a mouthful ; benjamin poindexter
creator's note: dex just NEEDZ to have his mouth on something... doing something... sucking something. lets help this poor man keep his mouth busy!! #needhisneurodivergentasssobad
warnings: sexual innenduos (at the end), use of nic pouches, oral fixation (non-sexual...well, mostly), neurodivergence references, not proofread.
word count: 1k-ish
Dex had always been the type to get restless when his hands were idle—but his mouth? That was a whole different problem.
You’d caught onto it months ago, really. The way he chewed on ice. The coffee stirrers gnawed into splinters. His gum wrappers left in crumpled little graveyards across your shared spaces. And when he wasn’t biting something? His mouth was twitching, lips parted, jaw clenched and unclenched like he was fighting the urge to do something with it.
It was worse when he was anxious.
Tonight, he was on edge.
Dex lay sprawled between your thighs, chin resting on your stomach, cheek pressed against your skin. He was warm. Lazy. Too warm, really—body running hot from restless energy, that wired-kitten coil beneath the surface. His eyes flickered between you and the TV, but his attention wasn’t really on the screen.
He kept mouthing at you. Little absentminded kisses against your hipbone. Pressing his lips to your belly, then opening his mouth like he was going to bite, but never following through. Just soft, slow suckling at the skin there, like he could drink you in without making you flinch.
“Dex,” you murmured, raking your fingers through his cropped hair.
He hummed.
“You want something in your mouth, baby?”
His ears went pink instantly. You felt it—heat blooming under your palm where your hand rested against his temple. His lashes fluttered, throat bobbing as he swallowed.
“Dunno what you mean,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop kissing you.
You let him do it for a while. Let him press his mouth wherever he wanted—your stomach, the side of your ribcage, your wrist when you lifted it to brush hair from his face. He took your wrist into his hand and held it there, kissing the sensitive skin over your pulse point. His lips parted just enough for the tip of his tongue to flick out, warm and wet and hesitant.
Like he couldn’t help himself.
Your hand slides down, thumb brushing at the corner of his lips. He lets you do it, kneeling into your touch as his eyes fluttered shut.
“I got somethin’ for you,” you murmur, digging into your pocket.
He cracks one eye open. Curious.
When you hold up the little canister of nicotine pouches, his brows twitch upward, mouth quirking just a little. “You tryin’ to get me buzzed again?”
“You said you liked the last one.” You pop the lid open with one hand, your other still petting slow through his hair. “Figured you might wanna relax.”
Dex lets out a soft sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Relax, huh? That what you call it?”
But he let you take a pouch out. You slide the nicotine pouch between your fingers and press it under his lip yourself, thumb tracing along the inside of his bottom lip as you tuck it in, neat. His mouth twitches around the touch but he doesn’t pull back—he just lets out a tiny breath and hums, eyelids fluttering again.
“There you go,” you whisper, stroking your thumb against the slick of his lip before letting your hand fall away.
But Dex doesn’t let you get far.
His hand snaps up, fast but gentle, catching your wrist. You barely have time to process before he’s got your fingers at his mouth again—not to take the pouch out, no. He just… needs.
Your fingertips press against his lips, and he sucks them in slow.
Not rough. Not teasing. Just needing.
A soft, wet pull, tongue sliding over your knuckles. Lips wrapping tight. He suckles like he’s trying to root himself there, eyes slipping shut as his jaw works in little rhythmic motions, the same way he mouths at his nicotine, the same way he mouths at your skin. It’s not about sex—not right now—it’s about soothing. About numbing the ache he’s carried for too long.
You exhale, soft. Let him do it. Let him have you like this.
His mouth is hot, wet, tongue tracing the tips of your fingers like he’s mapping out their shape. You feel the scrape of his teeth but it’s gentle, almost apologetic.
“Jesus, Dex.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Didn’t know you were this bad tonight.”
He just makes a quiet sound around your fingers—mhmm—and keeps going. His jaw shifts again, slow suckle, breath hitching slightly through his nose. His other hand fists in your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
You let him nurse at your hand like a habit. Like he’s replacing one compulsion with another.
Your other hand slides back into his hair, soothing. Stroking. His tongue drags between your fingers, eyes still closed, lips wet and soft as they work around the tips.
“You like that?” you murmur, almost teasing, but low and soft.
Dex nods without letting go, humming again. His chin shifts against your stomach—but he doesn’t stop suckling your fingers—his tongue continued working on your fingers.
It’s obscene, really. The sound of it, the wet pull of his lips. The way his mouth stays open, tongue greedy and searching.
You flex your fingers just slightly, pressing into his tongue. He lets out a tiny, wrecked sound, almost a whimper.
“You gonna be good for me?” you whisper, palm stroking over his temple. “Stay like this for a while?”
He sucks harder in answer, hips shifting slightly where he’s laid between your thighs. You feel the weight of him there, half-hard and aching, but too calm now to do anything about it yet. His body’s settling. Mind slowing down.
Your eyes gazed over him.
“What a sight.” you breathe.
His lashes flutter. His jaw works again. A soft, wet pull.
“Go ahead, baby. Take your time.”
And he does. He stays like that for a long while—chin on your stomach, nicotine pouch under his lip, sucking slow and greedy at your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping his mind from slipping back into the dark.
The corner of your lips twitched.
“Huh. Mmmaybe I'll give you somethin’ else your mouth could work with, too.”
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