed in your kitchen drawer for a week.

You had tossed it in among the other mismatched knives you used for cooking when you made it home from his place, and there it remained.

It was slightly menacing, both blade and handle inky black compared to the sea of metal it swam in. 

It was there every time you opened your drawer to cook dinner, large and commanding, appearing as a poorly hidden weapon among your cutlery. Cryptic like a cursed object you were storing away from the wrong hands.

I.e., your clumsy ones.

You’d be lying if you said you were never enticed by the idea of using it for your dinner prep. It was much sharper than any regular kitchen knife, and would probably slice through your veggies like paper. 

The thought made you shiver.

You pulled it from the open drawer and squeezed the handle tight, taking notice of how the metal pressed indents into your palm–likely the very same ones that graced his.

It was lighter in your hand, the blade jutting out thicker than its handle making it aerodynamic. You ran your finger along the blade and realized it wasn’t sharp like you assumed. 

It was dull–even more blunt than your kitchen knives which made Dex’s throw a lot more impressive than you once thought. 

He must have thrown it on a whim, a straight shot into the stereo console with just a flick of his arm fueled by distress and rage. 

He certainly had the upper body strength for it.

You held the knife up and scanned your kitchen walls for something you wouldn’t miss—no pun intended. 

The walls were sparsely decorated because you took most of your hangings down for a stick-on wallpaper project and hadn’t gotten around to putting them all back up.

There was that old painting of the moon you thrifted when you first moved in. It was bought just for the sake of covering your white walls so you wouldn’t feel like you lived in an asylum, and now it wasn’t really your style anymore.

With the moon in the center of the painting as a focal point, you took a breath and flicked your wrist out, releasing the knife from your grip. 

It zipped to the wall, sticking right into a spot beside the painting’s frame.

“Oh god,” you rushed over to pry the blade from your stick-on wallpaper. “Definitely not getting that deposit back.”

A firm knock at your front door startled you out of your panic. 

In your eagerness to play badass secret agent, you totally forgot you had only been goofing off because you were waiting for the owner of the knife you were throwing around to show up at your apartment. 

See, your admiration of his physique the other night hadn’t just been you plain objectifying him. You had a giant box in your living room waiting to be opened up and assembled into a lovely walnut display cabinet.

And Dex still owed you that favor for leaving you all alone at the wedding. 

While you could have put it together yourself, you had repeated that exact sentence in your head every time you passed the cardboard eyesore (or stubbed your toe on it) ever since it was hauled into your apartment a month ago. 

So why not spare yourself the back pain?

The favor was requested by you the night you went to his place after the wedding. Just before you left, standing in the doorway of his apartment, you were suddenly struck with the perfect way for him to finally make up for his string of disappointments.

“Can you come over and help me rearrange my living room this weekend?” your eyes were lit up like Christmas morning. 

He coughed awkwardly and nodded. Then, gave you a quiet goodbye as he closed the door.

It took you ten minutes of sitting in your cab before you realized what his problem was. 

“Oh my god,” you audibly gasped, which made your driver briefly look in the rear view mirror. “I think I just invited my friend over to sleep with me.”

You thought your request was normal enough, but maybe it was the context in which you asked that made him pick up on an innuendo that wasn’t intended. 

It was late at night, both of you having just made up after a difficult fight, you left wearing his hoodie, and then asked him to make it up to you by coming over. 

It sounded like you were asking him to come rearrange something else.

The thought made you burn up and you wished the ground would open up and swallow your entire taxi whole. 

At least your driver didn’t mind you venting the entire story of your friendship to him. He called you a hot mess as you were getting out but at least he was a good listener.

To make matters worse, Dex was out of the city for the past week so you didn’t even get the chance to clarify that there was actual work to be done, and not on you. 

Before you rushed to the door, you considered pushing the furniture box into the middle of the living room just so he’d see right off the bat that there was a very real cabinet that needed to be put together. 

But then, he knocked again and you were out of time for any other protective measures.

A small prayer was said in your mind as you held the doorknob. You don’t know why you were so freaked out over a slip-up. 

A small part of you wondered what would happen if you just went with it. He still showed up at the address you texted him, so did that mean he was…down? 

You tried to blame the twist of desire in your stomach on anxiety.

It was also the hottest day of the year, and you were about to be in your enclosed living space with him for an hour putting together furniture…

You press your cold palms on your face to sober up. Now, when he was literally outside your door, was not the time to be having these thoughts.

You pulled the front door open.

“Kept me waiting,” he said, and it almost annoyed you that he was observing rather than chiding. And that he seemed a lot more unbothered than you were. 

You were already uncomfortably hot, and it wasn’t because of the failing A/C in your unit.

“You deserve it a little bit,” you put a hand on your hip in a playful manner. “After you kept me waiting.”

You weren’t still angry with him about the wedding. You just wanted to get on his case for being so casual about all of this when you were close to running a fever. 

Like a frisky kitten trying to rile up her littermate.

And Dex took the bait. His lip pressed into a line, a tendon in his neck twitched. 

Then, he walked past you into your apartment like he was owed entry.

You felt his hard body brush against yours as he did, and hated how you caught yourself mapping the feeling of him against you to memory. 

He stood in the middle of your apartment and you shut the door after recovering. 

“Come on in, why don’t you.”

“You were going to let me in anyway.” Amusement laced his tone. He spotted the large box in the corner taking up enough space to count as a second dining table. “Is that the one?”

So he did think he was here to build furniture. You should be wiping sweat off your forehead right now.

“That’s the one!” you answered a bit too fast, causing him to raise an eyebrow. You motioned to your open toolbox on the coffee table. “I’ve got a box cutter in there.”

He gave a quick shake of his head, as if to silently say ‘don’t need it’ and pulled the box tabs open with his bare hands. The tape went taut and pulled apart without much effort.

“Suddenly you’re above using knives?” you chimed quietly, mostly to yourself. 

You both began pulling the walnut stained particle board out, organizing them by order of the instruction booklet you found in the bottom of the box. 

If only the entire process of building the cabinet had been that smooth. 

While the parts list made perfect sense, the instructions were an odd collection of pictures that didn’t look anything remotely like what you were building. All accompanied by one word instructions. 

Screw. Hammer. Slide. 

It was messing with your head more than the heat.

You took turns flipping the instruction booklet upside down and right side up, trying to make sense of it until finally resorting to improvising. 

Which went well enough until you turned a page and saw a picture that did make sense.

“Uh,” you wiped sweat off your brow. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we made a mistake.”

He moved to stand behind you. So close you could feel the heat of him against your back and you were forced to remember how it felt to have him against you. 

“What did we do wrong?” 

Right. Maybe you should stop imagining him pressing you up against your half-built display cabinet and answer him.

You cleared your throat. “We were supposed to attach the doors while the cabinet was still lying flat...” 

“Hmm,” he grunted and you felt it low your stomach. “One of us will have to hold the door while the other screws it in place.”

The doors had to be screwed in from three hinges, at three different heights to support the weight.

And to reach the lowest hinge, the person with the screwdriver would have to be on their knees.

This is what you get for letting your imagination run wild while he was breathing the same air as you. The universe was punishing you–or, maybe your filthy mind subconsciously brought this reality closer to you as a gift. 

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Right. Okay, I’ll hold the door.”

He frowned. “It’ll be heavy. But okay.”

It could weigh a ton for all you cared–you weren’t going to get on your knees in front of him right now.

So you ignored the trembling in your arms from the weight and tried to silence your pathetic whine of effort as you lifted the cabinet door and lined it up at the hinges. You had to balance it against your hip to keep from dropping it. 

Dex was changing the screw-head at your toolbox, taking his sweet time while you were standing there beside the cabinet shaking like a leaf. 

Oh, you realized, this is a game to him. 

Of course he didn’t protest to you holding the door that was clearly too heavy for you. He wanted to watch you struggle and beg for his help. 

Well, you weren’t going to. You wouldn’t let him get the upperhand on you with that stupidly handsome concentrated glare of his as he fiddled with your tools.

“There we go,” he held up the screwdriver for you to see, and then approached the door, “keep it steady.”

A bead of sweat rolled down your neck as if on cue.

 “I’m sure you can manage, Mr. ‘I work for the CIA’,” you said breathlessly. “What do you do for them anyway?”

Now probably wasn’t the best time for asking questions. It was so hot that the glass door you were holding had begun to fog up from your mingled labored breathing. 

But you had to distract yourself from how close to you he was standing. 

“Their dirty work, mostly.” 

He had alluded to something like that before. Contract work he called it. 

Good thing you didn’t use that knife of his to cut salad like you were planning to. It could have been in someone’s skull before, and you didn’t want to be haunted for trying to eat healthy.

Once the first hinge was screwed in, it took some of the weight off your poor arms. 

“So you’re a lapdog?” you provoked.

The middle hinge was secured after, and you were about to breathe a sigh of relief. But then you noticed the intense gaze he was directing at you. 

Cold. But not like you were on the other end of his knife. He was looking at you like you put him on the other end of yours.

“I’m not their lapdog,” he said. “They call and I answer.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay, so more like a merc. Noted.”

He didn’t like your insinuation that he was owned by someone. Got it.

“Yes, more like a merc,” he confirmed. 

He rested the screwdriver on the cupboard so he could grab a few loose screws from the bag left behind in the box. 

“Dex, can you hurry?” your arms were starting to tremble again. “It’s getting really heavy.”

He was likely punishing you for your remark, making you wait because you insulted him. But how were you supposed to know? It’s not like he ever gave details on his own. You had to interpret everything yourself unless you asked directly.

“Yeah. If you hand me the screwdriver.” he requested, returning to your side.

You balanced the door against your upper body so you could grab the screwdriver and hold it out for him to take. 

He smiled at you gratefully, like your handing him the screwdriver was doing him some sort of favor, and grasped the other end. 

Only, he wouldn’t take it from you. Just held onto it. Your fingers just far enough apart to not touch.

And then still holding your gaze, he knelt onto the ground in front of you. The movement was slow, drawn out as he balanced his weight on one knee. He was looking up at you now.

Your mouth went dry.

“Thanks.” Dex finally took the screwdriver out of your hand.

You swallowed hard and squeaked out a “sure” like you didn’t just have the dirtiest image possible conjured into your mind. 

You weren’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been scheming to put those pictures in your head, either.

The low hinge was right by your hips, and you could feel his hand brush your skin over your shirt with every turn of the tool in his calloused hands.

Once the last screw was in, you let go of the cabinet door and stepped away from where he was kneeling beside you.

“Your turn to hold the door,” you stammered out. Kneeling in front of him didn’t seem like such a bad punishment after what he just put you through.

“Too heavy? I won’t say I told you so.” 

“Good, then don’t,” you huffed, waiting for him to balance the other door without breaking a sweat. 

He didn’t even have to balance it against his hip like you did. 

Show off.

With a soft breath tumbling past your lips, you focused on screwing the door to the hinge. 

It was a little taller than your height, so you had to reach up to get the screw in. Your fingers trembled with effort as you lined up the first screw up at the top. 

Your gaze flickered to his face. Dex was watching you. 

Another bead of sweat slid down your neck. His eyes followed it, unbothered that you caught him looking.

The screw slipped from your clammy fingers and slid across your wooden floors.

“Need help?” His tone was void of concern. 

“No. My hands are just sweaty,” you huffed, and picked up the screw that rolled towards the couch. “It’s hotter than hell in here, if you haven’t noticed.”

You tried to ignore his leering by lining the screw up again and twisting it into the hinge.

The second screw went in smoother than the first. 

“You’re not making this easy for me, just so you know,” you murmured, grabbing another screw from the bag. 

“How can I make it easier for you?” he asked. 

You decided to ignore him. You didn’t trust your voice right now.

Now for the last hinge.

“Want to switch again?” His tone was overly saccharine, like he was a concerned neighbor or something. 

“You’re not funny,” you muttered, lowering to your knees. You turned the screw in slowly, careful not to drop it this time. 

When you stood from the floor, your head spun. You were already faint from the heat, and getting up too fast was turning your brain to mush.

A soft groan left your lips and you rubbed your temple to ward off an oncoming headache. 

“Just sit back,” you heard him say in your daze, “I’ll do the rest of the work.”

You were too spent to argue. You took a few steps backward til the heels of your feet hit the couch and you let yourself sit down. 

The cabinet was fully built with the glass doors you two just secured onto it, so he got to work pushing it into the exact spot against the wall you had shown him earlier. 

You were grateful he was attentive enough to remember exactly where you wanted it.

The sound of furniture sliding across the floor barely registered in your mind. Then you heard your refrigerator open. 

Before you could succumb to your heat-exhausted stupor, something cold was pressed to your cheek. 

You blindly reached for it and your eyes fluttered open to see him standing above you. He was pressing a cold water bottle to your face, and you took it from him gratefully.

“Drink up.” 

“Thanks,” you obeyed, unscrewing the cap. “Your debt is officially repaid.”

As you tilted the bottle back, letting the cool liquid quench your thirst, he began wandering your apartment. 

His glances around were a lot more subtle than yours when you were eyeing his place. 

You watched him peer down the hall at the closed doors and could guess what he was thinking with that focused, analytical expression darkening his eyes.

Which was your bedroom? Your bathroom? He was making a mental map of where you lived. Where each room stood relative to the other.

Then, he looked at your kitchen. At the indent in your wall from where you had chucked the knife–his knife–into the wall by accident.

He pointed to it. “What happened here?”

You shrugged. “Just a scuff.”

Like he’d buy that. He probably recognized the exact outline of the knife model he used. 

But he left it alone anyway, letting you get away with your terrible attempt at a lie.

“Right.” 

You missed the knowing smirk he wore.

It was late by the time the apartment was cool enough for you to feel like moving around again.

You were organizing books and thrifted ornaments into your new cabinet. They had been on the floor of your closet for a month, waiting to be shelved and now you had Dex to thank for their new home.

Heat prickled your skin every time you opened or closed those cabinet doors, remembering what it took to get them attached. 

You had made a huge mistake showing him how easily he could get under your skin.

You wouldn’t be participating in a cat and mouse game with him if it wasn’t thrilling for you too, but that didn’t mean you were happy about him somehow making you the mouse again and again.

Deflections and taunts weren’t enough to put him in his place. He was too familiar with that game. 

Dex managed to disarm you with simple brushes. He never even directly touched you once–not with his hands, anyway.

Not when he walked into your apartment. Not when he stood behind you to read the instructions. Not when he was holding the other end of the screwdriver. Not when he was handing you a water bottle in a manner that felt a little too similar to aftercare…

Yet still, you were undone by him.

You shut the cabinet doors with a loud thud, and stopped when you were about to pass by the indent you left in your kitchen wall. 

He definitely knew you had his knife. That you were using your wall like a dartboard instead of treating it like the weapon it was. 

You recalled the way he, too, stopped to admire the notch before he left your place. You lifted your hand to run your fingers over the crease. 

The jagged stretch of the ridge in the wall against your skin pulled your thoughts to the rough scar he had running across his cheek.

It was always tempting you to reach out and touch it when he spoke to you. Distracting you, pulling your eyes to it and making you wonder how he got it in the first place.

Your hand pulled back slowly, returning to your side.

Maybe it was time you looked his name up on the internet. 

The blue light on your laptop screen strained your eyes as you sat at the kitchen counter. 

A bowl of popcorn was strategically placed next to you–which was for your nervous chewing habit, not because you thought you were about to be particularly entertained by anything you found.

This was your friend you were going to be digging up dirt on. Someone you had come to care about deeply. Not just some random name you heard on the news.

Your skin tingled from anticipation as you typed his full name into your internet browser. 

Benjamin Poindexter. 

The search pulled up a number of links for you to click. All of them referenced a lengthy criminal record attached to him dating back nearly ten years, along with a publicized psychiatric record.

That part tugged at your heart. It seemed too invasive to release something like that online for anyone to read. So you ignored it.

You perused the Bulletin articles that named him as one of the FBI agents complicit in Fisk’s crimes. 

You remembered hearing about that corruption case because every New Yorker at the time was talking about it. But with how busy your life was back then, how were you expected to have retained the names of every single agent involved in that case?

It’s not like you ever thought you’d be involved with one of them.

There was more focus on Dex than the other agents in the article, though. His name was connected to the attack at the very journal you were reading from, where he was dressed in a fake Daredevil costume. 

He had a trail of bodies behind him. And not just the ones he was ordered to kill–innocents, lives taken out of his own volition. 

You had expected it. It still didn’t prevent the sweat gathering in your palms. You distracted yourself with caramel popcorn.

Another article from two years ago. Dex spent six years in jail, then was let out on mysterious circumstances where he assassinated a target and multiple innocent bystanders. 

The bowl of popcorn beside you was half-empty now. You’d hate to be his lawyer during the trial for this case.

It wasn’t hard to find the videos online of said trial. You skipped to the end where his life sentence was being read, focused on the way his lips were pulled into a lopsided smile. 

You couldn’t understand why he seemed so pleased with himself. Maybe he knew prison wouldn't keep him long. 

As they led him out of the courtroom, something caught your eye. Something that pieced together the rest of the story.

You had it all wrong. The knives were never his weapon. It was his hands.

The comment section of the video confirmed it for you, with half of them being about the alias ‘Bullseye’ and theories connecting him to different attacks that happened just before he was arrested again.

Wait.

You thought back to a few weeks before your flight.

Your best friend was hosting her engagement brunch so you had skipped your usual morning at the diner. When you got home, you saw on the news that Bullseye had attacked AVTF soldiers and they were closing it for investigation. 

You were a little more concerned about making breakfast at home for the next week rather than the attack. That sounded bad, but you were just desensitized from years of living in proximity to Hell's Kitchen. 

But it was different now. You knew the attacker. 

Part of you wondered what would have happened if you were there that day. He hadn’t attacked any bystanders according to the articles, so it’s not like you would have been hurt.

Would you have still been able to form a bond with him if you had seen him killing in front of you like that?

You weren’t completely numb or anything–you’d have been terrified. Probably hiding in the very booth you now sat with him at every morning.

But you’d been harassed repeatedly by the AVTF on your way to work just for the crime of crossing paths with one of their patrol routes. 

And they didn’t show you any mercy with inappropriate comments, ‘random’ searches, or vaguely offensive remarks you had to bite your tongue at.

So a little part of you would have been grateful to see them get handed back the same respect they showed you tenfold.

You snapped your laptop lid shut with trembling hands. 

It should have disgusted you more. He’d taken innocent lives. Tore families apart. 

But his actions in the past didn’t require justification or forgiveness from you. He never asked you to absolve him of his sins. 

Just acknowledge them. See them for what they were. No amount of exaggeration journalists added to his crimes distracted from the fact that his crimes were heinous, so he knew exactly what you’d find when you eventually researched him.

Maybe that’s why he told you in the first place. He knew you weren’t going to run.

You always gave him grace, gave him solace from the memories of being manipulated, used for murder, and discarded again and again. 

Dex would tell you who he was, and you would stay every time. 

Your hands brushed the bottom of the bowl when you reached for more popcorn.

Time for a refill.

You rolled out of bed early the next morning. Mostly because you didn’t get much sleep last night–but more importantly, you were determined to get to the diner before Dex. 

He was always there before you, claiming your table before anyone else could. You’d watch him remove his headphones as you sat across from him and thank him for the coffee he ordered for you while he waited. Always piping hot, because by now he knew how to predict when you’d come in to drink it. 

Today, though, you were making it your job to claim the table. 

You were hyperaware of everything in the diner when you sat down. The silverware on the table wrapped in a cloth napkin, the wooden stirrers by the coffee pot. 

Above all, the empty spot in the middle where the lobster tank used to be. In the past, it was so insignificant to you that you didn’t even realize it was gone when you came back to the diner after it stopped being a crime scene months ago. 

But after reading the attack details last night, it was impossible to ignore how peculiar it was that Dex–or, Bullseye–deliberately chose to involve the lobsters in his grudge against the AVTF.

The bell above the door rang, and your eyes followed him. His expression shifted a moment when he saw you there at your usual table, early for once. 

Knowing how analytical Dex could get (especially over you) he probably suspected something was up immediately. 

That was alright with you. It’s not like you were trying to hide from him.

When he sat down across from you, before he even got a word in, not even a hello, barely even a breath—you reached into your bag and stuck his knife down onto the table.

You did so casually and without any regard for the permanent score it would leave on the surface of the table. It was about time you carved your signatures into it, anyway.

Dex’s eyes fell to the knife, and then looked up at you. Not asking questions yet, just watching. Gauging your expression. Searching your eyes for malice or contempt. 

When he confirmed you weren’t angry with him, he leaned forward, hands folded on the table.

“So?”

“I looked up your name,” you explained calmly. “Your full name.”

He nodded, and then tilted his head. “You think you know everything now?”

He was asking in a roundabout way if you knew he was Bullseye.

“I put some of it together on my own already. But I know you’re…” you trailed off. You glanced around to check for any eavesdropping customers, and then dropped your volume. “Familiar with the lobster tank.” 

Dex chuckled at your retort. He picked the knife up from where you had stuck it in the table and twirled it between his fingers. 

It wasn’t just a neat trick to show off for you. His eyes were dead set on you. Watching you for signs of fear. Checking if your pupils would dilate, for the slightest flare of your nostrils indicating your breathing quickened.

But you were the very picture of calm. Content, even. Maybe even a little hungry since you waited an hour for him.

“I still have questions though.” you leaned back, crossing your arms.

“You always do.” he quipped.

“Just to piece the rest of the story together,” you clarified. You read the news, but you wanted to hear him tell it. “Three years ago you were sprung out of nowhere and then you….”

You made a gun cocking gesture with your pointer finger and thumb–just in case anyone was listening.

He was looking down at the knife in his hands. 

“I made a deal with Vanessa Fisk. She let me out in exchange for,” he copied your gun gesture with his hand. “I didn’t have a choice. I was…out of my mind.”

You had a feeling that had more to it than just being incarcerated.

“Did they have you on some kind of drugs?”

He stayed silent. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he was deep in thought. You were bringing him back to a time he likely didn’t want to remember. 

You didn’t want to push his head underwater like that. But there was one more thing you had to know.

 “What I don’t understand is,” you tapped your nails against the table idly. “You ended up back in prison anyway.”

Dex looked up at you. His eyes met yours but he was far away.

“Wasn’t a fight I planned on coming back from.”

His words knocked the air from your lungs. 

The psychiatric record you found last night came to mind. You had been so wrapped up in getting to know him, you never even thought about the idea of losing him. 

And not just to any old threat. Losing him to himself.

“Oh…” your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Um, so. Vanessa Fisk–did you…you know, out of revenge?”

He shrugged. “It was more like a favor.”

“A favor?” You were intrigued. The fact that he met with you everyday clued you in that he didn't really see anyone else outside of work. “A favor to who?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” he quoted to you, putting the knife in his jacket pocket.

It was just a saying he used to satiate your curiosity. But you took it as a riddle. Your eyes narrowed as thoughts turned in your head.

You remember reading that there was another vigilante at the scene during the mayor’s boxing match.

“You mean Daredevil?” the corners of your lips twitched up.

His brow furrowed in annoyance. “Yes. Daredevil. Why do you care?”

“It’s really cool that you know him, that’s all. I mean, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” your voice went all high pitched, and it made his eyes narrow more. “He’s an underground symbol of hope. He’s badass.”

Dex didn’t seem to share your sentiment.

“Will you introduce me?”

“No.”

“What? Why not?” your lips formed a pout.

You were cooking dinner in your apartment alone later that night. It was fortunate that your throwing knife was now safe and sound with its owner, no longer calling you to use it for peeling potatoes.

It was also probably lodged in someone’s throat now. At least, that's what your imagination fed you. You'd never actually seen Dex in action.

Did giving Bullseye back one of his knives make you complicit? Hopefully not.

Soft music played from your speaker over the sizzling of the pan on the stove and low hum of the exhaust fan above it. You were humming along, idly passing the time while you watched your rice cook and fluff up in a sauce pan. 

A small smile was etched onto your lips as you recalled your meeting with Dex this morning. 

He probably wasn’t expecting you to let him explain himself to you. To let him give you his version of the events. You just wanted to hear his perspective, not judge his actions. You took them for what they were. He seemed to understand that.

The vibration of your phone on the counter startled you. 

Dex’s contact name he had typed in himself popped up. You lowered your music–ignoring the thudding of your heart against your ribs now audible in its absence–and answered.

“Hello?” you wondered if he could hear the smile in your voice.

“You should open a window while you’re cooking,” he said. “It’s a lot more efficient than a fan.”

“I don’t know if that’s true–”

Your stomach swooped. 

“Can you see me right now…?” 

You walked to the balcony window where your curtains had been pulled open. All you could see past the glass was the city lights reflecting in from other skyscrapers and apartments. 

With a small tug, you slid your balcony screen open. 

“Dex?” you called into the phone. 

Before you could take another breath, something zipped past your head and into your apartment. You whipped around, facing the kitchen wall. 

A knife–the very same knife he had stolen back–was lodged into your kitchen wall. Next to your painting of the moon. The very same spot that you had accidentally carved into your wall yesterday.

Your phone was still pressed to your ear as you approached the blade in the wall. 

There was a message etched into the onyx blade. 

You’re cute.

A soft syllable of laughter fell from your lips. You reached up to trace the white etchings in the blade, imagining how long he sat up at his vantage point, looking into your open curtains and carving that message just for you.

“Very funny Dex,” you turned towards the window again, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “You’d come say it to my face, if you were brave.”

You held your breath for a beat. Come over. Please.

“I would. But I like the view.” 

You sighed, wistful and disappointed as you walked back to your balcony. 

“Seriously, where are you?”

You squinted in the dark of the night, closely watching the nearby rooftops for the slightest of movements, indicating someone was there. That he was there.

Finally, you spotted a dark form on a nearby rooftop.

“Just wanted to return what’s rightfully yours,” his voice rasped into the phone. “Figured it was my turn to deface your souvenir.”

You thought back to the red pen you left on the back of the photograph he still has. You wondered where it was now. If he still kept it in that CD case, or if he had it hung on his wall. Or maybe…he carried it with him.

The idea of that made your heart skip. 

You slowly lifted your hand up and waved. Hesitantly, not quite sure if the lump on the roof you were looking at was really him.

But you got a vague wave back from the dark figure. 

“Coward,” you said into the phone pointedly, your face hurting from how hard you were smiling now.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. 

“Sooner than I’ll see you, apparently,” you jabbed before he could hang up. “How long have you been up there?”

“Hmm,” he hummed into the line. “Lost count. I’m multitasking. Watching my perp.” 

You squinted. He was technically working. He must have been watching you through a rifle lens.

“Well, watch your perp and let me finish cooking dinner,”

“Enjoy your stirfry.”

“How did you–?” the line went dead. 

You laughed and walked back to your food on the stove. 

Then, a dizzying thought crossed your mind. He must have been watching your building because his target was in your area.

You looked behind you in your kitchen, where the knife was still stuck into the wall. It was hung up exactly where you planned to rehang all of your expensive art.

You were planning on turning it into a gallery wall anyway.

a/n when you try to get over your crush by researching their social media but it backfires and you like them more now. feedback always welcomed! especially for the beginning. i struggle writing anything smut adjacent. taglist @bakameeee @not-the-teen-witch @snowwythegloww @altgojo @ficcharsimpsblog @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @thecityofspareparts @that1weirdweebgirl @mariayjws5 @doesanyonereadthis @nghtwngs @angel113431 @star-yawnznn @ethereal-athalia

[reveluvjay]

No there's something rlly hot about that knife flying in my apartment in the same spot I hit idk

[icallshtgun]

yall want a clingy possessive bf like dex until he's counting how many toilet paper squares were used while he was out, then accusing you of cheating until you finally admit to having diarrhoea

[reveluvjay]

As someone who loves being alone and free to doomscroll, he would piss me off DAILY

[duchess0fmalfi]

dex's weirdo gf

i am writing a little bit more about dex's relationship with his equally (if not more) emotionally damaged and disturbed girlfriend :)

part one

mdni, age gap, freak4freak, slightly dark content

on the rare occasion that you would spend the night at his house—since you found it almost unbearable to let your guard down in a foreign space—you would shadow him. standing limply by him as he makes his bed before tailing him to the kitchen as he makes breakfast. when he'd work out, he'd teasingly invite you to sit on his back whilst he did pushups. "c'mon, baby, make it a little harder for me." you'd shyly turn the offer down, but you both knew you'd love it.

you sit cross-legged on the floor, just watching him. any other person would feel spooked. if not by your disregard for personal space, by your relentless gaze that bores into people's souls. but dex loves it. he loves you.

if you were in the mood to eat, you'd sidle up right beside him. he'd sling his arm around your waist and take turns feeding you and himself with his other hand.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

despite living within mere steps of one another, your respective apartments show no evidence of you two having met—much to dex's chagrin.

if it were up to dex, you wouldn't be able to tell whose space was whose due to the sheer entanglement of your personal effects. but something didn't quite sit right with you about letting parts of him into your temple. your bedroom was a testament to the life of solitude you had subconsciously sworn yourself to: your taxidermy work, photos you had taken of animals (mostly those whose lives had been claimed by vehicles), the smell of your favourite vices (cigarettes, whiskey, and the slightly rotten smell of 'poorly' cleaned pelts).

it almost killed you to imagine your room being taken over by the distinctly masculine and crisp musk of dex, even though you loved it.

you'd rather save it for the moments you spend with him in your bed, digging your face so hard in the crook of his neck you believed it would take a surgical procedure to detach you. you preferred doing this after he came back from fighting; his natural scent mingling with his sweat born of sheer effort and exertion, dusted off with the almost clinically metallic twinge of blood. his blood.

your tongue would dart out tentatively, hoping he wouldn't notice your meek attempts to collect the grime in your mouth. he always did.

this was your erotica. the seduction of your senses was far more rewarding than the feeling of him driving his cock in and out of your pussy, though you didn't mind that either.

while he focused on that—actually having sex with you—he'd virtually pet you. one hand remained fixed on your hip to guide you up and down in a rhythm he deemed suitable whilst he used the other to smooth over your hair. he'd grind out words into your ear, "just like that, kid, you've got it." you wouldn't always pay attention, but you knew he was speaking. "god, you're perfect, sweetheart. doing such a good job," meanwhile all you were doing was huffing the smell of him and helplessly rutting your hips against his.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

sometimes going out with dex felt like bearing a brand new facet of your heart to the world. holding his hand for support when you visited placed that weren't exactly comforting to you sometimes drew attention. not overtly, but you'd notice people's gaze linger just longer than is necessary for strangers.

when you'd buy alcohol for the two of you to down in your apartment that evening, you'd notice the cashier's eye-line flit from your conjoined hands to the wrinkles around dex's eyes, and finally to the slightly sunken but supple nonetheless skin under your own. then only you would be asked for id, not dex.

it didn't seem to bother dex, so it didn't bother you. it reinforced the view of dex you held in your mind: he was your anchor. your protection when you needed it, your guide when he thought you needed it. but he's always there to provide a sharper edge to the dull energy that you put out on your own.

when you were with dex, people avoiding you for an entirely different reason than they usually did. his intimidating exterior overpowered your standoffish and off-putting energy. people feared your guard dog more than they were weary of you. you didn't mind.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

one of your favourite parts about being with dex is helping him after he got a little scratched up. he clambers through your living room window and you sit up in your bed like a k9.

you're all over him in an instant, dragging him to your bathroom and tugging him to sit on the floor, legs spread open. you kneel between his legs, running your hands up and down his shirt—now sticky with blood.

you can tell he's getting slightly restless from the way his head lolls back against your counter. from the way his breath becomes even more laboured and raspy. you try to put your self-indulgence aside and begin to lift up his shirt. once off, you gently place it to the side with the intention of taking in its odour in your own time.

you remember the first time dex tried to teach you how to stitch up wounds. "it's easy, sweetheart. just like the animals you poke around with." he took your hands in his, guiding it to a gash on his torso. "you got the needle threaded, now just gently..." he neglected his oral instructions as he moved your hands to begin sewing him up.

every now and then he looked up at you with that sly grin on his face. he knew how much you were enjoying it.

now you get to plant your hands everywhere on his body. you tried to keep the edge of your index finger as close to the edge of the wound as possible, in the hopes that you could feel the skin shifting as you pulled the needle through it. you savoured the sounds dex made. you deliberately got sloppy sometimes just to wring out another groan from him. you'd finish off that wound and bend your head to his torso, giving kitten licks to the skin around the wound.

you loved looking up at him through your lashes, feeling the new tension in his tactical pants. you tilted your chin just enough to barely graze the tent growing there, feeling his hand lift to your head before shifting out of his pants and shoving your face onto his cock.

i hope this is sufficient. please feel free to give me some ideas on what other kind of stuff to write about this pairing :)

[reveluvjay]

wait this brought back memories of when my friend's ex girlfriend said I was like the clown from the amazing world of gumball.... she ended up being a closet racist but I still think that's the greatest comparison i've ever recieved

[dontyouworrydaddy]

I love your dex stuff truly it makes me giggle!! You add a humorous side to your writing that other dex writers miss, they make him too serious! I have a request.. you’ve done jealous Dex but how would jealous reader look like?? Thank u!! <3

Cry Baby!

Benjamin Poindexter x gn! Reader

warning: jealousy, dex kinda ragebaiting you, sex ban (he deserves it)!!, fluff

A/N: AHHHH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU🥹🥹 The compliments I get mean so much to me <33 I hope you enjoy this 💘 Had so much fun writing this :))

Dex noticed something was wrong the second you stopped talking in the car.

Usually after going out somewhere, the two of you always ended up talking about something stupid on the drive home. You’d complain about people, make fun of strangers together, tease him for glaring at somebody too hard. There was always noise.

Tonight? Nothing. You just stared out the window while the city lights passed across your face.

Dex glanced at you briefly from the driver’s seat. “You tired?”

“Mhm.” Short answer. Definitely annoyed. He noticed immediately.

The problem with dating Dex was that he observed people for a living. Tiny changes in breathing, posture, eye movement: he caught all of it without trying. So the second you started acting quieter after that woman approached him at the bar, he already knew something was up.

He just didn’t know how funny it was yet.

By the time you got back to the apartment, you were still visibly irritated. Not dramatic about it. Just… off.

You dropped your keys onto the kitchen counter harder than necessary before heading for the fridge. Dex leaned against the doorway silently watching you.

There it is. The little tension in your shoulders. The avoiding eye contact. Oh this was jealousy.

Dex bit back a smile immediately.

“You mad at me?” he asked casually.

“No.”

“Okay.” You grabbed a water bottle aggressively. Dex was absolutely certain now. Even worse is that this was adorable for Dex.

He walked over slowly, stopping beside you at the counter. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Another short answer. Dex had to physically stop himself from laughing. Because you looked genuinely upset while also trying so hard not to show it.

“Baby,” he said softly. “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m just tired.” You twisted the water bottle cap open while avoiding looking at him. Dex tilted his head slightly, studying you for another second before realization fully clicked into place.

This was about the woman from earlier. The one who practically threw herself at him while you sat right there beside him at the bar. The interaction lasted maybe two minutes total.

She walked over smiling, touched his arm twice, and asked if he was single while very obviously pretending not to notice you sitting next to him.

Dex barely even looked at her.

“No,” he told her flatly. “I’m happily taken to this wonderful person in front of me.” Then he immediately turned back toward you and continued your conversation like nothing happened.

That should’ve been the end of it. Apparently not.

“You’re jealous.” Dex said suddenly. He knows that this is about this woman from the bar. 100%

“I’m not jealous.” Your head snapped toward him immediately. You were absolutely jealous.

Dex felt something warm spread through his chest instantly. Because this was new. Usually he was the insane jealous one between you two. He was the one glaring at strangers for looking at you too long. He was the one spiraling because somebody touched your arm while talking.

But you? You almost never got possessive. Which meant this was incredibly entertaining for him. Maybe now he can understand how you feel when he gets jealous.

“You are.” he said, visibly amused now.

“I’m literally not.” you raise one eyebrow and look at him weird.

“The girl at the bar bothered you.”

“She didn’t bother me.”

“You’ve been mad for forty minutes.”

“I am NOT mad.” Dex finally smiled fully at that. And unfortunately for you, once he found something funny, he became the most annoying person alive.

“Awww.” he cooed softly. Your eyes narrowed immediately.

“What.” you ask him, completely confused why he just cooed.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” you repeated through clenched teeth.

“Cry baby.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

Dex walked closer with the most irritatingly soft expression on his face. “It’s okay.”

“…What is okay?”

“You being jealous.”

“I’m not-” he doesn’t let you finish speaking and interrupts you instead.

“My poor little cry baby.”

You stared at him in genuine confusion now. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

Dex looked way too pleased with himself. “Because you look upset.”

“I don’t look upset enough to be called a cry baby.”

“No?” He tilted his head slightly. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Awww.” He reached over and pinched your cheek lightly. “Don’t cry. It’s okay to be a cry baby.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Dex.”

“There it is.”

“What.”

“That offended look.” He grinned. “Cute.” You were genuinely getting annoyed now while Dex looked like he was having the time of his life.

“You’re actually insufferable.”

“And you’re jealous.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Unfortunately, he said it with complete confidence. Because he knew you too well. Dex leaned against the counter beside you, still smiling faintly while watching your increasingly irritated expression.

“You know what’s funny?” he asked casually.

“What.”

“I didn’t even talk to her.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted. “So what is the point?”

You crossed your arms tightly. “She was practically in your lap.”

“She touched my arm twice.”

“She was flirting with you right in front of me.”

“And?” You stared at him in disbelief.

“And??” Dex looked way too entertained now.

“I told her I was taken.”

“You seemed very calm about it.” That made him laugh quietly under his breath.

“You wanted me to what? Bite her?”

“Maybe a little.” Dex’s entire expression softened instantly at that answer. God, you were cute when you were jealous. Especially because you clearly hated being jealous. You looked genuinely annoyed with yourself for caring this much. Meanwhile Dex felt almost smug about it.

“You know,” he murmured, stepping closer again, “I kinda like this.”

“Of course you would.” you let out a dramatic and long sigh. Is this how he feels when he gets jealous?

“You get all grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy.”

“Baby, you’ve been glaring at your water bottle for ten minutes.” You looked down immediately like the bottle personally betrayed you. Dex almost laughed again. Then he made things worse.

“You know she called me handsome?” Your head whipped toward him so fast he nearly lost composure completely.

“Benjamin Poindexter.”

“Full name now?” He looked innocent. “But she did call me that.”

“I don’t care.”

“Mhm.”

“She looked fake anyway.” That fully broke him. Dex laughed openly now, leaning forward against the counter while you glared at him harder.

“Oh my god,” he said through laughter. “You were judging her too?”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Unfortunately he’s right. You don’t hate his annoying ass.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I really am.” You stared at him for another long second before your expression flattened completely. Dex immediately got suspicious.

“What.” You took a sip of water calmly.

“Nothing.”

“No, what was that look?”

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

Oh if only he knew what you’re gonna say next.

“About?” Then you looked him dead in the eyes and said completely blankly:

“You’re on a sex ban for two weeks.” Silence. Dex blinked once. You visibly see that he’s trying to process what you just said.

“…What?”

“Two weeks.” His smile vanished instantly.

“Wait no.”

“Yes.” you reply calm.

“Baby.”

“Nope.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I absolutely can.” He stared at you in genuine horror now while you calmly screwed the cap back onto your water bottle.

“Two weeks because you’re annoying.”

“That’s not fair.” he whines and you’re trying your absolute best to not start laughing at his face.

“You called me a cry baby three times.”

“You were acting like one!”

“Now it’s three weeks.”

“Okay wait hold on-” Dex immediately pushed himself off the counter. You walked past him toward the bedroom looking way too satisfied with yourself. He followed right behind you in actual distress.

“You’re joking.” You said nothing.

“Baby.” Nope. Still nothing. Dex grabbed your wrist gently before you could disappear into the bedroom, pulling you back toward him with a deeply offended expression.

“You can’t weaponize affection. You know how much I love makin love to you. ”

“You rage baited me.”

“You started it.”

“You continued it.” Dex stared at you for another second before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“…One week.”

“Three.”

“Baby please.” he starts begging you at this point. You’re enjoying this more than you should.

“Four now.” you grin after saying that.

“WHAT?”

[reveluvjay]

Dex when he heard "sex ban"

[dontyouworrydaddy]

GIRL OMG I LOVE YOUR WRITING!!!!!! Can i have: first night with dex after months of building tension with one another. One night he had enough and decided to claim you; make you entire his once and for all.

Aim for Love

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader

warning: MDNI 18+, smut, cowgirl, dex eats you out and claims you!, creampie, if I forgot anything please let me know!

A/N: AHHHH THANK YOUUUU I LOVE YOU! Also I’m lowkey obsessing over this idea and I was literally giggling while writing this🤭 Hope you love it mwahh<33

The tension between you and Dex had been unbearable for months.

It was in every glance that was too long. Every brush of his hand against yours that felt way too intentional to be accidental. Every moment where his eyes dropped to your mouth before forcing themselves back up again.

Dex wasn’t subtle when he wanted something. And he wanted you badly.

You noticed it the first time he cornered you in his apartment kitchen late at night, one arm braced beside your head while he stared down at you with that intense look in his eyes.

“You keep looking at me like that.” he murmured quietly, “you’re gonna make me do something stupid.”

Your heartbeat jumped immediately. “Maybe I want you to.” That almost broke him right there.

After that, things only got worse.

Because Dex became obsessed with touching you in tiny ways that drove you insane. His hand on your lower back guiding you through crowds. Fingers brushing your thigh while sitting beside you. His mouth hovering dangerously close to your ear when he spoke. And it made you wonder how he’d he acting when that mouth was buried between your legs

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. But he loved a little teasing. Because he always stopped before anything could actually happen.

Like he was testing himself. Or testing you. Seeing how much tension the two of you could survive before snapping completely. Turns out…Not much longer.

It happened at his apartment after another one of those nights where he kept staring at you like he was starving. Like he wanted you in every possible way.

You were sitting on his couch talking about something you couldn’t even remember anymore because Dex looked distracted. Consumed.

His eyes stayed fixed on you with intensity while you spoke, barely blinking.

“Dex?” you asked softly. His jaw tightened.

“What?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you wanna kill somebody.” A dark smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Not somebody.” Your stomach flipped hard. The room suddenly felt way too warm. He leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes dragging over you without shame now.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” Your breath caught. The low roughness in his voice made heat crawl all the way up your neck.

“You sit there acting innocent.” he continued quietly, “while I spend every second trying not to lose my mind over you.”

“Dex-”

“No.” He shook his head once. “I’m serious.”Something in his expression changed then. Like whatever control he’d been holding onto for months was finally slipping.

“You touch me.” he muttered, “and then walk away like I’m supposed to just deal with it.”

Your pulse pounded harder when he moved closer.

“You smile at me.” Closer. “Look at me like that.” Closer still. “And then expect me to sleep afterward?”

You could barely breathe with him this near.

“Dex…” The second you said his name softly like that, he snapped. His hand suddenly gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him so fast a gasp left your lips. The look in his eyes turned dark immediately at the sound.

“There it is.” he whispered roughly. “That sound.” His forehead pressed against yours for one tense second before he kissed you.

And god.

It hit you like a punch to the chest.

Dex kisses like he’d been holding himself back for way too long. Desperate and intense and messy in a way that made your entire body heat instantly.

Like he needed this. Needed you.

His hand slid up your back, pulling you impossibly closer while his mouth moved against yours almost angrily. Months of tension exploded all at once.

You kissed him back just as hard and he made a low sound in the back of his throat that nearly ruined you on the spot. And if you weren’t wet before, you most definitely are now.

“Fuck.” he breathed against your lips. Then he kissed you again immediately. And again. Like he couldn’t stop.

His hands wandered everywhere now. Your waist, your hips, your thighs, your ass. Gripping you possessively like he was trying to convince himself you were actually real.

“You’re mine.” he muttered suddenly against your mouth. The words sent a shiver through you.

Dex pulled back just enough to look at you, blue eyes dark and completely overwhelmed.

“You understand me?” he asked quietly. You nodded instantly.

That dangerous possessive look softened slightly at your reaction before he kissed you again slower this time, but somehow even more intense.

His fingers tilted your chin up carefully while his lips moved against yours with almost obsessive attention, memorizing every reaction you gave him.

And he noticed everything. Every time your hands tightened in his shirt. Like you needed him just as bad as him.

The realization clearly affected him because his breathing turned uneven too.

“You have no idea…” he murmured against your skin after kissing down your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your hands slid into his hair and he actually shivered.

That seemed to do something to him mentally because suddenly he was pulling you fully into his lap, holding you there firmly while burying his face against your neck.

“Dex…”

“I know.” His voice sounded strained now. “I know.” But he clearly didn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

Because the restraint he usually carried around you was completely gone now. Replaced by pure need and possessiveness that wrapped around you so tightly it made your head spin.

He kissed you like he was claiming you exactly the way he said he would.

“Dex.” you whisper loud enough for him to hear, “I need you.”

He looks at you, eyes locked. “You need me?” he repeats as if to reassure himself that he heard correctly the first time.

“You don’t need to tell me twice.”

In a swift motion he laid you flat on your back and connected his lips on yours again, kissing you like a man who is in desperate need. His hands work down your body and unbuttons your jeans. Once your jeans is undone, he pulls it down along with your panties.

He breaks the kiss and looks down at you. And he groans.

“You’re even prettier than I imagined.” he says as he frees himself from his jeans.

His hands part your legs further and kisses the inside of your thighs while still holding eye contact with you.

His eyes are filled with lust and love.

Dex leaves sloppy kisses as he works himself up and he stops just above your heating pussy. At this point, it’s begging him to finally eat you out.

“So wet for me?” he laughs and buries his face in your pussy. The contact makes you leave out a deep breath. You lean back into the couch and let him eat you out.

The way his tongue moves around your clit sets your whole body on fire. You feel the rush and it’s amazing.

“Dex. Fuck.” you moan out and lift your hips a little. Your back aches and your hands grip tightly on the cushions.

Dex slowly puts your legs on each side of his shoulder and his fingers dig into your hips.

“I know. I know.” he groans.

All you can think about is how good his mouth feels right now.

You feel a knot forming in your stomach and you let out another loud moan.

“Cmon baby. Cum all over my face.” and you do as he says. You feel the release and can’t help but let out a shaky breath.

Dex licks up your pussy clean and he now stands up slowly. He lifts you up as if you don’t weigh nothing.

He slowly sits you down on top of his lap. His hard cock building a barricade between your bodies.

“Ride me like I only belong to you.” he whispers softly. His eyes feel heavy and they’re only focused on you.

You lift your hips up and position yourself on top of his cock. You take him in slowly. His big cock spreads your walls slowly and you can’t help but bite down your bottom lip.

Fuck, he is so big.

He quickly removes your shirt and tosses it somewhere in his apartment.

“Fuck.” he whispers and attacks your lips again. His hands on your hips and he helps you move around him.

“Fuck. Yes. Ride me like I’m your.” he says in between kisses. You pick up your space and ride his cock as if it’s going to run away.

Your hands are around his shoulders and you push your head back. Dex takes the opportunity and starts kissing and biting your neck. You will definitely wake up with love marks all around your neck.

“You’re mine. Fuck- you’re mine. You understand me? hmph- This pussy belongs to me. You belong to me and only me!” he tells you. And he is right. You remember dreaming about this exact moment.

“Say it.” he wraps his hands around the back of your neck. Carefully enough to not hurt you though. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours. hmph-” you whimper and he starts smirking.

“Good fucking girl.”

His lips are on yours again while you move around his hard cock. You feel it twitch inside you. You know he is close.

“My pretty girl. Mine only.” he whines out again.

The kiss gets sloppy with each time you bounce on his cock. His tip hitting your cervix each time.

Eventually, you break from the kiss and the only thing that is still connecting your lips with his is the saliva.

Your head falls back a little and you close your eyes. Stars are starting to form in front of you and you feel yourself coming close.

“Dex.” you moan out his name and he knows exactly what you want. You want to finish.

“fuuck- yes sweetheart. Can I cum inside you?”

“Yes!” you scream.

You feel a warm load being released inside you and you feel yourself cum all over his cock. Your head falls on his shoulder and you try to even out your breath.

Dex slowly lifts your head so you can look him in the eyes. The eyes you fell in love with. The eyes that only focuses on you. The eyes that look at you with so muck love.

“My pretty girl. You’re all mine. And I’m yours.”

[reveluvjay]

#bricked

[poindextergirl]

family tree - b. poindexter

inspired by one of the greatest songs ever aka : family tree - ethel cain

tags: descriptions of gore and blood, angst, hurt/comfort, explicit sexual content, injured!dex, handjob (m receiving), dry humping, unprotected p-in-v (pls wrap it up), praise and edging (both receiving), dex being a desperate p*rv (contractually-obligatory), dacryphilia, c0ckwarming, fluff

requested by anonymous. original request linked here! thank u eternally for requesting!!

summary: benjamin poindexter is on the run from the avtf and lands a bloody mess in the side alley of the reader's building. in a shocking stroke of luck, you are quite the good samaritan and take him in. ✪

it was approaching midnight as you were returning to your apartment from your long shift at work. the night breeze was cool against your face as the city lights illuminated your path.

your steps slowed when a rattle came from the alley just next to your building. a gurgling cough followed, and you couldn't stop yourself from looking, intrigued when you saw a pair of legs sticking out from behind the dumpster. you approached with caution and pepper spray, but lowered it immediately upon seeing how bloodied and beaten the stranger below you was.

you figured he was in his mid-to late thirties, built like a weapon. his face was torn to shreds, oozing with every wince he made. similarly, with each breath, he was wheezing slightly. his blue uniform, that covered his entire top half except for his eyes, was stained with blood in several areas. the worst was on his right side where he was clutching himself to stem the bleeding, gritting his teeth in pain.

you knew he was dying.

so you made the split-second decision to take him into your apartment. this was a complicated affair, granted that he was approximately double your size in terms of muscle mass, so getting him off of the ground was terrifically difficult. after bending his knees, much to his chagrin, and stepping on his boots to keep him balanced, you took the stranger's outstretched hand and hoisted him to his feet. he groaned, dribbling blood and spit from his lips as he leaned most of his weight on your much-smaller frame. you were beyond thankful you had started going back to the gym as a new years' resolution.

it was truly a miracle that you got him up to your apartment without falling. you had to go back down later with a rag and wipe up the trail of blood on the floor, though.

you took the bloodied, masked man into your bathroom, switching on the overhead light to see him more clearly. when you did, your breath hitched.

"hoping for daredevil?" he bristled, deeply uncomfortable beneath your scrutiny.

your brows narrowed, confused. "what? no."

your voice was like honey. he didn't quite know what to do with this. why were you helping him?

you opened the cabinet and pulled out an extensive first-aid kit, rolling up your sleeves. "alright, we need to get those cleaned and stitched up before you bleed the fuck out. will you let me help you?"

the stranger let out a laugh. "will i let you save my life?"

"consent's important," you replied. "gotta peel that," you gestured to his entire uniform, including the leather suit with the signature bullseye on his forehead, belts to store knives and guns, "off."

a beat passed and the electrical charge of the air changed.

"i have clothes that can fit you, don't worry."

dex wasn't sure if "worry" was exactly the correct term for what he was feeling. he let out a sharp exhale, and with his unoccupied hand, removed his mask.

"oh, hi," you introduced yourself sheepishly, blushing under his intense gaze. that, and the fact that he was incredibly handsome. it was then that you realized who he was, but it wasn't going to change what you were doing. he needed help now.

"hi," dex breathed, reading that you'd recognized him, dropping the mask to the ground, immobile.

you approached him the way you would a stray animal, hands raised. "may i?"

dex nodded, yet he still appeared apprehensive of you. you started with the belts, easing them off his torso. his hazel eyes tracked every one of your movements as you unclasped the hook at the top of his uniform and began to unzip it down his muscular back. you peeled the fabric forward gently, pulling it over his unfairly broad shoulders toward you. dex hissed at the pain, having caught on a wound you hadn't seen.

"shit, i'm so sorry, there's no easy way to do this—"

"'s okay."

resolve churned in your pretty eyes when you looked back up at him. tenacious. he liked it.

you continued, taking dex's gloves off his large hands before you stripped the fabric further down, revealing meaty biceps and a built, wounded chest. you'd admire him if he wasn't so caked in grime and blood.

your eyes landed on the gash in his side—to which he now held a cloth—widening in horror. "jesus christ."

your hands hovered a few inches away from his belt buckle. there was a wound on his left leg, you knew that much from his limping.

dex whispered your name and it felt intimate on his tongue. your lashes flicked up to him and he swore his heart stuttered, nodding. your hand was undoing his buckle and dex's head was spinning. he watched you religiously as you stripped his combat pants off, mindfully avoiding his wound. you'd made him kick off his boots as soon as he'd gotten into your apartment, so all he was left in were his black briefs as he loomed over you. maybe if he hadn't lost so much blood, he could've found it within himself to be embarrassed.

"need to clean you up," you said softly, gesturing to the first-aid supplies. dex agreed, not shocked when you were able to thread the needle with little-to-no difficulty. you reached for the 97% isopropyl alcohol first.

the giant gash had to be treated first, of course. you apologized sincerely for how terribly this whole ordeal was about to hurt him and dex thought that made you a good person. he slammed his hand into the wall, hissing through his teeth when you pressed the cloth soaked in alcohol against the wound. wiping the blood away from the edges of his flesh, you tried not to think about the length of the knife that could have done this.

dex clenched his torn fist as you pinched the sliced muscle together, previously-threaded needle piercing him with haste. he swore and grounded himself in the pain, teeth pulling his bottom lip between them harshly, certainly drawing more blood. he studied your beautiful face, so focused on saving his life with your furrowed brow.

the pull of the string through his skin was awful but necessary, the pain of it suddenly reminding him just how long it had been since someone had touched him like this. firm, but gracious. maybe never, he realized.

dex begins to fill with shame as his mind races. you pierce him again and he inhales sharply, giving you a quick nod to continue as he can feel himself hardening in his briefs. your warm fingers on his body feel foreign and heavenly. he's trembling when you finally finish the stitch, half-hard and strung out. you tidied your work, snipping off the excess string and wiping off any further blood.

you moved to the next incision near his left shoulder, gently washing his torso with a cloth as you did so. dex breathed heavy as he watched you through hooded eyes, aching with need. you repeated the same steps and dex lost himself in it, throbbing against the briefs that separated him from your thigh.

"fuck, i'm—," his throat was dry, so he swallowed thickly. it didn't help.

"you're…what?"

he wanted to cry.

"'m sorry." his hazel eyes darted down to his erection, guilty. "you're just..pretty."

"oh," you gasped, a stunning smile touching your lips. desire pooled low like lava in your abdomen, pussy soaking through your panties. grinning, you pressed a chaste kiss to his clean chest. "'s okay, honey. 's natural, it's okay."

he threw his head back and moaned wantonly, cock jumping. you finished your stitches quicker this time, cleaning him, before shifting to care for his bloodied face. the tenderness of your touch was intoxicating. dex found himself closing his eyes, slowly rocking his hips against you, sighing through his straight nose in contentment.

"ben?"

"mm?"

"gonna let me take care of that one on your leg too?"

dex groaned in response, nearly choking on air when he watched you sink to your knees in front of him. this was a simple bullet graze so you wasted no time in getting to work. you kept the same laser-focused intensity as last time, though now with a scorching heat in your cheeks under his scrutiny.

by the time you'd finished fixing dex's wounds with the proper gauze, he was whining your name, leaning on the counter for support to stand. you peered up at him from the floor, curious.

"please."

dex wasn't quite sure what he was begging for, but he could have wept in victory when you'd taken his hand and stood. something told him you knew exactly what he needed, so he followed you like the needle on a compass into your arms, into your bedroom, onto your bed, beneath you.

you giggled, planting a kiss on his lips. "'s okay, i got you. just gonna make you feel good, okay?"

he whined back into the kiss, nodding. you reached down and wrapped your delicate fingers around his girthy cock, feeling the weight of it in your hands. he twitched in your hold, moaning lowly as you began to jerk him off, squeezing his bulbous head, mixing the gathering pre-cum with your spit as lube. your cunt was sopping now, dripping your juices onto his thighs below.

you lined yourself up and sank down upon him, weeping into dex's mouth. you rocked your hips—you couldn't help it, you were just so needy. slowly, inch by inch, dex's thick length filled you, tip caressing the brim of you.

"f-fuck, baby," you whispered against his lips, and it had dex on fire. he was throbbing inside you, walls gripping him within an inch of his life as you gently began riding him.

dex had to think about some pretty sick shit to not cum right then and there.

after a whorish roll of your hips, dex whined. "fuck, i like that."

"yeah?" you did it again. "feels good, honey?"

he swallowed thickly, nodding uncontrollably. you leaned in, meeting his lips in a searing kiss. your fingernails left moon-shaped crescents in the slabs of his pecs, gripping him firm while you bounced up and down on his cock. dex hit deep inside you, stretching your gummy walls deliciously.

"wanna hear you, dex," you mumbled against him, moaning freely as you threw your head back. his hips' pace stuttered, slowing his movements inside you lest he finish too early.

dex planted hands the size of baseball gloves on your thighs and slowly fucked you on his cock. the new position added perfect pressure to your clit. a desperate moan fell from dex's pink, puffy lips, as he blinked up at you, dazed.

"'s warm," he groaned.

you nodded, letting out an "mhm".

dex choked on a breath, eyes flickering to where your bodies joined, wet and aching. "fuck. need this pussy, sweetheart. 's all mine, right?"

a grin lit up your radiant face. "make it yours, then."

dex chuckled for the first time in what felt like forever, in genuine joy. you kept your sinful pace, gliding up and down on his length as the tension in your core was building. he captured your lips between his in a bruising kiss as you matched each others' pace and swallowed each others' moans.

he must have read the pattern in your breathing, because dex relentlessly, steadily fucked you while you ground your sensitive clit on him.

"'m close, fuck," you whimpered.

"yeah?"

you nodded pathetically, nearly in tears from the stimulation.

"yeah, honey?" dex's voice shook as he spoke. "gonna cum all over me?"

your cheeks flamed in humiliation and a sob escaped your lips. but you couldn't stop riding him — not when it felt this good.

he barked a laugh when you nodded again. his right hand came up to rest against your cheek and you covered it with your own, interlacing your fingers.

"shit, 'm cumming, baby," you breathed.

you cried out, falling against dex's shoulder and sinking your teeth into the muscle there, avoiding any injuries. he gasped, cock twitching inside you. the pain was so erotic, dex had a hard time controlling his groans. a new wave of wetness as your cum gushed around his cock.

"mm, me too, pretty girl."

dex saw stars. he pulsed inside you, veins dragging against your sinewy walls, eyes rolling back and closing tight. his hot cum filled your perfect cunt, the excess dripping down your velvety thighs whenever dex thrusted again.

as your gasps and sighs slowed, you settled into dex's relaxing form, tucking your head under his chin as you lay on his chest. you inhaled deeply. he smelled of sweat, rain, gun oil, and a bit of fabric softener. by tracing nonsense patterns on his scarred skin, you were unknowingly putting dex's thoughts to rest and lulling him to sleep.

within minutes, he was out like a light, his arm a dead weight around your waist, snuggling you to him. with not much else to do, you smiled, planted a goodnight kiss to his chest, and readjusted to comfortably rest on his warm, large body.

you'd bathe him clean in the morning.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

a/n: hey again sexies! (dexies?) this took entirely tew long to write, but i was...como se dice "motivated" by those new ddba stils....so here we are. need this man so bad it's getting to be something insane. wow.

pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennn! :)

xoxo, b

poindextergirl™ 2026. do not feed my work into ai, repost, or translate my work. reblogs are very much appreciated! ♱

[reveluvjay]

Absolutely YES