maybemnday

[maybemnday]

skincaring

benjamin poindexter x reader

summary : you invite dex into your skincare routine

a/n : weird and awkward (neurodivergent) reader AND dex??? sign me up.

It’s quiet in your shared apartment. The only noise being an occasional soft clink of glass being set down on the porcelain edge of your sink. You stood in the middle of the bathroom, feet seeking refuge from the cool tile by burying into a fluffy rug. You pick up another vial, unscrewing the top and using the dropper to dispense the product onto your skin.

Dex watches as you smooth out some kind of pale liquid over your cheeks and then up onto your forehead. It’s loud, inside his head. He’s acutely aware of the way his hands remain stiff by his sides and how he is definitely staring way too much right now. But he’ll be damned if he looked away.

You move like you haven’t noticed him yet- even though he knows you have. You’re mindlessly going through your routine, allowing him to watch like you were preforming for him.

A part of him felt like you were sometimes- pretending or putting on an act. Insecurity would gnaw at his mind, telling him that you were too good to be real, too good to be his. You were his everything and he was… him. Why would you care about him? After everything he’s done, everyone he’s hurt. He knew the show had to end at some point.

Nevertheless, that day hadn’t come. You were still there, standing in front of him, doing your skincare.

“C’mere,” your voice cut through his thoughts, he blinks once, twice, before stepping close to you.

You reach down to grasp his hand in yours, giving him enough time to pull away if he wanted to. He lets you take it and wordlessly follows as you guide him to sit on the side of the tub.

“You want some?” you ask him, holding up one of the various containers spread out.

“What is it?” he asks softly, as if his words would interrupt the moment.

“Moisturizer,” you reply, “Here,” you dip a finger in and show it to him before rubbing it onto your face.

“Okay,” he reaches for the jar only for you to pull it back and take another dollop out.

Dex tries not to wince at the sudden cold sensation on his skin. You dab some of the product onto either cheek, his chin, and forehead. His eyes stay on you as you run your hands across features. Your eyes never meet his but all your focus is on him.

His mind was going a million miles per hour. For the first time he found himself worrying about the texture on his chin and the curve of his nose. Yet at the same time he was practically glowing under your watchful gaze and gentle touch. Dex didn't know how to handle you this close, his body didn’t know how to metabolize all this attention. He began to warm, knee itching with the urge to bounce up and down. Determined to stay still for you though, he clenches his hands onto the tub.

After you’re finished you give a small satisfied hum, intending to step back to let him leave but his hands shoot up to your waist before you can move.

Dex pauses, his body reacting faster than his brain, “…Is that it?” he asks, looking up at you with those big brown eyes, silently pleading for you to keep going.

He didn’t even care if you were putting something on him. As long as you were focused on him like that, he would face the way he started to sweat nervously and fight his urges to twitch or sneeze.

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, pleased that he liked it so much.

“Moisturizer is usually last but tomorrow I can do the whole routine for you,” you reply.

And you do. He sits down right where he had the day before and you walk him through every step. You explain the different ingredients and that you’ve been trying to get rid of the pores on your nose. He listens and nods diligently, completely absorbed in every word.

The next day, you wait for him to get home before starting your routine. The day after that he finds himself asking questions about the products. Day by day Dex finds himself being integrated into your routine. A new serum would appear just for him because you saw it and thought it would be good for his skin type. He slowly but surely begins to relax, becoming used to the heavy weight of your full attention on him.

Everything is perfect. Until of course it isn’t. Some part of the show had to go wrong, someone had to make a mistake.

That’s what it was, a mistake. He’s too big for the small space you two occupy, he’s too concentrated on you to notice how close to the edge the glass vial is. All it takes is a nudge of his elbow for it to tumble onto the floor.

His hand shoots out to try and catch it but it’s too late. Dex can feel his heart break as the glass does when it hits the tile. His heart shatters when he hears you instinctively yelp and flinch at the sudden noise.

Apologies spill from his mouth as he crouches to pick the broken shards. You’re frozen, stuck in place, as he throws the pieces away and mops the spill with toilet paper.

This is it, he thinks.

This is how the performance ends. He ruined something special, something sacred, and now the truth of how you feel about him is finally going to come out.

When he’s finished he stands before you, glassy eyed, “I can-.. I’ll buy you another one,” he tells you, jaw clenching, stopping any more apologies from escaping.

“Okay,” you nod, not making any eye contact, still staring at where the vial met the floor.

His fingernails dig into his palms and without another word he leaves.

He makes his way into the living room, sitting down on the couch, putting his head down into his hands. Why hadn’t you said anything? Weren’t you mad? He screwed up, he ruined everything. Shouldn’t you be pissed off, yelling at him? Or at least crying or doing anything other than just standing there-

Dex rubs a hand over his forehead as he goes down a spiral of confusion, frustration, and fear. Everything’s loud again. His thoughts, the running in his ears, the cars outside the apartment.

And then as if oblivious to it all, you sit down beside him clutching all your skincare products.

“Thank you for cleaning the mess,” you say, timidly with your feet shuffling in place and eyes glued to the floor.

“It was my fault- I should’ve caught it,” his response is immediate, it’s true to him.

“It’s okay… It’s not your fault. I don’t think it was your fault.”

You place the bottles and jars down on the coffee table in front of you and hold your hands out, not offering but asking. Why would you want his hand after what he did? All these hands have done is take. You push your hands closing, a silent plea. And after a beat, he tentatively gives you a hand.

“I just got scared because I wasn’t expecting the sound,” you explain, moving your thumbs up and down his palm.

“Yeah but I caused it,” he argued back.

“You didn’t mean to though,” you look up at him, “This wasn’t your fault Dex.”

He stops, looks back at you, and it’s just you and him. No performances, no one was lying or leaving. And slowly he begins to match his breathing to yours. His spiral flattens out, the ringing dulls into a soft hum, and the cars are but a distant noise in the background.

“I figured we can do our routine out here,” you turn to the array of skincare next to you.

“The coffee table is too low for anything to break by falling off of it,” you let do of his hand to grab one of the bottles, “Plus we’ll both be sitting so we don’t have to worry about moving around.”

Dex lets you continue the process of smoothing liquids and lotions over his and your skin. Finding peace in the rekindling of the routine. Finally, he relaxes once more under your fingertips and attention.

[maybemnday]

I saw Cori and Wanderer went to the Dreamfall for a bit, do you mind writing a drabble for that? I think it would be so cute.

If you don't have time is ok

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ dreamfalling into nightmares.

pairing: the corinthian & f!reader (wanderer), background dream of the endless x f!reader

summary: “We’ll remember each other forever at this rate.”

wc: 1.9k+

notes: been missing them hours, so this was a joy to write.

series masterlist | ao3 |

The knock comes promptly after sunset. 

Tugging the door open to your private room, you discover a tall, handsome, grinning nightmare in your doorway, a hand propped against the frame. Corinthian’s appearance has not changed since earlier this afternoon when he found you napping in Fiddler’s Green. Pale clothes clad his body, and dark glasses conceal his eyes from everyone, even you. 

“Why, hello there,” he greets in a drawl, a dimple creasing his cheek.

Your grin matches Corinthian’s—sly, biting, certainly fond in your case. 

“A punctual nightmare,” you say playfully, opening the door wider to permit him entry. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Oh, I’m full of those,” Corinthian retorts, strolling inside. 

He examines your room methodically, everything from the bed to the wooden table slotted in the corner, halting only once, on the windowsill. No—he snags on the object placed as a silent protector over your space. His figurine of himself. His Dreamfall present. A nightmare watching over someone’s dreams. Perhaps ironic—no, certainly ironic, but you don’t dare to speak while he ambles over, his finger lightly brushing over the figurine’s head. 

“Ready for the celebration, I assume,” he voices suddenly. “You dressed up. That’s nice. He’s going to love… that.”

“It was implied I should,” you reply. “Something about being the guest of honour.”

Corinthian steps away, his arm dropping back to his side with a faint hum. “More than that, troublemaker,” he says, turning to face you with a crooked grin. “Why you’re the first ever.”

Your brows wrinkle. “First… guest? Wait, you mean no one has been invited to Dreamfall before?”

Corinthian huffs a breath as if your lack of knowledge is deeply amusing to him. “Do you imagine Dream has many friends? His family has attended in the past, or so I heard. Predates you or me, though.”

Warm heat unruffles inside your stomach, a sunbeam crawling through your body and heart. A tiny smile graces your face, and Corinthian appears all the more amused for it. His arm slots behind his back, extending another your way, bent at the elbow.

“My mission is to escort the honoured guest tonight.”

Grinning, you reach to hook your arms, falling to his side effortlessly as he leads you across the room and outside. “Here, I reasoned you enjoy spending time with your favourite mortal.”

His scoff is scornful, biting but amused. “Perish the thought. I can’t stand you.”

Chuckling, you shove your shoulder against his. Evidence of his smirk gets swallowed by shadows as you walk together. Cutting across the winding, silent corridors, you can’t help but be grateful for his presence. For the way, he’s a treacherous, conniving shadow a step behind you at all times. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t want to and Dream ordered you.”

The golden-haired nightmare glances your way, says nothing, and then continues your steady trek. You're about to question him on the odd behaviour when he speaks: 

“He didn’t order me,” he responds, pursing his mouth to a point his nose wrinkles. “Dream asked the pumpkin to escort you. As if I would let that happen.”

Floaty smugness swells in your chest, your features alighting with barely suppressed glee. He’s as good as admitting the notion of anyone else escorting you is some imaginary slight against him. There’s no doubt in your mind it’s a matter of pride. Merv and Corinthian had never gotten along, much the same way Lucienne and Corinthian have never seen eye to eye. Now that you consider it closely, you realise you’ve never seen the nightmare getting along with anyone. Ever. Others tolerate him, but Corinthian carries himself with unbridled air of self-importance and haughtiness. With each step taken, Corinthian asserts he’s the best, most masterfully crafted, and he’s not even slightly modest about being Dream’s most superlative creation. 

“How sweet. I’ll be sure to ask Merv a dance to make sure he’s not feeling left out.”

Corinthian’s expression rearranges into a slight grimace at your nonchalant words. He makes a point of not gracing that with a response, and you have difficulty biting back your gleeful grin. 

Outside the castle, the views are otherworldly. Magical doesn’t do it justice. Dreaming has always had a life of its own; a beating, pulsing core of pure imagination, making anything possible here. If you can only think of it, it’s real. There are no limits, no too much, only freedom. 

But Dreamfall…

A gasp slips past your parted lips the second you exit the castle. Preparations have been ongoing for three days now—with most bustling activity stretching from dawn to nightfall—but seeing it upon completion now robs you of breath. 

Will-o’-wisps float aimlessly through the pleasant night air; trees, paths, buildings and most available surfaces sit covered in warm, gauzy lights. Flower blooms have been twined around bannisters leading everywhere, and you spot tiny fae-like creatures napping and playing on the bright, lustrous petals. Dust sprinkles from their wings while they dance, and you chuckle under your breath, eyes skipping everywhere so you don’t miss anything. 

Corinthian slowly leads you to the castle courtyard, letting you absorb the magnificent sights as you go. But when you finally arrive, you hardly recognise what you’re looking at. What was once the courtyard has now become an open-air ballroom. Hundreds of dreams and nightmares have packed into the space; outside the castle parameter, you see thousands more: bonfires and glowing tables as far as the eye can see. Birds and winged creators take up celebration in the starlit skies above. And it is when the music hits you; light, dreamy, joyful. Tonight there are smiles and drinks everywhere. 

Dream’s creations are here to be celebrated—to celebrate themselves, and your heart inflates with happiness for them, soft and warming from within. Some are horned, winged, or scaly. Creatures that barely resemble human shapes are wherever you glance. Their skins vary from white to purpose to yellow and all the hues between. Their eyes are many, few, or none in sight. They communicate in growls, high-pitched whispers or companionable silences. Some resemble wraiths, others merfolk, while several take on faery forms. There are females and males and those who hold no gender, for they come from realms even you have not broached yet, where mortal logic does not apply or is necessary. 

This is a mirror of life. Dreams and nightmares reflect the universal whole. And you’re helplessly in love with everything within the vicinity. 

“Don’t you look besotted,” Corinthian draws, making you jump from your musings. “Shouldn’t you be running screaming?”

As if. 

You squeeze his arm closer. “This is incredible.” 

Corinthian follows after you when you drag him towards the buzzing crowds, weaving in between different dreams and nightmares. Tables litter the courtyard, drinks and food laid for all to feast upon. Half of it looks foreign, and the other half you would worry about putting in your mouth were you not cursed. 

Some dreams are dancing to your left. Instinctively, you almost skip towards them, loosening your hold on Corinthian to grasp his hand instead. 

“Come on!”

His grip constricts, making you glance towards him, but he only nods his head to your right. You follow his line of sight. 

Dream of the Endless sits on a makeshift throne of carved alabaster, Jessamy perched on top. It may not be as exquisite as his throne inside the castle, but he is nevertheless a sight to behold. Dream fits it perfectly, regal and subtly imposing the way only Endless could be. Tonight his black robes seem blacker than any ink, blacker than the darkest edge of the universe. Stars glimmer inside his collar, flickering flames licking the blackened material where his coat pools by his feet. 

His attention is already on you when your eyes meet, piercing and hooded, honing in on you through the busy throng of his creations as if you’re the only one present. Over Corinthian’s body, you offer Dream a subdued but warm smile, inclining your head, giving tribute to the Dream Lord on the night all living beings capable of dreams do. 

His head lowers marginally in your direction. 

Pressing closer to the nightmare you’re still holding onto, you prop your chin against his chest. “Dance?”

Corinthian’s head falls back towards you, listening, but his attention does not stray from his foray into observing his indirect kin surrounding you. It’s then you notice the cold, sneering way his face has contorted. Several individuals in the crowd are eyeing you with subdued suspicion and dislike. 

No, eyeing him. You with him. Many in the crowd are known to you—through association or because you were there for their creation. Even more are known by name, by their stories. But it’s then, holding onto your friend, that his earlier words crawl back to the forefront of your mind. 

Surely you’ve noticed? How many others around here look like me? Like you?

None. In a crowd of thousands—each more fantastical than the last—you two are the most unconventional sight. You stick out due to your sheer humanity. Due to your curse and wrongness in a land of plenty and wonder, but Corinthian…

The first time I became aware of my existence, I saw two things. Him, Dream of the Endless, my creator, and… you.

Crafted for humanity, a macabre reflection of them, a masterpiece for you. 

“Let’s dance,” you say, curving your fingers tighter around his. “It would be a shame not to give them a show with all their ogling.”

Corinthian perks up at your quieter addition, his fingers curling near possessively around yours in return. Cool but firm to the touch. 

“Now, that doesn’t sound very nice,” he hums, tugging you towards the dancing crowd. “Whatever would Dream say?”

I don’t care. No one looks at you like you’re wrong. Like you shouldn’t be here with me. You were the first—the first I saw made, the first I said ‘hello’ to, the first one I loved. You’ve always been mine, and you belong here, with me. 

An airy laugh slips free from you, “Don’t care.”

His eyebrows jump up, wiggling. “Rebellious.”

He sounds far too delighted by the notion. He lifts his arm, and you hold onto him, spinning in a slow, uncoordinated circle. 

“Says you. You’re the worst.”

He drags you closer, chest to chest, his teeth bared in a wicked, feral manner. He’s a nightmare. He will always be an entirety of chaos when left unchecked. But right now, Corinthian is merely here, celebrated and deserving of celebration the way all of Dream’s creations deserve tonight. 

“Oh, I know,” he exhales, dragging out the words with deliberate slowness and a guileful grin. 

You quirk a challenging brow just as another melody splits through the Dreaming, spinning a new dream for all those celebrating. 

“Remember the steps?” you challenge. “Just how I taught you.”

“I remember everything,” he reminds, a touch sardonically. 

“So do I,” you shoot back bitingly. “We’ll remember each other forever at this rate.”

The nightmare’s arm settles around your waist, his hair glowing from the hazy lights and the dreams appearing in the inky skies above—ready for their fall, their journey here, back home. 

Corinthian doesn’t smile this time. In his dark sunglasses, you only glimpse a ripple of yourself reflecting from him. “I’m counting on it, trouble.”

And then the nightmare spins you into a dizzying, euphoric circle that’s all but endless. 

an: I have such a deep-seated fondness for them. hope you enjoyed this. it's nice to write something happy after the last two chapters & overall a very meh day dealing with ten different mentally and emotionally draining things. hope this was able to give you all some much-needed comfort, and I'm sending anyone having a hard time rn all the love in the world 💕

[maybemnday]

maybe autistic reader hcs,,,, preferably dex :p

ben poindexter x autistic!reader. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, sfw ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, autistic!reader

DEX WITH AN AUTISTIC PARTNER . . . watches you more than he breathes. not in a way that’s suffocating, to you, at least. he watches because you make sense. you’re one of the only things in his life that ever did. the way you line up your silverware. the way you hum when you concentrate. the way your face changes when the light is too bright or the world is too loud. he memorizes it all. he doesn’t forget.

he learns your sensory triggers without needing to ask. dimmer switches installed in his apartment before your third visit. noise-canceling headphones bought in two colors, black for him, your favorite for you. his voice drops when you flinch, like instinct. “you okay, baby?” soft, low, just for you. like he’s the only one allowed to touch your edges.

he doesn’t get overwhelmed when you stim. in fact he loves it. watches your fingers flick, your legs bounce, your breath catch, and it soothes something deep in him. he starts giving you little things without explanation. a keychain with a satisfying click. a velvet ribbon. a smooth stone. he leaves them on your desk like offerings.

his obsessive brain finds comfort in your routine. he likes knowing what you’ll do, where you’ll be, what you’ll eat. he likes patterns. you’re his favorite one. and if you ever let him be part of your routine you might as well have married him.

he’s insanely protective. if someone mocks your infodump, if they make a joke that lands too close, if they say that word that always makes you freeze? dex’ entire body goes still. his jaw tics. his knuckles crack. later, they’ll find their tires slashed. or worse. you’ll never know it was him.

you don’t always want to be touched, and he learns that too. never questions it. never makes it about himself. he sits nearby instead. close, but not too close. legs crossed, arms folded, eyes always on you.

he masks sometimes, years of it. it’s survival. but when he’s with you he lets go. his voice shifts. his shoulders drop. he rocks a little when he’s anxious, and you never say anything, so he keeps doing it. he stops hiding the cracks.

he mirrors you so hard it’s ridiculous. if you flap your hands, so does he. if you wear your headphones a certain way, he copies it. if you start drinking peppermint tea, suddenly he’s obsessed. he doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. “you’re just smart,” he says when you point it out. “i figure you must know what’s good.”

he makes scripts with you. not because he needs them, but because you do, and that means he does now too. he’ll sit beside you on the couch, mapping out what to say at the grocery store or the party you’re both dreading. “do you want me to do the talking?” he asks. “i don’t mind. i like people less than you do anyway.”

when you infodump he listens like it’s gospel, even if he doesn’t get it. even if it’s about bugs or trains or colors or something you’ve told him a hundred times. “tell me again,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “you sound good when you talk about stuff you like.”

he’s not scared of meltdowns. he handles them with military precision, lights off, blanket up, voice low, body near. if you lash out he doesn’t flinch. if you cry he lets you. if you go silent he waits. he’s patient in ways no one ever was for him. because it’s you, and you’re worth waiting for.

he doesn’t always understand what you’re feeling. he’s not great with empathy. but he tries. god, does he try. because if it’s you, he wants to get it right.

you teach him what you need and he learns fast. you don’t like being touched unexpectedly, so he starts asking every time. “can i hug you?” “can i sit here?” “can i play with your hair?” it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together. he always asks. it makes you feel safe. he likes that.

he doesn’t care if you stim in public. not even a little. he’d stand behind you like a bodyguard. if anyone stares, he stares back harder. once, someone laughed under their breath and he turned to them with that dead look in his eye. “you think that’s funny?” he said, monotone. they stopped laughing immediately.

he’s so good with food. if textures are hard, he notices. if you only eat three things, he never makes it weird. he stocks your favorite cereal. memorizes your coffee order. cuts the tags out of your clothes before you even ask. you don’t have to explain. he just gets it.

if you go nonverbal he adapts instantly. pulls out his phone so you can type. writes “yes” and “no” on his hands. talks slower. waits longer. he always has a pen in his pocket just in case.

he has bpd. you’re autistic. some days, the communication gets tangled. you don’t always understand what he feels, and he doesn’t always understand how you think. but you both try.

he doesn’t take you to crowded places. he knows it overloads you. dates are quiet: a rooftop, a library, a nearly-empty diner with a booth in the back.

he’s not great at words, but he shows you everything. he’ll put your favorite movie on without asking. hand you your headphones when you start to look overwhelmed. rub your back in slow, predictable circles when you start to rock.

he gets fixated. his thoughts loop. his emotions spiral. but so do yours. you understand each other in a way no one else ever could. the way he gets angry when something shifts too fast. the way you panic when your routine breaks. the way you both hold onto each other when the world won’t stop spinning.

you both get overstimulated, but in different ways. if you have to leave a situation, he leaves with you. no questions. no hesitation. “we’re done here,” he says, grabbing your hand. it feels good. to be protected like that.

when he spirals you keep things structured. lists. steps. reminders. he never knew how much he needed that. you never thought someone like him would listen to you. and yet he does.

you hum when you're comfortable. and he starts doing it too. like he's tuning himself to you.

he knows your food habits down to the bite. if your safe meal changes he notices the second you push it away. "not today?" he asks. not judging. not pressing. just adapting. he’s already pulling something else out of the fridge.

he lets you pace around him. circle the room. monologue about cats or timelines or texture inconsistencies. he sits still and listens, occasionally nodding, sometimes asking questions he already knows the answer to just to keep you going. he likes how happy you sound when you talk about what you love. you’re never more alive than when you’re in your own world. he wants to be let in.

when people are cruel to you he doesn’t let it slide. ever. you’re rambling about something, a little too fast, too loud, hands moving, until someone makes a face. rolls their eyes. interrupts with a laugh. or worse, says something like “you’re kind of weird, huh?” and dex just stops moving. completely. his body stills. his mouth sets. eyes locked on the offender with that terrifying kind of calm. “what did you say?” flat. emotionless. lethal. he doesn’t yell. doesn’t make a scene. but the way he stands, shoulders square, chin tilted, fingers flexing like he’s debating breaking their nose or just caving in their throat, it makes most people shut up real fast.

he walks you out, hand gentle on the small of your back. “you don’t need to hear that shit,” he mutters. his other hand twitches. you know he’s thinking about how easy it’d be to follow them home. he never asks if it hurt your feelings, he just knows. if anyone ever mocks the way you stim, the way you speak, the way your voice changes when you’re excited, he’ll go so quiet it’s dangerous. “you have ten seconds to leave,” he’ll say. “before i do something i won’t regret.”

he keeps every note you’ve ever written him. the sticky reminders, the typed-out “can’t talk today” messages, the little scraps of paper you use when your words go away. they’re folded neatly in a box under his bed. labeled. dated. categorized. he reads them on the nights you’re not there. especially the ones where you wrote his name first.

he doesn’t like surprises but he loves when you do something new. you try a new stim toy. he watches, fascinated. you change your scent. he buries his face in your shirt and won’t stop sniffing you for hours. “you smell different,” he says softly. “i like it.”

he always knows when you’ve had a bad social interaction. you don’t even need to say it. your eyes get distant. your sleeves get tugged. you go quiet. and dex just slides his arm around your waist and says, “you did fine. fuck the rest of them.”

he makes schedules for you when you’re too fogged to do it yourself. on whiteboards. on napkins. on the back of his hand.

you sometimes script your conversations with him. he recognizes it instantly. never calls you out for it. plays his part like he’s rehearsed. like he’s proud to be included in your little world of preparation.

sometimes you touch his face just to feel the difference. his skin is colder than yours. his expression rarely changes. but when you brush your thumb over his cheekbone, his eyelids flutter just a little. like it short-circuits something in him.

he doesn’t compliment you traditionally. “the only person i can stand.” he’ll say “your brain works better than mine.” he’ll say “i’d kill anyone who makes you uncomfortable.”

if you pace, he matches your steps. if you rock, he mirrors you. if you pick at your fingers, he offers his hand so you can do it to him instead. he’s not always gentle, but he’s always attuned.

you don’t always make eye contact so he learns to read everything else, your posture, your hands, the way your head tilts when you’re overwhelmed.

he doesn’t let people talk over you. if someone interrupts you he stares them down until they shut up. if they mock the way you speak, he steps forward: “say that again. i fucking dare you.” if you flinch he pulls you behind him, and deals with it.

he never says “calm down.” instead, he says, “i’m here.” “take your time.” “you’re safe.” he learned early that logic doesn’t work when your system is flooded, so he gives you his presence instead.

he doesn’t always understand your reactions, but he doesn’t invalidate them. if you cry over something he finds small he sits with you anyway. if you need to leave a room he leaves with you. no questions. just loyalty.

he likes when you label your feelings. “i’m overstimulated.” “i’m anxious.” “i feel like a burden.” it makes him feel like he can do something. he can’t fix emotions, but he can fix problems. and when you give him language, you give him the tools.

he’s obsessive — always has been — but you’re the only person that ever made it feel like devotion, not pathology. he wakes up thinking about you. he goes to sleep worrying about your safety. and in between he makes sure the world doesn't touch you unless it goes through him first.

started 7.20.2025. finished 7.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[maybemnday]

bat-man

bat hybrid! bruce wayne x reader

summary : just some thoughts about batman being… well a bat-man

a/n : please search up bats squeaking they’re so cute and not scary I swear

his echolocation manifests as crazy good hearing. knows where you are in the house from the batcave. he can hear you and alfred talk about him- that he needs to eat or sleep more- and will occasionally stop working just to fly up and remind the two of you that he can in fact hear you. (to which you both share a secret smiling know that you’ve successfully baited him into coming out of his cave-)

the bat in him craves being upside down but the human in him makes it kinda hard to do that. luckily he is smart.. and rich… so he makes a grappling hook that allows him to hang on the ceiling as naturally as possible. which he does admit feels very nice. and he does jumpscare you by just well jumping down from the ceiling in front of you after you call for him.

he wears sunglasses outside because his eyes are sensitive to light.. his pupils are also ever so slightly larger than normal- it’s very cute when you catch him doing something like sneaking out after being injured and he’s all wide eyed.

bruce’s wings are a) huge and b) super sensitive- they have to be large but thin and receptive enough for him to be able to fly so efficiently- if you touch them when he’s not paying attention he’ll shiver and flick out his wing. it’s kind of like if someone touched the back of your neck-

that being said- bruce prefers to have his wings tucked around himself when sleeping but if you’re up for some mid-day cuddles he’ll happily wrap his wings and arms around you in a giant cocoon. just be warned that once you’re in- you’re not getting out until he wakes up…

all his suits are made by fellow hybrids and tailored to accommodate his wings- he tries to specifically work with other hybrids for any kind of photo shoot or even interview because he has no tolerance for non hybrids being blatantly offensive and ignorant

in public, if the paparazzi are being especially rude and sticking their cameras in your face or if you two are out and you don’t want to be seen he will extend a wing out to shield you (even though his wings may overheat from the sun- his top priority is always your comfort)

he eats a lot. he already has to account for his crime fighting night routine but that plus the fact that he’s flying?? alfred makes sure that he always has fruit in the batcave so he can snack as soon as he gets home.

actually- I’d say that one of bruce’s love languages is preparing or sharing fruit for you. he’ll peel a banana for himself but let you take bites out of it. he’ll neatly slice the tops of strawberries off for you (with a batarang).

bats are typically very vocal and while bruce very rarely makes any bat like noises at all- he will sometimes quietly let out a squeak while yawning or trill as he holds you after a long night protecting the city. <3

[maybemnday]

monday’s masterlist

simon ghost riley x reader

tea for two

bruce wayne x reader

bat-man

benjamin poindexter x reader

skincaring

( p.s : I do edit and sometimes delete my work after I post it so if you can’t find what you’re looking for- it might be gone…)

[maybemnday]

thoughts on dex being autistic or potentially misdiagnosed in canon?

hello! first off, i seriously love this question. i’ve had a dex autism character analysis in my drafts for months now, so you bringing this up is honestly really exciting for me ahaha. i will try my best to finish my full dex neurodiversity character analysis asap, but for now, here are my thoughts. i 100% believe dex is autistic, and i also think dr. mercer misread a lot of his autistic traits as early signs of borderline personality disorder. not that he doesn’t have bpd, because he definitely does, but it was something he developed later, not something he fully had as a child. bpd usually isn’t diagnosed until young adulthood, because it forms over time through trauma, unstable relationships, and invalidation. but dr. mercer was seeing him when he was twelve. she was looking at an abused, grieving, hyper-emotional orphan who just killed his coach, and she probably wasn’t thinking in terms of neurodivergence or disability at all.

keep in mind this was the late 90s. autism was more recognized in boys by then, but the understanding was still incredibly narrow and pathologized. even in the best clinical environments, there was still a huge bias toward seeing autism only when it presented in extreme or “classic” ways. so in dex’s case where he was verbal, high-masking, emotionally volatile, and deeply traumatized, his autistic traits could’ve easily been interpreted as personality issues instead of neurodevelopmental differences. dr. mercer likely saw a traumatized boy who needed structure and emotional guidance, not someone whose entire brain wiring was different. she tried to help him with coping strategies, but those strategies were rooted in helping him perform better, not helping him understand himself. so instead of teaching him how to express who he was, she taught him how to hide it more effectively. she unknowingly taught him to mask.

dr. mercer didn’t have bad intentions, she genuinely wanted to help dex. she saw a traumatized, isolated boy and gave him structure, coping tools, and someone who cared. but even the most well-meaning neurotypical people can carry deep, unconscious ableism. they assume that what works for them will work for everyone, because they can’t imagine experiencing the world differently. so when dex couldn’t regulate his emotions the “right” way, or when he clung to rules and rigid morality, or got fixated on specific people, she saw pathology instead of difference. her therapy wasn’t meant to hurt him, but it still taught him that his natural instincts were wrong, and that love was something you earned by performing correctly.

on the flipside of that is wilson fisk. vincent d’onofrio is autistic and plays fisk as openly neurodivergent. fisk is blunt, intense, sensitive to noise, obsessive, strict with routine, emotionally rigid, and you can tell fisk recognizes those same patterns in dex. he sees a masked, autistic man trying desperately to follow the rules to be accepted, and instead of helping him, fisk uses that. he intentionally exploits dex’s need for order, approval, structure, and belonging. fisk gives dex a false sense of identity, scripts his behavior for him, mirrors dr. mercer’s language, and makes himself the only person who “understands” him. but he doesn’t just manipulate dex he also teaches him how to unmask. the primal scream scene is one of the clearest moments of that. fisk gives dex permission to stop pretending, to stop bottling everything up, and to let the chaos come out. and that changes something in dex permanently.

as the season goes on, dex’s mask starts to slip away. his voice drops lower and gets raspier, less controlled, more raw. he stops performing polite facial expressions. around ray, especially, you can see it; he’s not bothering to fake empathy anymore, he’s just being. and it’s complicated, because on some level, unmasking feels amazing. that’s why in episode 12, when he says “i’m more than a fed now. i feel more myself than i have in my whole life. fisk gave me that,” because it actually feels true. he feels alive. more like himself than he’s ever felt. and fisk gave him that, too. for the first time in his life, dex is expressing himself. through violence, yes, but also through unfiltered emotion. fisk didn’t just weaponize dex’s neurodivergence, he unleashed it. and dex probably doesn’t even realize that’s what’s happening, because when you’ve masked your whole life, unmasking can feel like freedom. even when it’s being twisted into something dangerous.

and dex is really good at masking. he doesn’t just mask behavior, he masks tone, body language, affect. when he’s trying to come off as “normal,” his voice gets noticeably softer, gentler, more socially acceptable. it’s not just wilson bethel’s acting choices, it’s even dex’s conscious effort to sound less threatening, more likable. you see it clearly in the scene with julie. the way he pitches his voice higher, softer, more cautious. you can visually see him thinking about what to say and how to react. but then when he’s alone or emotionally unfiltered, like during the suicide hotline call or the latter half of the season, his voice is naturally lower, raspier, heavier. he’s not performing there. the shift is so telling, he literally changes how he sounds depending on how safe or accepted he feels.

dr. mercer even points it out in her therapy notes. she says dex makes strong eye contact when he’s being praised or when he wants to form a connection. and that lines up with a lot of autistic people who learn to force eye contact as a way of being perceived as engaged or polite, even if it feels unnatural. he does it because he wants to be cared for. he wants people to love him. he’s not cold or antisocial, he just doesn’t know how to show himself without fear. so he builds a version of himself that’s easier for people to understand.

that’s where his bpd comes in too. i don’t think he orginally had the disorder as a kid, but over time, after years of masking, invalidation, isolation, and losing every attachment he tried to make, it formed on top of the autism. bpd is rooted in chronic relational trauma, and dex’s entire life is just loss after loss after loss. so his fear of abandonment, identity issues, emotional dysregulation, it all makes sense. he was autistic first, and the world punished him so thoroughly for being different that he developed a personality disorder on top of it. which unfortunately is extremely common for highly masked autistic and adhd individuals.

also, i’m medically diagnosed as autistic, and there are elements of dex’s behavior that i recognize in myself in such a visceral way it’s hard to explain. in episode 5, when julie realizes he’s been following her and he panics, he does that little hand motion, like he’s about to throw something, or trying to redirect the overwhelming feeling inside him. that’s a stim. he also fidgets with the tableware when he’s anxious, blinks rapidly when he’s emotional, and moves his hands in repeated patterns when he’s overwhelmed. i do that same exact hand motion when my anxiety spikes. i’m also high-masking. (i’m shit at it but nonetheless lmao) i have a flat affect and a monotone voice, and people often treat me differently just because they sense something is off. same with dex, even though he was good at masking, people still gave him looks even before fisk got involved. his coworkers were cordial, but uneasy, like they knew something about him didn’t fit, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. he was formally criticized for “not working well with others” in both the suicide hotline and the fbi. and i relate to that too, i’m not good at my job, at least not in a practical sense. dex is good at his job, physically and tactically, which is the only reason he was kept around. they tolerated his social “deficits” because he was valuable, not because they understood him.

and that’s the thing, no matter how much research someone does on autism, unless you’re autistic or neurodivergent yourself, you’ll never truly understand what it feels like. dex feels like one of the most accurate, painful depictions of a high-masking autistic adult i’ve ever seen, even though it’s never labeled outright. and i fully believe he is autistic. he’s already canonically neurodivergent, he has bpd, but the depth and texture of how he moves through the world, how people react to him, how he breaks, that feels autistic.

you even see it again in born again, when he asks matt, “you hear that out there? that’s the roar of the jungle. is that what i am to you? an animal?” that line is so telling, he desperately wants to know how others perceive him. he wants to understand who he is through someone else’s eyes. it’s not just rage, it’s identity confusion. and when fisk gets him transferred to gen pop after ten years, that’s basically a death sentence. it’s betrayal at the deepest level. when dex breaks out and shows up at fisk’s gala, he doesn’t go after vanessa even though he has every reason to, he goes after fisk. that was the man who “freed” him, who saw his brain and made it feel like a gift instead of a flaw, and then shattered him by turning that difference into a weapon. and when dex finds out in season 3, episode 13, that fisk’s been manipulating him from the start, he snaps. not just because of what happened to julie, though that hurts, but because of the personal betrayal. fisk was his favorite person. his anchor. and when that trust was broken, dex redirected all of that devotion into vengeance. that autistic sense of justice, especially personal justice, kicks in. once he realizes the truth, he doesn’t hold back.

dr. mercer didn’t just misdiagnose him, she misunderstood the foundation of who he was. and because of that, she couldn’t help him in the way he actually needed. dex learned how to function, but not how to exist. and that misunderstanding shaped everything that came after. his brain works differently, and no one ever gave him the language or safety to understand that, only the tools to keep pretending.

[maybemnday]

tea for two

retired!simon ghost riley x reader

summary : a small collection of headcanons and short blurb about ghost and tea :)

a/n : first post aah

simon loves tea but often times opts for coffee just because of the higher dose of caffeine… but once he’s retired? simon drinks tea almost 24/7…

I do think that he is weirdly particular about the brand of tea but he will absolutely drink whatever you make him

usually drinks just straight black tea and he prefers english breakfast to earl grey since it’s a bit richer

the only time he adds any milk or sugar is if he’s craving something sweet for dessert (but even then he won’t add a lot)

his hand are big enough to hold and sip from a mug in one hand

and he drinks tea that is boiling hot- like doesn’t wait for it to cool down, he may gently blow on it, but just sips even though it is actively burning his tongue off

if you're into tea, he’ll watch you measure out tea leaves and set a timer for exactly how long they need to steep

he is still partial to his tea bags but he does admit that a freshly brewed cup of tea with loose leaf is quite nice..

also he 100% is the type of person to grumble at you if you like to add a ton of sugar or milk to your tea

“want some tea with your sugar?”

he thinks he’s so funny

Simon huffs out a small sigh as he rubs a hand over his tired face, glancing at the clock on the oven he notes that despite it being early, it was later than he typically had to awaken had he been on duty. He had slept in. The bubbling of hot and getting hotter water easing his tinnitus to a quieter hum.

The sharp whistle of the tea kettle grabs his attention and he uncrosses his arms quickly to prevent the noise from getting too loud. He pours the hot water into one of the many mugs you’d picked out. A stretching cat hugs the cup with its tail sticking out and wrapping up to make up the handle.

The counter and tile floor alike cool his body, a calming contrast to the steaming mug in his hand.

The quiet is disturbed once again as your soft footsteps pad out from the bedroom.

“Mm sorry I woke you,” he says softly, his voice low and soft, putting his mug down to get you one from the cupboard.

“It’s okay,” you reply, voice slightly cracking from disuse, “cause now I get to spend the morning with you.”

Simon hums his agreement as he fixes you a cup of tea just how you like it. Your pj clad form walks over to slide onto a stool and you slump over the counter to watch him.

“S’hot,” he warns, placing the mug in front of you, curls of steam rising off of it.

You murmur a thanks and pull it closer

Simon used to think the brutal and dangerous life of a lieutenant was the only life he could live. There’s no doubt that replacing guns for mugs of tea was tricky, uncomfortable even. But there in the kitchen of his home, with you by his side, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

[maybemnday]

monday | they/them | 18

asks are always open <3

masterlist

[maybemnday]

Hmmm....wolf hybrid!reader who comes from an all human team that were lowkey abusive, joining the hybrid!141???

Ghost and Soap are showing u around, getting you caught up to speed with the specifics of the base, the first you've been in designed with hyrbids in mind. The bed you get it actually embedded in the ground, designed to simulate typical den arrangements for most hybrids, a far step up from the ur old bed that stored boxed underneath, unable to ever feel safe in it.

As ur unpacking ur very meager belongings, soap pauses mid rant, eyes zeroing in on something in ur bag. When you turn around from putting ur fatigues up you freeze. Soap is holding ur muzzle. You didnt intentionally hide it, but you were hoping to maybe get a week without wearing it. Soap looks pissed, is he upset you didnt mention it outright?

"Is this a fucking muzzle?! Kid- why the fuck do you have a muzzle in your bag?" He waves the small cage around, shrugging off ghosts hand. "You what, wanted to do something with this? Some sort of hazing shit?" He assumes the worst, taking a step closer as u step back.

He only pauses when you let out an apologetic whine, looking up and baring ur neck in submission. "Sorry! sorry- im sorry sir! Its mine, I should have told you about it im sorry, here, ill put it on, okay?"

You make to grab the muzzle but soap pulls it out of reach, brows furrowed. He's looking at you like ur a problem to solve, eyes taking in the scared and submissive posture. Ghost steps forward to grab the muzzle, snaps and warps the bars between his hands easily with a growl.

"No one's putting on a muzzle, okay kid? We dont do that shit here." He grunts, knowing you don't believe him at all. When you dont respond, they awkwardly leave, not close enough to you to help without freaking you out more.

You huddle up in tbe corner of the room, away from the bare den, wondering to urself how long does this test last? Do they have their own muzzle for me? Should I say sorry for bringing my own? Why wont it stop?

[maybemnday]

ben poindexter as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean he’s a murderer so

BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.

he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”

he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.

dex does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.

he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.

he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.

always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.

his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.

can’t sleep unless he’s touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.

keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”

loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.

likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s you alive.

plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”

notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.

he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.

your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).

he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.

he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s so good at hiding just how deep it runs.

he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.

he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.

he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft — a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.

he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.

his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.

he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”

can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.

refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.

has ‘rules’ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it — he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.

saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when he’s spiraling.

he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.

gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.

but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.

has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.

“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s glad you dreamed him.

collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.

panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.

his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.

he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.

gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.

gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”

clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.

keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.

memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.

he’s watching everyone — every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.

texts you “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)

calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.

won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”

he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.

takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.

he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.

he’ll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist — and behind his eyes, he’s already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.

he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.

he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you — he’s the most focused man alive.

stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.

doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.

loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside he’s screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.

he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”

gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.

has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.

so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”

doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.

knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.

obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.

he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”

and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.

he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”

he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[maybemnday]

Steady - Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x Rookie FBI Reader

summary: As a new FBI agent, you’re paired with Dex for your first mission manning a sniper’s nest. Your aversion for each other has you both struggling with staying on objective and following the rules.

warnings: Gun, unprotected sex, smut, semi-public sex, bruises, scratching, strong pull out game

a/n: first smut let's goooo

w.c: 3,400

You were new to the unit.

A fresh graduate from Quantico, you proudly wore your badge of Special Agent for the FBI with a smile. The other agents had been welcoming and kind; throwing out tips about the rugged New York streets, helping with the overwhelming paperwork— and even assigning a more experienced agent to show the ropes and keep a watchful eye on you.

Agent Benjamin Poindexter.

Even the name gave you chills.

When his dark eyes glared at you for the first time, greeting you with a raspy voice and that smug smirk, you knew it was going to be rough.

Unlike the other agents, Dex wasn’t that enthusiastic on helping a rookie.

Cocky and independent, you could tell he hated you.

It ruined his order of things.

He would always send you down to fetch his coffee or do some other chore he couldn’t be bothered with, anything to get you away from him. Yet whenever you weren’t next to him, obediently waiting and ready for the next task, you could feel his piercing gaze from a far, just in time to see him quickly look away when your eye caught his.

You could really feel his stare when he was assigned to man the sniper position with you.

One of your first ever real missions; keeping watch during a high profile event where some underground crime network might attend, of course you were thrilled— until you found out you were going to be stuck with Dex all night.

The job was easy, if things went south while the other agents were in the building, the sniper would take out the problem from an isolated distance.

The kind superior he was, Dex of course gave you the honor of being the sniper—which was really just lookout and a punishment for ruining his night. The bright streets of Midtown were alive with distant sirens and pedestrian chatter echoing off the buildings. Too bad you had to enjoy it on a cold rooftop lying stomach down on the ground next to the one guy who hated you the most.

Six feet of Dex was towering next to you, completely engulfed in his work and eyes rarely leaving the building through his telescope. Your bones had began to ache— your hips had been digging into the floor for the past hour and your arms were tired from gripping the rifle, which was positioned on a tripod at the edge of the roof. You were becoming dizzy from the height, multiple stories and the cold concrete being the only thing separating you from falling whenever the wind shifted.

It was late, but you didn’t know how long this event was going to last and if things were going to even get exciting. As far as you knew, you would be stuck like this next to Dex until dawn.

After a while of staring at the windows and entrance, you began scanning the New York skyline, trying to name as many familiar buildings as possible.

Just when you were adjusting the sights to see the Brooklyn Bridge, a rasped voice pierced the silence.

“Do you even know how to handle that thing?”

You pulled back, looking up to see Dex had lowered his telescope and was now watching you.

“If you didn’t know if I could handle it, why give me the gun?”

He only shook his head. “Stop messing with it, its not a toy from your training.”

“I’m not.”

Your objection was no use. You could see that smug look in his eye through the dark, peering down at you like an ant near his boot.

“Then take a practice shot, rookie.”

A nervous feeling formed in your gut at the future criticism that was bound to happen.

“We’re not authorized to fire unless its for approved force.”

Dex was almost surprised at your defiance. “I’m your superior, you can do what I say or leave. There’s not going to be any action anyways.” He sighed, putting the telescope back in the sniper case, crossing his arms over his chest with a patronizing smirk. “Now c’mon, lets see if you’re really the hot shot you think you are.”

You swallowed your pride for a moment, looking back into the scope and gripping the gun steady. You brought the sights back to the area, scanning the nearby rooftops for a target to hit.

There was a low groan of annoyance when Dex landed on his knees next to you. He took one close look at your form and position and scoffed.

“Lower.”

You rolled your eyes, shuffling your hip against the hard floor. “I can see.”

“No-” A rough hand pushed your shoulders, knocking your chest to the ground and nearly your jaw. “Here.”

You gritted your teeth to stifle the whimper at the hit to your ribs. “I got it.” You managed to hiss, nudging your shoulder to get his hand off of you.

“No, you don’t.”

Before you could fit another snide remark in, arms wrapped you— caging you to the ground and gun.

His broad forearms were on the concrete floor on both sides of you, biceps flexed and brushing against your numbing arms. Dex’s chest was hovering just above your flexed back, shifting his weight to draw closer to the scope.

His head loomed over your shoulder for his eye to reach down the sight, so close you could feel his breath on your cheek— hot and raspy. His knees were anchored to the ground next to you, the holsters and buckles of his belt dug into the side of your leg, your hip brushing his waist.

He felt close.

Way too close.

You were now pushed nearly face forward into the ground, your superior almost completely on top of you and so close you couldn’t tell if it was his heartbeat you were hearing or just the blood thundering in your ears.

You had no choice but to try and slow down your breathing and not make a noise every time you felt him touch you. You kept your eye through the lens, not even realizing his hands were reaching for yours until you felt them wrapped over the sides of the weapon.

Dex moved the gun around on the ground, just enough to find the new target as you laid there in a daze.

“Right there,” he whispered. “You see that billboard?”

You could only manage a small nod as you felt your breath catch in your throat. The large billboard was on the building parallel from you across the street, featuring a model posing in the newest collection of a fashion designer; big blue eyes peering at you through the dark night, sparsely illuminated by the bright lights on the street level.

“I want you to hit the eye, got it? Right in the middle.”

His hand brushed against yours as he reached the scope, adjusting the ring until it was in perfect focus for the distance and looking right into the model’s pupil. Rough skin cradled your own as he gently moved your loosened grip around until he decided it was right.

“Deep breath,” His right hand disappeared from your own as it reached back, gently resting on your back below the end of your vest.

The vision in the scope seemed to blur and fade away for a moment as he brushed it lower, sending a shiver straight through your body from the contact. You obeyed, stirring the night air into your nervous lungs as his hand pressed deeper into you the more you inhaled.

“Just like that.”

He assured, yet it sounded more like a growl than a whisper.

His index finger lightly applied pressure over your own, pressing on the trigger. You breathed in tandem with him, your back brushing against his tense chest as the heat between your bodies overwhelmed you more than the cold air ever did.

He let out a deep exhale against you, pushing your finger down as your body jolted against his, a shot ringing out into the night and piercing the eye perfectly in the middle.

You could finally breathe again when the sound of the shell clattered to the ground and snapped you from the trance, a sheepish smile formed on your face as you admired the perfect hit.

You pulled your eye from the scope and looked over your shoulder to suddenly become face to face with Dex.

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw flashing behind his eyes. The grip on your hand tightened, just slightly, like he was holding onto restraint by a thread.

A soft gaze— his dark eyes glinting with the reflections of city lights. It was out of character seeing Dex look at you like that.

He must’ve realized he was staring at your lips— his adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, “Good.”

The praise lingered in your ear, whistling in the wind and reverberating in your mind.

His lips hovered inches from yours. You could feel his breath ghosting against your skin, every inhale shared in that narrow space. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find a reason not to do it, trying to remember what lines he wasn’t supposed to cross.

But then his hand slid further down your back—deliberate, grounding, possessive.

He hated that he was stuck with you.

He hated that he was always partnered with you. He hated that he couldn’t get your body out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

He hated every single second he was near you. And he hated that he couldn’t stop himself.

Your lips brushed.

A mistake.

You gasped softly, and that was all it took—Dex’s mouth crashed into yours like he’d been starving for it, rough and hungry and angry at himself for wanting it this badly.

His hand gripped the side of your neck, tilting your jaw up and holding you like he was afraid you’d pull away, the other still pressed firmly into your back, anchoring you in place— slowly skimming lower down the curve of your spine and over your hip.

Your breath hitched and his smirk pressed into your lips.

You kissed him back just as desperately, your teeth grazed his lip— you weren’t sure if it was punishment or need—but it made him moan against you, breath hitching as he pushed you further into the rooftop floor.

A hand hooked under you, flipping you to your back and pulling you by your hips away from the edge and the gun as you struggled to regain your lost breath. Dex loomed on top of you, straddling your body with his knees on each side of your legs.

His belt clinked as he shifted above you, his weight pressing into you harshly. One hand slid up your shirt—calloused fingertips exploring every line and curve like he had to memorize, methodical and precise , just like how he handled the gun.

You moaned into his reconnecting kiss, your hands clutching into his hair.

Your conscious returned for a moment and you managed to breath out a plead.

“Dex—the mission-”

“Fuck the mission.”

He practically ripped your vest off from the sides in one brute stroke, tossing it the dusted concrete next to you.

He leaned back just enough to rip the rest of your shirt over your head, his eyes dragging over your body like you were something he couldn’t believe he’d kept his hands off this long. There was something frantic in the way he moved now—like weeks of tension had finally cracked open all at once.

His eyes stayed on you as he shrugged off his vest, tossing it next to yours and pulling his shirt off in one brisk motion. The warmth of his chest hit yours, your fingers digging down his neck to his back, pulling him against you.

A deep groan escaped him as he dropped his head to your neck, gently biting your sensitive skin as his arms hooked under your back, lifting you from the cold concrete to unclasp your bra.

A trail of heat led from your collarbones to your breasts as Dex kissed your exposed skin, fingers caressing over your peaking nipples and gripping your ribs as he trailed down your torso.

You were breathless and flushed, looking down to see Dex’s arms flexing as he manhandled you to lift your hips, tearing off your pants as you kicked off your boots in desperation.

The cold night air brushed at your bare legs, but it was nothing compared to the burn his mouth left as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the slope of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your pulse stutter.

Your back arched off the concrete as his hands dragged down your thighs, rough palms searing into your skin with every possessive touch as he reunited his lips to yours.

This wasn’t the same Dex from a moment ago, complete control and smooth precision—this was chaos breaking through, hungry and shaking as he grappled your body with a wet mouth and trembling hands.

You whimpered as his belt dug into the thin fabric of your panties, sending a sensitive throb in between your legs.

“Dex-” You breathed out as his hands gripped your thighs. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shut up.” He growled, spreading them wider as he pressed his hips against yours. “They’ll call if they need us. Right now, I need this.”

He looked down at you from half lidded eyes as his fingers hooked under your waistband, dragging them down as your bare legs moved to cling to his hips.

Dex grunted as he leaned back on his knees, towering over your vulnerable form as his fingers undid his belt— never breaking eye contact as he freed his straining cock, stroking the pre-cum over bulging veins.

In one swift, harsh motion he pinned your hip in place and thrusted inside of you, stealing the air from your lungs as you managed a breathless whimper, fingers digging into his tense shoulders to stabilize the blinding pressure that pierced your body. Dex began a rhythmic pace, digging deeper into you with each movement, grinding you into the ground as the silent rooftop filled with the raw noise of your bodies slamming together.

“Oh, fuck—” Your hand reached for his stomach, nails trailing down firm abs to his v-line as you clutched at his skin, palm pressing into his tense muscle.

His outstretched arm holding him up from the ground next to you buckled for a second, breath catching in his throat as he hovered closer over you.

Dex brought his mouth to yours, your moans mixing together with a sloppy kiss.

You were ruining each other, abandoning all sense of the mission to fuck each other senseless, the rooftop dissipating as his body slammed against yours. Your muscles strained to keep up with his movements, hips bucking and back arching.

His mouth bit into your neck, sucking at your pulse and hand pushing into your hip so hard you knew it would be a black bruise by morning. He was fast, desperately driving deeper to reach both your climax’s before you were caught. The anticipation was driving you mindless, resisting the impulse to let your eyes fall back by keeping them locked on Dex.

Your moans were erratic, high pitched and needy as tension in your body became overwhelming against the friction. You whimpered incoherently as your fingers clung into his shoulder, a plead to continue. He grunted as your nails dug into his skin, obeying with a sharper thrust.

You cried out as the orgasm shook through you, your hold on Dex being the only thing keeping you grounded. He groaned with his last thrusts, trembling as your pulse around his dick sending him over the edge.

Dex tore himself away, spilling hot cum over your belly and dripping down your thighs as you both struggled to catch your breath in the cold night air. Hot pants rippled through the quiet, your chests heaving as you gasped for air. Dex collapsed back onto his knees, muscles twitching and abs trembling with rapid breaths and covered with red welts left from your nails.

Your eyes locked in the dark, staring at each other in awe as you resisted regret. You swallowed, remnants of his spit trickling down your throat as his hand flinched close to your skin.

“Poindexter.”

The static of the comms tore through the silence. “We’ve got movement.”

Dex didn’t move, breath rasping as he looked down at you.

“Dex, do you copy?”

The sudden wave of shame and cold air rippled over you as Dex pulled away, harsh reality pulling you from your lust induced trance.

He switched into sniper mode in an instant, like a trained command and subconscious pull of routine. All distractions of the mission fell away.

He would curse himself for abandoning procedure, for falling through and giving in— to you.

As you breathlessly stared at the dark sky, Dex was already at the edge of the roof, pants zipped and in position, one knee down cradling the gun in his arms— eye trained down at the street.

“Suspect exiting through west side.”

He was back in his domain, grip steady— the same tight force around the gun like he’d used on you.

But metal doesn’t bruise.

He gripped it harder, forcing it down as he breathed out. A sharp roar of the gun rippled in the night. Dex jolted with the weapon, the end jabbing into his tight uncovered shoulder, red marks decorating the skin.

A yelp pierced the air from below, a man screaming echoing across the street as sirens lit up.

After a few seconds the comms crackled back on. “Nice shot, Dex. We got him.”

He lingered with the rifle, his bare back glistened with sweat in the faint light, flexed muscle trailing from his shoulders to his biceps as he moved with rapid breaths.

A finger trembled over the trigger— like it was taking everything in him to resist the urge to plunge the next shot through the bastard’s skull for so selfishly interrupting your moment.

He had to follow orders. Keep the suspect alive.

Not like he was good at following them— not when a second body laid breathlessly naked behind him.

Finally, he pulled himself from the gun, keeping his eye on the scene below, refusing to look back at you. With practiced ease he dismantled the rifle, stowing it back in the case as he retrieved his shirt and vest like nothing had ever interrupted the job.

You managed to tug your clothes back on, wincing as the fabric clung to skin smeared with cum and dirt, every movement a sharp reminder of what had just happened.

“Transporting suspect to Mass General—shot obliterated his kneecap. Recon at lobby.” The comms buzzed and clicked off.

As you clipped your vest into place, Dex loomed over you—one hand gripping the case handle, the other securing his belt with a harsh tug.

Without warning, he grabbed the strap of your vest, hauling you up with one arm until your toes barely scraped the ground.

His face lingered inches from yours, looking down at you. “You don’t tell anyone about this, got it?” He rasped, low and cold. “Not a fucking word.”

You nodded fast, breath caught in your throat before you could mutter a promise.

Then, without warning, he kissed you—sloppy and raw, more claim than affection. He pulled back just enough to flash that crooked grin.

“Good girl.”

He let you go, sending your half tied boots staggering for a grip on the floor as he brushed past you. You looked back at the empty roof, red and blue lights cascading through the dark from below, revealing the emptiness— proof nothing had ever happened.

The only evidence left now marked both of your bodies in reddening lines and darkening bruises.

You followed Dex down with a lowered head, praying he wouldn’t turn around and see your creeping blush and smile.

[maybemnday]

hiii angel!! i was wondering of you'd do something for dex and reader who has severe attachment and abandonment issues? i love love love your work sm!! <33

ben poindexter x attachment/abandonment!issues reader. 𝜗𝜚 headcanon’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ co dependency ,, toxic relationship probably? idk my heart shaped glasses are on ,, gender neutral reader ,, it’s dex so .. yah

DEX knows that kind of fear. the kind that makes your chest ache when someone takes too long to reply. the kind that whispers they’re leaving. so when you get quiet and distant and paranoid, he doesn’t take it personal. doesn’t get mad when you ask for reassurance three times in ten minutes — just pulls you into his arms and says it again: i’m not leaving. i’m right here.

he literally doesn’t know how to process being wanted this much. this is probably one of the most ideal scenarios out there for him.

emotional dependency. if one of you is upset, you can’t focus on anything until the other is calmed down.

dex lets you kiss his pulse when he’s scared. he won’t say it out loud, but it grounds him — to feel your lips where his heart beats. to know someone wants him alive. you let him kiss your wrist in return.

he lets you cling. he needs it too, if he’s being honest. lets you tangle your limbs around him like a lifeline. lets you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and real and not going anywhere.

the relationship isn’t about space, it’s about closeness. constant closeness. suffocatingly sweet, terrifyingly intense closeness.

you joke about being codependent and he nods like it’s a compliment. like, yeah? obviously.

you’ve both made it a habit to over-reassure each other when you talk about friends or exes. like, you’ll say “she’s nice, but she’s not you. no one makes me feel like you do.” dex’ll say “he’s cool, but you’re mine.” and it never sounds forced. it sounds like medicine.

you’ve both had full-blown meltdowns over someone going to the store without saying goodbye. the smallest silence, the smallest gap in communication triggers that deep, clawing fear: they left. they didn’t think it mattered.

both have habits to constantly reassure each other you're still chosen. dex will tap your thigh three times — his silent code for i love you, i'm here, i’m not leaving. you squeeze his hand in return — i know, i feel it, don’t stop.

he sends voice notes when he knows you’re spiraling. tells you exactly what he’s doing, exactly when he’ll be home. never ghosts, never disappears. he knows what that does to someone.

lets you repeat yourself. lets you doubt. lets you cry. he gets it — how love feels like something that could vanish if you breathe wrong. he lets you see him anxious, too. the tapping, the pacing, the tension in his jaw. not to make you feel guilty — but so you know you’re not alone. you don’t scare him. he’d rather have you panicked and clinging to him than not have you at all.

it’s terrifying how much he loves you. he needs you like air, like sleep, like the pills he forgets to take when he's too busy watching your location update on his phone. he never calls it stalking. he calls it making sure you’re okay. calls it looking out for you. calls it love.

he adores that you’re clingy. never complains. never rolls his eyes. in fact, the more you need him, the calmer he feels. finally, someone who wants him like that. who’s just as intense. neither of you go anywhere alone unless it’s absolutely necessary. if you could, you’d share one nervous system. always touching — pinkies hooked, shoulders pressed, legs tangled.

both of you panic when the other doesn’t answer the phone right away. he’s texting “where are you? are you okay?” while you're calling back in a frenzy thinking he got hurt.

falling asleep on top of him. always. his chest, his lap, draped across his body like a weighted blanket. he’d stop breathing before he’d ask you to move.

you panic when he leaves. even if he says it’s nothing big, even if it’s just a quick job. you cling to him at the door, voice cracking as you whisper “what if you don’t come back?” — dex melts. completely. cups your face in both hands, presses your forehead to his and says “hey. i’m coming back. i always come back to you.”

he leaves behind a hoodie that smells like him. a voicemail saying “i love you” just in case. his location’s always on. he double checks the locks before he goes. triple checks if you’re crying.

the second he’s home he’s dropping everything at the door, walking straight to you like he’s been starving. wraps his arms around you and mumbles, “missed you so bad. i’m sorry, i’m here now. i’m not going anywhere baby, i’ve got you.” you’re curled up on the couch in his hoodie, cheeks blotchy from crying, and he’s just standing there staring at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. like, he thinks you’re so adorable when you need him. “gonna make it up to you,” he whispers, running his fingers through your hair while you cling to him. “wont go anywhere without you. won’t even go to the bathroom without you, swear to god.”

and he doesn’t. for the next 24 hours he’s glued to your side, follows you around the house like a puppy. lays on top of you like a weighted blanket, kisses every inch of your face until you start laughing through the tears.

you’re in his lap while he eats. in his lap while he watches tv. he literally can’t function unless you’re physically touching him. one hand on your thigh, arm slung around your shoulder, pinkies linked — something.

if you say “i thought you were gonna die,” he gets so soft. kisses the corner of your eye, strokes your cheek with the back of his hand and says, “you really love me that much, huh?” like he’s shy about it.

he thinks it’s so cute when you get possessive too. like if you cling to his sleeve when someone flirts with him, he leans in and kisses you right there, smiling against your mouth.

you both have those breakdowns where it’s not even words, just shaking and holding each other like it’s the only thing keeping your hearts beating. and every time he promises it again. even if he already said it twenty times that day. “i’m not going anywhere. i couldn’t even if i wanted to. you’ve got me forever.”

one time he tried to leave in the middle of the night for something “quick.” didn’t want to wake you. but you did wake up — reached out, found the bed empty, and by the time he was at the door, you were sobbing in the hallway. he immediately dropped his bag, walked back to you with the most heartbroken look on his face. cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing your tears away. you clung to him so tight he just sank to the floor with you, held you there until the sun came up. whispered over and over, “shhh. i’m not mad. you’re allowed to need me. i love it when you need me.”

he started letting you tag along after that. even if it’s just waiting in the car. even if you’re not doing anything. he’d rather see your worried face through the windshield than not see you at all.

he talks to you through his earpiece. “you still there, baby?” / “mhm.” / “talk to me. tell me what you’re gonna make me for dinner. i just wanna hear your voice.” and if you do stay home, he calls during the job. on the job. literally ducking behind cover like “hey, yeah, just wanted to say i miss you. i’ll be home soon, okay?” - - que him throwing a rock at matts forehead without even looking. when he comes back, he doesn’t even take off his boots before grabbing your face and kissing you breathless. muttering “you okay? did you cry? i missed you.” (part of him secretly likes it when you cry over him.)

he’ll cancel plans to stay in bed with you. has zero problem being irresponsible if it means holding you through a panic attack or a clingy spiral.

absolutely calls you pet names when you’re anxious. “sweetheart,” “angel,” “my baby.” says them soft and slow, like a lullaby, until you settle in his arms.

he wants the mess. wants the tears. wants the clinginess. it makes him feel safe. it makes him feel real. desired. if you ever try to apologize for needing too much he cuts you off with a kiss. “you’re exactly what i’ve always wanted.”

if you ever pull back, even just a little — even for a second — he goes absolutely wild. not in a “calm down” kind of way. in a “no, no, no” kind of way, like you’re slipping through his fingers. the moment you don’t immediately reach for him, his chest tightens, his heart rate picks up. “what’s wrong? don’t you want me?”

if you stop needing him for a second, even in a non-desperate, non-needy way, he can’t breathe. he panics. he feels his whole world shattering. like you’re getting ready to leave him. your clinginess feeds him. he knows you care. if you even accidentally pull away or seem like you’re trying to give him some space, he’s on you within seconds. wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. he cracks when you show signs of independence. he thinks it’s a sign you’re going to disappear.

his mind works overtime, spiraling into the idea that if you don’t cling to him, if you don’t hold him like you’re terrified of losing him — then you will leave him.

starts to feel resentful of anything that takes you away from him. if you hang out with friends, if you don’t text him back immediately, if you want time for yourself, it all feels like a slow rejection.

will whine or get genuinely upset if you don’t show enough physical affection. even if he’s the one who’s too clingy, he’ll act like you’ve abandoned him just for pulling away for a minute.

he doesn’t like when you act like you’ve got it together. when you try to be strong without him. it makes him feel like you don’t need him anymore, like he’s invisible. “i thought you needed me. i thought i was the one you couldn’t live without.”

obsessive, compulsive tracking. you go to the store? he needs to know when you’re leaving, when you’re back, what you bought. stalker tendencies. if you leave for a moment, if you go out alone — he’ll follow. just to make sure you’re not leaving him or finding someone else.

he listens to you so obediently. whatever you say goes. if you tell him to stay close, he doesn’t question it. if you tell him to sit down, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing and sit at your feet.

he’ll drop everything for you. his work, his hobbies, his interests — none of it matters if you need him.

both of you feed into each other’s worst fears: being abandoned, being alone. you make excuses for each other, let each other get away with anything just to avoid the uncomfortable idea of ever losing the other.

he enjoys knowing that you're so wrapped up in him, that when you feel abandoned, it’s almost as if the world is crumbling. he doesn’t want to be cruel, but he can’t help the rush it gives him knowing you’ll always look to him first for validation, for connection.

dex knows exactly how to get under your skin when you're struggling with your abandonment issues. when you try to shut him out emotionally, he’s the one to make you feel like it’s impossible to be without him. the more you get lost in your own head, the more he thrives on being your constant. when your insecurities flare up he doesn’t give you space; he pulls you in closer, touches you in ways that ground you. dex loves that you fall apart when he isn’t there. when you shut down or spiral into your own head, he sees it as proof that you can’t exist without him.

when you catch him spiraling, getting quiet, withdrawn, convinced you’re gonna leave - you drop everything to hold him. he clings to your shirt and hides his face in your neck like a kid. he never had that kind of comfort growing up, and now he craves it from you. only you.

when either of you even jokes about leaving, the other shuts it down immediately. it’s not funny. not even a little. you both get too in your heads about it, replaying it for hours after, paranoid it wasn’t a joke at all.

you both feed off each other’s clinginess. if one of you starts it — handsy, needy, whispering you can’t sleep without them — the other doubles it, tenfold. suddenly you're locked in each other’s arms like the world’s ending and only this moment exists.

keeps one of your things with him at all times. could be a hoodie, a piece of jewelry, even a chapstick you used once. he doesn’t tell you, but when he’s losing it, he holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. when you find it and realize he’s been carrying it around? you start doing it too.

neither of you knows how to fight without the deep-rooted panic that this will be the one that ends it. dex raises his voice once, and your heart drops into your stomach. you go quiet and his hands are already in his hair, begging under his breath — “don’t shut down. don’t leave.”

when one of you leaves the room for more than ten minutes without saying where you’re going, the other’s already pacing. it’s ridiculous. dex once came back from a shower to find you curled up on the floor thinking he bailed. now he always announces where he’s going. even if it’s just the kitchen.

when one of you is away for too long, you both lose sleep. it’s not just missing each other. it’s panic. dex gets snappy and withdrawn, you get dramatic and anxious. the reunion is always intense. too many emotions, too much relief.

he doesn’t just get protective. he gets viciously protective when you talk about past relationships, past abandonments. he hates thinking about you being hurt before him. loving someone before him.

sometimes dex gets so overwhelmed by how much he loves you that he just shuts down. goes quiet. curls up against you and buries his face in your stomach, you play with his hair until he comes back.

you both hate sleeping without the other now. you try to be normal about it, but you wake up nauseous. dex stares at the door like you might walk in. even one night apart leaves you both off balance. you sleep facing each other a lot. turning your back feels like a statement, and neither of you could survive misinterpreting that in the dark.

he picks up on your micro-expressions instantly. your blink patterns, how you fidget when you’re upset, how your smile twitches when you’re scared. he watches you like a survival manual. you do the same to him — he calls it creepy as a joke, but he melts every time.

dex starts fights on purpose when he’s scared you’re pulling away. just to make sure you care.

your phone backgrounds are each other. not even cute aesthetic photos — full-on, raw, vulnerable pictures.

you both keep little mementos from each other. you write notes to each other constantly. on mirrors, on receipts, on the backs of your hands. he has every post-it note you’ve ever written. you keep a receipt from a gas station because he held your hand in the parking lot and told you he’d never let go. you keep them like relics. like insurance against loneliness.

when one of you gets triggered or panicky, the other instinctively lowers their voice, softens their movements, goes small. you both know what it’s like to be too scared to ask for comfort.

every time one of you has a nightmare, the other doesn’t ask what it was. not unless you want to say it. instead, the rule is: water, forehead kiss, wrap around each other until your breathing syncs. the night resets when you find each other again.

there’s a rule: never leave the house angry. ever. if you fight, you sit on the floor, back to back, and you breathe. five minutes. ten. until the tension melts.

you keep a shared notebook for when the feelings are too big. you write letters to each other in it, especially on hard days. sometimes dex scribbles “i love you even when you’re quiet.” and leaves it on your pillow. you write back: “i love you when you’re angry. i know why you get that way.”

dex lets you trace his scars when you’re anxious, over and over. even the ones he usually hides. you do it like it’s sacred. like every inch of him deserves love. when he can’t breathe, you ask him to trace your spine, your jaw, your hands. it calms him every time.

dex keeps a note in his phone called “what to do when they’re hurting.” it’s just little things you’ve said helped. your favourite snacks. songs that pull you back. the way you like your hair touched.

you both panic when the other one sleeps too still. like — is that still breathing? dex has absolutely leaned over you, whispered “baby?” until you stirred just slightly. and you’ve done the same, barely touching his chest with your fingers to feel it rise.

marks you up when he’s jealous. hickeys, scratches, bite marks in places only he’ll see. for control — for comfort, for proof. you do the same. a little too hard with your nails. a kiss with too much teeth.

he absolutely malfunctions when you compliment him too earnestly. like, he can take teasing or playful flattery, but if you look at him dead serious and say something he stares at you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

he doesn’t know how to handle the way you hover when he’s injured or just tired. like bringing him water, checking his face for any sign of discomfort, asking “need anything?” every ten minutes. he’s never had someone be gentle with him like that, it completely unravels him.

becomes totally silent when you trace his features. like, drag your fingers over his cheekbones, his brow, his jaw — just looking at him like he’s something sacred. he leans into your palm every time.

dex absolutely gets flustered when you praise him in front of people. casual stuff — “he’s so good at that,” or “he takes care of me better than anyone ever has.”

he loves being watched. like when he’s doing something totally mundane — loading a gun, brushing his teeth, pacing — and he notices you looking at him like you’re obsessed. it short-circuits him a little. he tries to act normal, but it makes his skin burn in a good way.

once got really quiet after you hugged him from behind and just held him there. no words. no tension. just arms around his waist, your cheek against his back.

when he’s being moody or short, you don’t fight back. you just cup his jaw, tilt his face toward yours, and say “talk to me.” it undoes him completely. you never use that voice unless you’re pulling the hurt out of him like a splinter.

he is always waiting to be “too much” for you. too cold. too quiet. too angry.

he can always tell when you’re spiraling in your head, even if you don’t say a word. maybe you’re fidgeting with your hands, chewing your lip, or just not making eye contact. he’ll pull you into his space, drape a heavy arm around your shoulders, and rest his head on top of yours. you don’t need to explain; he already knows. sometimes, he’ll just leave a kiss on your temple and wait, and that’s all it takes for you to calm down a little.

when you’re feeling overwhelmed in public, maybe at a party or in a crowded place, his first instinct is to reach for your hand, fingers squeezing just enough to pull you back to him. the simple pressure of his hand is enough to remind you that no matter how loud the world is, he’s here, and he won’t let you go.

when you’re on the verge of a panic attack he instantly knows. his reaction is immediate, he doesn’t try to talk you down with logic (because he knows that doesn’t work), instead, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, keeping you in his chest until you’re calm. when it’s over, he doesn’t leave you, even for a second. he’ll make sure you feel safe.

sometimes, when your abandonment issues hit, you get scared of being left alone — whether it’s him going out or just being in a different room. dex, noticing this, will make sure to be around you constantly, but in a way that doesn’t overwhelm you. if he has to leave for a bit, he’ll casually say, “i’m going to grab coffee. wanna come?” or, if you’re staying in, he’ll just hang out in the same space as you, whether it’s in the living room or the kitchen.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[maybemnday]

Rare-ish take but i looove Ghost with a higher-ranked reader. You're intense and put-together but without the same terrifying bravado that Simon carries from room to room. It draws him in, how he sees himself in you, feels himself growing some-what starry-eyed at how well you carry yourself.

You both fall into such an in-tune rythum its scary; jobs finished before Price can blink. Cold and quiet, you don't give out compliments unless they're well-earned, much less a smile. Silently draw yourself so thin for so long Ghost can't help but want to make things easier for you, prove that you can rely on him time and time again.

Ghost relishes any amused huff from your mouth at his jokes. Any soft, thankful sigh whenever he places coffee (just how you like it) quietly on your desk before you even ask. Likes being the one who can draw a laugh from you, relieve the tension wound tight in your shoulders with just his presence. It brings him more of a sense of acomplishment than any mission well-done, earning that first drink with you after he does an excelent job on your first mission together.

Praise from you makes him feel embarassingly hot under the collar, makes him stick to your side like a guard dog ready to growl at any sign of disrespect thrown in your direction. And he's happy doing it if it means you'll give him that smile and nod you don't give anyone else.

[maybemnday]

six months | simon riley

you accidentally ask your ex for a ride home after six months no-contact tags: vomit, themes of ptsd and depression for both characters, alcohol, angst, fluff, soft simon

It’s raining.

Your hair pulls on the concrete whenever you adjust uselessly, tugging at the bottom of your dress so that you could sit on the ground in a way that won’t leave bruises you won’t remember.  Balance clumsy as you sink against the stone and press your face against the soothing coolness of the bricks.  Listen to the music that still pulses inside and try to imagine what your friends are doing, dancing and drinking.

Your phone slips onto your lap, the blue light obscenely bright against the dim, dingy alleyway and incandescent street lights.  A text conversation pulled up and untouched for months suddenly dinging with updates.  You barely realize you texted him to pick you up until you get a response to your drunken gibberish, short and sweet.  Three little letters that bring more relief than you’ll ever admit.

Omw.

You’re surprised he’s able to read what you sent.  You sure as hell can’t, from the combined effort of the rain and the dumbness of your fingers.  And maybe some part of you would be fond of the fact that he had replied so fast, kept your number unblocked.  Hadn’t just ignored it like he probably should have.  Hadn’t discarded you completely.

Six months.  Six months since he said he’d never marry, six months since you left.  Time went by faster when you weren’t staring at your phone callender aching for his return.  Waiting by the front door of your shared apartment like an anxious puppy when he was late to return, as usual.

Maybe it was muscle memory, tapping his contact.  Maybe it was subconscious.  Either way, you couldn’t go back on it now.

You hear it before you see it.  That same old sleek, black car rolling around the block and stopping some ways in front of you.  There’s a headache blooming in your skull and your hair is slick against your face whenever you open your eyes to the sound of boots.  

He’s there, in front of you.  Kneeling down in dark jeans and a darker T-shirt.  More tattoos up his arm than you remember.  A fresh, diamond-shaped one—stark against the faded sleeve of his forearm.  A more sober you would have at least pretended not to stare, not to rake your eyes up lean muscle and tall stature to the permanently tired, grey-ish eyes of Simon Riley.

“You’re a mess,”  He grunts, and his velvet, smokey accent really shouldn’t make your chest warm over as much as it does.  Unearth memories and feelings you thought you packed away with the rest of your belongings whenever you moved out of his flat.  

You huff, glance away.  “Mess is an understatement.”

“You alright?”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching a dumb hand up to rub at your face.  You’re not.  You’re really not; not with him finally within arms reach.  Not when nausea claws distantly in your throat and your brain feels like it's been knocked loose in your skull.  But, as always, you lie.

“Yeah,”  you breathe, and your voice is hoarse from yelling and singing.  You curse yourself for drinking so much.  Curse yourself even more for asking him to come pick you up; you wanted this interaction to be something else.  Coffee, maybe, or a few drinks at the bar.  Talking.  Reminiscing.  Discussing what led you to split in the first place; his job and your loneliness.  Not getting baby-sat because you partied too hard and your ride got too drunk.

“Why’d you come?”  You mutter, voice hoarse and slurred, and even to you it sounds pitiful.

He huffs in response.  Quiet.  Barely a breath and a twitch of his lips, but it still happens.  Maskless, eyeblack still stained around his exhausted eyes.  Stuck to his blond eyelashes and caught in his brow.  He must have just gotten home from whatever he’s been up to the past few months, you probably don’t want to know.  It might make you want to stick around more than you should.  Make sure he’s alright.  That he’s eating and sleeping.  You’re probably the only one alive that knows he struggles, coming home and adjusting back to civilian life.

Simon reaches out, warm hand tenderly holding the side of your face and wiping away runny mascara.

“Because you called,”  he says, genuine.  Without an ounce of the annoyance you somehow expected, although he’s never once been annoyed before.  “Can you stand?”

You swallow again,  “probably not.”

He shifts.  You watch as he shuffles closer, snaking a large hand under your knees and the other around your back.  Lifting you with no visible effort other than a stifled grunt, tucking you close to his chest.  Careful not to jostle you too much as the movement makes you dizzy and you clutch hard at his bicep.  Hide your face in his collar and shut your eyes tight as your head swims.  Try to focus on the pulse between his ribs. His shirt smells like cigarettes and old leather, something distinctly him.

“Your heartbeat is fast,”  you breathe.

Simon's boots splash against the puddles on the street.

“Mm,”  he hums, adjusts his hold on you.  “A little.”

“Why?”

He pulls the door open with a finger and sets you down carefully in the passenger seat.  Gets you situated.  Something about it shoots a distant memory through your brain; wrangling a wet German Shepherd into your old car.  Thunder rumbling across the sky.  Driving home with a very relieved Simon in the backseat, curled up and rain-soaked with the dog he thought he lost forever.  

That was the first time you met.  Spotting him dejectedly along the side of the M62 motorway, leash in hand.  Trying to find his dog Riley who had jumped from his car in the midst of the worst rainstorm you’ve seen in years.

“‘Was worried,”  he confesses, low and sincere.  “Reckon you’d have to be real desperate to ask my sorry ass to get you.  Thought I'd have to beat someone up."

Hurt wells, hot and upset, through your chest.  Makes you clutch his shirt a little tighter as he gets to his car, even if he did intend for it to be a lighthearted joke.

“I’m sorry,”  it’s genuine.  You don’t exactly know if you’re apologizing for not staying in touch, the argument before he left, or bothering him in the first place. Either way, the apology is genuine.

He smiles.  Warm, tired, sad.  Much like he would whenever you’d drop him off at the airport or when he’d climb into bed after his return: sore, exhausted, and apologizing.  Something you like to think is reserved for you, although you know might be wishful thinking.

“S’alright, love.”

The drive itself is quiet.  You press your face to the cool of the window and let your eyes shut.  You’re still shivering from the rain despite Simon cranking the heat up.  A part of you is glad for it, it gives you something to zero in on.  Keeps you from vomiting in his car as you listen to the rain tap against the windows.  Watch the city lights come and go as he navigates traffic carefully.

“Where to?”  He rumbles.

“Same flat,”  you slur.  “The one on 8th.”

He sends a glance your way.  You meant to leave the city after you left but with money so tight you haven’t had enough time to go looking, so you moved back into the apartment complex you inhabited before the both of you got together.  Easy, cheap.  Sketchy neighborhood but close to work.  Small, but you never needed a whole lot of space, anyway.

He doesn’t comment on it.  Just flicks the turn signal on and takes you home.  You’re a little grateful.

Simon carries you inside.  Still avoids that one stair that is higher than all the others.  Still ducking his head down just a little under that one doorway he hit his head on once.  Water drips from his clothes and taps against dusty linoleum floors, boots squeaking as he sets you down carefully outside your door.

By the time your shoes hit the floor again, it seems to contort and dip underneath you.  Your heartbeat pulses in your ears and hands shake as you fumble for your keys.  Swaying as you clumsily press them into the knob and turn.

“Hm,”  Simon huffs, blinking at the familiar, dark, empty living room around him.  “Looks exactly the same.”

You barely register his comment before the lump in your throat grows unbearable, barely hearing what he says.  Stumble across the room to the bathroom just in time to collapse by the toilet and retch a night of drinking, painfully, into the bowl.  It hurts.  The kind of vomit that only happens when you go too long without eating before having a drink.  The kind of sick that carries a thick kind of shame with it—a kind of oh no, I’m getting bad again.

Simon's at your side in an instant, a roll of paper towels under one arm and a glass of water in the other.

“Bloody hell, easy,”  comes his voice as he wipes at your face, fuzzy and distant behind the headache that pounds in your skull.  You breathe and it burns down your irritated throat as you lean your head against the porcelain. Let him fuss over you as you recover.

“Fuck,”  you curse yourself as the sobriety of throwing up brings with it a massive wave of clarity.  You run a shaky hand over your eyes, swallow thickly.  “I’m sorry, Simon, I��”

“It’s fine."

“I shouldn’t have texted you,”  you continue, voice cracking as you grimace.  “Should’ve just walked home or Ubered or something.”

He sighs,  “love—”

“I’m a fucking mess and I really didn’t want to—”

“Stop,”  Simon finally says, stern but never mean.  You shut your mouth tearfully.  Look up at him with that look that he knows all-to-well by now; from date nights he had to miss to disappearances without goodbyes.  Nights you needed him to stay but he couldn’t because the job needed him more.  When he shot down your suggestion of getting married because he didn’t want you in harm’s way should anything happen to him.

He wasn’t mad when you got tired of it, when you broke the news that you were packing up and leaving.  Left his flat jarringly empty and made his life outside of the Task Force a lot quieter.  A mediocre partner at best, really; he should’ve expected it.  Too tired to do much and too messed up to love you like you deserved.

He wasn’t about to leave you hanging here, too.  Wouldn’t.  Couldn’t.

“I’d rather me pick you up than some creepy bloke,”  he tells you, tone almost somber.  He runs a warm hand comfortingly over where your dress exposes your back.  “You’ve sat beside me while I puked too many times.  ‘Bout time I returned the favor.”

That gets a weak scoff out of you.  A twitch of your mouth just barely visible through the dark of the bathroom.

“This feels a little more pathetic, though,”  you breathe.  “At least you can hold your alcohol.”

“At least you made it home,”  he smiles.  “I wouldn’t have moved.  ‘Woulda spent the night sleeping against that building, most likely.”

You chuckle a little at the thought and he shifts, taking you into his arms again.

“You gonna get sick again?”

“No,”  you breathe, eyes drooping.  You swallow and it tastes like bile, but the tightness in your throat is gone.  “M’good now.”

He hums, but you barely hear it.  Letting the world fade into black just as he carries you down the hall.

You don’t remember much else.

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in bed.  Warm, golden sunlight settles in through the cracks in your blinds and irritates your eyes.  He somehow got you out of your dress last night and into one of the large T-shirts you’re always wearing to bed, wiped off most of the makeup on your face so that only stubborn mascara dots your pillow when you turn over.  Tucked you into all the blankets he could to ward off the worst of the rain's chill. It's the most care anyone has shown you in a while.

There’s water on the nightstand, your tumbler damp with condensation. Two red ibuprofen pills next to it.  In front of your messy side table, on the floor, is Simon.  Blond head perched up on an extra pillow, softly snoring away as he sleeps on his stomach.  Fresh tattoo on display thrown over a light blanket from your couch.  

For a moment, you blink at it.  Confused by the jarring difference in it compared to his others; all dogtags and fire and death.  A diamond with a landscape of a rainy highway inside, a road sign the main focus. A breath fills your lungs as you realize, then, what it is.

M62.

You stare at it for longer than you’ll ever admit.

[maybemnday]

nsfw!streamer!reader x mod!simon (CANON DIVERGENCE) -> anon req

⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist -> REQUESTS OPEN!

simon riley, the good guy he is, is a little bit of a pervert. yeah, he's respectful, but that doesn't mean he won't catch a glance when you let him. you're a popular streamer, and simon's been watching you for years now—he's still your top donator. so when you make a complaint about weird, overly personal comments in your chat, he offers himself up to moderate.

it's just well that it means he gets to see you more. talk you you more. protect you. he slides into your messages, listens to you complain about the people who expect more from you, the creeps, and he promises you it'll be okay.

because it will—you don't know it just yet, but there's no reason to worry at all. not when simon's knife is pressed to the neck of some creep who was trying to dox you. it's only logical that, when the creeps start to go quiet, and you think it's just because of simon's great moderation online, you pay him back.

you get closer, naturally—simon's charming, isn't he? always knows what to say to make you feel better. so you invite him for coffee.

one thing leads to another, and your chat is begging to know who the tattooed arm is as it manhandles you down onto the couch, two thick fingers stuffing inside of you.

...and of course, when he's done, you’re too blissed out to notice how he bans those desperate, parasocial messages, desperately rambling about how their cock would feel so good in you—his would be better, that’s all he knows.

[maybemnday]

okay babe i saw you were wanting requests and so here’s my shot! pls pls pls ignore it if this makes you uncomfy in any way tho

but hear me out: simon and/or johnny who’s incredibly sensitive during sex. like 5 minutes in at most and she writing away, moaning out “oh no’s” and “i cants” the second it’s more than her clit being rubbed or being fingered, instinctively backing away even though she does want it

basically just squirmy crybaby reader being manhandled

a/n: yesss girl I love this so much! I also went kinda crazy so enjoy lol. also off anon ily. I wrote this with simon cuz I think im better at writing with him because im practically in love with him ☺️

cw: smut, 18+ MDNI sub!reader/dom!simon, crybaby!reader

wc: 2.1k (😳 i did not realize it was this long)

You always come undone too fast.

It’s almost embarrassing, the way your body betrays you the second he even looks at you like that—hooded eyes, half-lidded and hungry, his voice sinking an octave as he murmurs your name like it’s already a promise. And now, on your back, flushed and slick with sweat and tears you don’t even remember starting to cry, you’re not even five minutes in and already—

You’re shaking.

“You’re doin’ it again,” Simon mutters, half against your skin. “Tryin’ to run from me.”

His voice is rough. Gentle, but undeniably teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he does. He always does. He’s got you pinned, one large palm firm at your hip to keep you in place while the other slips between your legs again, fingers already glistening from the mess he made of you earlier. His touch is lazy, unhurried, but too much all the same. You feel his fingertips drag up and down through your folds like he’s exploring, like he hasn’t memorized you by now.

Your breath catches. Your hips jump involuntarily, thighs trying to snap shut.

“Don’t—” you gasp, not knowing if you mean don’t stop or don’t touch. You want both. Neither. Everything.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mock concern draped in a low groan. “You’re already wrigglin’. Barely touched you and you’re soaked.”

He leans in, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, chest to chest as he nudges his nose against yours. “Still want me to stop?”

You shake your head instantly—panicked, breathless. “No, no—I want you, I do, I just—”

His fingers press into you, slow and deep.

You let out a broken little cry and arch helplessly, the world narrowing to the stretch of his knuckles, the way his hand fills you like it was made for it. Your nails claw into the sheets, or maybe his back—you can’t tell—your whole body trembling like a live wire.

Simon hums low in his throat. “There she is.”

You sob.

Not loud or dramatic—just one of those stuttering, overwhelmed little hiccups that slips out before you can hide it. Your legs twitch against the mattress. The heat in your belly is sharp, unbearable, cresting too fast. You squirm beneath him, trying to ease the pressure even though you don’t want him to stop.

“Simon—oh God—oh no, no, I can’t—” you cry, the words tumbling out between your choked little gasps. “It’s—it’s too much, I can’t—”

But you’re still clenching around his fingers like you’re begging for more.

“You always say that,” he whispers, a little cruel, a lot fond.

His other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb swiping over your cheekbone where the tears have started to streak. You don’t even know when you started crying. It just happens—whenever he’s like this. Focused. Gentle but relentless. Worshipping your body even as he breaks it down.

“Every time I touch you, you start cryin’,” he says, and there’s something like awe in his voice, like it actually wrecks him. “Like your body doesn’t even know how to take it.”

You try to nod, try to answer, but he crooks his fingers just right and you go liquid, back arching with another desperate sob.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, Christ.”

His cock is hard and heavy against your hip. You feel it, even now, even through the haze, and the thought of him inside you—not just his fingers but all of him—makes your breath stutter.

“I want you,” you whimper. “I do, I want it, just—just not yet, please, I can’t yet—”

Simon shushes you immediately.

“Hey, hey, I know,” he breathes, brushing your hair back from your damp face. “We’re not rushin’ anything, alright? You just breathe for me.”

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t retreat.

His fingers stay buried inside, moving in slow, controlled strokes, just enough to make your thighs tremble. His thumb finally brushes over your clit—just once—and your hips jerk again, a high-pitched ohfuck slipping from your lips.

Your legs instinctively try to close, to protect the overwhelming heat building between them, but he catches one with a hand under the knee and spreads you again, slow but unyielding.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs. “Let me see.”

“Simon—” you whine, nearly delirious.

He just looks at you then. Really looks. Like you’re something holy. Something broken open just for him.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he says. “All flushed and tearin’ up. Can’t even think straight, can you?”

You shake your head helplessly, lip wobbling.

He kisses you, finally, catching your bottom lip with his and biting it just enough to make you whimper. The kiss is messy. Deep. You’re still crying a little, but he swallows every sound you make like it’s something precious.

“Fuckin’ love it when you get like this,” he growls against your mouth. “You act like you’re shy, like you can’t take it—but your cunt tells me otherwise.”

“Simon—!”

You sob his name again, your whole body locked up with the incoming wave that’s barreling toward you. His fingers don’t stop. He keeps fucking you through it—slow, rhythmic, endless—and you’re nearly incoherent now, little gasps and whimpers spilling out with every breath.

And then you snap.

It hits all at once. Your back arches, your thighs quake, and you’re crying out so loudly you don’t even recognize your own voice. Your body writhes beneath him, trying to pull away even as your cunt clamps down like a vice.

“Thaaaat’s it,” Simon growls, pressing his mouth to your temple. “Cry it out, baby. That’s my girl.”

You’re still sobbing, still twitching through it, the aftershocks rattling your bones.

You don’t even realize he’s pulled his fingers out until you feel his hands slide up your body, anchoring your hips, holding you like you’re breakable and precious and his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough. “You with me?”

You nod, barely.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Mouth soft. Gentle.

And when you whisper, still shaking, “I still want you,” he presses his forehead to yours and groans like it’s killing him not to take you apart all over again.

“Then I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Nice and slow. Gonna take care of you, baby. You just cry for me as much as you need.”

☆taglist☆

@h0lydrag0ns @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds

[maybemnday]

And when I'm taking your innocence

Summary: After Edward last shared you with his criminal partner, a hidden outfit leads to yet another encounter between you three; one that has unforeseen results

Warnings: 18+ smut, fem reader, threesome, dom!Edward and dom!Jonathan, the scriddler vibes are stronger in this one lmao, degradation, spanking, choking, fingering, rough sex, creampie

Words: 6.2k

Notes: This is a part two of a little victim-less crime that i wrote cause i'm 1.) constantly horny for these two, and 2.) i was enabled on ao3. I love writing dialogue for these two, apologies once again for the self indulgence.

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The fact your apartment door was unlocked when you got back from work, when you know for a fact you locked it before you left, should give a normal person cause for alarm, but you simply roll your eyes as you enter, shutting it again behind you. After all, The Riddler wasn’t one to need a key.

“Edward?” you call out, before you hear him inside your bedroom. You really should give him a key at this point, but he probably finds picking your lock a bit of added mental stimulation. Entering, you glance down, confused as your lover was on his knees, looking under your bed.

“Look what I’ve found.”

At your boyfriends’ almost sing-song tone, you feel the blush rise on your cheeks as he holds up the playboy bunny outfit he’d retrieved from the scrappy box beneath your bed, even fiddling with the bunny ear headband in the other hand. Suddenly, memories come flooding back, of being on your knees for two of Gotham’s most wanted while dressed in such a revealing outfit, being referred to as nothing more than a pet while they took turns using your mouth. You quickly go to grab the outfit, but Edward stands to his full height and lifts it above his head, smirking.

“C’mon Eddie, give it back.”

“You kept it?”

You hesitate, feeling the heat of your skin rise. “Of course I kept it…you bought it for me.”

“I did, but I’ve bought you a lot of things doll.”

“…it fits nice. I guess I figured I’d…or you’d…”

He laughs, dropping his arm and letting you snatch the fabric. “You thought I’d want you to wear it again for me? Well…it is tempting.”

You quickly bend down to stuff it back in its box under the bed, having to swat his hand away when he playfully tries to spank you. Standing back up, you teasingly glare at him.

“What were you even doing looking under my bed in the first place?”

“You know I store some things here I don’t want people to find.” He explains, digging into his pocket to pull out a lockbox key. “But it seems I found a bonus.”

You nod softly, before giggling and trying to grab the key. Edward scoffs, and moves his hand, dangling it over your head and forcing you to try and reach it. He smirks a little when you can’t, and it widens when you playfully pout at him.

“You really think that’ll work on me? Try a little harder, won’t you?” he says, before scoffing louder at your attempt to jump up to grab it. It’s almost like he’s having fun before his phone rings. A flash of annoyance shows on his features, before he excuses himself and steps outside your bedroom. You glance underneath the bed, thinking about that night. It made you feel good, feel powerful, to be seen as so desirable by two men like that. You can’t deny the encounter left quite the impression; you’d slept with both of them at the same time a few times before that night, each time thinking it would be the last. At first you were surprised, since Edward had the tendency to be possessive, but the last time…well. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but it was like Edward enjoyed the fact it was Jonathan that was there with the both of you. After all, he’s never suggested sharing you with anyone else.

“Sorry doll, something came up.” Edward says as he steps back in the room, noticing how lost in thought you seem. The cogs in his brain start to turn, as he cups your jaw. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Make sure you’re free.”

“Yeah, I will.”

He pats your jaw a little and goes to walk away, before you make a soft noise and follow him. Rolling his eyes, he leans in to give you a kiss, but you don’t miss the hint of a smile before he does. You know he adores this, feeling needed by you.

“So needy.” He chastises lowly against your lips, before pulling away completely. “Tomorrow night.”

You hum your confirmation, before he leaves. Trying to go about your day as normal, your thoughts are constantly straying to the idea of you being in that outfit again for him, of serving him. Perhaps even serving both of them again. That night, laying in your bed alone, the thoughts seem more and more tempting, the memories causing the ache between your thighs to worsen. You attempt to squeeze your thighs together, forcing your eyes closed in an attempt to sleep, but your brain keeps replaying the encounter like a video tape stuck on replay. Feeling yourself get wet, you slip a hand down to relieve the tension, before a better idea pops up.

You reach over your bed and grab the box, quickly stripping yourself and squeezing your curves into the tight outfit. God you forgot how revealing it really was, as you turn the lights on in your bedroom to have a better look at yourself. As you turn in front of the mirror, you know what you’re about to do  is something that’ll certainly land you in hot water, but you can’t resist grabbing your phone from the bedside table and opening up the camera. Hesitating for a moment, you decide to get on your knees, straightening your back before snapping a picture, making sure to push your chest together so it looks extra obscene. Grinning at your little stunt, you send the picture to Edward with the text ‘I don’t know how I’m going to wait until tomorrow ;)’. You know it’ll most likely be a while before he sees it, so you grab your vibrator from your dresser and settle into bed, ripping off the crotch of your bodysuit and preparing for a good night.

Just before you go to sleep, you see a message from Edward. Opening it, it reads ‘you naughty minx, just wait until I get my hands on you. You’ll pay for that.’

Tomorrow night turns into tonight, as you get home to your apartment. Since he was vague about the time, you figured he wouldn’t be in as you open the door and see a gift box in a beautiful shade of emerald green sat on your coffee table. You go over and read the note, that gives you express instructions to not open it until 8pm sharp. Laughing softly at Edward’s theatrics, you obey the note’s instructions and wait, making dinner for yourself instead. However the time rolls around eventually, and using your phone’s time to be extra sure, as soon as it strikes 8pm you unwrap the box. Pulling out the fabric you see, your eyes widen. A…maid outfit? You’ve got to be kidding.

Just then, your phone buzzes with a notification. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, I expect you wearing that when I come through the door.’

You’re pretty shocked at that, looking back at the maid outfit. You figured he’d simply make you wear the bunny suit again…until you remember. You remember the conversation Edward had with Jonathan after they’d had their way with you.

“What was it between?” Jonathan pipes up.

“This, or a maid outfit.” He explains, looking at your form with a smirk. “I went with something classy.”

You realise he simply got you the other choice he considered, the other outfit he wanted to see you in. But you momentarily forgot you were on the clock, so you quickly get changed into the maid dress. How he managed to get one that fits you so perfectly in such a short space of time is beyond you…unless he bought both this and the bunny suit at the same time. Bastard.

You go to the bedroom to look in your full-length mirror, analysing the ensemble for the first time. It’s short, which was to be expected, with white lace trimmings along the skirt and the edge of the sleeves. It has a white apron that ties neatly in a bow at the back, as well as lace that goes around your wrists and neck. A lacy pair of white panties had been included, which you hurriedly pulled up. Finally, a headband sits on your hair, completing the uniform of a maid that would certainly be fired for violating a dress code. Still, it was very flattering to your figure, and you exemplified the look by applying some red lipstick, before anxiously pacing around your apartment until you hear a knock at the door. At least he knocked this time.

Opening it, you’re greeted to Edward’s smug grin as he looks you up and down. He looked good tonight, hair styled back with only a few rogue red strands falling out of place, green suit ironed and form fitting as he steps inside and shuts the door.

“What a fine-looking maid I’ve hired.” He teases, before you giggle and playfully swat his arm.

“When did you buy this?”

“Does it matter? I knew you’d look ravishing in it.” He says, and he revels in how you so obviously bask in his praise. Leaning down, he gives you a teasing peck on the junction between your neck and shoulder. “Come on, I’m a busy man. Aren’t you going to offer to take my jacket?”

You roll your eyes but walk around him regardless, helping him take his jacket off before hanging it up. When you return he’s settled on your sofa, legs spread as he gets comfortable. You go to sit on his lap before he stops you, tutting.

“No no doll. You see I have something…special planned for tonight.” You tilt your head, as he checks his watch. “Should have known the bastard would be late.”

He watches in satisfaction as realisation dawns on you. “Wait…is Jonathan-“

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his smile still adorning his features, but his eyes are clearly searching yours for any sign of discomfort. When you shake your head, he continues. “It’s been a while since our last escapade. I was feeling generous.”

You giggle softly, both in excitement and embarrassment. It’s true you hadn’t seen Jonathan since you’d dressed as the playboy bunny for them both, so it was a little mortifying to know he’d be coming and seeing you in yet another slutty outfit. You perch on the arm of the sofa as you ask Edward about what he’s been busy with, listening to his plans on how to humiliate his next targets: this time the employees of a company advertising a new chess set that’s designed to be easier to play than normal chess, not hard to see why your boyfriend would have such a petty intellectual objection to such a thing. Before long though, there’s a firm knock at the door, to which Edward gestures with his head.

“Well go on then, maid.”

You flush and glare at him, before getting up and walking to the door, seeing the always dishevelled appearance of Jonathan Crane. He gives a wolf whistle as he eyes you up, southern accent as charming as ever. “Well well well, looks like ol’ Eddie got ya in the outfit after all.”

Smiling a little shyly, you step aside and let him enter. Jonathan glances around your apartment idly, before nodding at Edward when he comes into view.

“Doesn’t she just look ravishing Jon?”

“That she does, gotta admit this is mighty fine payback.”

You frown a little in confusion. “Payback?”

You observe as Edward’s jaw clenches, while Jonathan lets out a throaty laugh. “Oh he didn’t tell ya? Can’t say I’m surprised. He never is fond of admitting when he’s screwed up.”

“Oh shut it Crane.” Edward says petulantly, but he clearly isn’t about to explain the situation, so Jonathan continues.

“Well me and Edward here were workin’ together on a little payback of our own for Mister Dent for meddlin’ where he wasn’t supposed to. And Edward was supposed to be in charge of procuring some product I needed, but he had to go runnin’ his big mouth to the supplier. Nearly got us both caught.”

“How was I supposed to know that buffoon would object so severely to being called out for having as much brain matter as a turkey in a coma, that he’d rat us out to the cops?”

You can’t help but laugh softly as Jonathan rolls his eyes before looking at you. “See what I mean? Big. Mouth.”

Edward grumbles, before you speak up again. “So Edward offered…”

“You? Well yesterday, he implied you might be interested in um, how should I put it? Being shared again? So I said if you were willin’, I’d be more than susceptible to forgivin’ Eddie’s little mishap.”

“And now you’re eyeing my girlfriend in a stunning outfit I paid for. Any man would be a fool not to be grateful for this opportunity. Let alone twice.”

You flush more at the comment, but you can’t deny the arousal that blossoms between your legs at the feeling of being desirable once again. Glancing between the two men, Edward smirks a little as he asserts himself as once again being in control of this situation.

“I figured you’d be interested in giving a bit of…disciplinary action. After all, my maid was a little whore last night when she attempted to tease me over text.”

Feeling your breath catch, you glance at Jonathan who steps closer. “Is that right?”

Knowing there’s no point in denying it, you nod shamefully. “I sent him a picture of myself in the playboy bunny costume.”

Jonathan lets out another throaty laugh. “Oh naughty girl. I bet that got him all riled up.”

You giggle softly, as Jonathan tilts your chin up. Looking up at him, you always get a little nervous when you’re at the centre of Jonathan’s intense gaze, dark eyes looking at you like you’re prey.

Edward seems to be enjoying the show, adjusting himself on the sofa as he speaks. “You can do as you wish, within reason. Just make sure she learns her lesson.”

Jonathan seemingly ponders Edward’s words, tilting your chin side to side as if he were inspecting you. You swallow, the feeling of embarrassment curling inside you once more as he smirks. “Edward, would you mind if we took this naughty maid to her bedroom?”

“Not at all.”

You follow the two men obediently before Jonathan pulls you onto his lap, straddling him. Hesitantly, you hold his shoulders as he runs his hands almost experimentally along your waist, feeling the material. “Gotta admit, I think I prefer this one to the bunny suit. Big fan of the details.”

He punctuates his words by tracing under the skirt, feeling your ass shamelessly, and causing you to arch into him a little. “Y’know, it’s a real shame I can’t see you with a little of my fear toxin in y’system. I bet you look beautiful when you’re afraid.”

“Crane.” Edward says darkly. A warning.

He hums, tracing your neck with one of his long fingers. “Pulse racin’, the way your chest would heave with your breaths, the way y’pretty eyes would look at me with tears in ‘em”

Glancing at Edward, Jonathan sees the death glare the other man is giving him as he leans against your dresser. So he seemingly takes the hint, deciding to lean in and kiss along your neck as you sigh and tilt your head. Little do you know he’s lulling you into a false sense of security before he smacks your ass hard. You jolt, gripping his shoulders tighter.

“Y’know, maybe a good old-fashioned punishment would help a little whore like you.” Jonathan murmurs in your ear, before pushing you off him. “Over my lap. Now.”

You scramble to do as he says, presenting your ass to him as you glance at your boyfriend, who’s now sitting next to where your head is on the bed. He looks at you with an expression unreadable to you, but you don’t have time to ponder it before Jonathan pulls the white panties so your ass is fully exposed before striking you once again. You let out a pitiful yelp at the sting, before he spanks you again. And again. And again.

Edward strokes your cheek in a mock display of comfort, but his greedy eyes betray his intentions as he speaks. “Oh darling, does that hurt?”

“Damn right she’s hurtin’.” Jonathan states, smacking your ass again hard to punctuate his words, “Need to make sure she’s taught a lesson, right?”

You let out a soft moan, nodding obediently at the statement, even if it wasn’t necessarily directed at you. Still, Edward chuckles softly and taps your cheek a few times absentmindedly. Jonathan gropes the tender flesh he’s struck, feeling you against his stinging palm as he uses his other hand to feel the material of your dress again. After a few more spanks, he notices the slight tears forming in your eyes and revels in it. Revels in the fear and painful pleasure he’s caused you, revels in the fact Edward is letting him defile you like this.

“Hm, how about y’apologise to Eddie here, for bein’ such an insolent brat. Say ‘I’m sorry sir, I will not be a naughty tease again’.”

Flushing at his words, you glance up at Edward shyly and start to speak. “I’m sorry sir, I won’t be a tease again.”

Edward smirks, like he knows a cruel inside joke that you don’t, as he glances at the man still groping you. Jonathan returns the smirk, before he grips your hair tight and pulls. “Really are a dumb one, huh? Don’t tell me a couple of spanks have rendered you incapable of rememberin’ a simple sentence. Guess I expected more from The Riddler’s girl.”

You whimper in slight pain at the hair pull, as he spanks you harshly twice in quick succession. “I said, say ‘I’m sorry sir, I will not be a naughty tease again.” He says slowly, sounding out each word to make you feel more stupid. You’re much more used to this type of condescension from Edward, so you can’t deny the thrill of Jonathan also getting off to you making mistakes like this.

“I’m sorry sir, I will not be a naughty tease again.” This time you repeat it perfectly, looking up at Edward through fluttering eyelashes for added effect, which he seems to appreciate.

“I suppose that’ll do.” Edward says, feigning indifference.

You just about have time to breathe a sigh of relief before Jonathan’s long fingers are tracing against where your clit is over your panties, feeling how soaked the material is. “Filthy girl. You got off on me spankin’ your bratty ass.”

Choking back a needy moan, you do your best to stay still in order to hopefully escape any more punishment. He keeps gently circling, the material acting as a barrier to stop any true pleasure, but being so needy meant you enjoyed the attention regardless.

“Such a depraved little maid. I simply don’t know where I found you.” Edward remarks, tapping your lower lip with his fingers before pushing two inside. You whine softly around the digits, sucking gently as Jonathan removes your ruined underwear. Though just as Jonathan pushes two fingers inside your cunt, Edward shoves his further into your mouth, causing you to choke and moan at the same time.

The lewdness of what’s being done to you causes you to clench around the doctor’s fingers, closing your eyes to retain whatever scrap of dignity remains. Still, you keep sucking obediently as Jonathan fingers you. It’s technical and precise; almost cold in its simplicity and determination. Your g spot is stroked and prodded as you lay there, trying not to splutter and gag around your lover’s digits that seem desperate to reach the back of your throat.

“Does it feel good I wonder, to be this depraved? This wanton?” Jonathan speaks, like he’s diagnosing you. “Or do you feel the hint of fear up y’spine as you realise there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.”

You moan around Edward’s fingers, the words just adding to your near constantly increasing arousal. Jonathan has your dress skirt bunched up in his fist while his other works you, allowing him to see every part of you that he wishes. Although when your eyes look up to Edward’s, his gaze seems stuck between Jonathan’s fingers slipping in and out of your wet cunt messily, or the scarecrow himself.

A particularly audible gag from the back of your throat snaps him out of his trance though, as he quickly looks down at you and removes his fingers, realising he became absentminded and went that bit too far. He doesn’t apologise however, far from it, instead wiping his spit coated fingers on the shoulder of your dress, before smirking down at you.

“I bet you like it, don’t you doll? You like feeling so dirty.”

You nod at him, panting as Jonathan speeds up his fingering. You couldn’t really deny his words, the feeling was exhilarating after all.

“You’re lucky to have a girl like this Edward, so eager to debase herself f’your entertainment.” Jonathan laughs, curling his fingers just right.

“Oh, you should hear her on a day-to-day basis. She has a mouth on her, I can tell you that.”

The friction from Jonathan’s trouser material rubbing against your clit whirls in your mind to form a symphony of pleasure in your core, threatening to tip you over the edge, so you vocalise it as to not warrant more punishment from the two men.

“Oh look at that, the slutty maid wants to cum.” Edward says with a grin.

“But should she?” Jonathan asks, pretending to think about it as he doesn’t slow down.

“Well as much as I believe my opinion holds the most weight here, since she’s my lover, I suppose you can decide, so I can really demonstrate my repentance for the whole supplier business.” His tone is smarmy, almost rolling his eyes at the fact he’s hinging your chance at orgasm on the whims of a sadist.

“Gotta admit, I would like to see what she looks like if she’s edged. Bet she’s a fuckin’ sight.”

“Please,” You stutter out, hand that was laying limp by your face now gripping Edward’s thigh, which luckily he doesn’t seem to object at, “can’t hold it.”

With a fake hum, Jonathan pulls his fingers out, watching with glee as your pussy clenches around nothing. You can’t help the desperate whine of being denied, but the doctor simply smacks your ass once again to shut you up, gleefully observing the tears forming in your eyes.

“So, I get to fuck her? Or does your pride dictate you go first?” Jonathan snipes at Edward, smirking.

This time Edward really does roll his eyes, but waves his hand in a dismissive fashion. “Yes you can fuck her, she’s clearly desperate for something.”

He hides it with his words, but the truth is Edward wants to see his criminal partner fuck you more than anything, the visual image always turning him on so much he almost feels dizzy. While he wouldn’t dream of divulging to Jonathan how on many lonely nights away from you, he’s pumped himself to completion at the thought of seeing you fucked mercilessly by him, Edward definitely won’t pass up the opportunity to see it unfold now.

So he helps manoeuvre you into position, your back against your boyfriend’s chest as Jonathan quickly rids himself of the necessary items of clothing before settling between your parted thighs. Reaching back slightly, you relax immediately at the feeling of Edward’s hand on your own, thumb rubbing circles. Whether it was to comfort you, or to once again display ownership of you, it didn’t really matter in your hazy headspace.

“Gonna say please?” Jonathan remarks, dragging his cock up and down your wetness.

“Please sir.” You reply instantly, the denial making you horny beyond belief.

Jonathan laughs at your quick response, saying “Wow, really takin’ the whole maid thing to heart. Here I was thinkin’ you’ll only call Edward that.”

Before Edward can fit a smartass comment in, Jonathan pushes forward, filling you at a steady pace until he’s deep inside your cunt. A pathetic but pleasured cry echoes from your throat, head falling back against Edward’s body. Even Jonathan lets out a small grunt of satisfaction, feeling your walls around him like a vice as he drags himself out slowly before pushing back in.

“That feel nice?” Edward asks, knowing the answer already but chuckling at your whimpered confirmation. “How about you Jon? Gonna cum already?”

“Shut up Nygma.” He grits out, gripping your thighs tightly as he sets his pace. Lewd noises emit from your pussy, you truly are drenched as he fucks you, pussy eager to have something after being denied. With each thrust, you let out a soft moan, feeling completely enclosed by the two criminals. You were all so close…too close. “God, y’just had to sit so fuckin’ close.”

Edward laughs sharply. “Oh, are you complaining? I’m holding her up for you, and besides, I wouldn’t be able to do this otherwise.” He punctuates his words by grabbing your tits firmly under the fabric of your dress, massaging them and making you moan louder and more wantonly.

“I could do that.” Jonathan snaps back, and you can’t believe you’re being railed out of your mind and these two are bickering like an old married couple, cunt throbbing as Jonathan fucks you.

“Well I’m doing it. Be grateful I let you fuck her, or did you forget she’s my girlfriend.”

“How can I forget when you keep remindin' me of it every goddamn second.”

Your eyes roll back after a particularly delicious thrust, letting out a choked cry that causes Edward’s gaze to snap back to you.

“That’s it doll, just feel how much pleasure he’s giving you. Then remember how much better it’ll feel when I finally get inside of you.”

“God do you ever shut up, even when you’re a cuck you’re still fuckin’ whining.”

You feel Edward tense behind you, clearly taking umbrage at Jonathan’s choice of words.

“You really are a fool Crane, as if I’d ever let myself be a cuck. This is called a threesome; would you like me to pull up a definition for you?”

Both men were getting more and more annoyed at each-other, and that manifested in their rougher treatment of you. Jonathan was slamming into you with conviction now, having a point to prove. His cock stretching you out so completely, the intensity causing you to almost shake. And Edward was pinching your nipples roughly between his thumb and forefinger, needing to assert himself.

“Y’just so-“

“Fine, you really need more of an elaboration Jonathan? Then I’ll oblige you.” Edward snaps, before doing something you truly weren’t expecting. He quickly leans forward, almost folding you in the process, and captures the scarecrow’s lips in a fierce kiss.

Jonathan is clearly stunned, not moving for a second as his brain catches up. You half expect him to push Edward away; to yell or stop…but you watch with wide eyes as he matches Edward’s intensity. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongues mashing together, but you can’t deny it’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. Edward bites Jonathan’s lower lip sharply, drawing blood that is quickly swapped between the two men in their exchange.

When they pull away, you observe the frenzied looks in both of their eyes, as Edward snakes his hand down to rub at your clit roughly. You cry out, clenching around Jonathan as he chases his own pleasure. Each thrust makes your ass rub against the obvious bulge straining in Edward’s suit trousers, causing your pussy to throb.

“Please…” you beg, hoping the endorphin rush from their kiss will make them take pity on you.

“Yeah, we’ll get y’there.” Jonathan says, voice a lower pitch that usual as he fucks you. Over and over he thrusts into you, until you’re sure that your brain is mush currently leaking out your ears. But with your lover’s nimble fingers tracing practiced circles on your clit, it doesn’t take long for you to announce your impending orgasm for the second time that night.

“C’mon darlin’, want to see you cum.” Jonathan remarks, to which Edward nods.

“I should have known the kiss would excite you that much, dirty whore. Make a mess for him.”

At their permission, you cum around Jonathan with a loud gasp, twitching in Edward’s hold. But Jonathan doesn’t slow down, too busy chasing his own climax. Sounds of overstimulation escape your parted lips, as Edward kisses your exposed neck and collarbone.

“Fuck, gonna cum deep inside ya.” Jonathan states, no room for argument, as you whimper and nod. A few seconds later, he’s buried to the hilt inside you, cumming with a loud groan you’ve hardly ever heard from him. His grip is bruising on your thighs, as you feel his release fill you up completely. Clearly he doesn’t do this often.

As he pulls out slowly, you hiss as his cum drips out of you. Edward looks over your shoulder, collecting the cum on his finger before rubbing it messily all over your pussy, making you look even more used. “Good girl sweetheart.”

You sigh happily at the praise, before you feel Edward grin and continues speaking. “But I hope you don’t think this is over. After all, I need to fuck my maid, don’t I.”

Biting your lip softly, you nod in agreement as Edward straightens you up, before bending you over so you fall unceremoniously into Jonathan. Luckily the doctor seems to have recovered from one of the best orgasms of his life, as he steadies you and helps Edward get you into position. Your dress is pulled over your head quickly, ‘roleplay’ long since discarded. Hearing a belt being unbuckled, you glance up at Jonathan as he smirks and rubs his thumb along your bottom lip.

“Well don’t you look happy to be used some more.” Jonathan says, wanting to see you embarrassed as you feel Edward press against your cunt, teasingly pushing the head of his cock in and out of you.

“Beg for me doll, just like you did for Jonathan.”

Gripping Jonathan’s forearms that are keeping you steady and upright on your knees, you turn your head and start to beg quietly. Too quiet for Edward’s liking, so he wraps his hands around your neck. “Come now, you know that isn’t going to cut it. Don’t make me punish you more.”

“Please sir,” you say louder, trying your hardest not to push back for extra stimulation, “please I need you, I need you to fuck me sir.”

After a few more pathetic sounding pleas, Edward pushes in quickly, causing you to lurch forward against Jonathan’s frame. Your gasp echoes around the room, as Edward groans at the sensation. Running his hands over your ass, neck now unrestricted, he savours the moment before starting his steady pace. He was gentler than Jonathan, but no less precise as you feel the pleasure run through you.

“Always feel so good around me.” Edward praises quietly, and you smile happily at the words and accidentally dig your nails in, causing Jonathan to hiss softly.

“Careful darlin’, can still punish you y’know.” He mutters gruffly, moving his hands up to pinch your nipples, giving you a taste of your own medicine.

“Fuck, she got tight at that.” Edward states, “Really are a little masochist aren’t you.”

You giggle softly at his words, turning as best you can to look at him. As he looks over your face, he can’t help but capture your lips in a kiss, swallowing your moans. His hand cups your cheek, moving your mouths together as he keeps snapping his hips against your own.

After you both pull away, your head rights itself to face forward, as Jonathan stares at your spit coated lips. You take initiative and kiss him too, which he quickly dominates by holding your neck firmly, controlling the pace. Hearing Edward make an uncharacteristically soft moan behind you only served to make your kiss more desperate, a tongue invading your mouth roughly. Gasping and whining, Jonathan pulls away to hear you, attacking your jawline and neck with his lips.

“Not gonna kiss me too?” Edward taunts towards the other man with a smirk, sounding slightly winded from his thrusts.

“Knew I was gonna regret that.”

“Oh please, as if you-“

Jonathan grabs your jaw, holding you in place as he leans over and kisses Edward once again, shutting the narcissist up. With his grip, you can’t quite turn your head to get a better view but you enjoy the show regardless. As they kiss, Edward speeds up, groaning into Jonathan’s mouth at the dual sensation.

When they pull away again, you swear all three of you moan in sync, the experience by far the most intense you’ve shared. Jonathan mentally curses his age that he can’t get hard again, wanting nothing more than to take your mouth as Edward fucks you from behind. Still, getting the show was a good second option, groping your chest.

You arch your back a little, pleasing both of them as you’re railed mercilessly. At your cries of pleasure, Jonathan starts to rub your clit messily, watching closely at where Edward’s cock is pushing into your cunt. The wet slaps are all you can hear, making your brain feel fuzzy before your boyfriend speaks into your ear.

“Such a good girl for me, for us.”

His words make you involuntarily clench around him, causing Edward’s moans to get louder, gripping your hips tightly. You feel overwhelmed, eyes blurry with pleasured tears as you get closer to your second orgasm. Scrambling, you hold the top of Jonathan’s arms tightly, causing him to laugh under his breath.

“Gettin’ closer ain’t ya?” Jonathan says lowly, keeping up the pressure on your clit. You nod, causing Edward to change his rhythm; clearly trying to last long enough for you to orgasm.

“Need you to cum around me sweetheart.” Edward gets out, his breath catching as he tries his best not to finish.

Nodding, you feel yourself reaching the edge, just as Jonathan wraps his other hand around your neck, applying pressure. “Cum, and maybe I’ll let ya breathe.”

His threat, and the added stimulation, cause you to twitch before cumming hard around your boyfriend, eyes closing. A couple of rough thrusts later, and you’re filled up for the second time, Edward’s release pumping inside of you. Both of you are moaning and gasping for air, before Edward pulls out slowly, watching the mess that drips out of your thoroughly used cunt. If it wasn’t for Jonathan, you’d have completely collapsed on the bed, him holding you up as Edward shuffles around your body to hold your face, turning you towards him.

“Still with me doll?” he asks with a smug smile, but his eyes betray the fact he’s checking on you as his gaze darts over your features. At your nod and weak but giddy grin, he laughs and kisses your cheek, pulling you against him. Jonathan looks as awkward as ever, never quite knowing what to do afterwards. He observes silently as Edward soothingly touches you, before your boyfriend glances up.

“Are you going to sit there like a ghoul, or are you going to make yourself useful and grab a towel.”

Jonathan clicks his jaw in annoyance but does as instructed, making his way into your bathroom and rifling around for a small towel, coming back and cleaning you himself. His way of showing gratitude.

Once you’re suitably cleaned up, you cling to Edward like you always do, as he basks in the afterglow and your attention solely on him. Jonathan clears his throat, the weight of the encounter really settling on him now. Not only did he partake in sharing you again, but now he’s kissed his criminal partner, this’ll certainly…complicate things in his mind. Mainly because he’s already reminiscing about it.

“Well, guess this does make up f’you bein’ an ass Nygma.” Jonathan says, maintaining his aloof nature.

“Yes I thought so.” Edward says with a cheeky grin, “I suppose I have my own personal get out of jail free card.”

You slap him playfully at that comment, causing him to mock pout at you and theatrically rub his arm, before Jonathan scoffs. “Yeah right, as if that’ll work with anyone but me. Why don’t you suggest it to the bat next time he bruises y’pretty face.”

“I am pretty Jon, thank you for finally noticing.” Edward retorts, causing Jonathan to roll his eyes. “And obviously that wouldn’t work, Selina has him on a tight leash I’m sure.”

In a strange sort of way, their bickering is almost comforting to you as you continue to relax in Edward’s embrace. His arms hold you, almost instinctively reassuring himself that you’re still his, despite your…well, you aren’t sure what to call the nights like these anymore. But as you look between them both, and how Jonathan has made no attempt to leave the bed again, and seems to have actually sat closer, you can’t deny how excited this new prospect makes you.

“…I think she’ll agree I fucked her better though, as her boyfriend.”