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ORPHANED DREAMS (1) michael robinavitch x camgirl!reader [8.3k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dr. robby has spent decades patching up strangers while quietly falling apart himself. unable to shut his mind off long enough to rest after another exhausting shift, and aching for a connection that doesn’t come with expectations, he finds himself on a live cam site. there, he meets you—a mischievous, sweet vixen who loves... big things. — ⟢ CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader is mentioned to be in her late 20s); a little medical jargon (I study linguistics lol so I apologize in advance); angst; themes of loneliness, depression & grief; lonely!robby; self-deprecation & insecurity; smut; daddy kink; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; mention of exhibitionism; robby is hung (he has a complex over it, poor baby); slight overstimulation; nipple play.

A/N: first robby story and first fanfic after almost a month of inactivity, kinda nervous 🥹 hope you’ll enjoy! next chapter | series masterlist

Robby has been staring at the glow of his laptop for far longer than necessary. The cursor blinks patiently on an empty screen, indifferent to the quiet war unfolding in front of it.

At last, with the reluctant resolve of a man about to cross a bridge he can’t see the end of, he opens a private browser window. It’s an unnecessary precaution, he knows, there is no one here but him; his apartment is small, comfortably worn, and it only bears the evidence of long shifts and forgotten meals. No nosy friend is going to walk through the front door and go straight for his laptop, no partner is waiting up for him.

The website appears in the search bar before he’s even finished typing the first three letters, something that he indulges in only in nights like these, when exhaustion settles so deep into his bones that it should be enough to knock him unconscious, yet his mind refuses to surrender. Every flutter of his eyes brings back flashes of fluorescent lights and blood-stained gloves, as conversations he should have had differently resound in his mind like distant murmurs. Because the emergency department never really lets him leave when he clocks out, it just follows him quietly like a sad ghost, but no less relentless.

A familiar warmth creeps up the back of his neck as he presses enter. It feels indecent, like being caught hovering over a magazine he wasn’t supposed to read at fourteen, but the silence of the apartment stretches too wide some nights. After all, Pittsburgh can offer any kind of spectacle but little comfort.

After twelve hours deep in the chaos of monitors beeping left and right, the stillness should feel like a relief. But lately, it has begun to feel more like damnation. 

So he exhales slowly and rubs a hand over the salt-and-pepper beard shadowing his jaw, ready to look for a pretty face to jerk off to, which definitely sounds much more exciting in theory than in practice. When the page finally loads, though, his body stills as a subscription prompt blooms across the screen: a sleek black box, impossible to dismiss without making a choice.

Continue with Premium Access.

Monthly Membership.

For a second, Robby just stares. Right, the month-long free trial ended a few days ago, but he was too tired to do something about it and ultimately passed out on the couch, which his back made him pay for dearly the following day.

The language is all teasing confidence, because the site knows exactly why he’s here.

At the very bottom, in text so small it feels almost mocking, runs a single line: you must be over 18.

A dry scoff escapes him. Of course he is of age—embarrassingly, pathetically so, to be lurking on this side of the internet. Still, the cursor hovers uselessly over the button. 

A weary sigh echoes in the dim-lit room, filled with the discomfort of recognizing a routine he’d never intended to develop. Robby has spent enough years telling patients to pay attention to patterns and habits that become dependencies before they realize it. But this isn’t that, he keeps telling himself. No, it’s not. It’s just another way of quieting a mind that has forgotten how to rest on its own.

Sometimes, taking the edge off is enough to trick his body into sleep. 

But tonight, faced with the inescapable choice of creating an account or forgetting the existence of this website forever, Robby feels pathetic enough to hesitate.

The idea of getting himself off to a stranger on the internet has always felt like checking a box rather than satisfying a need: an efficient, predictable matter over in a few minutes—a little depressing when reduced to a chore, yes, but at least it does the trick. Which is probably why his mind keeps traitorously coming back to the same uncomfortable thought. 

It slips through the cracks when he’s tired enough to let his guard down, when a shift has run long, when he catches himself lingering in the hospital parking lot with nowhere in particular to be. 

Sex has never really been the problem, yet somewhere along the way the rest of his life narrowed into work and recovery from work. One shift bleeding into the next, one year folding into another, the hospital full of people who knew him well enough to trust him with their lives, but not to call on a day off just to ask how he was doing. And he makes a conscious effort to ignore the sting. Still, there are moments when the realization catches up to him in brief, unwelcome flashes of clarity. Watching colleagues leave at the end of a shift because someone is waiting at home, passing families in the grocery store… It all makes sitting alone at his kitchen table at three in the morning with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator for company feel like he has somehow failed at life.

Because the truth is that even meticulous, irascible Dr. Robby craves for a connection. 

A partner.

A presence that might soften the long evenings that have become dull routine. Someone to share the silence with after a grueling day in a place where desperation and hope blend together. Someone who wouldn’t mind waiting up when a shift runs late, or falling asleep on the couch while he reheats leftovers neither of them have the energy to eat.

There was a time when Robby assumed the rest would simply happen after finding a stable job, that somewhere between a chest tube insertion and a code gray, he’d stumble into the kind of life everyone else seemed to build without much effort: a marriage, a family, holidays that didn’t have to be traded away to younger colleagues because there was someone expecting him at home.

Instead, medicine kept asking for more, and Robby gave in all the time.

However, he never treated it like a sacrifice, the choice was made gladly at the thought of another patient walking out of the ER because he’d been there to help them. Then the years accumulated without him noticing, marked by new classes of residents, by colleagues retiring and children of coworkers growing old enough to apply to medical school themselves.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, life became something that happened to other people. The losses didn’t help, nor the failed relationships—if he could even call the handful of brief, half-hearted entanglements that followed that. Robby considered them patterns that ended before they had time to become anything real, leaving behind little more than a few shared nights and the uncomfortable irony of having once mistaken convenience for intimacy.

Grief, on the other hand, hollowed out spaces he didn’t even know could be emptied, then quietly settled into them as though it had always belonged there. Some mornings, Robby can almost convince himself he’s learned to live around it. Other days, it feels like thorny branches constricting around his lungs.

Now, when he catches his reflection in the darkened window after another sleepless night, the man looking back seems older than fifty-three: the lines around his eyes have settled too deeply to blame fatigue alone, his beard surrendering to more gray than brown. Proof of the time spent taking care of everyone else that the idea of someone choosing to take care of him feels almost risible.

Perhaps he has simply missed his moment, he finds himself thinking more often than he likes to admit while the city beyond glitters with other people’s lives.

It’s not as though he’s made himself particularly approachable, either. With a temperament that has only grown sharper with age and too many ghosts weighing on his conscience, letting people in has begun to feel like a risk not worth taking. It’s easier to be the brilliant, impatient attending than the man who is haunted by outcomes he couldn’t change. Even if beneath the wrinkles and the barked orders, lies a clear, painful truth: Robby is lonely.

His colleagues have friends, spouses, lovers, children… lives waiting beyond the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s emergency room. But what does Robby have? An apartment big enough to fit a nursery that grows impossibly cold and quiet day by day, and a body too exhausted to even rest properly.

It’s a bleak conclusion, and not a particularly useful one. Dana would tell him to stop catastrophizing, Jack would probably remind him that he’s simply “vintage” and then jokingly suggest a cane with his coffee. Langdon, if he caught him in the right mood, would make some smart-ass remark just to get him to roll his eyes.

And maybe they’d all be right. But it doesn’t make the apartment any less empty.

He’s probably romanticizing this more than it deserves. It isn’t as though subscribing to a cam site is some quiet admission of defeat, nor is it a desperate attempt to fill the void in his chest with something they never promised to provide. Robby is grown enough to not expect companionship from a woman whose job is to make strangers feel wanted for an hour. That particular fantasy belongs to younger men, foolish enough to mistake attention for affection.

A humorless chuckle escapes under his breath, he’s really debating whether a monthly subscription to a pornography website is a worthwhile expense. It’s only a distraction.

The tightness in his shoulders eases a little, replaced by the brittle sort of resolve that comes with lowering one’s expectations. The box disappears almost instantly after he sets a quick profile and links his payment information, and the page refreshes again. What replaces it is a familiar mosaic of little squares competing for his attention all at once. Hands concealing intimate body parts, bare legs crossed, backs turned, coy smiles… and then there are more crude images that leave nothing to the imagination, yet Robby’s gaze drifts across them the way he might eye a dessert menu, already knowing he won’t order anything.

By now, the rhythm is always the same: he scrolls for a while, sometimes he sighs when he realizes he has been staring blankly at the same corner of the screen, only to resume scrolling a moment later, before eventually clicking into a room if someone catches his eye. He stays enough to come and then turns off his laptop, trying with varying degrees of success to sleep.

Names blur, faces too. He rarely returns to the same camgirl twice, because this works better when everyone remains a stranger. Coming back would invite the kind of attachment he has neither the time nor the right to indulge. 

His index finger idly rolls the mouse wheel as a faint grimace pulls at his mouth. Objectively, there is nothing wrong with any of them. He really shouldn’t be this picky with his unkempt stubble and wrinkly forehead. Robby should just settle on one, instead he keeps scrolling, until he mindlessly leads the cursor toward the red x, half-considering closing the site altogether.

But then his hand stills when his eyes mindlessly wander across the page. 

A beautiful woman appears in one of the smaller thumbnails, languidly leaning forward with a clear toy glinting in the light. Robby stares at the image for longer than he should, a warm sensation already coiling tight in his lower belly. It’s not just the pose, nor even the suggestive promise of the scene… it’s your eyes.

Even reduced to a thumbnail no larger than a postage stamp, they catch him off guard: bright, unmistakably alive. There is an ease to your expression that doesn’t look rehearsed, a flicker of amusement lingering at the corners of your mouth as though you’re sharing a joke with the people on the other side of the screen. Your eyes twinkle with playful determination, perhaps even a touch of recklessness, the sort that suggests you know exactly what you’re doing… and you’re enjoying it.

Robby has seen enough of this to know that a camera and a few whiny words can manufacture intimacy, making a smile feel personal and a glance deliberate.

This should be no different.

And yet, Robby doesn’t scroll past. 

His gaze inevitably drops to the title of your stream, and he almost chokes on his breath.

“Can Daddy fuck me better than my toy?”

Robby’s jaw tightens. 

The site is littered with titles like that, he’s scrolled past several of them over the past few weeks without a second thought, if not with the occasional roll of his eyes at those who didn’t sound even remotely sexy in this particular context. “Daddy” has been stripped of any real meaning by repetition until it feels almost cartoonish to him.

So why does it feel like he’s just been strapped into a rollercoaster? 

His eyes drift back to your face.

You look impossibly young—but not enough that the word feels like a mere gimmick. 

His first instinct is to scoff at himself. For God’s sake, you’re talking to thousands of anonymous viewers, the title wasn’t written for him any more than it was for anyone else. It’s marketing, a carefully chosen fantasy designated for horny losers like Robby to take the bait.

Yet for the first time, he doesn’t really mind playing that role.

Swallowing thickly, he clicks on the stream with an abrupt motion before he can think himself out of it.

The sound reaches him first, a breathy moan leaking from the speakers.

“Fuck—ah ’s too big.”

Robby immediately fumbles with the volume out of habit more than embarrassment. The quiet feels too fragile tonight and he isn’t in the mood to have it broken all at once.

His ears burn at the sight as his eyes betray him, lingering on the screen despite his hands clumsily looking for his glasses abandoned somewhere on the desk. Your naked form enthusiastically rides the clear dildo beneath you, your body shifting with an easy confidence that makes his breath hitch. Even if your face is drawn tight with pleasure, the warm glow of the ring light softens your features.

The sight sends a strange jolt of heat through him, quickly followed by a prickling sense of discomfort. Despite the entire performance being part of the principle that keeps the site running, for the first time ever the moment feels faintly exploitative to Robby.

And yet, his lips part in awe.

You are... gorgeous, yes. There is something captivating about the way you move, a rhythm that feels spontaneous, though guided by a cheeky familiarity. The sounds that slip past your lips are sweet and breathy, threaded with bliss in a way that sends an unexpected shiver down his spine. It’s a pleasant respite from the loud, tacky sounds that most camgirls put up for show, sometimes they are so irritating he needs to put them on mute. Yours are genuine enough to feel almost intimate, as though Robby has wandered into a moment not entirely meant for him.

Your body responds to pleasure with a fluid grace, from the slow roll of your hips, to the subtle tension that travels through your thigh with each movement. When your back arches, it’s instinctive, unguarded, and it pushes your breasts forward in a way that feels both vulnerable and mesmerizing. For a fleeting second, the pose appears nearly sculptural, the soft light catching along your delicious curves before you relax again with your breath uneven.

Robby shakes his head lightly, suddenly aware of how intently he has been watching you.

It’s not the obvious lewdness of the performance that holds his attention, but that spark of boldness that reveals itself across your expression, and your confident movements in front of the camera’s gaze.

Beautiful, certainly. But more than that, impossible to ignore.

Your giggle at some message in the chat melts into a gasp as you lower yourself until your folds graze the base of the toy. Your hazy eyes roll back in ecstasy as heat coils violently in your lower belly, prompting you to start bouncing up and down like a hopping bunny, your palms flat on the floor to help your hips roll more easily.

Robby didn’t know how much he needed this. Each gesture, each subtle provocation draws out something unfamiliar in him—shame at how much he’s enjoying this, laced with undeniable arousal. His hand tightens briefly at the edge of the desk, and a low, unbidden hum escapes his throat before he can stop it. His pulse hammers in a way that feels almost worrying. It’s disorienting, intoxicating, and entirely new.

And he’s only just begun.

“I wish you were here to feel how wet I am.” You sigh. “Can you hear it?” Your filthy words pull a sharp huff out of Robby as his focus automatically latches onto the subtle soppy noises complimenting your moans.

Your chest heaves, glossy lips opening in a perfect circle as you look up at the camera with an innocence that only heightens the intensity of the moment. “Are you close, Daddy?” 

Robby can’t even remember the last time his sweatpants have been this unbearably tight, so he unties them hastily, lowering them along with his boxers enough to expose his erection. He wants to touch himself, to lose himself in this perverted fantasy against the nagging thought at the back of his mind insisting that you are probably half his age. 

“That’s it, baby.” You cry out, circling your hips so the toy rubs against your walls. “Please, please wanna feel your cum leaking out of me all night.”

Your dirty mouth and sweet manners have him completely dizzy, and Robby can no longer resist the burning urge to grant his cock some sort of relief. Quiet groans fill the space as he gives his hard and throbbing girth a few experimental strokes. Fully erect, Robby’s cock is imposing, longer and thicker than the large dildo you are bouncing on. 

He can’t stop the memory from creeping in: his most recent, humiliating sexual experience. A woman he met at a bar took one look at his dick and promptly looked back into his eyes with disbelief, before climbing out of bed and inventing some poor excuse about not feeling well. The sting of that action lingered far longer than it should have—along with his erection, since his not-so-little friend had apparently decided to take a vacation that day, so Robby was forced to secretly swallow a little blue pill after the woman had expressed her interest to go back to his.

He reckons that you too would be horrified by his size, but for this fleeting moment, he will allow himself to pretend otherwise, wishing to bask into the fantasy of your gaze eyeing him approvingly, your small, teasing smirk meant for him alone. It’s absurd and delusional, and Robby would probably slap himself later, but it feeds a buried, rare warmth in his chest that he ignored for too long. It craves to be seen, for appreciation for the part of himself he is most ashamed of, because even if he had a fair share of good sexual experiences, the difficulties of making it fit and the backhanded compliments were always there.

“See how good I’m taking it? I told you it’d fit!” He almost chokes on his own saliva.

Maybe you could really take him just fine with a little careful preparation.

The tip alert has been going off this whole time, and the doctor thinks he understands now. There is something about you that pulls at his chest; he wants to shower you with everything he has to offer: his focus, his praise, his money, the small gestures that might make you notice him amongst the countless people competing for your attention.

It’s not just lust, or simple curiosity. The thought of being acknowledged and leaving a trace of himself in your world, however fleeting, claws at his chest with dangerous eagerness.

Anticipation churns violently in his belly, urging him closer to the screen. To you.

“Oh God! Daddy, I’m coming, come with me—please, please…” You whimper, your breasts perky and bouncing with every thrust of your hips.

“Shit.” Robby grits out as his orgasm takes him by surprise.

His legs shamelessly part as his cock spurts over the hand he has wrapped around it, lost in the sad illusion that it’s your pussy gripping him so tight. He milks every last drop, soiling part of his belly and pants as well, but his mind is too blinded by pleasure to acknowledge the mess.

Your moans grow louder and higher, and the sight of your cunt stretching so deliciously around the silicone stops Robby from leaving his cock alone. He keeps the strokes going, squirming at the twinge of overstimulation.

“Fuck.” Your hips jerk forward once, body sinking down on the whole length as you curl up on yourself. Your hips twitch and your chest heaves with each gasp while your climax washes over you. Your eyes roll back and Robby’s spent length jerks in interest, it has been far too long since he has felt this good after masturbating.

He should be ashamed of jerking off to a young woman calling him daddy and begging to be filled with his big cock, but frankly he couldn’t care less.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the way your sensitive walls clench around the toy once more, before you tiredly push yourself up on your knees to gently pull it out.

“Look what you’ve done to me.” You sit back on the beige towel you probably laid on the floor before the stream, your legs opening to allow your fingers to spread your folds for the camera. Then you reach for the dildo again, parting your lips enough for your tongue to peek out and give the length a teasing lick. 

“Fucking hell.” Robby mumbles, his eyes jumping back and forth between your stretched lips and your fingers lazily playing with your glistening pussy. You can’t be real.

He frowns at his cock. No, he’s too tired and sensitive for another round; it would require too much time, even if you keep stoking the fire inside him with every little lick.

“Hm, bet you’d love the taste.” Suckling on the tip, you stare directly at the lens, as if to challenge him. 

Robby rubs his stubble, a tired huff escaping his nostrils at the desperate need to wrap his hand back around his length just to come again at the sight of you tasting yourself. You hollow your cheeks one last time, letting the dildo out of your mouth with a resounding pop.

“I had so much fun tonight, guys.” You smile, and Robby swears his heart stutters a little. “I really needed it.”

“Oh!” You perk up. “Look what I got today…” You reach for something off-camera, coming back a few seconds later as you proudly dangle a nipple chain in front of you.

Your eyes flick to the side, presumably reading the chat as texts quickly pour one right after the other. The relentless speed at which they race across the screen is enough to make Robby look away before a headache has the chance to settle in.

You giggle—a refreshing melody that makes him lean back in his chair with a quiet sigh. “Not tonight, you perverts! Your baby girl can only take so much.”

Your baby girl, his mind repeats unhelpfully.

It’s almost impossible to reconcile the two images in his mind: the woman who was eagerly making herself feel good in front of an audience, and the adorable, radiant sweetheart chatting naked with five hundred viewers, as if it were just another Tuesday for you. 

It leaves Robby completely smitten.

“Well, have a good night.” You conclude, offering a casual wave. “See you on Thursday!” A playful blow of a kiss follows, and then the notice that the stream has ended covers the screen, leaving your lovely smile frozen behind it.

Silence abruptly engulfs the room with Robby sitting motionless before the screen where a handful of your recommended videos line the sidebar. He scarcely has time to register the fact that, until now, he has never stayed long enough to watch a stream until the end, before the cursor is already hovering over your username, clicking through to your profile almost on its own accord.

Details about private shows and video requests are listed, along with your regular schedule, so Robby promptly opens the calendar app on his phone and makes a note with careful precision. He perks up once he notices the photo gallery: images of you posing in colorful lingerie that compliments your skin tone, teasingly aware of the camera; a few shots of you naked and on your knees before a full-length mirror, body angled sideways and one arm shielding your chest; and then a picture of you lounging in bed, lips wrapped around a red heart-shaped lollipop.

But there are also videos, which his cardiologist would almost certainly advice against.

Some are very short, like the one where you stand in front of the camera, the only parts visible being your mouth and your torso as you pull your tight top up to let your tits bounce free. Some are a little longer, a taste of what to expect in your streams, like the one where you are in a car—presumably yours—giving a dildo a blowjob. The toy has a suction cup attached to the window on the driver side, and you are enthusiastically sucking it off in the middle of a dark underground parking garage, your chest bare and your hips thrusting desperately into the air to find a bit of stimulation for your pussy. If his breath hitches at the thought of you loving the possibility of getting caught, Robby almost has a heart attack at the next one. Because you are lying on your bed, gasping and writhing as you bully your clit with a pink vibrator, body covered by a long, flimsy cardigan left open, the color suspiciously close to the old Burgh zip-up hoodie he wears at work. 

He decides to close the tab once he realizes he has been looking for familiar signs in the background of the first video.

Without hesitation, Robby subscribes to your account, confirming the payment before his hands hover over the keyboard at the box asking if he wants to send a tip. Money is not something he has in abundance, but decades dedicated to medicine and no one else depending on his paycheck have afforded him a certain comfort. Enough, at least, that the occasional indulgence never requires much deliberation. 

His right palm rests on the desk, fidgeting nervously when his eyes catch the optional box to leave a message alongside the tip.

It would be nothing, just a sentence. But even that feels like a step too far. He could already see how it would unfold: he’d check back later, and then again, pretending not to care, measuring the hours by the absence of a reply. And if you do respond, even briefly, neutral, it would lodge somewhere deep and stubborn inside his chest. Another invisible weight he would carry alone. The thought makes him ache with a stinging, familiar recognition.

Wanting has always been the dangerous part: it turns fleeting moments into promises no one has made.

Shaking his head, Robby lets out a humorless chortle. He can’t believe himself. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Convincing yourself that a few words might change the shape of things, that you can step out of the misery you built your life around just by being sincere enough.

The cursor continues its patient blinking.

Not even an hour ago, you had been another fish in the sea. Another room to wander into before sleep for a quick orgasm. Another name destined to dissolve into the rest by morning. That has always been the appeal of this place: no history, no expectations.

Robby drags a hand down his face.

Christ, in the span of a single night, he’d managed to break every rule he had set for himself.

He stayed until the end. He subscribed. He caught himself searching the screen for scraps of a life that has nothing to do with him. He fucking put the reminder of your next streams in his calendar.

That’s enough.

Robby has spent too many years indulging impulses in the ED, where every instinct tells you to keep going and order one more test, ask one more question, chase one more possibility. Reality, on the other hand, teaches you that there comes a point when doing more isn’t helping anymore, but it’s only delaying the moment you have to let go.

This feels too familiar.

With his jaw clenched, Robby withdraws his hand from the keyboard. The message box disappears with a single click and soon his face is the only thing staring back at him through the black screen.

By Wednesday morning, the startling revelations of the night before have already begun to dissolve beneath the familiar rhythm of the hospital. Ambulances arrive in relentless succession, one of the residents spirals during a thoracotomy and Robby has neither the time nor the gentleness to pull them back together, and Gloria corners him again in the hallway with another quality report tucked beneath her arm, causing Robby to ask whether patient satisfaction might improve if they stopped expecting miracles from a skeleton crew.

He snaps more sharply than he intends to, but then forgets the entire exchange before the end of the shift.

His apartment keeps feeling less like a place to live and more like somewhere to leave his shoes between shifts. Sleep comes reluctantly in fractured stretches interrupted by dreams he never quite remembers and alarms that sound so cheerful it feels almost mocking.

He doesn’t really have the opportunity to think about his stupid slip-up. 

Although the thought of you surfaces once or twice during rare quiet rides in the elevator, the ED has a way of demanding every tiny crumb of his attention. There is always a patient to reassess, another family waiting for answers he can’t always give.

On Thursday night, he is halfway through a documentary about the deep-sea ecosystem—something slow enough that doesn’t require much thinking—when a soft chime causes him to startle.

His phone lights up on the coffee table, a groan rumbling in his ribcage when Robby stretches towards it and his lower back stings. He’s already slipping into the Chief mentality, before he freezes.

It’s not a text desperately asking for his presence at work, nor one of those useless spam emails from random websites he accidentally subscribed to. It’s a calendar alert.

For your stream.

He completely forgot he’d set a reminder.

His thumb hovers over the notification without touching it. 

Deleting it would be the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he lets the documentary continue in the background, the narrator calmly explaining with his British accent the migration patterns of creatures that spend their lives in perpetual darkness while Robby stares at the screen until it goes black again.

He was doing perfectly well. Better, even. The last forty-eight hours returned everything to its rightful order: work, home, sleep—when it came.

Opening that website again would accomplish exactly nothing.

He has spent years building his life around restraint to mistake a passing desire for a reason. Wanting is not the same as needing, curiosity is not permission, and whatever restless pull has taken hold of him tonight is only that, a disturbance. Still, it lingers tightly beneath his breastbone, refusing to ease no matter how deeply he breathes, or how firmly he reminds himself that he has already crossed enough lines as he briefly stood at the edge of something he had no business approaching. That should have been enough to shut down whatever foolish part of him wanted to see you again.

But the ache keeps asking for one more indulgence. He can feel the shape of temptation clearly enough to name it for what it is: pure humiliating desire to feel something other than the dull, disciplined exhaustion that has become part of who he is.

Maybe that’s all this is, of course. The week has been unforgiving: he’s slept poorly, eaten worse, his afternoon spent untangling problems that should have never reached his desk in the first place. For fuck’s sake, he’s over fifty years old, the Chief of one of the busiest emergency departments in the city... He is not the sort of man to be unmoored by a woman he has seen once in his life. You don’t even know of his existence beyond a subscription notification.

And this... well, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Or at least that’s the lie he settles on for tonight. 

Before he has fully decided otherwise, Robby is already reaching for the laptop resting at the other end of the couch.

This time you’re dressed in a snug top and a pair of shorts, looking all pretty and sinful at once as you sit cross-legged on the floor in front of your bed.

There’s a delicate warmth to your presence, that same teasing energy he witnessed two days ago reflecting in the slight tilt of your head. Your effortless grace makes it impossible for Robby to look at you with anything short of admiration dancing in his own eyes.

“Thank you for joining me today.” 

The chat is already alive, and you greet a few viewers whose usernames are marked with colorful emblems. They must be regular donors.

Robby wonders how much they must have spent to earn that kind of attention. For a dangerous moment he considers typing a greeting himself, but the words feel too heavy, still awkward, so he sets on quietly basking a little longer in your presence.

“As I wrote in my Instagram story, tonight I feel like doing a Q&A, nothing too tiring, if you’re all up for it. I’m exhausted.”

You have an Instagram account. Maybe he will follow Santos’ advice and set one too.

The messages slow just enough that Robby can finally make out actual words instead of random blurry spots.

You squint at the screen. “Okay, first of all, whoever keeps spamming the same question in all caps…” Your lips twitch. “I’m not answering it out of principle, just so you know.”

A row of laughing emojis floods the chat.

“See? Actions have consequences.” 

You silently observe the texts for a while.

“Do you actually read all of these messages? Absolutely not. Have you seen yourselves? You type faster than I can think.” You snort. “Which, to be fair, isn’t something I like to do after nine p.m.”

“How am I doing tonight? Thanks for asking, milf_fucker86.” Robby rolls his eyes at the username. “As I mentioned before, I’m drained. It’s one of those weeks where every single day feels like it should’ve been Friday.”

You frown, freezing as you are tucking one leg beneath yourself.

“Actually, tomorrow is Friday.” 

kneel4mommy

Same

real_tom_thanks

girl me too

softboiii69

LMAOOO

“Thank God it’s not just me.” You shake your head with a chuckle before leaning forward to look for more interesting messages.

“What do you do when you’re not streaming?” You sigh. “I recover from streaming.”

A few people protest.

“No, seriously.” You stretch your arms above your head, and Robby tries unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from wandering to your turgid nipples straining against the tight fabric.

“I work, I bother my friends with stupid reels, I spend an embarrassing amount of time convincing myself I’ll start going to the gym next Monday…” A forlorn sigh escapes your nostrils.

kneel4mommy

Which monday?

“Okay, that’s exactly the kind of negativity I don’t need.” You look gravely at the camera, before a small smile brightens your face.

“Favorite book? Oh, don’t do this to me.” You grimace. “I can’t just pick one, it depends on the day. I have, like… categories.” You keep your eyes on the chat as you hum pensively.

“Right now I’m halfway through this novel… It’s about this woman who keeps finding handwritten notes in library books from someone she never meets.” You put your hands in front of you, palms open and pointed at the camera. “Now, I know how that sounds.” Your voice is cautious, but the chat immediately starts teasing anyway.

“Oh my God, it’s not cheesy!” You scoff a laugh, squinting slightly. “Well, okay, no maybe it’s a little cheesy. But the writing is really good! It’s less about romance and more about… hm, I don’t know.”

You look sideways, pursing your lips in thought.

“The weird ways people leave pieces of themselves behind without meaning to.” You speak carefully. “Don’t know if that makes any sense, my brain is too fried to be this profound at this hour.”

“Okay, next question!” You perk up, clapping your hands once, and Robby feels his lips stretch into a smile of his own.

“Dumbest thing you’ve done recently? Oh, that’s easy. I tried baking cookies for my best friend’s birthday party.” The chat fills with hearts.

“Nah, don’t ‘aww’, it was a complete disaster.” You grimace. “I forgot baking soda.” An embarrassing silence fills the room as the chat fills with emojis ranging from confusion to resignation.

“Which apparently is important.”

touched_grass_once

apparently?????

“Listen, they looked fine!” You shrug. “They were just… a little flat.” 

The chat erupts with laughter.

“My apartment smelled like fucking smoke for two days.” You grin sheepishly. “BUT! My best friend still ate one.”

You suddenly burst out laughing. “Yes, froyo_baggings, that’s the same friend who called me crying two months ago because she thought someone had broken into her apartment. For anyone who doesn’t know this story, she rounded the corner, saw a figure standing in the hallway and immediately dialed my number. That person was her. Because she’d bought a full-length mirror that morning.”

You shake your head. “Yes, of course she loved the cookies! It’s the thought that counts after all.”

More questions race past about your job, but you are careful to keep it vague enough to not give out too many details. Though Robby must repeatedly remind himself this is only your online persona, he is hopelessly invested. So much that he completely ignores the small ding from his microwave, where a now cold lasagna sits forgotten. You are so entirely captivating that the impossible thought of meeting someone like you in real life presses against his chest, sharp and tender all at once.

“Where do you live? No.” 

“What’s your real name? Fuck no.”

“Can we see your apartment? The fuck?” Yet you still smile as you say it, enough that it never feels like a full rejection.

“I don’t mind sharing little things about my life, but some things get to stay mine.” Your smile turns tight as you continue, something you decide to hide by biting your bottom lip and focusing back on the questions.

“Dream vacation? You know what’s funny?” You change position, crossing your legs again. “Every time somebody asks me this, they expect me to say something like Greece or the Maldives.” You shake your head.

“Absolutely not.”

The chat explodes with question marks.

“Because if I’m on vacation I don’t want to come back more exhausted than when I left. I can’t stand the heat, and spending an entire week on the beach under the sun would put me directly underground. I prefer somewhere cold.”

byteme

you’re insane

“Am I?” One of your eyebrows lifts skeptically.

No, Robby thinks you are actually one of the sanest people he has ever met.

“You’ve never had tea by the window while it rains outside? You’ve never sat in one of those tiny cafés where you can’t understand a single thing about what everyone around you is saying but somehow that’s the most peaceful place in the world?” 

Your voice softens just a fraction.

“I think I’d like that.” You nod slowly, but the sentimentality does not last for long.

“What’s your favorite organ?” Recoiling, you stare at the camera in horror. “Who raised you people?”

Robby lets out a quiet laugh, an involuntary reaction that he kills on the spot by setting his lips into a thin line. The sound would be ordinary for any other person, but it catches him completely off guard, because he can’t remember the last time he laughed like that, particularly with one one else in the room. 

It’s in that moment that the doctor finally becomes aware of himself and the apartment that continues existing around him without asking anything in return. The clock in the corner of your stream says it’s been almost thirty minutes, and Robby frowns at it as if it has personally offended his whole family. 

It’s not possible. He had meant to stay for ten, fifteen minutes at the absolute most. Again, long enough to let the day loosen its grip from his shoulders, not watching you talk about books and fucking cookies. 

But somewhere along the way he stopped hoping for your clothes to come off. And while his body is no less tense than it was when he opened his laptop, and the stinging behind his eyes lingers as he decided to forgo his glasses this time, the urgency that has driven him here in the first place has receded silently. It’s embarrassing how, instead, Robby has been devouring every single word falling from your lips like a starved man: the detours, the way you gesticulate animatedly when the chat teases you, your soft smiles… 

And now he knows that the same woman whose real name still remains a mystery, whose face is illuminated by a ring light instead of the morning sun, can’t tell a story without accidentally collecting three others along the way. That she loses the thread when something makes her laugh, only to stumble upon it several minutes later. That her fingers play with the little moon-shaped pendant of her necklace whenever she needs to reprimand some of her rowdiest viewers, because there is something about confrontation that evidently makes her nervous—for a second Robby wonders whether anyone else noticed it, or whether it has now become a little secret shared between the two of you. That she wants to visit some cold, faraway place, and Robby realizes he has spent so many years leaving Pittsburgh only for conferences that he’s forgotten people sometimes travel simply because they want to. 

Which destination would you choose? Perhaps somewhere with narrow streets, surrounded by mountains and lush vegetation. The sort of place that holds no expectations.

As though the simple act of looking elsewhere might be enough to dispel the thought, Robby tears his eyes from the screen and looks at the untouched mug on the coffee table. 

His gaze lingers there for a moment too long, before drifting absently to the lone sock lying beneath it, abandoned there when Robby had stretched out on the couch after his shower. Outside, rain has begun tapping softly against the windows, and only when he turns curiously to look at the sky a dull stiffness catches at the base of his neck, making him wince. He rolls one shoulder experimentally, because he’d scarcely moved in the better part of an hour, save for the single time the armrest had begun digging sharply into the bone. 

Lastly, the television. It is now playing a crime documentary about stalkers and obsessions. 

Robby can’t help but feel his stomach churn uncomfortably, because he can’t remember a single thing from the creatures living thousands of feet beneath the ocean’s surface, but can picture with alarming clarity the way your face lights up when you laugh. Your eyes disappear first, then your head automatically ducks as though you’re trying to hide the shape of your mouth—sometimes it’s a hand that covers it—and Robby asks himself what made you so self-conscious about it. Was it a toxic ex? A middle-school bully? But then you always look back at the camera with the same irrepressible grin still lingering at the corners of your mouth.

“Ah!” Robby startles at your loud exclamation, his brown eyes immediately jumping back to the screen. “vibemike wants to know my favorite role play. Okay chat, let’s see how well you know me.”

“Professor and student? That’s hot but not my favorite.” You nod, before your eyebrows raise in surprise. “Repairman and homeowner? Hm, interesting. What do you think? Me opening the door in a sweater and no panties?” You giggle.

Leaning forward, you squint at the chat again as Robby shakes his head at how human beings can sexualize even the most innocent of interactions.

“Strangers at a bar!” You exclaim, straightening up. “That’s something I’ve always wanted to try but I’m pretty sure I’d end up ruining it. I’m sorry, it’s just so funny that I have to flirt with the other person as if I don’t know what they look like naked.”

“Okay, okay. You gave me a lot of good ideas but it’s something I’ve never actually mentioned before.” Your torso lean forward just a little bit, as if to share an important secret.

“Lately I’ve been really into the doctor kink.” You whisper.

Robby’s heart falls to his feet.

“I know.” You giggle. “I just want to be thrown on an examination table and have my handsome doctor force my legs open while reprimanding me about how important it is to have my pussy inspected once in a while.” A tiny sigh escapes your parted lips as you tuck your legs closer to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees.

“Maybe I’d let him fuck my mouth, you know, for good luck before he goes off to save his other patients.” You wink, already laughing as Robby swallows dryly. 

You wet your lips, before glancing down between your legs. “Well, would you look at that.”

His gaze instinctively drops to the empty space between his knees, tiredly dragging a hand down his flushed face as his bulge is hot under his sweatpants.

“Jesus Christ.” He mumbles.

“No, I’m not wearing a bra, super_sp3rm.” Chuckling, you get up on your knees to give your viewers a nice close-up of your chest, your nipples erect and begging to be worshipped.

With a knowing grin, you keep chatting leisurely, both of your hands rubbing and squeezing your tits until your breath hitches faintly.

“I wasn’t planning on playing with you tonight.” You gasp as your manicured nails lightly tease your covered nubs. “But my panties are all wet now after thinking about some hot doctor playing with my pussy. What do you think? Should I take care of it?”

The tips have been quite slow... until now. Robby has a feeling this was your wicked plan all along.

A chuckle bursts out of you as you look at the chat. “God, you’re filthy.”

Your teeth chew on your bottom lip as your free hand sinks beneath the fabric of your shorts, starting little circular motions.

“This is all your fault. I just wanted to talk to you guys.” You whine softly. “So this is all you get for tonight.”

Robby is a little disappointed as your pussy stays hidden, but seeing you rubbing yourself under your shorts as your fingers leisurely pull and flick your covered nipples is enough for his heart to pick up its pace in anticipation.

You moan under your breath. “Fuck, ‘s so sensitive.” Your brows furrow in pleasure, before your eyes momentarily fly to the chat. 

“Are you going to come with me, hm?” With your head falling back, your fingers twist your left nipple hard enough for you to cry out. “Oh!” You gasp, back arching and eyes rolling back.

Robby stares in awe at your body shaking, before your hand languidly comes out of your shorts for you to slowly taste your glistening fingers, quietly sucking on each digit as you stare directly at the camera.

“Hm, so good.” Then, with a little impish grin, “Maybe that could be you cleaning me up next time.”

The messages grow increasingly dirtier, but from the way your eyes slowly blink at the camera, Robby knows you must be too tired to continue. A few viewers clearly expected more, so you assure them next week you’ll be back with your usual content.

Robby observes silently, not quite hard but still sated, the promise of more hanging in the air as a faint bitter taste in his mouth lingers at the thought of having to wait four days to see you again.

“Just a little reminder that this week I’ll be available on both Saturday and Sunday for private shows. So hurry up and book your slot!” You wink, completely unaware of how you just undid Robby with a few simple words.

“Just send me an inbox if you’re interested.”

After your stream ends, he quickly opens your profile and decides to type a short, respectful line, easy to ignore, and send a tip.

Thank you for the company.

The moment it’s gone, the action fully settles in. Your inbox must already be crowded with names and small attempts at catching your attention, all blurring together. He is just another stranger passing through, another line you’ll never have the time to read.

The couch creaks softly as he slumps back, wondering why the sole knowledge hadn’t stopped him—that despite knowing how insignificant he might be in a sea of faceless users, he still had let himself indulge in this little attempt at connecting with you.

But when Robby logs in the next day—totally not to check if you had replied—there is a small, red number one sitting at the top of his inbox. His fingers pause over the touchpad, brown eyes blinking once, twice, hardly believing it.

Hey DoctorR! Wow!! Thank you so much for the generous tip 🤍 Were you interested in a private show?

A small smile unconsciously tugs at the corners of his mouth. He is genuinely surprised you answered. Even from behind a screen, your acknowledgment makes his heartbeat flutter dangerously fast, leaving Robby both elated and unnervingly aware of how much he wants to matter to you, despite the stubborn conviction that he is doing this just to entertain himself—and of course to pay you back for the incredible orgasms.

His eyes then flick to the amount he sent, just to make sure he didn’t add too many zeros by mistake. But no, the number is exactly as intended: one hundred dollars. The amount hardly seems like a generous tip; after all, your time is surely worth far more.

His eyes slide over your words again and again, until the weight of your question finally prompts his hands to hastily move against the keyboard at the prospect of a call just between you and him. He sends a quick message confirming his interest in a private show, and caught up in the thrill of what’s to come, sends another twenty dollars.

Before he can log out for tonight, though, your reply appears: another cheerful omg thank you!! followed by another text to let him know your availability for Saturday night. He asks if it’s a problem for you to set the call at eleven—just a precaution since he never actually clocks out at nine—and you reassure him it’s completely fine with you.

Your exchange is straightforward and short, and Robby is oddly comforted by that. He will be paying for your lovely company, so even if he is as dull as the people around him have recently told him, you will at least be compensated.

Perhaps this weekend he won’t be as miserable as usual.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general robby taglist: @obsessed-oops @bikinibottomspeach @verss88 @macbaetwo @dugiioh @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @eliza7up @kittymeowmeow17 @mimi-ro @mmb77 @lrosenblut26

💋 series taglist: @kristinee @unfortunatelyhuman765 @aestheticsunflower19 @catgirlpwr @takethistoheartxxx

[winteryn]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI - masterlist

PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.  WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?). WORD COUNT: 6k A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛

[winteryn]

thank you for reading and reblogging, dear 💗

[winteryn]

I’m here for you if you need anything! Even if it’s just cute kitty pics! Feel better boo! 💜😘

THE KITTIES 🥹🥹🥹 you’re the sweetest kate thank you so much 💗🫂 hope you’re doing better these days 🩵🩵

[onyx8514]

@winteryn thank you 💜 you’re the sweetest as well! I’m okish. Back to work on light duty, which in the ER means sitting in a closet, by myself, for 12 hrs straight and monitoring pt’s heart rhythms. I get lonely lol!

Here’s Flynn Rider patiently waiting for me to play with him 💜

[winteryn]

god you’re amazing good luck!! 😭😭

he’s the cutest 🥹🥹

[winteryn]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI

PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.  WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?). WORD COUNT: 6k A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛

[winteryn]

thank you so much 🥹🩵

[winteryn]

I looovee reading ur fics as they r so beautifully written and I was really looking forward to the pen-pal one of dex but I can't seem to find it anywhere 😔 am I dumb or have u not uploaded it? Would appreciate an answer 😭

thank you very much sweetheart 🩵🩵🩵 unfortunately that story hasn't been posted yet. sometimes I add upcoming fanfics to the masterlist as a way to "encourage" myself to write them, but unfortunately I've been dealing with a bit of writer's block for over a month now 🥹

[winteryn]

ORPHANED DREAMS [masterlist] michael robinavitch x camgirl!reader

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dr. robby has spent decades patching up strangers while quietly falling apart himself. unable to shut his mind off long enough to rest after another exhausting shift, and aching for a connection that doesn’t come with expectations, he finds himself on a live cam site. there, he meets you—a mischievous, sweet vixen who loves... big things. — ⟢ GENERAL WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader is mentioned to be in her late 20s); strangers to lovers; yearning; angst; misunderstandings; loneliness, self-deprecation & insecurity; ptsd; reader wears lingerie & skirts; some viewers being disgusting & creepy; fluff; lots of pet names; smut; erectile dysfunction (use of viagra); d/s dynamic; soft dom!robby; daddy kink; praise kink; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; robby is hung (he has a complex over it, poor baby); size difference; nipple play; fingering; oral sex (f & m); overstimulation; mention of cockwarming; multiple orgasms; dirty talk & sexual fantasies; sexting; squirting; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie. more warnings to be added.

⤷ CHAPTERS ❥ CHAPTER 1 ❥ CHAPTER 2 [coming soon]

find out here how to be added to my taglists!

[winteryn]

Deadazz wish I could make out with ur brain for they way u write for dex (what I'm trying to say is keep em coming queen)

LMAOOOO okay but buy my brain dinner first 😭

jokes aside, you’re enabling me but I’m not complaining…

[winteryn]

Just read all of your dex writings and I'm fucking obsessed like pls don't stop writing for him(plsplsplsplsplspls)

AHHH thank you thank you 💗

I’ll never stop, I’m fucking obsessed with that man 🥸

[winteryn]

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on a freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; murder & violence; kidnapping; dex knocks reader unconscious with a solvent; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day. Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

A particularly cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn

[romxnticist]

Damn we all just wanna be loved fr

[winteryn]

I’m exposing myself too much with these stories

[romxnticist]

Of course !! Such a great fic !! 💔💔

[winteryn]

thank you sm 🥹💗

[sergeantangel]

* = 18+. 2026 Lists. 2025 Lists. Some Tags.

The Pitt

A Serial Absconder - Brendon Park - @bullet-prooflove

It’s Getting Hot In Here - Jack Abbot - @of-apollo

Found Family - Jack Abbot - @ohtobeleah

House Tour + Lakeside Cottage - Jack Abbot - @pope-codys

* You Look Good On Vacation - Jack Abbot - @thatcorporategirlie

* Delivered - Jack Abbot - @spikedfearn

* Real Men - Jack Abbot - @barnesonfilm

Everything Else

* White Nights - Bucky Barnes - @winteryn

* Bite - Bucky Barnes - @heldbybarnes

Vacation - Titus Danforth + Newest Attending - Jack Abbot - @se7entyrell

Come Inside - Andrew Cody + A Simple Plan - Titus Danforth - @thatfanficstuff

Taken Care Of - Aaron Hotchner - @luveline

What The Little Red House Remembers - Aaron Hotchner - @hoe4hotchner

Adore You - Jax Teller - @hunnamandhoney

Safety Hazards - Brett Richards - @tumbleweedstillhaspanic

* Let Me Make You Feel Good - Andrew Cody - @romantic-insomniac

Enjoy

[winteryn]

thank you so much for including me 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[winteryn]

— ꒰ michael robinavitch ꒱ ₊˚ෆ

୭ = one-shot

୭ orphaned dreams [coming soon] [michael robinavitch x camgirl!reader] dr. robby has spent decades patching up strangers while quietly falling apart himself. unable to shut his mind off long enough to rest after another exhausting shift, and aching for a connection that doesn’t come with expectations, he finds himself on a live cam site. there, he meets you—a mischievous, sweet vixen who loves... big things.

.ᐟ main warnings: yearning, loneliness, smut.

find out here how to be added to my taglists!

[landoslutmeout]

OMGGG one of my favorite writers on here is writing for ROBBY THE LOML im so excited for this

[winteryn]

I’m thrilled 😭💗💗

[winteryn]

your new theme is so pretty!

oh thank you darling 🥹🩵 it’s quite simple but I craved some pastel blue!

[winteryn]

I’m here for you if you need anything! Even if it’s just cute kitty pics! Feel better boo! 💜😘

THE KITTIES 🥹🥹🥹 you’re the sweetest kate thank you so much 💗🫂 hope you’re doing better these days 🩵🩵

[winteryn]

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on a freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; murder & violence; kidnapping; dex knocks reader unconscious with a solvent; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day. Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

A particularly cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn

[winteryn]

[winteryn]

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on a freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; murder & violence; kidnapping; dex knocks reader unconscious with a solvent; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day. Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

A particularly cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn

[winteryn]

thank you so much dear 💗💗

[winteryn]

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on a freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; murder & violence; kidnapping; dex knocks reader unconscious with a solvent; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day. Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

A particularly cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn

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