Self-destruction — Ben Poindexter x Reader
Tags: Sub/Top Dex - GN reader - Angst smut - Infidelity - Reader has a boyfriend - Unhealthy dynamics - Abandonment issues - Codependency - No specifications of reader's genitals
Your hips throb under the merciless weight of his grip, each thrust pounding through you with a rhythm that’s lost its grace, sloppy with exhaustion and need after round upon round of unrelenting hunger. The burn of it leaves your body trembling, stretched raw, every drag of his cock sliding through you, spreading slick heat that seeps down to ruin the sheets beneath.
The sticky mess clings to your thighs, soaking into the softness of the bed until everything reeks of sweat and sex, until there’s no clean space left between you.
His breath comes ragged in your ear, hot and uneven, the sound breaking apart into low sobs that scrape his throat raw. Sweat beads at his hairline, spilling down his cheek, the salt of it smearing on every inch of skin where there is connection with yours. His mouth never leaves your throat, desperate and clumsy, open kisses pressed into tender flesh, as though he’s trying to drink something out of you. Those kisses feel less like a claim and more like a plea—every mark he leaves another reminder that he can’t stop, won’t stop, not even when his body falters.
He clings as if the act itself is keeping him alive, as if letting go of you would undo him completely.
Every sound that tears out of him is steeped in desperation—high, broken whimpers spilling into breathless moans that shudder against your skin, as if each one carries the threat of him losing his mind. His body trembles above you, muscles tight and unsteady, arms wound around you in a grip that feels like the collapse of his limbs.
He clings so fiercely you can’t tell where you end and he begins, his weight sinking into you until you’re fused together, slick and shaking. His rhythm falters, stuttering, as though every thrust is a fight against the terror of losing you, of waking to find you gone.
He buries himself deeper like he could crawl inside your chest if you let him, chasing not just your body but the impossible promise of what lies beneath your skin and only there, he can quiet the hunger that keeps eating him alive.
Suddenly, his voice breaks against your neck, little words forced out on a ragged choke, raw and trembling with need.
“D–Do you think he’ll notice them?”
The question splinters in the air, small and ruined, dripping with a false shame that sounds almost convincing if not for the desperate whine threaded through it. He never speaks during sex, he never asks questions, he can be loud, he can cry until his throat hurts, but words are never involved.
“P–Please... Please will he notice them?”
He sounds shattered, pathetic, like he wants you to believe he regrets the marks he’s grinding into your skin—even as his mouth lingers, even as his hands bruise deeper. You wish, for one cruel second, that the shame were real. But it isn’t. It never is.
Your chest tightens, every breath caught tight as guilt scorches through you. Shame coils low in your gut, twisting itself into a knot so sharp it makes you sick with the weight of it, with the sheer disgust at yourself for letting it go this far.
And you should shove him off. You should put an end to it now—should have ended it long ago, back when there was still room for decency, back when you still had the chance to choose. But you didn’t. You stayed. And now the wrongness clings to you like heat, impossible to shake, binding you to him even as your mind begs you to stop.
But instead of letting the remorse hollow you out, your body just betrays you—your thighs cinch tight around him, pulling him deeper with a need you can’t smother, your back arching helplessly into the press of him. The shame gnaws at you even as you move, every motion a confession, every desperate shift of your hips an admission that you want what you swore you shouldn’t.
Because no matter how safe your boyfriend is, no matter how gentle, how unwavering his love for you is, he doesn’t make you ache like this. He doesn’t leave you gasping and undone, doesn’t drag you past the edge of control the way Dex does, he doesn't let you take the control like Dex does.
You told yourself you wanted someone better, someone good, someone whole—someone who wasn’t broken like this. But craving has its own gravity, and it drags you back again and again, pulling you straight into him, into the sweet contradiction between chaos and stability that only Dex can ignite.
And he feels it. In the way you clench around him, in the way you can’t quite leave him no matter how guilty your eyes look when he catches them in the dark, when you think no one can see, he knows how utterly incapable you are of quitting him.
He knows you’ll never choose him out loud, never in the daylight. He knows he’ll never be the one you introduce, the one who fits neatly into the life you’re trying to build.
But he’ll still take this. Every hidden bruise, every gasp you smother against his skin.
He will take being the secret, the mistake, the wound that will never fully heal. He’ll take it even though it guts him, because letting you go would destroy him. You are the only thing that steadies him, the only thing that silences the chaos in his head long enough for him to breathe. And if that means sharing you, if that means splitting what keeps him alive with someone who doesn’t deserve it — he’ll endure it. He’ll take anything, as long as it means you don’t leave him.
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🖋️: Hi hi guys, requests will probably be opened here. We have to think about the rules we'll absolutely not point out and yada yada, but no promises because we (me) can be pussies sometimes so idk. Thanks for enjoying the products of my sleep deprivation.
