𝐅𝐔𝐙𝐙𝐘. 𝜗𝜚 benjamin poindexter.
Dex spirals into a breakdown over a betrayal, but you ground him by keeping him inside you.
cw ᝰ .ᐟ HAPPY KINKTOBER ,, nsfw ,, cockwarming ,, gender neutral reader ,, sub!dex ,, coercion ,, manipulative reader if you squint ,, emotional comfort sex ,, MDNI
It started with the glass. Not the chair, not the rug, not something that could be nudged back into place, this time it was the sharp crack of glass against the wall, the shatter so sudden and violent it didn’t sound like it came from his own hand. Except it had. His hand was already bleeding, small cuts across his knuckles where the rim had splintered. He barely noticed. He was too busy grabbing the next thing within reach, hurling it at the opposite wall, watching it explode into fragments. A plate. A lamp. The sound was better than silence. The sound was proof he was still here.
He couldn’t stop. The rage kept climbing, blind and white-hot, lashing out at everything in sight. His fist went through the drywall, the crunch reverberating up his arm. He didn’t even feel the pain until he pulled back and saw the blood smearing across the pale surface. The hole gaped back at him, ugly, jagged. He pressed his forehead against it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’d just run ten miles. It wasn’t enough. It never was.
Fisk. The name alone set his teeth on edge, bile in his throat. He’d believed him. That was the sickest part of it, he had actually believed him. Every word, every carefully placed kindness, every glance that seemed to cut through the noise in his head, he’d held onto it like a lifeline. He’d let it convince him he wasn’t broken, that he was valuable, that he could be something. And it hadn’t been real. None of it had been real.
He thought he was something. That’s what burned the most. He thought he was seen. He thought the weight he carried, the urges, the violence, it all had a place, a use, a reason. Fisk had given him structure. A role. A mask that wasn’t a joke. He thought, God, he thought, he mattered. And now, all at once, he could feel it unraveling, like he’d been tricked into standing on a bridge that was never really there. One step forward and it crumbled under him.
The apartment felt too small. His head felt too loud. He kicked the table leg out from under it, watched it topple, wood cracking against the floor. Not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He wanted to tear down the walls. He wanted to scream until his throat bled.
The only thoughts that formed clear enough to hold onto were the ones that gutted him: You’re nothing. You’re nothing. He played you. He used you. He made you think you were more, and you were stupid enough to believe it.
He hated the mess, hated it, and yet he couldn’t stop making more. His body moved, rage propelling every twitch, every swing. He didn’t care. He wanted it gone, wanted everything gone.
He thought he mattered. He thought the structure meant something. He thought he was worth something.
Was Fisk laughing? Right now, was Fisk somewhere laughing about how easy it had been? Did everyone know? Did everyone see how desperate he was for someone to tell him he wasn’t broken? That he wasn’t dangerous? That he wasn’t—
His head snapped toward the door like he expected someone to be standing there, watching. His skin crawled with the thought. What if they all knew? What if every kindness was all pity, or worse, manipulation?
Being chosen, being noticed, had become such a normalized part of his day that he hadn’t seen the danger in it. Why would he? Fisk made it seem ordinary, routine, expected. Praise when he followed the structure. Assurance when the rest of the world’s noise threatened to overwhelm him. The kind of steady guidance Dex thought, naively, that he could trust.
But trust was a word that now tasted rotten. Fisk had known exactly which strings to pull, and Dex had mistaken the manipulation for meaning. He thought it was more. That he was more. That the monster he carried around in his skin had a purpose under Fisk’s command. But how easy it is to overthink those things after the fact.
Fisk. Fisk who made him feel like a soldier instead of a weapon. Fisk who had offered a place, a title, a reason to exist beyond the impulses clawing at him. Fisk who had pulled him in close just to prove how disposable he really was.
The thought alone cut something loose inside of him. The rage that had been pouring out in broken glass and split drywall stuttered, faltered, cracked beneath its own weight. His chest heaved, every breath shallow and frantic, the edges of his vision pulsing dark. His knuckles were raw, smeared in dust and blood. His apartment, a place that had always been sterile, lined up exactly so, was a wreck. He wanted to keep tearing it apart, he wanted to obliterate everything Fisk had touched in his head, but his arms felt heavy, his body catching up with the spiral.
He pressed his back to the wall, knees drawn up tight, breath catching in his throat as if the air itself had turned solid. His eyes burned hot, vision blurred, and though he bit down hard enough to taste copper, it didn’t stop the sting from gathering at the corners. His hands found his knees, rubbing in restless, twitching circles, desperate to anchor himself in some kind of rhythm. Too fast. Too shallow. Too much.
Had it all been a lie?
And then, almost without realizing it, his body gave out. He slid down the wall, collapsing fully onto the floor. His breath rattled and hitched, a sound he couldn’t control, something dangerously close to a sob that threatened to break loose. He pressed his palms harder into his knees like that might hold him together, stop him from splitting open completely.
The door opened.
He didn’t hear it at first, too deep in the spiral to register anything outside of his own head. But then movement cut through, the shift of light spilling across the wreckage of the apartment, and he jerked his head up. You stood in the doorway.
And for a moment, his panic only sharpened, his first thought was that you’d see, that you’d know, that his collapse was spread out like an autopsy under your gaze. The shards of glass glittering on the floor. The cracked drywall. The overturned lamp. The complete violation of the order he always clung to. His chest twisted when he caught the look on your face, the way your expression fell the second you took it all in.
Dex looked nothing like the man he pretended to be. He was curled against the wall like he could fold himself out of existence, eyes red and glossy, breath trembling, muscles twitching beneath skin stretched tight with adrenaline. He looked undone.
You’d been worried because his last messages had been a mess. He always replied fast; that was stupidly reliable. If he didn’t answer within ten minutes it was nothing, if he didn’t answer within an hour you texted again, then called. When he didn’t pick up the call you hovered between rationalizing, maybe he left his phone, maybe something at work, and the small, cold knot that told you this silence was different. Hours passed. You texted. You left a voice message that sounded like you were holding in panic. You told yourself you were being dramatic, then you put on your shoes and came.
The door closed behind you with the soft click of something ordinary in a place that had become anything but. The apartment, always so exacting, mugs aligned on the counter, the stack of newspapers at the same angle, his jackets hanging by color, had been vandalized by his own hands. You paused in the threshold, a slow inventory: a lamp toppled, frame glass scattered where he'd hit it, a ragged hole in the drywall. The neatness he clung to had been demolished.
Your heart did a quick, stupid double-take when you saw him, because you knew him, and what you were looking at wasn’t him. Not the tidy, clipped-off sentences he liked; not the man who arranged his pens by weight on the desk and who kept his mug on the same coaster every evening. You moved instinctively slower, because you knew the wrong speed could be a threat. Dex’ world tilted when things moved too fast. You had learned, from bruises of argument and late-night practice, which syllables calmed him and which jumpedscared him straight into fight-or-flight.
For a second you simply stood there and let your eyes scan him for damage. He hugged his knees to his chest, hands rubbing at them in a repetitive, anxious motion, thumbs working circles that didn’t make it better. His breath was a ragged; he blinked like someone trying to clear fog from a windshield.
You considered saying his name out loud to cut the distance, but you didn’t. You let the silence hang a beat longer, the way you had learned to wait when he needed to decide whether you were friend or danger. (It was always a little terrifying, the way his assessment could flip on a look.) Instead you stepped forward, very slowly, each movement measured and small, palms visible, shoulders low. Your bag was on your shoulder only until you set it down gently beside the door; the noise of it hitting the floor was careful, no sudden clatter to startle him.
You sat down opposite him on the floor, crossing your legs slowly because you wanted to be smaller, nonthreatening. You kept your hands on your knees, palms up, because he could see them, no hidden fists, no phone glowing with messages. The distance was deliberate: close enough he could reach if he wanted, far enough that he wouldn’t feel crowded. You watched him watch you watch him, and in that loop you did the math of what to say next and decided the first thing he needed was steadiness, not questions.
When you finally let your voice out it was soft and small, an observation turned gentle: “You’ve messed up the geometry,” you said, and there was the faintest attempt at humor. It landed a little; he blinked, the twitch at the corner of his mouth almost a memory of a smile, then vanished. His eyes went back to the hole in the wall like it might be a source of answer.
You kept cataloguing in your head, everything to know how to stay safe and how to keep him safe. Don’t lean over him. Don’t touch without permission. Don’t make sudden moves. Breathe slow; mirror his exhalation to show him you’re tethered to the same rhythm. You thought of the time he’d taught you to breathe through a panic attack, the ridiculous military cadence he swore was clinically unsound but had worked for both of you, and, before you realized you were doing it, you matched it: inhale for four, hold two, exhale for six. It was both a thing he’d taught you and a thing you were now using to show him you hadn’t left.
He watched that, watched the rise and fall of your chest and something in his shoulders loosened just a fraction, like a muscle relaxing when it’s safe to do so. You could see suspicion still there: the blinking shadow behind his eyes that said what if this is another lie? But under it, care pricked through, because he recognized the cadence and because he recognized you.
He made a small sound then, not a word, more a rasp, like someone clearing a throat that had been full of glass. His hands stilled on his knees. For the first time since you’d opened the door his gaze met yours and it was shaky, but it wasn’t fleeing. You stayed sitting on the floor across from him, and waited to be invited in, without pressure, without judgement, because you had learned that with Dex the only way in was patience and proof, slowly given, every single time.
His lips parted once, twice, before sound finally scraped out.
“He— lied to me.”
The words didn’t make sense on their own to you, but you didn’t rush to fill the silence. His eyes darted away as soon as they’d found you. You let the words sit between you, not prying. Still, gently, like one might try to coax a feral thing closer, you spoke, soft enough that your own breath nearly swallowed it.
“Who lied to you, Dex?”
His head jerked in the smallest movement, not quite a shake, not quite an answer, more the recoil of someone who didn’t trust the ground beneath them. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a name, maybe nothing at all. He swallowed it down so fast it burned.
You could see it, the fracture line between rage and collapse. You’d seen it before. The way his pupils sharpened like he was ready for a fight, only to dull again into something like despair when he realized there wasn’t one to win. His hands flexed uselessly against his own legs, open-close-open-close, like he couldn’t decide if he was supposed to strike or cling.
And you waited.
When you shifted, he flinched like the movement itself had teeth. Still, you let him watch you, let him track every second as you crawled closer across the floor, existing in his space without demanding entry. He didn’t move away. That was enough. “Dex,” you said again, firmer this time, grounding. “It’s me.”
Something in his face broke at that, his jaw working, his throat tight. You could feel the prickle of panic still radiating off him in waves, but beneath it, exhaustion was creeping in, tugging his shoulders down, blunting his edges.
You took that as the opening. Carefully, you reached out to lay your hand over his, stilling the nervous twitch of his fingers. His skin was clammy, but he didn’t pull away. “Come on,” you coaxed, not commanded. “Let’s get you up.”
It took time. His legs were stiff from the way he’d been curled, his body reluctant to unfold from its cage. You steadied him without smothering, guiding him as he leaned heavily into your shoulder. “Careful,” you said under your breath, as much for him as for you, as you nudged him away from the worst of the mess. You paused and tossed the bigger shards of glass in the trash, enough to keep bare feet safe later. The finer mess could wait. For now it was enough that you made the floor walkable again.
Dex sagged more heavily against you the longer he stood, his body betraying the burnout. You steered him toward the couch, the closest thing, lowering him gently down until he was sitting instead of folding in on himself. His hands found the fabric of your sleeve, holding tight, desperate enough that you knew he was asking you to stay.
You brushed a thumb along the ridge of his knuckle, not forcing eye contact he couldn’t hold yet. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
For a beat he only breathed, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like if he looked too long he’d shatter all over again. Then his jaw worked, the words dragged up from somewhere. “Fisk,” he rasped, voice cracked. “Fisk lied to me.”
Your heart clenched, the truth hitting harder because you’d had suspected it, at least in the corners of your mind, that Fisk wasn’t who he claimed to be he was for Dex. The way Fisk always gave with one hand while tightening a leash with the other. You’d felt it before you ever saw it, that the man didn’t offer anything without a reason, that he built loyalty by feeding hunger only so he could starve it later. And now you saw what that realization did to Dex, how it hollowed him out from the inside.
“Oh, sweetheart…” The word slipped from you, your throat aching with it. You leaned a little closer, careful not to crowd him. “I’m so sorry.”
He shut his eyes tight at that, chest rising like he wanted to argue, but there was no fight left in him. Sweat dampened his hairline, clung to his shirt. You kept your tone firm but gentle when you said, “Arms up.”
He obeyed instantly, without hesitation, without thinking. It broke you a little, the way compliance was etched into him so deep that even undone like this, he moved the second you asked. You tugged his shirt up over his head, careful not to jostle him too much, and set it aside. His skin was scolding, clammy, overheated.
“Better,” you murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair back from his forehead. “Can I get you something? Water maybe?”
His eyes cracked open, and for a second he looked like he didn’t even understand the question. Then, almost desperate, he said, “You.”
His hand reached toward you, fingers flexing like he was afraid he might break you just by holding on. He wanted you, but the wanting itself scared him, like everything in him was wired to destroy the things he reached for. His hand faltered like it might drop away. You caught it gently, folding his fingers into your own and guiding them until they rested at your waist. The grip was hesitant, feather-light, but you pressed closer, settling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him until his hands had no choice but to feel you there.
Your arms looped up around his neck, fingertips brushing the back of his head, grounding him in the simplest ways you knew how. His gaze was scattered, unfocused, darting toward every dark corner of the room like there were eyes hidden there. So you tipped his chin just enough to make sure all he could see was you.
You kissed along the line of his jaw, a series of touches that demanded nothing in return. He tensed, then released it in a shaky exhale that shuddered against your collarbone. Your mouth drifted lower, lips pressing to the side of his throat, then parting just enough to suck softly at the skin until the noise he made was something between a sigh and a broken sound.
Each each press of your mouth was meant to drag him back from the edge, to cut through the spiral with something simpler, heat, touch, proof. His hands tightened at your waist, anchoring himself. His eyes fluttered closed at last, lashes damp against flushed cheeks, and for the first time since you walked in the panic didn’t own him entirely. Another shaky sigh left him, softer this time, like he was letting the fight drain out of his body just by leaning into you.
“Does that feel good?”
The sound he made in return was half-sob, half-whimper, his head falling back against the couch as though the weight of sensation was too much to hold up. His hands gripped tighter at your waist, not daring to push, not daring to guide, just clinging. A muffled mh-hm slipped out, shaky with the kind of emotion that stripped him raw. He was caught in it, pleasure, panic, the needing of something to replace the spiral.
You trailed your mouth along his jaw again, slow nips and sucks meant to keep him tethered, “That’s it. Don’t think.”
He shuddered. His mouth opened, closed, until finally the words broke free in a voice that sounded cracked open, pleading:
“...More. Closer. Please.”
You pulled back enough to meet his eyes, which were glossy and seeking, before slipping off his lap. His gaze followed every move, wide and frantic with worry, but you kept your touch steady. Your fingers brushed his hip, then slid to the waistband of his pants. You helped him tug them down, then easing him out of boxers too, stripping away the layers that kept him locked tight in his panic.
It wasn’t new. You had been here before, not this exact spiral, but this need, this wordless plea. The first time it had happened it hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been something either of you had put words to. He had been restless, unable to stop pacing, running hands through his hair, clawing at his arms like something was going to rip him apart. Then when you had pulled him into bed, coaxed him to sink inside of you and just stay, it had quieted. His body had remembered what his mind wouldn’t let him trust: safety, warmth, belonging. Something to hold onto that didn’t break in his hands.
It was like that now. You could already feel the weight of what he wanted in the way he shook, in the way his eyes kept flicking to you like you might vanish if he looked away. Cockwarming wasn’t about sex to him. Not about chasing release or edge. It was about being so completely consumed by the feeling of being inside you that everything else had nowhere to root itself. The panic didn’t leave him, but it blurred under the intensity of sensation. He couldn’t spiral and hold onto you at the same time; the two states didn’t coexist.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. “I know,” you whispered, more truth than comfort. And you did. You always did, even when he couldn’t find the words.
You eased back just enough to strip yourself down, pants shucked off, underwear too with a simple slide of your fingers. It wasn’t hurried, it was the kind of slowness that told him you weren’t afraid of him. You were both bare now, skin against his, and he could feel it in the way your thighs pressed to his, the heat radiating, the proof of you solid in his hands.
He trembled beneath you, eyes flicking over your body like he couldn’t decide if this was another trick of a mind that had been eating itself alive all night. His breath hitched when you reached between you and took him in hand, guiding him, lining him up with your heat. The world narrowed for him in that second. What was sharp, what was undeniable, was the feeling of you holding him, ready to take him in.
The relief when you sank down over him was immediate. His jaw went slack, a sound catching in his throat and breaking off into silence as his head dropped against your shoulder. He clung to you with both arms, locking around your waist like he could weld you to him. The stretch, the warmth, the reality of being buried inside you, he melted into it.
You stayed still, letting him feel it, letting him fill you completely and just be there. His cock pulsed inside you, every twitch betraying how much he needed the stillness. He was extra quiet now, not a word leaving his lips, only the sound of his breathing against your shoulder. His skin was damp with sweat, chest pressed tight to yours, every inch of him bare against you, and yet the closeness wasn’t suffocating.
He held on tighter, fingers digging into your back like he was terrified you’d be pulled away. You let him clutch, let him bury himself in your body, let him feel the undeniable proof of you wrapping around him.
It always amazed you how it worked. How something that seemed so simple could rewire the entire mess of his mind. He wasn’t thinking about Fisk now, or betrayal, or the certainty of being nothing. He was only thinking of this, of the way your body enveloped him, the way you let him stay there. His breaths evened out slowly, one by one, and each sigh that left him carried less of the panic, more of the relief.
For a few blissful minutes, he existed only in you. His entire world had shrunk to the slick heat enveloping him, the overwhelming pleasure of being inside you, the way your body moved just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. His hands gripped your hips, digging in, and he swore, low and breathless, “Fuck…”
He melted further, teeth sinking into the crook of your shoulder, hands roaming like they couldn’t decide where to claim you first. He was gasping now, barely coherent, and for a few moments it worked, he couldn’t think, couldn’t spiral, couldn’t remember betrayal or Fisk or anything beyond the pleasure you were giving him.
But as the minutes stretched, you felt the tension returning. His hips twitched against yours, and his hands gripped your shoulders like he needed to push himself into you harder. His breaths became shorter, more frantic, eyes opening just a fraction, and you felt the panic creeping back into his mind.
“I—he… he made me think I was something. I’m nothing.. I’m… god, I’m such a fucking idiot.” His body stiffened, small shivers rolling across his skin as he started to withdraw just enough to be consumed by his thoughts. “I believed him… I —- I thought—” His chest heaved as if the truth was suffocating him. His grip loosened and then clutched again at your waist like he was terrified to let go, terrified to think without the distraction.
You pressed closer, letting your body move with him, subtle at first, teasing, just enough for him to feel you move. His words stumbled over themselves as your hips began to shift, gliding against his. His head snapped back, breath hitching mid-sentence. “What are you—?”
“It’s alright,” you cooed, one hand braced against his shoulder. “Just let me take care of you. You don’t have to think right now. Not about him, just me.”
He shivered, words catching in his throat as your hips pressed against his. “N—no,” he tried, hands pushing lightly at your waist as if trying to resist a gravity he couldn’t fight, every syllable half-protest, half-plea. His body betrayed him, sliding against yours in spite of his stiff refusal, slick heat reminding him that part of him didn’t want to pull away.
Your hands moved to steady him, fingers tracing the tension along his muscles, grounding him even as he jerked, squirmed, whined softly. “It’s okay,” you whispered, voice patient. “Just let it be good.”
His jaw clenched, the whine slipping past his lips again, the words shaky: “I shouldn’t— I’m not—”but his hips betrayed him, shifting ever so slightly to follow yours, sliding inside you despite his denial.
You pressed a hand to the curve of his cheek, tilting his head toward you, brushing a thumb softly against his clammy skin. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
His lips parted, teeth catching slightly, eyes half-lidded as he fought the urge to give in, cheeks flushed with the heat of it.
“Not… this…right now,” His voice broke, swallowed by a sharp intake of breath as your hand moved lower.
“Don’t fight it,” you pressed your forehead to his, then traced the tense line of his neck with soft kisses that made him twitch against you. “You’re allowed to let go.”
His hands loosened just enough for you to guide his body. His chest rose and fell erratically, pupils blown wide, lips parted in gasps that mixed protest with desire. The tension that had clung to him began to melt under your touch. You could see it in the way his jaw slackened, the way his eyelids fluttered, the tremble in his hips as he finally gave the smallest, hesitant push back against yours.
And then the surrender started to settle in. His face was undone, sweat slick, flushed, brows furrowed, lips swollen and parted, eyes heavy with the mixture of panic fading into pleasure. Every flicker of his muscles, every shiver, every soft, gasping whine painted the picture: he was drowning in sensation, completely undone by the way you moved him, teased him, claimed him.
“See?” you murmured against his ear, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re okay.”
And finally every push of your hips made his body respond whether his mind wanted it or not. His hands tried to wrest control, pressing against your shoulders as if to slow you down, but you kept going, knowing that movement was the only way to keep his mind fuzzy from everything else. Little by little, the tension in his back softened, shoulders dropping just a fraction.
His noises and gasps became desperate little sounds caught in his throat. Every thrust made him tremble, his body clinging to yours as if trying to hold himself together while simultaneously giving in. You felt the tight, trembling pulse of him inside you, the way his body reacted to every press and release.
You increased the pace, letting yourself ride the friction just as much as you guided him, leaning into the motion so that each movement set off little shivers through both of you. His hands found your back and shoulders again, clinging, pulling, seeking some sense of stability as he gasped against your neck, letting the sensations ripple through him.
“Shit, I—” The way he pressed into you, clinging to your heat, gripping your sides and hips, made it impossible to deny how much he needed this, needed you to push him past the panic, to hold him, guide him, and consume him.
Your movements intensified until the warmth, the slickness, and the friction built into a coiling tension that had both of you seeing stars. You could see it all over his face: the panic fading, replaced by lewd abandon, fucked out like some pretty little doll for you to ruin.
Dex' hips stuttered and jerked as the coil inside him snapped. He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural moan tore from his throat. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, sure to leave bruises, as his body went rigid. The feeling of his cock pulsing and throbbing inside you, flooding your insides with his hot seed, triggered your own climax.
Your vision went white as you felt his cum start to seep out around his still-pulsing length, dribbling down your thighs. His head rested against your shoulder, hair damp and sticking slightly to the sweat on your skin, lips brushing lightly across your collarbone as he let out a soft sigh. His hands clung to you with needy ownership. “Don’t go,” he voiced, caught somewhere between exhaustion and contentment.
You shifted slightly, brushing a hand down his arm, nudging gently. “Come on… let’s at least—”
“No,” his reply was immediate, heavy with fatigue. Normally, he’d insist, he’d fuss, he’d clean up, but not tonight. Tonight he was soft, pliant, utterly reliant on you, and you let him be.
“Okay.”
He nestled closer, and you could feel his pulse slow, the frantic flutter of earlier replaced by a slow, steady beat.
Every nerve ending seemed tuned only to the press of your skin, the sway of your body, the heat and tension that had you both tangled together. He was sloppy and messy, shivering faintly from overstimulation, and yet perfect in his surrender, unable to think of anything beyond the way you felt pressed against him.
★ a / n : first time publishing smut since like 2020 don’t shame me….. ummmm i went for something not super extreme to dip my toes into the water and see how i felt i will see about writing more explicit scenes 🤔
started 10.2.2025. finished 10.3.2025.
( masterlist. )
©️ monicfever 2025
