June 1st is TOMORROW. It means that GAY PEOPLE will exist, but only for ONE MONTH. Do not forget to buy your tickets to see them NOW, or else you will have to wait AN ENTIRE YEAR to be able to meet them AGAIN.
on your 5th date with dex, you find out he’s never went down on a girl before.
warnings?: oral (r receiving), shy fbi dex, kissing, freaky/confident reader, dex is awfully good for his first time eating someone out.
“never?” you questioned, leaning forward, your mouth left agape.
dex stared down on his lap, suddenly the quarter zip he was wearing was way too tight on him. he shook his head and you scoffed.
“no way dex” you laughed awkwardly.
you met dex through a friend who worked at a local coffee shop. you were just visiting during her shift when dex suddenly entered after a run. interested, you asked your friend and she told you he came in everyday and was overall nice.
skip forward this was your 5th date. usually you opted to go out for dates but the weather was way too cold in new york and you made amazing soup. so there you were in dex’s simple neat apartment.
for the last hour you both conversed in past relationships and sexual encounters, you didn’t mean for the conversation to become so sexual as you sat across from him on his dinner table sipping on soup.
the most you two had done was kiss, and hold hands when he dropped you off to your car after dinners. deep inside a small part of you wanted to go the next step, but dex was also quite shy and reserved and you wanted to make sure he wanted to aswell.
“i havent- been with many women, and they never asked.” he said making minimal eye contact.
you leaned forward on your elbows, “and you never thought about it? not curious or does it not appeal to you?”
dex immediately began to wave his hands, “no absolutely not, i’m not against it….and i guess i am curious? but i would never do something if my girl didn’t want to.”
you folded your hands in your lap and watched dex, who looked back at you.
it was true, dex was inexperienced when it came to sex. he knew the basics and always made a women come. but he was never able to build a long and trustworthy relationship to experiment.
“would you want to? with me?” you quipped.
“yes.” dex blurted out too quickly.
the silence after was loud, were you joking when you said that? no. why were you shy all of a sudden?
dex’s eyes were filled with silent need, now he needed to try.
you rose from your chair, your fingers grazed the table as you rounded the corner, dex pushed his chair back and you came to stand in between his legs.
he was too still, you smiled and grabbed his hands and placed them on your hips. “we don’t have to, dex.”
dex tilted his head looking up at you through blonde lashes, “do you want to?” he asked.
‘yesyeyseysyesyyeysysywsysy’ you repeated in your head.
you nodded and dex got up and placed you on the table, the soft material of your skirt was pulled up revealing your upper thighs.
the energy in the room was unmatched, in that moment it revealed to you how much you craved dex. you hooked your fingers into his quarter zip and dragged him closer to your lips.
dex let out a shaky chuckle and softly kissed you, you tilted your head to get closer and grazed your hands across his back and neck.
it was empty in dex’s mind, he was on autopilot. all he could feel were your soft lips on his and the chills that left wherever you touched him. remembering the target, dex began to kiss down your neck and exposed shoulders.
you helped him take off your top, leaving you in just your lace bra. dex visibly shook at how much he was getting to see you tonight.
soft supple skin and pretty tits he could partially see through the bra had him slowly fall back into his chair. his grip still tight on the bunched up fabric of your skirt.
dark green eyes looked up at you once more for permission to remove your skirt. you helplessly nodded and dex pulled down your skirt and discarded on the floor.
your strappy heels still wrapped around your lower calf, you bent down do remove them but felt a hand stop at your wrist.
“no.”
“what?”
“leave them on. i- they look nice on you..very nice”
“oh.” you giggled.
dex looked down and saw matching lace panties covering the very place he desperately wanted to see. dex lowered himself to the floor, and you followed his every move as his shaking body tried to feel your legs.
his hands were large and rough, his fingers long and thick. they slipped into the waistband of your panties and you placed your hands on his so that both of you could take them off.
the sight of your pussy had dex see stars and vision go hazy, god he was seeing so much of you tonight.
“i don’t know how to start” dex shyly murmured.
you were a bit shy under his watchful eye but the way he was looking at your pussy like it was a prize and a target made you remember you are the experienced one.
“what’s going through your mind, dex? tell me, baby” you sultry whispered.
dex let out a pathetic whine at your tone, “i want to- i want to kiss you…there.”
“then do it.”
dex looked up at you as his lips inched closer and closer to your mound. your body jolted when you felt soft lips kiss tenderly on you mound, he massages your hips as he kissed lower and lower.
your hand flew to your mouth as you felt just the tip of dex’s tongue swipe your clit. you squeeze your eyes shut so hard you saw stars dancing behind your lids.
all dex noticed was the jerk of your hips. he does it again, with a little more pressure and delights in the way your hips wiggle– both trying to get away but also trying to get closer. he continues to do that.
your scent is strong from where he is of course. he drags his tongue down from your clit to your hole as his fingers come to spread your legs. his tongue flattens over your entrance on the way back up, catching way more juice than he was expecting you to be giving.
meanwhile, you are trying unsuccessfully to control your breathing. dex is lapping at your pussy, you're positive he has no idea how crazy he's driving you with his slow exploration of your most intimate parts but he's clearly enjoying your taste.
your fingers tangle in his short hair and you moan- head rolled back as you roll your hips into his mouth. "dex…"
his head follows your motion and he moans himself. this causes you to tug his hair and his nose bumps your clit. it's not enough to make you come but it is getting you there. he gathers the newly gushing slick from your pussy onto his tongue and uses it to create wet circles on your clit.
you call his name again and he grunts away from your pussy. the cold air hits your dripling pussy and its so uncomfortable, you want his mouth back on it.
he picks you up and places you on the table and dex kisses up your thighs, “oh fuck” you cry out as your head hits the table.
dex uses his fingers to spread your labia and kiss you there, your legs wrap around his back, and the pointy heel digs into his back lightly.
"dex," you pant wildly, "use your fingers…"
without hesitation, perhaps he was feeling bold, dex shoves two incredibly long fingers into your tight channel and fucks you with them as he kisses your clit. he follows the rising sounds of your moaning and fingers you faster.
he sucks your clit hard and you come with a scream.
your thighs clamp down around his head and back arches off the table. your head is spinning by the time you come down and you sheepishly release your grip on dex’s hair and head. you are so blissed out you can't even remember where you were. you blinked a couple times and felt a tight hold on your hips.
"dex?"
"no fucking way," is all your hear him mutter before you feel him lick a hungry strip across your soaked pussy. you cry out a moan so loud, and slam your hand on the table.
your clit is sensitive, but dex slips his fingers back inside you and pounds you with them harder than before. your second orgasm is building faster this time and your brain is short circuiting as dex bites the flesh of your thighs repeatedly. hips lifting off the edge of the table and the way he gently licks your clit makes your orgasm longer.
he finally stops ignoring the press of your hand atop his head and backs off. you can comprehend little else besides the sweat dripping down your neck and the hazy vision of your glassy eyes.
dex sits in silence and stands up on shaky legs, he’s hard as fuck in his pants but he doesn’t care.
you lift your head up and rest on your elbows, “you’ve never done this before?” you pant.
dex shakes his head, in awe of you and your fucking pussy. he wants to hear the noise you make when you come his new alarm sound.
he notices your glassy eyes and blushed, sweaty face. “no never- are you okay did i-”
dex is cut off as you lift of the table and slam your lips onto his, you hungrily makeout with him. dex loses his balance before grabbing your face and kissing back just as starved. you taste yourself on his tongue and whine into the kiss.
“you cant get rid of me now, dex” you murmur into his ear.
Benjamin Poindexter, Matthew Murdock, Buck Cashman
❦ Benjamin Poindexter
Tight. His hold on you, though suffocating at times but never lacking, is an expression of all the words he can never speak. Making you feel every ounce of just how much he wants you, needs you. His body refuses to retreat to slumber until he knows you have fallen asleep first, either because it is his instinct to make certain of your security or that you won’t leave when his eyes are closed. You can never leave with his possessive hold on you, he makes sure of that. Even as you twist and turn in your sleep, his arms a constant cage, a tight grip so protective and warm that you’re tempted to never escape. . .
Dex is only able to fall into deep sleep when he is assured that you are in his orbit, heavy arms locked over your waist or your chest, with a pull that’s stronger than an ocean’s current. Holds you like an anchor, a crushing heaviness that refuses to let go the moment you fall asleep in his embrace. Don’t be surprised, he is a man who has been deprived and hungers for physical contact, immediately latching onto you the moment you are within his range. The feeling of your back against his bare chest makes him euphoric and trust that he will keep squeezing you close to him until he feels there is no longer any space between the two of you, until your body familiarizes with the shape of his embrace.
Even as you drift off peacefully to your dreams (which he hopes are about him), he showers you with his never-ending affection by pressing kisses to any skin he could reach, your neck, your shoulders, your jaw. His thumb pressing patterns on your wrist and your cheek as he inhales the scent of your signature shampoo. His mind constantly circles on you, his light, the most important person in his gloomy life, he would do anything and kill anyone for you. Those restless thoughts only go quiet from the physical proof that you’re here, in his bed, in his space, that you continue to choose to be here despite the fragile mess that he is behind his controlled exterior.
❦ Matthew Murdock
Reverent. Matt clutches you to his chest like a devotee holding rosary. Despite your initial protests, he will pull you to rest on top of him, nevermind the lingering bruises on his chest or the small cuts on his abdomen, he’ll insist that those will heal anyways. He’s well aware that he’s injured, so what? What he needs is you, your presence and the peace that you bring him in these mere hours he is blessed with before he gives himself to the city again.
He ends your sentences before you complain because the weight of you on top of him brings him immense comfort, the rarest kind, a solace he’s been seeking since the day he met you. The city is too loud, overwhelming if he doesn’t tune out his senses. But with you resting your head on his hard chest, his defined arms over your back, he feels like he found heaven on earth. . . We know this man uses his heightened senses, not just to listen past the walls of your bedroom for any looming danger in the darkness that threatens your safety but also to ground him. He goes quiet, only to direct his entire senses on your warmth, your heavenly scent and the slight inhales and exhales as you sleep. You don’t hear how many times he whispers “I love you” like a prayer while you continue to slumber.
Can only fall asleep from the calm pattern of your heart. To him, your pulse is a rhythm that sounds like serenity. It’s a pattern he’s most familiar with, the same way he learned the prayers. He unashamedly listens to your heartbeat every night he is granted to spend with you. His large hand cradling the back of your head, stroking your hair until he falls asleep with the most content smile in his face, knowing that your heart beats only for him.
❦ Buck Cashman
Starved. Buck presents himself to be someone so collected and calm, but deep down he has been yearning to have someone to call home. He carries a quiet arrogance knowing he’s the best in his job and he’s not oblivious to the fact he carries a charm which he doesn’t bother to take advantage of when it comes to others who aren’t you. As awful as the truth may be, he is a lonely man because of his work. Because of that, he comes home to you, hungry, craving for something only you can fill. He isn’t new to physical affairs, yet Buck holds you like a man who’s been starved of an embrace for decades.
He wasn’t like others who enjoy sleeping, he only does it because it is the body’s natural requirement for him in order to perform his best. Until you arrived and disrupted that concept, now he looks forward to every night (even the early mornings) whenever he gets to have you in his side. Indulging in sleep like a greedy man only because he gets to have you with him. It never fails to surprise him whenever you fall asleep in his embrace, how someone as dangerous as him makes you feel so safe. He feels a certain triumph, nearing on possessiveness, in being the only one who gets to see you in this state.
He could never grow bored of you. In fact, watching you fall asleep is his favorite activity, a few minutes he enjoys for himself before he closes his eyes. Hiding your face to his chest while he continues his playful gestures, twirling your hair, teasing your arms with feather-light touches from the tips of his fingers, chuckling to himself when it makes you shudder in your sleep. How adorable. He simply can’t get enough of you as he’s fighting the urge to deliciously bite your exposed shoulder. If only the hours of the night lasts much longer, he wouldn’t complain at all if he gets to sleep more next to you.
Overall Synopsis: A car accident leaves you with missing puzzle pieces to assemble—the stumble to blindly pick them out turns into the realization you have not only your career, places, and people to relearn, but also a boyfriend. Where will said puzzle pieces lead you to in the end? And to who, if anyone?
Overall Tropes: amnesia, second chance, strangers to friends, (more than) friends to lovers, idiots in love, slow burn (if you squint), forced proximity, workplace romance.
Summary : Dex is convinced that he‘s bad for you, but maybe you were made for each other.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak!!!! Hurt/comfort(?) Major sex themes, dark romance, codependent relationship, obsessive attachment, Sex is very much described (explicit, but no anatomical detail), hostage backstory, handcuffs/restraint mention, Stockholm syndrome discussion, guilt, panic/anxiety, morally questionable romance, vomiting mentioned (not as a sex act), drug mentioned but no drug use, chase kink mentioned, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 2.9k
Notes : This was supposed to be an impromptu 500-word blurb I wrote while listening to “Free” by Florence and The Machine but I went overboard. This is probably my most explicit fic yet. Enjoy!
The first time you told Dex you loved him, he had thrown up.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
You had said it in his kitchen, half-asleep in one of his old FBI shirts, barefoot with love bites on your neck, reaching for the coffee like you had any right to look that adorable in a place he lived. Like his apartment was not a place where he planned to kill people. Like his hands had never done anything worse than skim under the hem of your shirt and pull you close.
“I love you,” you had said, casual as breathing.
Dex had gone white.
Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.
Because yes, he loved you too.
He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.
Because there was no way you loved him back.
Not really.
Not if you were whole.
Not if he had not done something to you first.
Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.
Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.
“What the fuck—”
His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”
You bit his palm.
He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.
He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”
You glared up at him.
That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.
Instead, you had talked for six straight hours.
You. Fucking. Yapped.
Like a pomeranian on cocaine.
You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.
Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.
So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…
He had done this.
He had broken something in you.
Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.
“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.
You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”
He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”
You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.
“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”
You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”
His whole body jerked at the sound.
“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.
His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”
You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”
“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”
Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”
Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.
His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”
“Yes.”
“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”
“I know exactly what this is.”
“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”
You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.
Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”
Dex looked like he might be sick again.
Every time.
Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.
“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”
You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.
He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”
“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”
“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”
His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“It does, actually.”
“You’re sick.”
“So are you.”
He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”
“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.
“You’re not listening.”
“You’re not thinking.”
“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”
“You already want too much.”
His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.
Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.
“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”
“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”
He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.
“You don’t,” he whispered.
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You’re perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”
Your chest tightened.
He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.
“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”
Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.
It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”
“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”
His breathing turned ragged.
“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”
Dex’s face soured. “No.”
“You gonna leave me?”
“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate.
Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.
“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”
“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”
Dex’s eyes locked on yours.
Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”
His breath hitched.
He didn't stop.
You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.
“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”
Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.
“No,” he rasped.
“No?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.
It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.
“You should run,” he rasped.
“You’d follow.”
His eyes burned.
You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”
Dex looked ruined.
His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.
Then you were on top of him.
Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.
“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.
You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”
His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”
Your chest tightened. “Dex.”
“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”
You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.
“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”
His breath collapsed.
Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”
Dex broke under you.
His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him.
“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.
That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.
That.
The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.
Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.
“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”
You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”
And then Dex broke completely.
He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.
Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.
His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.
You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.
He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”
You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”
Dex went quiet.
He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.
His arms tightened around you.
You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.
You giggled softly.
“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”
His breath stopped.
You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.
Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.
Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.
You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself.
Pathetic. So utterly gone for you.
“I love you,” he said.
It came out hoarse.
You shrugged like you knew all along.
“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”
And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.
There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.
But Dex didn’t care.
If that was what had happened to him, then fine.
He didn’t want it cured.
—end.
Extra note : I’ll start the Dex taglist in the next post, comment if you want to be added!
