#benjamin poindexter x reader

[vigilantekisser]

Hellooo I just read your loser Dex works and it was divine you write him so pathetic and that's all I need. I was wondering if you could write about virgin Dex coming untouched only for a few kisses then being a total embarrassing mess for thinking he ruined the moment but we like it too much and end up giving him a handjob that makes him cry.. I love your works

pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader

18+ ! cw: f!reader, sub!dex, handjob, dacryphilia, overstim, bit of degradation, alcohol consumption, implied age gap (he’s older), accidentally calling dex kid?? (wc: 2.4k)

a/n: urghk i live for tormenting this man 😵‍💫😵‍💫 thank you for the request! masterlist

The bottle was sweating in your hand. Dex saw the rim catch by your teeth, a lazy bite with some abrasion that was making something in his stomach turn over. Had it been an hour since you’d invited him up? Two? It didn’t matter. His mind felt stretched thin as he watched you get drunker by the minute, your eyes turning dark in the low light of the apartment. Playing the part of the polite guest, he’d taken off his jacket and loosened his collar. Waiting for instruction, he was perched now on the edge of your couch, as if proximity to you alone might make him combust. 

His glass sat on the table beside him, untouched and gleaming.

“I thought you said you’d have one,” you said, twirling your bottle by the neck.

“You said you were going to get drunk. I said I’d keep you from doing anything stupid.”

“Oh, stupid now, am I?”  

You watched in amusement as his practiced smile faltered, the worried little notch by his brow carving itself deeper. His eyes flicked towards your legs, which were heat-glossed with drink, and now nearly bare due to the hem of your dress riding up. Then back to your face, a bit too late. Your smirk told him you’d seen everything.

“Feeling nervous, Dex?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You look nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Mm,” you sighed, long and luxuriant, leaning into the space between you until your knees brushed his. Your face was hot with a pleasant buzzing in your cheeks. “It’s cute though, watching you try not to freak out.”

Dex blinked rapidly, his lashes catching the light. He gave a little half-laugh, the playful twinkle back in his eyes, and his mouth tugged up into a smile that suggested he wanted to ask what you meant. 

“Like… Big, strong g-man like you,” you tilted the bottle again, watching him squirm at the compliment from the corner of your eye, “you’ve tackled worse things than me, surely. But you’re sweating like a sinner in church.”

“I’m not,” he said again, voice coming out hoarse. If his face was pink before, he was now positively red. 

“No?” You reached out and traced your fingers down his forearm. All casual like, your nails running across the pale hairs. “So what would happen if I asked to kiss you?”

He swallowed, lips parting then closing, and when he looked at you his pupils were dilated wide, a slim ring of hazel around pure black. He was scrambling for something suave to say, something charming and effortless that would keep you looking at him like this. But nothing came out. You perplexed him constantly, and he could barely think, let alone speak. For a heartbeat you were sure he’d bolt instead, but then he gave the barest nod.

You leaned in until your mouth slanted against his. He made a sound, a soft noise, and kissed back and…

Well, it was bad, honestly.

He knew it was bad. His lips were dry and stiff against yours. You pulled back and giggled at the face he was making–eyes screwed shut, brows drawn tight like he was waiting for it to hurt. So you kissed him again and finally it clicked, and– and it was phenomenal. This time your tongue slid into his mouth warmly, tasting faint salt and breath mint. Swiping over the ridge behind his teeth and deeper, grazing the roof of his mouth and he groaned, startled at how fast the sensation shot down, thick and electric straight into his cock. 

Dex was trying to keep up. Trying to not fuck it up. But when you pushed further, he let you, groaning at the lewd sounds of you mapping the soft places of his mouth. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so they hovered, hesitant to settle for fear that if he touched you, he’d ruin the mirage that was somehow forming in front of him and you’d disappear. 

You pulled back with a soft pop and stared at him. His lips were distractingly shiny.

“Wow,” you breathed.

“Wow,” he said back, dazed.

“Ever been kissed like that before?”

He shook his head. “No.”

You smiled and shifted closer, your fingers ghosting along the inside of his thigh, nails teasing just by the seam. Dex held very, very still. If he moved, even breathed a fraction off–

“How about this?” you murmured. “Has anyone ever touched you here?”

He exhaled sharply before responding. “No, not really.”

“Not really?” You raised a brow, dragging your knuckles along the seam of his jeans. Right next to the outline of his hardened cock. 

“I mean, I’ve touched myself obviously, but I haven’t–” He wanted to crawl inside himself. The conversation was getting a bit too personal for his taste, not to mention how closely you were touching him now, how pathetic his words were sounding in his own voice. Had he been reduced to this? He’d taken so many in custody, acted decisively without mercy but now he couldn’t find it in himself to regain that control, not with your scorching breath burning his skin. “But no, no, I uh– no one’s, um…”

“Not even a little?”

He shook his head.

You kissed him again, rougher this time, earning a gasp from him. Now he couldn’t ignore the way his trapped cock throbbed in his jeans. Without breaking the kiss, he shifted subtly, trying to adjust himself without you seeing—but the friction made it even worse, and when you put your hand on his chest, the sensation of your nails through the fabric of his shirt made him see stars. You were everywhere. The heat of your thighs against his, the unbearable awareness that there was nothing but your panties under your dress, how soft your tongue was in his mouth. The smell of your skin. Another press, the weight of your hand on his chest, and his whole body seized.

“Wait– wait, oh fuck–”

He didn’t even realize what was happening. His hips rocked up, chasing pressure and you felt the tension tremor through him. He jerked once and his head dropped back, gasping, the sensation on the inside of his thighs sharp and pulsing like the heartbeat of an insistent animal. The sinews of his neck stood out in stark relief. A long, guttural groan tore from his throat as his cock pulsed and pulsed again, the wet mess soaking into his pants in hot, sticky surges.  

You blinked.

You looked down, then back up at him.

“...Did you just…?”

“No, I–”

“No, I–No, I?” you repeated, low and amused, mimicking his stammer. “Use your words, Dex.” Swinging your thigh over his to straddle him properly, you dragged your hand down from his chest to his waistband and thumbed the silver button of his jeans. A little below it, a darkened stain was already blooming through the denim.

“Let’s try that again. If I unbutton your pants right now, am I gonna see cum or not?”

He looked at you finally, and the shame was so thick in his face his whole body was glowing red: his cheeks, the sultry skin down his throat, the tenderly pink rims of his ears. His eyes were wide and wet.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. Fuck, I’m sorry, I—” He curled in on himself, as if he wanted to physically shrink from your gaze. “I’m sorry, I should go. You’re drunk. I don’t wanna take advantage of you.”

You couldn’t stop your laugh. “‘Take advantage’? Dex.” You pushed him back down by his chest, your other hand finding his jaw. Your thumb seemed to fit perfectly into the delicate indent of his cleft chin. “Honestly, do you think you’re the one in charge right now?”

He whimpered. There was absolutely no way he was in control—clearly not of his body, certainly not of you—and there was no other way to describe it but refreshing, his mind completely clear and his body pliant, all yours to do with as you liked. Your hand caressed his thigh again, cupping the soaked, twitching bulge properly now, thumb skimming over where the fabric clung taut. Your fingers popped the button open in one deft motion, and he made a pained sound, shame and arousal tangling thick as syrup in his throat.

“Well? Do you?”

“No,” he managed hoarsely. 

“No?” The zipper slid down with a slow, satisfying rasp. “That’s more like it.” You slid a hand inside, feeling the sticky fabric of his briefs clinging to the curve of his half-hard cock while peeling the layers of obstructive cloth down. His cock sprang free, and there was a thick string of cum clinging to the tip, stretched from the slit down to the waistband. You caught it with a fingertip and smeared it lazily down the shaft.

“Fuck me,” you breathed, genuinely impressed. “You really made a mess.”

He turned his face away in shame, but his hips lifted into your touch. You curled your hand around the shaft, stroking through the mess he’d already made, and he groaned deep in his chest. Under you, his body was burning up, sweat gathering under his arms and at the small of his back. His cock twitched in your hand, completely hard again and drooling a slow bead of clear precum, as if the humiliation had been enough to get him back there.

“Did you not hear me? I said you made a mess,” you said, stroking him slow and steady, slicking it with his own cum. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

“I-I’m sorry,” he panted.

“You’re sorry but you’re still hard.” You tightened your grip, twisting your wrist a little at the head. “You came already, didn’t you? Why are you hard again?”

“I– I don’t know–” His head dropped back and he whimpered, biting down on his wrist. His face was contorted with pleasure. “Please, I- I can’t again so soon–”

“Yeah?” You kissed the freckle on his cheekbone. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, no…” He shook his head wildly, hiccuping a sob. He hadn’t known when he started crying, but tears were spilling down his reddened cheeks as his cock twitched sensitively in your hand. “Don’t stop…”

You licked a tear from the corner of his mouth. It was salty and hot on your tongue. 

“I know, I know,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his as you jacked him off between your legs. The rhythm never faltered and his cock was pulsing again, twitching under your hand. “I know it’s too much. You’re doing so good for me. Don’t fight it.”

He was trembling under you, his lashes clumped and newly dark with the wetness of his tears. You let your palm glide over the oversensitive head, gathering the slick with soft fingers. Then you dragged them back down the shaft up and down again, letting your touch circle the slit. Your head was buzzing now. The booze and lust blending. God, he was pretty like this—this bulky, tightly wound man you’d kissed stupid, now reduced to nothing beneath you. 

“Close? Already?”

“I– I can’t,” his voice cracked, “there’s nothing left, please–”

You circled your thumb right under the head and he whimpered loudly, hips jerking up helplessly into your palm. His cock spasmed in your grip, a shuddering twitch that drew a few final pulses from him. Milky beads drooled pathetically from his slit, a bit less than before, thinner and wetter slicking your fingers. He was gasping, his whole body gone limp with the second release. His cock gave one last twitch, and you knew that was it: he was completely spent.

You brought your sticky fingers to your mouth and sucked them clean, nice and loud, just to watch him squirm at the sound of it. It was bitter, a little sweet. 

“Nicely done,” you said, smoothing a hand down his chest. “You took that so well.”

Chest heaving, Dex swallowed hard, blinking up at you. The compliment was working its way into him, you could tell with how his face softened at the praise, red-rimmed eyes going hazy. You leaned forward, brushing your thumbs under his eyes, wiping away the tears that had started to itch at his cheeks. His skin was still burning, damp and hot. “Is there anything you want, baby?”

He mumbled something low under his breath, barely audible.

“Louder, Dex,” you commanded, and he tensed, his throat working as he tried to gather the courage. 

“Can you– can you kiss me again, please?”

His voice was so small, desperate and sweet and full of need. Afraid to even ask. You couldn’t help laughing. He was so much older than you, it was absurd how he sounded so young just then, reminding you of the twitchy hesitance you’d seen from the first guy you’d ever dated, the one who came in your hand after senior prom and apologized for twenty straight minutes.

“Fuck’s sake, kid.” 

It just slipped out– it didn’t even make any sense. His entire face went red, flinching at the word like you’d slapped him, blinking hard and looking away.

“Nevermind,” he muttered.

“No, no– hey.” You tilted his face back toward you, cupping his jaw, thumb swiping his cheek again. “C’mere.”

You kissed him, slow and deep. His mouth moved against yours with shy, grateful eagerness, him melting into it, every tense muscle in his body finally softening.

You pet his head gently, smoothing his sweat-matted hair back from his forehead. He didn’t want to move, face still red, cheeks blotchy with the drying tracks of his tears. The air between you felt molten sweet with the buzz of alcohol and the stink of sweat. His jeans were still open, boxers soaked, but none of that mattered right now.

Kissing the tip of his nose to make him smile, you murmured, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You curled yourself closer into him, letting your weight settle with your palm flattened over his chest. His heartbeat felt calm. You wondered if it was as steady as it really seemed, or if your own was thudding just as loud you couldn’t tell the difference. 

You giggled into the curve of his neck. “So, then… That’s a yes to a third date?”

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there���s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[monicfever]

dd n punisher characters with a hypersexual/overly hormonal reader? of course if you're not comfortable with this type of stuff you don't have to write <3

hypersexual!reader 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

matt pretends to be unbothered by how forward you are, but he absolutely notices every suggestive comment, every lingering touch, every flirtation. it always gets under his skin more than he lets on. he’ll smile that smug little half-smile, tilt his head like he’s trying to read you, and say something like, “you really don’t hold back, do you?” — but it’s always a little breathless.

he’s always listening. you think you’re being sneaky when you touch yourself in the other room, but matt hears everything. every breath, every rustle of sheets, every quiet whimper. it drives him insane. he’ll usually let you keep going for a while (just to hear it). eventually he’ll show up in the doorway, arms crossed: “having fun?” and the moment you smile at him, it’s over.

he likes the chase. you being constantly turned on doesn’t bother him, but he enjoys making you wait. you’ll try to crawl into his lap when he’s doing paperwork or patching himself up, but he’ll smirk and say, “you want something?” like he doesn’t already know.

he has rules, but you’re the exception. matt tries to set boundaries. “no distractions before patrol.” “not while we’re in public.” “not when i’m bleeding.” yet, somehow, your lips on his neck or your hand creeping under his shirt makes him forget every one of them. you’ll hear him groan out, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” while pulling you closer.

you fluster him more than he’ll admit. you’ve whispered things to him in church before. at nelson & murdock while foggy’s in the other room. across a dinner table while he's pretending to focus. every time, you catch the faint pink in his cheeks, the way he adjusts his posture like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “you’re incorrigible.” he’ll mutter. and then he’ll kiss you like he’s punishing you for it.

sometimes, when you’re being especially over-the-top — dropping innuendos in public, texting him filthy things while he’s in court — he’ll give you that warning tone. quiet, dangerous, voice low and right at your ear.

when you’re feeling particularly needy, he’s infuriatingly good at switching the roles. “oh, now you want my attention?” he’ll murmur, catching your wrists as you crawl into his lap. “you seemed just fine earlier.” he knows exactly how to drag it out until you’re the one begging, and when he does finally give in, it’s intense, focused, and a little overwhelming in the best way.

aftercare means a lot to him, even if you’re the one instigating all the time. he’ll kiss your shoulder, your knuckles, the top of your head. he’ll ask, “you okay?” even if you’re giggling and glowing. “again? insatiable.”

on a heavier note, sometimes your intensity stirs something deeper in him. his own guilt, his conflict between pleasure and penance. there are moments when he’ll gently pull back, not to reject you, but to steady himself.

sometimes he worries he’s not enough. he knows you’re intense, that your needs don’t exactly quiet down. even though he’s more than capable of keeping up, there are nights where he wonders if he can keep satisfying you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

notices everything. every suggestive glance, every teasing touch, every time you slide up beside him wearing next to nothing. he won’t always react — not right away — but you’ll catch the slight tilt of his head, the shift in his breathing. he’s got that stillness that says don’t push me unless you mean it. and you always mean it.

he’s not one for words, especially not when it comes to sex. so when you’re being flirty, constantly on him, slipping innuendos into everyday conversation, he mostly just hums or raises a brow. when he does speak, it’s in that rough voice — something like, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’re gonna find out how far i’ll take it.”

he holds back for a while. you’re always testing the line, always touching, always turning things suggestive. he plays it cool at first, lets you push and push. once he gives in, he doesn’t hold back. it’s intense, fast, physical — he grabs, lifts, pins. after he’s quiet again. catching his breath. wiping his hand down his face like you’ve just unraveled him.

tries not to act like he cares about how much you want him, but the truth is it gets to him. you wanting him like that, so openly, so often; it gets to him. there’s something healing in it, something anchoring. sometimes when you’re curled up next to him afterward, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and murmur, “you’re trouble.”

he doesn’t judge. never once makes you feel like you’re too much. your neediness, your teasing, your constant desire doesn’t scare him, doesn’t annoy him. if anything, it pulls him in. you’re real, alive, shameless about what you want. frank’s been in the dark too long not to be drawn to that kind of light.

he tries to ignore you when he’s focused, but you are relentless. sitting in his lap while he’s working on something. whispering, “wanna take a break?” with your fingers ghosting over his chest. he doesn’t look at you at first — keeps his hands busy — but his jaw tenses and his breath slows, like he’s trying to pray his way through it. “i’m tryin’ to get this done.” he’ll rasp. you smirk, “i’m trying to get you done.”

he doesn’t like being teased when he’s busy, so when you push him too far, pressing against him while he’s fixing something or whispering filthy things in his ear when he’s trying to clean a gun - - he’ll give you a warning. just a look. if you ignore it? he shuts the whole world out and shows you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.

when you’re being dramatic about needing him, he’ll act annoyed, but deep down it kills him in the sweetest way. “frank,” you’ll whine from across the room, “i’m bored and horny and you’re ignoring me.” and he’ll sigh like you’re exhausting — but then walk over and manhandle you into his arms without a word. picks you up and lays you out like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

he worships your body in private. all that heat and teasing you throw at him gets returned in full once he’s got you alone. he takes his time, holds you still, tells you exactly what he’s going to do in that deep, steady voice. “you want this?” he’ll ask, even though he already knows.

but he’s also so soft after. runs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real. presses a kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, the curve of your hip.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he is constantly flustered. like. constantly. you’ll say something absolutely filthy with a straight face while he’s drinking his morning coffee and he’ll choke every time. stammering, red in the face, eyes wide. “you — you can’t just say that while i’m holding hot liquid!”

he brags to matt. not in detail (he’s respectful, okay), but he definitely walks around with that post-you glow, hair messy, tie a little crooked, sipping coffee like he’s untouchable. matt raises a brow. foggy just shrugs. “what can i say? i’m being thoroughly appreciated.” — casually mentions to karen that he “had a very energetic weekend” while sipping his fourth cup of coffee.

he pretends to be shocked, but he loves it. he lives for it. he’ll say things like “you are so inappropriate” while his hand is already on your waist, pulling you closer. he’s not fooling anyone, not with that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

he loves making you feel good. your neediness doesn’t put him off, he’s just thrilled to be the one you want. he takes his time with you. he listens. and when you’re breathless under him, gripping the sheets and begging for more? he looks at you like you hung the stars.

you make him feel like a king. you’re bold about it. you want him, loudly and often, and foggy melts. literally melts. “you want me that bad?” he asks, half in disbelief, half smug. and when you say yes without hesitation? he gets that cocky little glint in his eyes.

you make him nervous in the best way. like, this is a guy who can argue a courtroom into submission, but the second you lean in at the office and whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses all ability to function.

public teasing turns him into a mess. you run your hand along his thigh under the table, whisper dirty things while you’re walking beside him, and he’s just trying to not combust. “can you not?” he hisses through a grin, but there’s no real protest. he’s into it.

he calls you a menace all the time. lovingly. half-scold, half-swoon.

he tries to retaliate. he’ll flirt back. maybe even whisper something filthy of his own, thinking he’s got you now. you double down. he immediately regrets it in the best way. “okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, hands up. “you’re dangerous.”

he’s an aftercare king. gets you water, fluffs your pillow, runs a bath. holds you close while you both come down. if you so much as hint at being ready for another round he’ll fake-complain (“you’re trying to kill me!”) while already kissing down your neck.

when he tries to keep up with you, it’s adorable. you’ll say something filthy and he’ll try to match you with a slick comeback; but the timing’s off, or he blushes halfway through, and it just ends up being the cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

he’s a cuddler with no shame. after you’ve exhausted him (and let’s be honest, you do), he’s all tangled limbs and sleepy kisses. “you’re insane,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. “i love it. don’t stop.” his voice is warm, a little hoarse, completely smitten.

he can’t keep secrets. not real ones. if he’s been thinking about you all day, he’ll tell you. “you left me like that this morning and expected me to go to work like a functioning adult?” he texts you during court. you send back a selfie in something slightly obscene. he slams his phone face-down on the desk and mutters “i’m in hell” with a dazed smile.

“no more sending suggestive photos while i’m at lunch with matt’s priest friend.”

he loves you exactly the way you are. loud, needy, bold, inappropriate — he eats it up.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

she tries to be professional. she’ll be typing up a story, dead focused, and then you saunter in, leaning over her chair, whispering something that should absolutely be illegal. her jaw tenses, her eyes stay on the screen. “i’m working.” but she’s already shifting in her seat, biting her lip.

she has a secret mouth. when she wants to, she’ll say something so filthy it stuns you into silence. usually in a whisper. close to your ear. “you gonna beg for it, or just keep looking at me like that?” and then she just waits. calm. still. eyes on you, daring you to do something about it.

you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss like it’s urgent, touch like you need her; it leaves her reeling. she’ll try to keep her cool but you’ll catch the way she exhales a little too hard, or stares at your mouth a second too long.

she teases right back. once she’s comfortable with you, you’re in trouble. she’ll wait until you’re the one trying to focus, then lean in and say something devastating in that soft, matter-of-fact voice. “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to dinner.” and then just walk away. smirking.

but you also unravel her. she’s used to bottling things up, being composed. you’re all touch and need and hunger and affection. it pulls something raw out of her. when you’re whispering her name, clawing at her shirt, telling her how good she makes you feel, she loses her edge.

she’s fiercely attentive. your hypersexuality doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her pull away. if anything it makes her want to understand you better. know your needs, meet them fully, love you through it. she’ll read you like a book — figure out exactly what makes you tick — and then use it.

she absolutely uses your energy to distract you. when she wants your attention, she’ll give you that look, chin tilted, eyes sharp, and say something devastating in a calm voice. “get over here.” and suddenly you’re the one undone, aching and obedient.

she knows when you’re trying to seduce her and lets you. she’ll play along like she’s unfazed, arms crossed, head tilted. “you think you’re being subtle?” she’ll say while you’re practically crawling into her lap. but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth? the way her eyes darken just a little? yeah, you’ve already won.

she does not shy away from intimacy. your neediness doesn’t embarrass her, it draws her in. she’s not here to shame you or play coy. she wants to be wanted like that. to be touched like she matters. when she gets overwhelmed, she clings. yeah, you’re the hypersexual one — but when she finally lets go, she gets wrapped up in it too. hands in your hair, lips on your throat, whispering your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

she absolutely teases you in public. she’ll press up behind you at the grocery store, whisper something obscene with the most innocent look on her face, then walk off like nothing happened. you’re the one standing there stunned, clutching a box of cereal like it just said something inappropriate.

gets handsy when she’s tired. maybe it’s after a long day, maybe it’s when she’s half-asleep on the couch, but her hands start wandering, slow and lazy and full of intention.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

absolutely thinks it’s amusing. from the start, she watches you with that signature, smug little smile every time you throw yourself at her like a live wire. her eyes are dark, hungry, like she’s daring you to want her more.

she matches your energy with terrifying ease. you flirt to fluster — she flirts to destroy. you say something filthy and she just smiles, leans in, and whispers something ten times worse in your ear while touching you exactly where it counts.

you don’t scare her. she welcomes all of it. feeds off of it. where others might pull away, elektra leans into it. and when you beg? her grin gets sharp.

she teases you to the edge of madness. she’ll touch you under the table during dinner, drag her nails over your thighs when you’re trying to focus, kiss your jaw and say, “you’ll behave, won’t you?” in public — knowing damn well you won’t. she wants you to break. that’s the game. taunts you when you’re needy. you’ll whine, cling, kiss her like you’re begging for something, and she’ll laugh — low and wicked. “you’ll have to earn it.” she’ll purr, dragging her fingers down your back.

she owns the aftermath. after you’ve lost your mind on her, desperate and clinging, she turns soft. unexpectedly so. hands gentle, voice low, fingers brushing your hair back as she says, “look at you. i do love how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

she lives for your attention. she won’t admit it, at least not easily, but the way you’re always reaching for her, needing her, dragging her in like you’re starving for her? it feeds something in her. reminds her she’s wanted.

she doesn’t believe in moderation. so you being constantly touchy, constantly turned on? she meets it with equal force. doesn’t ask why you want her again, just laughs, low and cruel, “on your knees, then.” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

she gets mean when she’s turned on. in that smirking, dominant, slightly dangerous way. “what’s the matter, sweetheart?” she’ll say when you’re writhing under her, voice honey-sweet and mocking. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? all that begging…”

she tests how far you’ll go. she’ll push you in public, press a hand between your thighs under the table, kiss your neck just a little too long, and ask in your ear, “going to behave, or make a scene?” and when you shiver, grip her wrist, beg for more — that’s when she grins like the devil. “that’s what i thought.”

watches you like prey. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve kissed, or how many times you’ve begged her to take you apart, she always looks at you like she’s deciding where to sink her teeth next. you flirt with her in front of someone else? challenge her in that low voice? she’ll take you home and ruin you.

when you come onto her in a bad mood she melts. she could be fresh off a mission, furious, bloodied, but you crawling into her lap and saying, “let me help”? she softens instantly. not in a weak way, in a worshipful way. like your desire grounds her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

at first, he doesn’t know what to do with you. you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss him like it’s urgent, touch him in casual greedy little ways that short-circuit his brain. he tries to act normal, tries to hold himself together, but you catch him clenching his jaw, fingers twitching, chest rising a little too fast.

he gets obsessed fast. the second he realizes how much you want him — how openly, constantly, shamelessly — you flip some hidden switch in him. he wants more. needs it. suddenly he’s tracking your every move, memorizing the way you kiss him, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing on your mind.

he follows instructions like they’re oxygen. “sit.” “stay still.” “hands behind your back.” you say it, and he does it. instantly. without blinking. it’s instinct at this point — his body reacting before his mind catches up. the second he obeys, he’s looking up at you, waiting for approval, wide-eyed and aching for your praise.

he’s dangerous when you rile him up too far. you flirt too much, grind against him when he’s trying to behave, whisper something filthy in his ear when you’re supposed to be focused, and he snaps. drags you somewhere private, presses you against the wall, and just takes. it’s quiet, intense, almost reverent. “you drive me crazy.” he groans, forehead to yours.

he doesn’t know how to handle being needed. you tell him you want him — again and again and again — and it undoes him. makes him shaky. makes him cling. sometimes after you’ve worn each other out, he just holds you too tight and buries his face in your neck. like he’s afraid if he lets go, it’ll all disappear.

he gets flustered in the cutest, darkest way. you say something explicit and he freezes — eyes dark, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his neck. he doesn’t laugh it off or blush. he stares. silently. like he’s deciding how many rules he’s willing to break right now. spoiler: it’s all of them.

he’s so good at ruining you in return. the minute you start pushing him he gives it back, tenfold. pins your wrists. makes you beg. says nothing for most of it, just stares at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. when you come undone he whispers, “look at you… look at what you let me do.”

your neediness makes him feel safe. he doesn’t always say it. but knowing you want him that much? that openly? it quiets the noise. the guilt. the rage. he touches you like you’re salvation. holds you after like you’re the only thing keeping him on the edge of sanity. you are.

he spirals when you tease him and then act innocent. you’ll straddle his lap, whisper something obscene, kiss his neck, then just walk away like it didn’t happen. dex sits there, frozen, jaw clenched, staring at the wall like he’s trying not to snap a pencil in half. by the time he finds you again, he’s feral. “you think this is a game?”

he thrives when you lose control. the moment your composure cracks — the moment you beg, or whimper, or grab at him like you can’t take it anymore — his whole demeanor shifts. his lips curl into this possessive little smirk.

he's insatiable once you’ve broken the seal. if he’s gone too long without touching you he gets ravenous. rough, shaky hands. kisses that don’t stop. taking you again and again, like he’s trying to make up for all the hours he went without you.

he doesn’t know how to take it when you praise him. he stares at you like he doesn’t know how to absorb it. like part of him doesn’t believe he deserves that softness. but he needs it. and when you say it again, gentler this time, he kisses you like he’ll die without it. he adores being praised. when you tell him he’s good, or strong, or perfect, his whole body trembles, just a little. his breath catches. it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time, every time, and it shakes him to his core. “you like that, don’t you?” you’ll tease. and he’ll look at you with this raw, desperate expression. “say it again,” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, “please.”

he gets needy in the best way. the more you touch him, the more you praise him, the more desperate he becomes. the man who usually has all the control suddenly becomes weak for you. he’s a mess when you praise him during sex. when you tell him he’s good in bed, that he’s making you feel good — that’s when he absolutely falls apart. his hands go slack, his body goes rigid, and he’ll mumble, “don’t stop.” over and over. every word that spills from your mouth is like a drug, and it’s ruining him in the best way possible.

he loves when you take control. push him down. tell him not to move. give him orders like you expect them to be followed — because he wants to follow them. he wants to earn your touch, your words, your love. when he gets it he’s panting, melting, gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

his obedience isn’t about power — it’s about love. he doesn’t kneel for you because he’s weak. he kneels because he trusts you. because he knows that when you give him orders, you’ll also give him affection. and that means everything to him.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

tries to be cocky about it at first. smirking while you straddle him, talking shit like, “gonna take what you want, baby?” but the second you actually do — grab his wrists, grind down, whisper “be good for me” — his whole body shudders. the smirk fades. his jaw clenches. and he’s whispering, “fuck… okay. okay.”

he gets jealous of your attention. not just who you give it to — but when you withhold it. you tease him, flirt then walk away, or spend more time on your phone than in his lap, and he’s immediately pressing up behind you, voice low: “what, you done using me already?”

you catch him off guard constantly. dragging him into the nearest room, climbing into his lap during meetings, whispering something unholy while he’s trying to concentrate. and he plays it cool, sure — but the way he grips the edge of the table or clenches his jaw? oh, he’s losing it.

he becomes so obedient under the right pressure. you tell him stay still and he does. every muscle tight, breathing uneven, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for his next instruction. he looks cocky, but that tension in his body? that’s need. he wants your praise. needs your permission.

he thrives off your desire. knowing you want him all the time, that you’re always thinking about him — it makes him feel powerful. desired. worshipped. he’ll tease you for it —“you really can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

but the more you want him, the more needy he becomes. it stops being a game and starts being obsession. now he’s the one touching you constantly, dragging you into bed at all hours, whispering, “just one more time, baby. can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’ll let you use him. no ego, no fight — just “tell me what to do.” if you’re extra desperate, pulling at his clothes and grinding on him like you’ll lose your mind without it, he lets you take it. lets you pull his belt loose and ride him breathless. hands on your thighs, eyes locked on you like you’re holy.

he melts for praise but tries to hide it. you call him good and he lets out this shaky breath, head dropping back, hands fisting the sheets. “fuck,” he whispers, like he’s embarrassed at how much it affects him. you tease him for how much he likes it. “look at you,” you’ll purr, dragging your nails down his chest, “mr. billy russo. ceo. soldier. killer. begging for my approval.” and he groans. because yeah. he is. and when you call him your pretty boy, your sweet thing, your favourite toy — he thrives. eats it up. all of it. he follows instructions so, so well. you train him without even meaning to. tell him how to touch you. when to stay still. where to put his hands. he gets desperate for your praise. he’ll push himself to the edge trying to make you feel good, looking up at you like a starved thing. “you feel good?” he pants.

he wants you to ruin him. not physically — emotionally. he wants you to strip him down. take all the masks off. make him yours in a way no one else ever has. when you say, “mine,” and grip his chin so he has to look at you? his body goes limp. he nods, quiet, obedient.

he’s competitive about keeping up. you want it again? again? oh, he’s rising to the challenge. he won’t back down — won’t let you think for one second he can’t handle it. but by round five, he’s on his back, breathless, hair damp, muttering, “jesus christ— what are you trying to do to me?”

he starts scheduling around your sex drive. literally moves meetings, delays calls, closes his office door and texts you a simple: now. and when you show up already knowing what he wants? he just leans back in his chair, unbuttons his shirt, and smirks — “i knew you couldn’t resist.”

but the second you get needy? oh, he crumbles. you press up against him, whine a little, tell him how bad you want him — and suddenly the smug façade shatters. he’s flustered, hands already on your hips, murmuring, “yeah? tell me what you need, baby. i’ll give you everything.”

he keeps things on him just in case. backup condoms. lube in his desk drawer. a change of clothes. because he knows you — knows you’re unpredictable, insatiable, always two seconds from crawling into his lap and making him lose every ounce of professionalism he has left.

he talks a big game but loses it so fast. he’ll say shit like “you gonna ride me like you mean it?” or “hope you can handle what you’re asking for”— and then you do, and suddenly he’s gasping, clutching at you, swearing under his breath like his whole body’s going haywire.

your appetite breaks his composure. you get him worked up in public, and suddenly mr. smooth-talker is stammering. distracted. flustered. he’ll pull you aside, grab your face, and growl, “you need to stop or i’m gonna fuck you in the nearest locked room.” (spoiler: you don’t stop.)

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

slow mornings where you can’t keep your hands off her while she’s brushing her teeth, trying to read case files, trying to drink her coffee — she doesn’t stop you, just mutters “insatiable” with a smirk. late nights on the couch with your legs tangled over hers, your fingers tracing the scar on her side, whispering everything you want to do to her — she listens quietly, then pulls you into her lap.

you call her detective when you're being flirty — she pretends to be annoyed, but the flush in her cheeks always gives her away.

she’s the calm to your fire, but when she snaps, when she lets go — you learn that she’s been holding back so much more than you thought. your need for touch grounds her; sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls her out of her head after a long day.

she’s not overly verbal during sex, but you are — and she loves it. loves how uninhibited you are, how you make her feel wanted in a thousand ways. sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all — just looks at you with that heavy gaze, hands on your hips, and you know exactly what she needs.

you send her texts during work: i need you, thinking about your hands, wear that button-down tonight — she leaves you on read, but always shows up exactly how you want.

she’s the type to make you wait. edge you for hours just because you’ve been too much all day and she wants to remind you who’s in control.

she sets boundaries with you early on — not because she wants distance, but because she knows your appetite could swallow her whole if she let its “you don’t get to touch me just because you’re needy,” she says, low and measured, her hand firm on your wrist — but she never pushes you away, not really.

she gives you rules. no touching without asking. no teasing when she’s on the phone. and god help you if you break them — she doesn’t yell, she disciplines. when you push too far, she doesn’t lose her temper — she goes cold, calculated. “take your hands off me. now. you don’t get me when you’re acting like a brat.” she uses your hypersexuality to train you — gets in your head, turns your hunger into obedience.

you test her constantly, and she lets you — up to a point. then it’s “knees. now.” and you’re on the floor before your brain can catch up. she loves that you want her all the time — but she makes sure you need her on her terms, not yours.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

he’s amused by how needy you are — not mocking, just indulgent. “insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he says without looking up from his glass. he doesn’t initiate in public, but you can feel it in his stare across the room — the promise of what he’ll do to you later if you don’t behave.

he makes you ask. always. “use your words.” and if you whine or pout? “that’s not asking. that’s begging. i haven’t decided if you deserve it yet.” his discipline is precise — never cruel, always controlled. he doesn’t punish out of anger, but out of principle.

you learn very quickly not to touch him without permission. not because he doesn’t want you to — but because he enjoys denying you just enough to keep you desperate.

“if you can’t sit still through dinner without thinking about my hands, maybe you don’t need dessert tonight. or tomorrow.”

he knows your body like a weapon — keeps you right on the edge with barely a touch, just his voice, just the way he looks at you when you’re squirming in his lap. he buys you luxury — lingerie you’re not allowed to wear unless he puts it on you, jewelry that marks you as his, bruises that match your diamonds.

there’s a cold satisfaction in how he makes you obey. “no talking back.” if you try to argue he silences you with a kiss, a firm grip on your jaw, “i’ll speak when i want. you’ll listen.” he loves the way you bend to his will.

when you’re on your knees, obedient and desperate, he takes his time with you, savoring the control he has over your every move, over the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. he loves when you’re desperate, when you can’t hide how much you crave him. “beg for it,” he’ll say, casually, and the way you do makes him smile with that dangerous satisfaction.

in those rare moments when he decides you’ve earned it, he’ll show a sliver of tenderness. a brush of his fingers on your cheek, a gentle word in your ear — it’s the only time you get a glimpse of the softer side he hides behind his icy control.

he doesn’t let you forget who’s in charge. if you slip up, if you get too demanding or bratty, he’ll pull back with a simple “that’s not how this works. try again.” he holds back just enough to make sure you’re always wanting more. when he finally gives you what you crave, it’s a slow, calculated act — drawing you to the brink, then pulling you back again, just to see how much you’ll beg.

“you’re not getting anything until you prove you can behave.” — you have to be good for him to get what you want.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you his favourite canvas, but he never means it metaphorically. his fingers drag across your skin like brushes, like he’s trying to paint need into your bones. he doesn’t understand restraint — when you want him, it feeds something primal in him. “say it again,” he demands, breathless and too close.

blood on his hands, paint under his nails, and you pulling at his shirt like you’re starving — he doesn’t care what time it is or what mess he left behind, not when you’re looking at him like that. he laughs when you get desperate, but it’s not mocking — it’s delighted. “look at you,” he purrs, “so hungry. like a little beast. i could make something beautiful out of that.”

he marks you in more than bruises — red smudges from pigment he won’t name, his fingerprints staining your thighs, your back, your neck — like he’s signing you. he gets obsessed with patterns — the way your body responds to certain touches, sounds, pressure — like he’s studying a new medium. “arch your back. no — slower. let me see the shape of it.”

he doesn’t like being told no. not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t comprehend being denied something he craves. your desire fuels his delusions of devotion. when you touch him, it drives him manic — like being wanted back is a concept he can’t entirely believe, and he spirals into reverence or obsession. sometimes both.

he doesn’t knock when he enters — he appears, silently, suddenly, like inspiration itself. and when you look at him with need in your eyes, he exhales like he’s relieved. “oh good. you’re ready for me.” he doesn’t understand why you crave him so often — but he adores it. treats it like proof. like you were made for him. like your desire validates the madness in his head.

he feeds on your desperation — physically, mentally, artistically. your need becomes his muse, your body the altar he builds madness on. when he ties you up, it’s not just for control — it’s a frame. your body, trembling and aching, becomes the exhibit. “stay still. you’re art now. don’t ruin it.”

he’s rough, but never careless. every bruise is intentional. every handprint, every bite — a signature. he gets frustrated when you wear something that hides his marks.

after, when you’re ruined and trembling and boneless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering in rapid, breathless phrases: “my perfect, filthy little thing.”

and then he sketches. right there, with you still shaking, sprawled over his lap — he sketches the aftermath. the glow. the way you fell apart.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[amberlynnmurdock]

The First Time

Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Reader

Genre: FLUFF, angst, SMUTTTT 18+!!!!

Summary: Dex and his neighbor become good friends, so much so she only trusts him to take her virginity.

Based off this anon message

Note: I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT BUT HERE IT IS I HOPE YOU GUYS LOVE IT

She’s the purest thing he’s ever known, and she lives right down the hall from him. Dex liked to keep his space neat and tidy; it was never dirty or out of order. He never allowed anyone into his space. Dex valued his privacy and, even more so, his alone time, despite feeling the lows of such often. Everything was a routine he had to strictly follow: wake up, shower, get ready for work, work, come home, be alone.

She ended up fitting into his routine, somehow. Only someone as pure and kind as she could find her way into Dex’s space--and so easily, too. She had recently graduated from New York University with a degree in forensic science and was living alone for the first time. 

He’ll never forget when she started talking to him in the elevator, one rainy evening.  

“What floor?” He asked her.

“6,” she replied. It was the same as his. Dex clicked the elevator button. 

“You work for the FBI?” She couldn’t help but notice the large letters on the sleeve of his navy blue jacket. Dex typically took it off before going out in public, but that day’s mission had exhausted him so much, he forgot to. 

“Yes,” Dex answered and shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to friendly conversation with strangers. It was natural for him to have his guard up. 

“That’s cool,” she sighed. “I just graduated from NYU last year. I got a job at the 15th Precinct in their forensics department, but working for the FBI is a dream of mine. Do you like it?”

“It’s tough,” Dex said. “It pays the bills.”

The elevator dinged. If he weren’t on the same floor as her, he’d be happy. He let her exit the elevator first and trailed slowly behind her. She waited for him so they could walk in tandem. He sighed, realizing he had no escape. 

“Do you mind if I come by sometime and ask you questions about your job? I’m new to the area—new to living here, and I’d like to know that I have a personal FBI agent to call a neighbor and—friend,” she smiled at him. Dex squinted his eyes slightly, amused by her outgoing personality and interest in his job. He wasn’t particularly a fan of being put on the spot like this, but seeing the way she looked so hopeful at him—who was he to say no? 

“Sure.”

And that’s how she ended up sitting across from him at his kitchen table, notebook on her right side, a cup of decaf coffee on her left. It had been like this for a year now—like clockwork, she was at his door at 11 PM, sometimes even later (depending on when he came home from work) to talk about his day and ask questions about anything related to his job. Dex grew to look forward to these late-night conversations with her—it was oddly reminiscent of his meetings with Dr. Mercer. 

Now, he knew these weren’t therapy sessions, and if anything, he was the one giving her advice and information, but it was comforting to talk to her about his day. He found comfort in explaining his job duties and answering any curiosities she had. She was kind, probably the kindest thing in his life right now, and he needed that. He found it harder to sleep if she didn’t come by and spend an hour with him talking about his job.

“Wow,” she breathed. “So when you guys detain whoever you need to, how soon does forensics show up to the scene?”

“They’re already on their way before we even lock the handcuffs,” Dex said. He watched as she scribbled something in her notebook. He only recently noticed how attracted he was to her—he only ever saw her at night, and she was always, more often than not, in her pajamas. He started to take notice of her rotation. Last week, she had light pink polka dot ones on. Tonight, she’s in a plain light blue set. Next was probably her black silk ones. It was always in her natural state that he saw her. No makeup, disheveled hair. Friendly smile. Curious and his favorite part, attentive, eyes. 

He rarely ever saw her during the day. He was up at the crack of dawn going to the headquarters, and she was always in three hours later. She always came home before him, and when she’d hear Dex’s familiar knock on her door, she knew he was ready for their nightly catch-up. 

Neighbors catching up…friends, like she said one time. That’s what they were, Dex supposed. 

He didn’t think of this as an almost every night thing. After the first few nights, he let her into his apartment, Dex thought it was a done deal. On the fifth night, just as he was about to get in bed, he heard a knock at his door. 

“I brought ice cream,” she was holding two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s in her hands, and squeezing her notebook under her arm. “Mint chocolate cookie or strawberry cheesecake.” 

Dex grabbed the mint chocolate cookie from her grasp and let her inside with a tired smile. 

He had also grown a bit protective over her as her neighbor. 

He remembered one time he got home from work at 10:30 PM—earlier than usual. He knocked on her door three times—it was his signal that he was ready and home—but there was no answer on the other side of the door. Dex pressed his ear against it and listened for any movement or sound. Nothing. He checked his watch and saw it was nearly 11:00 PM. It wasn’t like her to not be home already.

He pulled out his phone and called her. It immediately went to voicemail. 

Dex clicked his phone off and rested it on his lips. The increasing heaviness in his chest was something he only felt when he was on missions—he was anxious. Is she okay? 

Something inside of him locked, or maybe, unlocked at the thought of her never coming home. The thought of her never sitting across from him at his kitchen table ever again. It unlocked a feeling he kept hidden away as best as he could, despite it being the most constant thing in his life. Feeling abandoned—left behind. Alone. 

For the first time in his life, Dex didn’t want to be alone.  

Dex was too numb to go back into his apartment. He pressed his back against the wall of the hallway and slid down to sit on the floor. He decided he would wait there until she came home. 

After an hour of staring into nothing, but mentally replaying all the times he’s had someone leave him, the elevator doors dinged. Dex was too tired to look at who it was, too afraid of disappointment if it wasn’t her. He kept his eyes forward. 

“Dex?” She started walking faster towards him. “Are you okay?” Dex whipped his head up and immediately stood up on his feet. 

“Yeah,” Dex nodded, his voice feeling thick and dry. “I was—worried. About you. Your phone…”

“It died,” she explained. “And I forgot my charger. I ended up staying late to finish up some work. You waited for me here?” She asked with a hint of a smile on her face.

“Yeah,” Dex nodded, meeting her eyes finally. She still looked as wide awake as ever, full of energy and positivity he wished he could emulate. Something compelled him to wrap his arms around her and bring her close in an embrace—so he did. He sighed in relief. “Don’t forget your charger again,” he said in her hair. 

“I won’t,” she pulled back, suddenly catching on to the seriousness of his tone. “Rough day? Is it too late to talk in your apartment?”

“Not if it’s too late for you.”

It was strange, the effect she had on him. It only grew more intense after each night together. Dex watched her carefully now, across from his table. He couldn’t remember the lat time he let someone get close to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to connect with someone since Dr. Mercer passed away. It was the first time he possibly found a new North Star. He hoped this one wouldn’t go out. 

She brought a warmth to his apartment that it was lacking before. He never spent time at the kitchen table unless it was the morning and he was having his coffee before work. He never thought he’d spend most of his nights here, with her, talking about his day and duties as an FBI agent. She was part of his routine now. And if there’s anything about Dex, it’s that he doesn’t like when his routine is disrupted. 

“Can I ask you something we haven’t talked about before?” She looked up from her notebook and placed her pen down on the table. Dex shrugged his shoulders. There wasn’t much he wouldn’ttell her at this point.

“Anything,” he said.

“Have you ever had to kill someone?” 

It took a lot to catch Dex off guard. But this was a question he wasn’t expecting to be asked so blatantly. 

“In the line of duty, obviously,” she followed up quickly, responding to his reaction. 

Dex held her gaze—he didn’t want his answer to drive her away. In case it did, he wanted to memorize the way she was looking at him right now. The hopeful curiosity. The kindness without judgement in her eyes. He broke eye contact and sighed. 

“Yes,” Dex said, rearranging the napkin holder in front of him. 

“Because you had no choice?”

“Yes,” he lied. 

She shook her head. Not in disapproval, but in disbelief. “I can’t imagine that. Do you—do you remember the first time you had to?”

Dex does remember his first time killing someone. But it wasn’t in the line of duty as an FBI agent. It wasn’t even when he served time in the army. 

It was when he was a child and had dreams of becoming a baseball star. The memory flashed in Dex’s mind as quickly as the baseball ricocheted off the fence and hit Coach NAME in the head. 

“I do,” Dex said. “It was a cartel member. We had the group where we wanted them, but one guy wouldn’t give up the fight. He grabbed for a weapon to shoot at my partner—Nadeem—but I got to him before he could do anything more.”

“And by got to him, you mean…”

“Mmhm,” Dex hummed. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I know it’s not easy work. I know these things have to happen. But I wonder, are you okay? Knowing that that happened? And what you had to do?”

“I’m okay,” Dex said, and he wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not. “It was either him or Nadeem. They train you to think fast in those situations. You can’t waste time.”

“I’m really glad I chose the science side of it all.” She leaned back in his chair, and he liked how she made it look so casual. He wanted to mirror her but didn’t. “I don’t know if I could handle it like you do.”

“We make the mess,” Dex said, leaning forward. “Your side cleans it up.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” she replied. “Accurate.”

Dex sipped his coffee. “Anything else you’d like to know, Ms. Forensics?”

She smiled at the nickname. “I guess… out of personal curiosity… what did it feel like? Taking a life like that? Even if the guy was bad.”

Dex twisted the mug in his hands. Truthfully, it made no difference to him. But what would she want to hear?

“It’s hard,” Dex said. “Really hard. But these situations aren’t black and white. We have a job to do. We have to protect people. Protect our own. That’s what matters at the end of the day.”

“I see,” she said, nodding her head. “Do you have counselors at work you can talk to?”

“We have to undergo a psych-eval every once in a while.”

“That’s good,” she pressed her lips together. “Well, if the counselors aren’t always there for you, just know that I am, Dex.”

And there it was—that sweetness he had become so accustomed to. He couldn’t imagine his nights without it now. Dex smiled a little and focused his gaze on the table. 

“It’s late,” she said after a few moments of silence. “I think I’ve run you dry for tonight. Got any plans this weekend?” She asked him this all the time, and Dex always had the same answer for her.

“No,” he said. “Catching up on sleep, maybe.”

“Me too,” she began to close her notebook and collect her pens, to Dex’s disappointment. 

“You can come by tomorrow night,” Dex said with hope in his voice. “If you’re not busy and you feel like talking.”

She smiled a little and nodded her head. “I’d like that. Maybe instead of me asking about work, we can just hang?”

Dex took her empty coffee mug and wiped a coffee stain with the pad of his thumb. Her question echoed in his head. 

“I’d like that,” he answered, meeting her tired eyes. “Maybe I can ask about your life and work for once.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be getting much,” she laughed, and Dex hoped she was kidding. “But I’ll do my best to highlight the interesting parts.” She began her walk to his door, notebook in her hand. Dex unlocked it from behind her, gently brushing his arm against hers by mistake. He took a step back to give her space.

“Good night, Dex,” she whispered. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

“Good night,” he softly said back. He watched her as she walked halfway down the hall to her apartment. He always waited until she was inside and locked the door before going back and retreating to his bedroom. When she was, he closed his door and locked it. He was alone again. 

◎◎◎

Dex wasn’t worried about having her over until the reality finally settled in and he realized that she would be coming over in a different context than usual. He couldn’t remember the last time he hosted something for someone and had food ready—this was possibly his first time ever. When he came home, early for a Friday night, he checked his fridge to see if he had any snacks and felt silly for it—of course, he had nothing, except a carton of milk and some eggs. 

He went back out to the corner store and paused in the middle of the aisle. What did she like to eat? He only remembered the time she brought ice cream to his place. He went to the freezer and grabbed the same flavors of Ben and Jerry’s she had once brought: mint chocolate cookie and strawberry cheesecake. Dex balanced the two cartons in his hands and went through the chips aisle. He wasn’t sure what to get, and the options were overwhelming. He settled on a jar of salsa, French onion and guacamole—that way, she’d have more than one option. He also grabbed two kinds of chips: salted and hint of lime. He also threw in a container of chocolate chip cookies. 

After leaving the store, he realized that she may be interested in drinking something. He wasn’t a drinker at all—alcohol didn’t mix well with his medication—so he didn’t have a clue of what she may like. Wine? Beer? He found himself inside the liquor store, even more overwhelmed by the options. When was the last time he was in a place like this?

He grabbed one bottle of red wine (Pinot Noir), one bottle of white wine (Sauvignon Blanc), and one bottle of rose for good measure. At the counter, he saw a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels and grabbed it. 

Dex had his hands full on his way back to his apartment. He’d never had this much food in his house—the bags practically filled his counter. He laid every snack out but paused midway—they wouldn’t be sitting at his kitchen table. Maybe on the couch? Dex began to move all the snacks to the coffee table. He placed each dip in a bowl and had two more bowls filled with each type of chip he bought. He left the ice cream in the freezer. He put the chocolate-covered pretzels in a smaller bowl. 

Then, he put each bottle of wine on the counter so that when she first walked in, she could choose. Dex finally sat down on his couch and checked the time. It was almost 10 PM. She should be home soon.

◎◎◎

His apartment felt cold and dark until she finally graced it with her presence. She was in her black silk pajamas, as Dex correctly predicted was next in her rotation. When she first walked inside Dex’s apartment and saw the line up of wine and snacks, she couldn’t help but smile at how endearing it all was, especially the hopeful look on Dex’s face as he watched her take it all in. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Dex said, scratching his neck. “So I got a bit of everything.”

“It’s okay,” she looked at him, this well-trained and tough FBI agent who looked like he spent the last hour stressing over salted or hint of lime chips and ended up getting both. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

Dex sighed in relief. “I also got different wines you can choose from.”

She looked at each bottle. She was naturally inclined to reach for the red. But she wanted to make sure Dex had a say in the matter, too. “Which do you prefer?” She asked him.

He shook his head. “Oh, I don’t drink. I got that for you. All of it’s for you.”

“Well, if you’re not drinking, then I’m not either,” she said smiling. “I do want to dig into those chocolate-covered pretzels, though.”

“They’re for you,” Dex said.

She walked over to his couch, but Dex stayed standing by his kitchen table. He didn’t take a moment before to take in how different his apartment looked whenever she was in it. Before, everything looked as tidy as it needed to be: empty coffee table, couch lacking warmth, unused empty bowls. But she graced his apartment with her presence by making it feel comfortable. A couch is meant to be sat on, a coffee table meant to have snacks, and bowls meant to have food—just for her. He’s never seen his place so lively and it’s all because of her. 

It was like watching a science experiment in real time. The cause and effect. The hypothesis and results. Except, he felt in the thick of the experiment and the results could be a wild card. He was just happy to witness it happening. How she was so good at making it all feel so comfortable. He liked having her around. Dex wanted her to stay a while. 

“Well don’t be shy, Dex,” she patted the seat next to her on his couch. “Come stay a while.”

Dex laughed and made his way to his couch. He felt like a stranger in his own house. How should he delicately handle this new context of hanging out? He was used to her having a notebook and her doing the talking. He felt the pressure and was afraid he wouldn’t live up to expectations. 

He sat down next to her—not too close. A comfortable distance. He reached for a salted chip and dipped in the guacamole first. During training, they taught agents to start conversations with witnesses or suspects casually. He felt he could apply those tactics here, with her. 

“So,” Dex began, chewing his chip of guacamole, “first thing’s first. How was your day at work?”

Dex didn't know he had it in him, to curate and carry a conversation as long as he did with her. He asked her things about her life he didn’t know before—how she got into forensic science, where she’s from, who she used to be. She’s only 22—she’s got her whole life ahead of her, and she’s only getting started. 

When she revealed her age, Dex was slightly taken aback. The thought never crossed his mind but now that he knew she was a bit younger than him, he felt that sense of protection he had over her grow in size. All those times she had come home late, he never knew she was vulnerable like that. Maybe it was wrong to think that way… she’s independent and lives on her own. She can take care of herself. But it doesn’t have to be that way. 

Still, he had to know something. 

“My age… you’re not uncomfortable?” Dex asked in a small voice, avoiding eye contact. 

“No,” she shook her head. “Not unless you are.”

“I’m not,” Dex answered quickly. “It never crossed my mind to ask how old you were. I didn’t think there was that much of a difference.”

“Seven years is nothing,” she shrugged. Most of my coworkers are that or even more.” 

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Dex admitted. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here.”

“I want to be here,” she said. “I like talking to you. You’ve told me a lot about the FBI. That’s not the only reason I like talking to you, though.”

“Why’s that?” Dex couldn’t help but ask. 

“You’re nice to me,” she simply stated. “I got lucky that you’re my neighbor. I feel safe.”

“Even though you know my line of work isn’t always sunshine and daises—even though you know what I’ve done,” Dex said in a low voice, “You still feel safe?”

“You’ve given me no reason to think otherwise,” she said softly. “You’ve shown me one side of you. I’m shocked you haven’t figured out I’m trying to get to know all of you, Dex.” 

Dex held her gaze and felt something blooming slowly in his chest. “What else do you want to know?”

“We can save it for another time. You asked me here tonight because you wanted to get to know me,” she nudged his shoulder with hers, the first physical touch they’d shared all evening. 

“That’s right,” Dex said with a small nod. 

“Your turn,” She said with a welcoming smile. Dex took a deep breath. Truthfully, he felt the basic questions had run dry. He knew all there was to know about her on the surface: how she got into forensic science, where she studied, where she’s from, where she works. When he was serving time in the army, the comrades he was with often sat in circles in their tents and started playing games like Never Have I Ever or Would You Rather? He didn’t want to play those games with her now, but he wanted to get to know her on a deeper level. Those games typically made people reveal things about themselves. If she felt so safe around him, Dex didn’t see any harm in asking more personal questions. 

“Do you remember what your prom was like?” Dex asked with a sideways smile. 

“My prom?” Her eyes lit up at the question to Dex’s relief. He nodded. “Oh my, gosh, well, yes. It was such a weird time for me. I actually didn’t have a date my junior year, but senior year I did. I was the worst prom date.”

Dex smiled, trying to live vicariously through her experiences. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true. I had a crush on someone else so by the end, I ditched my prom date and went to a different party. But I had so much fun with my friends. I miss the freedom of being that young,” she smiled. “Good music, free food. Sneaking alcohol at the after party. What about you?”

Dex looked away from her and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t go to prom. I didn’t technically have a prom.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. The institution Dex grew up in threw a makeshift prom for the seniors, but it didn’t have good music. It had free food that came from the cafeteria they ate at every day already. And absolutely no alcohol by any means. And Dex didn’t have a date. “I remember sneaking out to leave early and head back to my room.” 

“Room?” She questioned.

“I grew up in a Boys’ Home,” Dex lied again. “They invited other homes for orphans but it was awkward. No one really knew anyone. I swore off events like that after that.”

“When’s the last time you went to an event?”

“Probably then.”

“Dex,” she said his name, “we’ll have to find an event for us to go to and change that.” Dex smiled. He’d only consider it for her.

“What color was your dress?” He asked her. 

“White,” she said. “With a bunch of sparkles. My friends gave me shit about it, saying white was for weddings, but I didn’t care. I loved my dress. It was an off-shoulder dress. I felt like a princess.”

Dex tried to imagine it in his mind. White—fitting for her. 

“I’m sure you looked like one, too,” Dex said quietly. “Have you ever traveled outside the city?”

“Of course,” she smiled again. “I’ve been for Orlando, Boston… the entire east coast, pretty much. Outside, I’ve been to London.”

“London,” Dex said impressed. “Did you like it?”

“I did but, it’s got nothing on New York. Where have you traveled?”

“I’ve only ever traveled for the army,” Dex answered. “Nowhere exciting. And definitely not for vacation.”

“We’ll use up your PTO days soon,” she nudged his knee with hers. Dex liked the hopefulness in her tone—the idea of what she was saying coming to fruition one day. And he liked that she said we. 

“Do you remember your first heartbreak?” Dex asked her. 

“Oh, Dex,” she sighed. “Who doesn’t? It happened recently in college. About around the time I was a freshman. Of course, I fell for a guy who was older than me. He had me in the palm of his hand for an entire year… until he graduated and dumped me like that. I was so head over heels for him, but it taught me a great lesson. Never put your life on hold for someone else.”

“That’s true,” Dex said. “I’m sorry he did that to you. That must’ve been hard.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugged. “I hardly think about it now, unless someone asks me. Do you remember yours?”

“Yeah,” Dex replied. “Like you said, who doesn’t?” 

“What was it?”

“It’s not a typical heartbreak.”

“It’s all the same feeling.”

“I guess it would be when my parents died,” Dex said, meeting her eyes. “And then I was put in that home when I was a kid.”

“Dex, I’m sorry,” she whispered, scooting closer to Dex on the couch. His right leg was now resting against her left leg. She put her arm around his back and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dex whispered back. “It was a long time ago. It made me capable of being on my own at an early age.”

“Do you have other family?” She asked, pulling back to look at him. 

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s just me.”

“Well,” she said instantly, “now you’ve got me.” 

Dex wanted to tell her that she couldn’t say things like that to him unless she really meant it. But he didn’t want to get serious about it all—didn’t want to ruin the moment. 

“Do you remember your first kiss?” She asked him in a lighter voice. Dex laughed. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “I had no idea what I was doing. It was awkward. And wet. You?”

She laughed against him. “I had a similar experience. It was so strange at first. I honestly hated it. I felt too young to kiss like that.”

“Yeah,” Dex nodded, trailing off, thinking of another question to ask her. He opened his mouth to say something, wondering if it may be too far, or treading a thin line of what boundaries they already had. Her leg was still pressed against his, but her hands were to herself now. “Do you remember… your first time?” He asked her.

Silence at first. So much silence that Dex had to look at her to make sure she was okay. Her eyes were focused in front of her, avoiding his. He’s never seen her like this—quiet, unsure. Dex wanted to rescind the question immediately and apologize for overstepping a boundary. But then, she gave him a small, ironic smile. 

“No,” she answered, shaking her head. Dex thought of every possibility in his head that could make her not remember something like that—having sex for the first time—and each possibility raised concern in him until she finished her answer. “I haven’t had my first time yet.”

It was Dex’s turn to go silent. He looked at her expression—she was trying her hardest to keep an indifferent look, but Dex sensed a tinge of embarrassment from her, and even sadness. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that she was a virgin or that she was capable of emitting an emotion he knew all too well. He wanted to kick himself for triggering that emotion out of her. 

“I’m sorry,” Dex squinted his eyes, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re not judging me, are you?”

Dex looked at her in disbelief. How could he judge a girl like her? Dex has killed people before—not in the line of duty. He’s used lethal force; he’s been abandoned. And she thinks that he would judge her over not having ever had sex? Dex felt hollow in his heart for a moment—that she thought for even a second he would ever judge her for something like that. She, who is so kind and sweet—pure—someone Dex is positive he isn’t worthy of having so close to him. She scares him in a lot of ways because of that. But somehow he’s earned her trust. No, there’s no world where Benjamin Poindexter judges her. 

“Never,” he breathed out, moving so he was facing her. “I could never judge you for something like that. There’s no shame in it.”

“Sometimes I feel that way, that I haven’t experienced something so intimate before,” she said behind a sad smile. In a lot of ways, Dex hasn’t experienced something so intimate before either. Yes, he’s had sex—but the sex he’s had with partners never felt intimate. It just felt like sex. Soulless, empty, physical. He always felt emptier inside after. 

“It’s okay,” Dex comforted her. “It’s not always intimate.”

“It’s not?” She asked him, furrowing her brows. “I don’t know. It seems intimate to me.”

“It is,” Dex nodded, “it can be. But it has to be with the right person. Otherwise, it’s just an act.”

“I don’t want it to be that way,” she admitted, breaking eye contact. “Just an act. I can’t—I’m too sensitive to just do it. It has to mean something. I think that’s why I’ve waited so long. Not because of religious reasons. I’m not waiting for marriage. I just want my first time to be intimate. I want my first time to mean something. I want it to be real. I’ve heard so many stories from my friends saying guys just leave them after they get what they want. I’m not strong enough for that.” 

“I understand,” Dex said softly. “I get it. But please know I could never judge you for that. If you don’t judge me for not being pure.”

“Pure,” she laughed, “is that what you think I am now that you know that?”

“No,” Dex shook his head. “I knew you were pure from the moment I met you. I didn’t need to know anything else about you to know that.”

“Why do you say that?” She asked.

“Because,” Dex struggled to find the words. He looked at his hands, her knees, her curious expression. “You talked to me so easily that first night in the elevator. So open. I’m not—I’m not used to that. You were kind. I could tell you were a good person. I—I need that in my life, __,” he said, almost pleading like she was halfway out the door when she was still sitting on the couch next to him. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” she whispered. 

“I let you come over every night to talk about my job because you wanted to,” Dex began to say, “but I also let it keep happening because it has kept me sane. Talking to you. Being with you…” he broke eye contact again. “You tell me I make you feel safe,” Dex spoke again. “You make me feel that way, too.” But when Dex says that she makes him feel safe, he doesn’t mean safe from the other people in the building or even New York City. She makes him feel safe from himself. 

“I’d never want to do something to make you go away,” Dex continued. “I want you around,” he whispered. “I want you to stay.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she shook her head. She placed her hand on Dex’s knee. Dex slowly brought his hand to cover hers. This was the first direct contact they’d ever had—holding hands. Dex looked at the image—studied how his hand fit perfectly on top of hers. He twisted his fingers so they intertwined. Without thinking, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She let him. He kissed her knuckles again, then the back of her and, then her wrist, and soon Dex was peppering kisses all the way up the length of her arm, pushing her sleeve up. 

“Dex…”

He rolled her sleeve down and held her hand again, waiting for her directive. When she gave no protest, Dex moved her hair behind her and kissed her neck. She gently pushed his chest away from her, but only to look at him. His eyes were dark, full of intensity. She leaned in and closed the space between them, kissing Dex and Dex kissing her back. The moment their lips touched, they both knew it was long overdue. Dex placed his hands on her waist while she held him on his shoulders. His tongue made his way into her mouth and she welcomed it gladly. Dex squeezed her gently and pulled back, resting his forehead on hers, out of breath.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a kiss like that?” She asked. Both of them had soft laughs escape their lips.

“I think that was my first time,” Dex admitted against her lips, “my first time wanting to kiss someone like that.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” she smiled. 

Dex kissed her again, gently pressing her to lay down on his couch. She did so she was laying on her back, with Dex leaning over her. She pushed his chest away again, indicating she wanted to speak.

“Dex, I want you to be my first time,” she said.

“What?”

“I want you to take my virginity,” she told him. Dex pulled back completely now. He had to sit with what she was asking him. She leaned up again in concern. “I want it to be with you.”

“__,” he said her name, rubbing his eyes closed. As much as he wanted that, Dex wasn’t sure he was worthy. He wasn’t worthy to be in your presence alone—but to take that from you, the very thing that could change everything—he wasn’t sure he was worthy of that either. You were so good and so pure—to give him that responsibility is to give him the power to potentially ruin that. He couldn’t stand the thought of ruining something else that was so good in his life. 

But if it wasn’t going to be him, it was going to be someone else. And the thought of someone else doing this to her—ruining her purity—cut him to the bone. As quickly as his attachment grew in his chest, jealousy did too, at the thought of someone else doing it to her. 

Selfishly, he wants to be the one to taint her. Unselfishly, he doesn’t want to ruin what she is. 

“You don’t want me,” she shook her head and bit her lip, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s not true,” Dex said. “I do want you.”

“Then why aren’t you saying yes? Why aren't you taking me right now?” 

“Because like you said before,” Dex whispered, taking her hands again. “You want it to be special. You want it to mean something. Rushing into it on a spur of the moment thing won’t make it what it should be.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and Dex had never seen her so emotional. It made his heart hammer in his chest. He shifted so he sat closer to her. He kissed her forehead. 

“I want you,” he reassured her. “But not right now. You should sleep on it. Really think if you want it to be me. I’d hate to ruin a perfect night by us jumping into it right away.”

She avoided looking at him, but deep down, she knew he was right. 

“Okay,” she whispered. “I will.” 

He kept looking at her until the look of worry faded from her face. All that was left was exhaustion in the form of half-closed eyes and soft breathing. Dex nudged her with his knee. 

“What do you say we call it for tonight?” Dex asked. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “I should go.” 

Dex walked her to her door. As she unlocked it, she turned around to say goodnight again, and as if on cue, Dex twisted her into his arms and gently pushed her against the wall of the hallway, kissing her deeply. He locked her there, between his arms, a leg separating hers. She placed her hands on his chest to steady herself. When he pulled back, he looked away, as if the mere sight of her would make him come completely undone. 

Silence followed her into her apartment. Dex retreated back to his, and while she was no longer gracing it with her presence—he felt her everywhere. 

◎◎◎

Dex sat at his kitchen counter. His mind was too clouded by his thoughts to focus on anything—his thoughts that were consumed by her. He didn’t realize that by giving her a choice in thinking about what they talked about, he was at the mercy of that decision. 

If she ended up not wanting it to be with him, how would that change their relationship? Would she stop coming over? Worse—would she never speak to him again? Dex could’ve easily given her what she wanted in that moment, but at the same time, he didn’t want to ruin what they already had. What had easily landed in his lap without him having to do anything. 

On the other hand, if she did still want it to be with him… well, where do they go from there? Not to mention that he would be the one to take that purity away from her—and not in the sense of virginity. But in the sense that someone like him, someone who has killed and is capable of doing much worse, gets to be inside her for the first time. He didn’t feel worthy to be in her presence like that, to be the one to alter her experience with intimacy forever. If she still wanted it to be with him, he would make sure it was special and intimate like she wanted it to be. 

But he’s afraid that if this happens, he’ll never be able to let her go. It sounds wrong, but he would feel a sort of possession over her. He was protective over her already; after this, he would be downright territorial. His past lovers have all been with people before him…she would be the first he’d ever be with who hadn’t been touched before.

Touched. Dex felt a cramp in his hands thinking about touching her for the first time. He’d want to map her entire body out; take in how beautiful she looks completely naked. He’d be the first to see her like that. He hoped he’d be the last. 

There was a knock at his door.

Dex paused before getting up. It could all change in this next moment. He wasn’t sure which he was hoping more for. He took a deep breath and walked to the door. 

There she was in all her glory—her hair had brushed out, messy curls and was pushed to one side, like she had just nervously fixed her hair. She was in a new set of pajamas—pearlescent silk white. She met his eyes for a fleeting moment before looking down—Dex could still she still felt embarrassed, or ashamed. For whatever reason. It should be him who felt like that.

“It’s okay," Dex spoke first. “Whatever your decision is."

“I want it with you, Dex,” she looked up at him with worried eyes. “But if you don’t want it with me, then—“

“Come in,” Dex opened the door for her to step inside. She immediately stood in the middle of his living room as Dex shut and locked his door.

She was holding herself—arms around her stomach, avoiding eye contact. Dex wasn’t used to seeing her so unsure of herself; he was used to seeing her positive, confident, smiling. Looking at him with hopeful eyes. What did he have to do to calm her nerves?

“I want this with you,” Dex said softly, approaching her slowly. “I just want to make sure you truly want this with me.”

“I do,” she affirmed. “More than anything.”

Dex placed his hand on her cheek, studying her features before everything changes. She was right about something—sex is an intimate act. Sex changes things. He knows how it has changed things for him, but he’s not sure how it will change things for her. He wanted to remember what she looked like before the act—before he changed everything. He caressed her cheek with his thumb. He didn’t want her to feel worried. It was written all over her face.

“What are you scared of?” He asked her.

“It hurting,” she said meeting his eyes. 

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Dex began, “it’ll hurt at first. But then it won’t. What else are you scared of?”

“Making a mess,” she broke eye contact again. “I may bleed.”

“Don’t worry,” Dex shook his head, whispering. “It’s not a mess you’ll have to clean up. Anything else?”

She bit her lip and met his eyes again. “I don’t want you to stop talking to me after it’s done. I don’t want us to do it, and then that being all that you wanted, and then you stop seeing me or hanging out with me.”

Dex furrowed his brows in disbelief. Here he was, afraid of the same thing, unknowing that she too shared the same fears. Dex would never stop talking to her after it’s done. She knows she’ll be attached to him after—little did she know that Dex would be infinitely more attached to her, for separate reasons. He may be taking her purity, but she’s giving him something worse: hopes that he may find newfound purity in himself. 

“___,” he said her name, meeting her eyes. He caressed her cheek some more. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Once this happens—it won’t be possible for me to let you go.” 

She took a long shaky breath. “Okay, Dex. I trust you. I—I think I’m ready.” 

Dex continued to caress her cheek as he held her gaze, witnessing her eyes soften in comfort—safety. Trust. “Okay,” he said. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

She blushed in the most adorable way. Avoided eye contact, bit her lip. She nodded. Dex placed two fingers under her chin to lift her to look at him. Dex slowly leaned down to meet her lips with his. And when they finally touched, she fell right into him. 

Dex cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, holding her steady in place as he kissed her. He teased her lips with her tongue, and she opened her mouth to let him in. He started off slowly…sweetly. When she took his hands and moved them to hold her waist, he took it as a sign to deepen the kiss. His tongue danced against hers as he practically inhaled her with kisses. His strong hands rested at either side of her waist. 

They both pulled back out of breath. Dex leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed. 

“Let me lay you down,” Dex said in a low voice. She nodded against him and let him lead the way to his bedroom. 

She sat at the foot of the bed in the center. She started to shake uncontrollably—from nerves, the AC in his room and from the reality of what was about to happen.

Dex knelt between her knees in front of her. He took her hand and held it in his. He kissed her knuckles and felt her shaking. He looked up at her. 

“This is for you,” Dex reminded her. “It’s okay.” 

“I’m just nervous,” she said. “I’ve never been completely naked in front of anyone.”

“I’ll ask you if I can do anything before I do it,” Dex said. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she nodded. She was taking deep breaths to calm her anxiety. Dex kissed her knuckles again. He placed both her hands on her legs. 

“Can I touch your shoulders?” He asked. 

She looked confused at first, but nodded anyway. Dex placed his hands on both her shoulders, softly caressing her with his thumbs. He moved his hands down both her arms slowly, feeling the softness of her silk pajamas. When he reached her hands, he held them both. 

“Can I unbutton your shirt?”

“Yes,” she breathed softly. 

Dex nodded and slowly started to unbutton her shirt one by one. He kept his focus on the buttons—nothing else—definitely not the goosebumps rising on her skin and definitely not at her hard nipples through the shirt. When he was done, only the center of her torso was exposed. She leaned back on her elbows and Dex leaned forward more between her legs, which were now spread a bit more. 

Dex could see her heart pounding in her chest. He took right hand and kissed her knuckles. He met her eyes.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Dex reassured her. She shook her head. 

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Dex kissed her hand again. “Can I touch you?”

“Anywhere,” she said in a small voice. 

Dex slowly began to trail his hand up the length of her torso, from her stomach to her collarbone. He slipped a few fingers under neath her shirt, dangerously close to her left breast. Dex looked at her once more for permission. All he needed was a small nod to let him know it was okay—and she did. Dex slowly traced his fingers over her breast, feeling her soft supple skin react to his touch—goosebumps, her nipple hard in the palm of his hand. Dex took a deep breath to control his own feelings of arousal—feeling her breast in his hand, realizing he was the first person to ever touch her like this. Dex squeezed her breast lightly and traced his pointer finger underneath her breast, feeling the curve of her soft skin. He pushed the shirt away, exposing her completely. He did the same thing on her other side with his other hand. He slid her shirt completely off and she closed her eyes, leaning fully back. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dex whispered. “You’re soft and perfect.” 

She opened her eyes. “Touch me more.”

Dex scooped her in his arms and lifted her further up his bed. He knelt between her on the bed and traced his hand on her stomach again. An intrusive thought crossed his mind—would she let him come inside her? Would she want to feel his seed that deeply inside her, knowing the risk? Dex felt his cock harden at the thought of coming inside her for her first time. 

He took a deep breath and crossed the thought away. He placed both his hands on her breasts and gently squeezed them again. He leaned down and kissed the skin between her breasts. She closed her eyes in pleasure. Dex kept his hands on her waist and slowly kissed his way to her right breast, kissing it before taking her nipple in his mouth. He licked and sucked her hard nipple, gently wrapping his lips around it and starting a motion of licking and sucking. He swirled his tongue around her nipple and kissed her breast. He did the same thing on the other side.

  “How did that feel?” He asked her. 

“Good,” she answered in a breathy voice. “Really good.” She was still shaking. Dex was starting to love the idea of him making her shake like that. 

“Good,” he said. Dex began to pepper kisses down the length of her torso, holding his hands on either side of her waist. She breathed deeply and pressed her head into his pillow, bracing herself for whatever was next. He played with the hem of her pajama pants and looked up at her with a slight sense of urgency. 

“Can I take these off?” Dex asked. 

“Yes,” she breathed, closing her eyes. 

In one single slip, Dex took her pajama pants and underwear off, completely exposing her to him. Dex gazed at her sex which was slightly glistening from how wet she was, and then he noticed her slightly shaking again. He placed his hands on her thighs and kissed her on either side, trying to hold her steady. 

“It’s okay,” Dex whispered. “Just tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” she said. “I’ll stop shaking soon.”

Dex secretly hoped she wouldn’t. He slowly slid his right hand over to her inner thigh and began to draw small circles. He slowly inched his way over to touch her pussy. He ever so gently placed the pad of his thumb on her clit, mimicking the small circles he just drew on her thigh before. She shivered at his touch and Dex watched her carefully. He mindlessly kept rubbing her clit as he watched her expression change from tense to relaxed. 

“That feels really good,” she whispered. 

“Let me know how this feels,” Dex said in a low voice. He slowly knelt between her legs, pushing them farther apart. He placed his entire mouth on her pussy and began to lap slowly at her slick folds. He started from the bottom and licked slowly up to her clit. 

“Oh,” she moaned in a slightly pitched voice. Her legs shifted against Dex’s head, which was welcomed. Dex continued to lap at her wetness, completely putting his entire mouth on her sex. He pulled back momentarily to insert one finger in her tight pussy. She gasped at the tension, grabbing onto the fitted sheets. Dex reached his other hand up and took her hand, indicating that she could hold onto him. He pulled his finger and met his lips to her pussy again, this time moving his tongue around faster than before. His lips were locked on her wetness, and he began to feel himself get lost in the way she felt against his mouth, like this was his last meal on earth. She squirmed against his face, breathing deeply. She reached to pull on his hair to channel how he was making her feel. His hand gripped her thigh while the other held onto her ankle. 

Dex focused his sucking on her clit and he paid mind to how she was breathing—he didn’t want her to come yet. Her eyes were closed, mouth half open, brows furrowed together. With his lips still on her pussy, Dex looked up at her and locked eyes for a moment with her before she closed them again and sighed into his pillow. He took one last lap at her wetness before pulling back and kissing both of her inner thighs. 

“Dex…”

“You okay?” He licked his lips. 

She only nodded, slightly disappointed by how cold she felt now that he wasn’t touching her. Dex could sense she wanted more. He could sense she was ready. He took off his shirt and pants, exposing himself to her. He couldn’t remember the last time he was bare in front of someone, but he didn’t care—all those times before didn’t matter. Only now did. 

His cock was hard, pre-cum leaking at the tip. Dex was slightly surprised that she reached down to touch him, gently running her thumb over his tip. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. He placed his hands under the small of her back and lifted her up his bed, so she lay perfectly in the middle. He was hovering over her now—his cock dangerously close to her wetness, but not touching. They looked at each other for a moment, Dex looking deeply into her eyes—he couldn’t tell what she felt. Fear, anticipation, aroused? A mix of all three, he supposed. Because it’s exactly how he felt, too. Knowing that after this, their entire dynamic would change. For better or worse. 

She spread her legs wider and placed her hands on his face. Dex leaned down and kissed her gently. 

“You still want this?” He asked her.

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Please be gentle.”

“I will,” Dex nodded, his hot breath hitting her skin. He pushed a strand of hair away from her flushed face. He kissed her between her eyebrows. 

Dex slowly lined up his cock at her entrance and rubbed his tip against her folds, getting himself wet with her pussy. He took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. Her eyes were closed, but he watched her as he ever so slowly tried to push himself inside her. He was too big for her to enter easily, and she was too tight for him to go any harder. She said gentle, and that’s exactly what he did. She took a sharp intake of breath and her heart was beating hard against her chest. Dex could sense her anxiety and kissed her forehead again as he tried to push himself inside her more. Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed himself inside her tight pussy, and in one quick thrust, Dex was completely inside her. They both reacted in their own way—Dex letting out the deepest sigh he’s ever taken, and her gasping for air from the pain.

“Dex, Dex,” she whispered in a slight panic.

“Shh,” Dex was trying to keep himself focused but it was hard to while he felt her tight pussy completely encase him while at the same time soften her worries. “It’ll get better. I’m going to go back and forth.”

She nodded and kept her eyes shut, a pained expression on her face. Dex felt incredible inside her, but this wasn’t about him. It was all for her. 

He slowly pulled out, and she could feel the difference immediately. He felt so big inside her that when he almost pulled out, she felt so empty—she needed to feel him like that all the time. Close, inside, tangled up with her softness. 

When he pushed back in, he couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of his lips. She was shaking, and her shaking at his cock inside her, ignited something primal in him. He was the first person to ever feel her like this and make her feel this way, and that thought alone spurred Dex on to keep thrusting inside her. She was completely soaking and he could feel her start to mold to his cock.

“Dex,” she whispered his name, “it’s starting to feel different.”

“How?” He uttered out while he still slowly went back and forth inside her. 

“Good,” she opened her eyes finally and met his dark ones. “Really good. I—“

“You want more?” Dex asked, and it was his turn to close his eyes.

“I want more,” she nodded. 

Dex wasted no time in speeding up his thrusts inside her. He went even deeper, feeling the tip of his cock touch the back of her cervix. He was imprinting his size on her. She knew she would feel him for days after. She felt so velvety, soft, wet and tight around his cock, Dex’s mouth was half open and his eyes were closed as he continued to thrust inside her.

“More, Dex,” she sighed.

His arms were under her, and hers were around his shoulders. Dex kept one arm under her and held onto his bed frame to get a better angle at fucking her, because now that’s what they were doing. Dex pounded inside her tight pussy, wetness and possibly blood coating both of them and his sheets. He watched her as she closed her eyes, mouth half open, as he continued to fuck her into being all his. He didn’t know what he liked more—being inside her or watching how much she enjoyed him being inside her. She fluttered her eyes open for a moment, meeting his, and Dex instantly closed his eyes. He retreated his arm back from the bed frame and scooped her in his arms, pressing his forehead against hers. 

She closed her eyes again and had an expression of arousal, her eyebrows knitted together and her mouth slightly open. She opened her eyes and suddenly felt very aware of what was happening between their two sexes—it was a mix of wetness from her and something else more runny—blood. Her cheeks flushed red in embarrassment, Dex could tell, and she tried to look between them as he kept thrusting his cock inside her, unsure if she should allow herself to feel good or worry about the mess she’s making. 

Dex followed her line of view and blocked it with his dark eyes. 

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Look at me. How do you feel?”

She met his eyes and sighed heavily, “But Dex—“

“Don’t,” he pressed his forehead firmly against hers, continuing to pound into her, feeling the tip of his cock touch the back of her cervix. “Focus on me.”

Focus on him she did—the way he was hitting her g-spot repetitively made her spread her legs wider and push him in even more. He filled her up so completely, so well, she was sure to feel him for days. 

“Oh, God, Dex,” she moaned, louder than before, “something’s happening—“

“Let it,” Dex whispered against her lips, closing his eyes and focusing on hitting her sweet spot. “Come for me, __. Come for me…come for me…”

“Dex!” Her pussy convulsed around his cock as she finally reached climax for the first time. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly against her, holding on like she was holding on for life. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest and she lost her breath and regained it as she held onto his warm body. He was still inside her, thrusting more gently now. He kissed her neck, kissed the skin behind her ear, kissed her forehead and kissed her lip as he continued to move inside and out of her.

“Oh,” Dex whispered against her lips. “I’m right behind you—“

“Inside me,” she said in a whisper, “please.”

Dex closed his eyes as he felt himself release his seed inside her tight pussy, feeling it coat all over her inside, he was shaking against her. It was her turn to kiss him, to bring him back down from his own high. 

He laid his entire body weight on her, which was welcomed. His cock was still inside her, resting, until he slowly pulled out of her. She held him tighter. He breathed her in deeply, kissing her shoulder. She ran her fingers through his dirty blonde hair. 

He pulled back, gazed in her eyes for a moment. 

“Let me get a towel,” Dex said softly. 

He pulled the sheets over her and when he came back, he cleaned between her legs as best as he could while she fell asleep. Dex threw the towel in the hamper, a clean, perfect throw, and crawled back under the sheets with her. He pulled her in tightly, and she molded against him like she was meant to be there. It may have been her first time, but he was certain this was his first time feeling the attachment in the aftermath. He hoped this wouldn’t be their last.  

[midnightslark]

Sorry i cant go out with you rn, I have a crush on Wilson Bethel and it’s taking up a lot of my time

[dissolvedprincess]

Honeycomb

꒰ Poindexter/Bullseye x Fem reader ꒱

✷ CW : 18+, nsfw, dub-con, creepy dex, (f) masturbation, mentions of stalking, manipulation, breaking and entering, accidental voyeurism

𖥔 Summary : She’s taken notice of someone strange stalking her recently, so she calls Dex to keep her company on the way home.

𖥔 HONEYED HEART SERIES

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

(Not proofread)

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚ ꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚ ꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷

The soft thrums of the subway bleeds over the line as she spoke up, “Hi honey. Thanks again for y’know— taking the time to call me.” She sounds upbeat despite having finished working overtime, her voice distinctively sweetened and soft.

“It’s no trouble at all. How was work?” His head twitched at the sound of a much anticipated click. With a gloved hand, he pulls on the handle and gently push the door open. His lids close as the sweet smell of vanilla hits him directly in the face. Dex is not big on strong scents and perfumed things, he finds that it overwhelms him at times. But with her always comes exceptions for the things he finds unpleasant.

He spares a look behind him before walking in to make sure he’s safe from the peering eyes of next door neighbors.

“So-so, it’s pretty boring. I’d rather talk about your day, Dex.” She sighs. “Are you off work yet?”

Dex eagerly scans the room to familiarize himself with it. His eyes trail from her kitchen, to her living room. The apartment is lived in, but tidy, with bits of sentimental trinkets spread all over.

He eyes the various pictures that line her walls, from childhood family photos to ones with friends, some estranged, but she still has them up for some reason. He’s come to know all of their names and backgrounds by memory, just incase.

“Nope. Still drowning in paperwork. There’s this ongoing case that i’ve been newly assigned to and it’s…a lot.” He thumbs the row of vinyls she has on display, and hums in appreciation at the sight of them being color coordinated. She’s exactly like him in some ways.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really no. Boring. FBI stuff.” He answers. “I’d rather talk about your day.” He parrots. And her laugh never fails to set his heart racing at the sound of it.

“Aw you’re such a terrible conversation partner, honey.” She jokes, but there’s no ounce of malice in her voice, just playful banter peppered with fondness.

“It’s true. There’s nothing i like doing more than listening to you talk.” His eyes quickly scan over every single page of her diary, and his lips stretches wide whenever he catches sight of his name written in such a beautiful light. Like he was good. “Your voice calms me. And i need it right now.” He then carefully returns the diary back into its original spot.

She snorts, “How do you always know what to say, hon?” Dex hears her heels click against pavement now, fast and calculated. Like something or someone is looming behind her, waiting for the right moment to strike. But she’s always been good at keeping herself composed, he thinks, even when her mind runs amok.

“You bring it out of me.”

He briefly paused to bury his nose into her pillow and inhaled deeply, he much prefers this scent over the smell of chemicals that are carefully designed to appeal to people. It smells so distinctively her, a pleasant blend of different odors mixed in with her sweet smelling shampoo that is much more gentle on his nose.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m walking on the street right now. Ten minutes away from home, give or take.” She sounds a bit breathless, so he asks.

“Are you alright?”

A nervous laugh is all that she could manage to push out, before she sighed. “Honestly? No. I’m really fucking scared right now. I keep looking back behind me to check. I swear, there’s a guy that’s been following me everyday for the past two weeks. He was being obvious about it too, almost like he was trying to make his presence known.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dex presses as he rubs the rough material of her lace panties between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s weird, every time i look back, he’s there. And with time he gets closer to me. But he never does anything, he just appears, disappears, and re-appears, only to disappear again. That’s why i wanted to call you this time, to keep me company, to keep me safe— well, in a way.”

“That must’ve been horrifying.” His wistful tone is a sharp contrast to the wide-toothy smile he has on his face. “Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

Dex closes the drawer after making sure each and every one of her panties are placed neatly and correctly, just like how it was before.

“Yeah, same build, same outfit, always. I’ve memorized it by now, hon. He’s more or less your height and build, it was always too dark to see his face though.” She pauses. “But y’know what?” He hears her voice straining a bit, he suspects maybe she was craning her head to look behind her.

“Hm?”

“He’s not here tonight, weird. Guess the call really worked huh? Can’t believe it.” She huffs. The tension in her voice has significantly lessened.

Dex chuckles and says, “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“That i should keep you around? Yeah i was thinking of the exact same thing.” She remarks.

“Cute.”

She laughs over the phone again, and his ears perk up at the sound of the elevator ding.

“Are you home yet?”

“Yup, safe and sound in my building. Just three more floors to go.”

“Good. That’s all i need to know.” He tells her. Then out of nowhere he lets out a groan of protest, a perfect act. “I’m so sorry but i need to cut the call short. Ray needs me for something.”

“Oh. That’s okay.” She sounds rightfully disappointed.

“Again. I’m really sorry-“ He stops talking for a second as he hears the familiar jingle of keys over the line. And in two short strides, he enters her roomy closet and closes the door. “I’ll call you again tomorrow okay. Don’t worry, i’ll be there.”

Dex hears the lock twist, followed by the sound of her footsteps entering the apartment. “Alright, honey. Thank you so much for tonight. Take care.” Her small voice echoes through the room.

“You too.” He quickly pockets his phone after she hangs up, ears listening carefully to track her every movement.

The sound of her groan reverberated throughout the space, “Fuuuckkk. Ugh. He drives me crazy.” She says to nobody. He hears her drop her set of keys a little harder than necessary on the kitchen island.

“Next time babe, next time. You got this in the bag.”

He never knew she has a habit of talking to herself out loud. That’s one more thing to add to his list of her little quirks.

Dex’s eyes follow her through the small— horizontal gap once she enters the bedroom. She still looks breathtaking even after a full nine hour work day, still neatly dressed in a crisp white shirt and wine pencil skirt that ends just below her knee, legs covered by sheer dark colored stockings.

She’s come to collect the stack of neatly folded clothes on her bed. Dex recalls her mentioning how she doesn’t want to spend the unnecessary time rummaging through her closet in an exhausted state. Which is why she always makes it a priority to leave a stack of clean clothes in the morning for her to change into after work.

She’s also a creature of habit, to a certain degree.

After making sure she has everything in check, she quickly leaves the room, and the sound of a door slamming shut is then heard not long after. Dex can hear the shower turn on, along with it a familiar sound. A smirk curves his lips as he recognizes the tune that’s been put on. It’s the song she keeps telling him about, a song about yearning. And at the time, he took it as a message, an unspoken confession.

His body is now leaning against the wall of her closet, arms crossed, and legs slightly apart. A stance that comes too naturally for him to resist doing.

Then he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until he hears the shower turn off.

A good chunk of time passes, before the sound of a door clicking open can be heard. Dex pushes himself off the wall and leans closer to peek through the gap again, eyes wide— not expecting the sight that greets him.

She’s walking across the room languidly, in a tank top and lace panties that looks awfully sinful wrapped around the meat of her hips. Her skin looks supple and glowy from the copious amount of lotions she’s lathered on, leaving behind a sweet smelling trail in the air.

Her body is facing away from him as she laced her fingers together and pushed them high up in the air to stretch her tired body. Dex lets out a shaky exhale when she spreads her stance and hinges at her hips to fold her torso, palms touching the floor. The thin material of her panties hides nothing from the imagination as it’s stretched over her bottom, his eyes trail a bit downward to ogle at the outline of her pussy.

He can feel how aroused he’s getting. Dick hardening in his pants and his fingers twitching impatiently on his side, itching to give himself any semblance of relief. He could do it right now if he wanted to, he could push the door open and fuck her right then and there. His build would easily overpower her, and she would be forced to comply and take whatever he decides to do with her.

But he would never do that. He would never force himself on her. A person so pristine and good, she could easily make him drop to his knees and worship the very ground she walks on. Dex could never be worthy enough to be her equal.

Dex’s wandering mind is pulled back into place as she stands up fully again. She yawns and drops face-down on the bed, rolling over and situating herself in the middle, limbs instantly melting into it. Her eyes looks to have fluttered shut. But just as he thought she was going straight to sleep. One of her hands suddenly goes to massage her breast, while the other slides down her body.

He releases the breath he hadn’t notice he’s been holding and covers his mouth with his palm to stop any potential noises to escape.

His gaze is pinned on her two joined fingers on her clothed pussy, the motions alternating between rubbing up and down to drawing tight circles on her clit. She moans at the action and rubs on it quicker. He sees it then, a wet patch forming in the middle of her panties, darkening the material. The sight of it is filthy, obscene, and so fucking arousing.

What a fucking pervert. Dex thinks to himself as he wishes for her to quickly pull her panties off.

And just like magic, she does.

The soaked lacy fabric is then kicked off, only for it to land in close proximity to Dex. And he stares at it intensely, burning the image of it into memory.

He almost broke his neck with how quickly his head snaps back to look at her again at the sound of his name, sandwiched between borderline pornographic moans.

“Oh Dex. Right there. Ahh shit.” The sentence ends up whiny and breathy.

Her movements are erratic and sloppy, despite being tired. The quick swipes of her fingers, causing wet and sticky noises to echo in the room. So much so that it overwhelms him. Head still spinning, he couldn’t believe what he is seeing and hearing right now.

“Put it in honey please. Put your fingers inside.” She whines, hips twitching.

She fantasizes about him, and it’s so much more than he could ever imagine. What is she even thinking about right now? Dex ponders the question. What kind of dirty scenes play behind those closed lids?

Then without much warning, she roughly slides both fingers inside of her soaked cunt, mouth falling open.

“Dex!”

He feels it then, that impossible to ignore, throb between his legs. So he can’t help but palm himself when she starts to fuck herself roughly. The heel of her hand roughly slaps against her clit with every delicious pump.

A muffled groan can be heard in the closet as she spreads her legs wider. Mouth busy wetting her other set of fingers.

“Yesyesyesyes…Feels so good, Dex.” She whispers, voice threadbare. Those fingers are now pinching and rubbing her pebbled nipples under her tank, further driving her towards the edge.

‘Fuck.’ Dex mouths behind his palm as he continues to massage his dick through his pants, he’s going to bust in his pants like a goddamn teenager. And she’s close too, he can tell from the sound of her moans arching higher.

“I’m gonna cum!” She cries out, voice high and shaky, need pouring out of her. “Make me cum. Please!”

He would. He would make her cum. As many times as she wants him to. He’d do anything.

Her fingers are rubbing frantically over her clit now as she works her other set of fingers in desperation to reach deeper, like Dex’s fingers probably would. The pressure of it sending waves of heat through her.

And then it’s everything. Too much and not enough. It builds fast. Hot. Violent.

She screams, the sound ripped raw from her throat. Head thrown back so hard, she almost collided with the headboard.

“Fuuuuck.” She cries, body convulsing. Wrung out and shaking.

Dex squeezes his eyes shut as his own orgasm overcomes him. It comes hard and fast, causing tears to well up in his eyes. His hand so tight over his mouth, red marks would surely be visible under the light.

After steadying his breath, he opens his eyes once more to the image of her pressing two fingers between her folds, spreading them apart. Dex mouth waters as her glistening pussy catches a bit of light from outside. Swollen and sticky, with release shining on the inside of her thighs. Her chest rising up and down, breath still shaky from the intensity of her orgasm.

Her small voice cuts through the silence. “I want you to fuck me so bad, Dex.” She says it so quietly, he almost misses it.

It’s like she knows he’s here with her, only a few steps away from giving her what she needs. And the thought of it sends a chill down his spine.

But his fantasy is quickly shattered as she cursed.

“Shit. You have got to be kidding me. What did you expect huh?”

She’s scolding herself as she reaches over for a pack of tissues. Her hands then frantically moves to wipe away the copious amounts of cum that’s starting to leak out, threatening to ruin the bedsheets. After she deems herself clean enough, she goes to stand up, staggering a little bit. Like a newborn with shaky legs. Only to throw away the balled up tissues in her trash can.

If he was there with her, he’d throw it away for her, from the comfort of her bed with a perfect aim.

She then practically collapses on the bed. Body bone tired as sleep quickly overtakes her after she pulled on the covers.

Once he’s sure she’s in a deep state of slumber. He carefully pushes the door open and walks out with light steps, wincing at the feeling of his cum soaked boxers rubbing up against his skin. He feels disgusting.

On his way out of the bedroom. His eyes catch sight of her ruined panties on the floor. Right. She didn’t have the energy to look for it. It’s right there, free for him to touch, maybe even take if he wanted to. She’d just chalk it up to being forgetful in the morning.

So he crouches down, hand reaching out to touch it. When he suddenly stops.

‘Not yet, Dex. Not yet. Patience.’ His own thoughts echo back to him.

He balls his hand into a tight fist and gets up, exhaling as softly as he could. He decides to stare at her unconscious state instead. She looks so beautiful, and his chest aches again. It feels significantly tighter this time, now that he has more confirmation on her feelings for him.

Dex told himself he’d leave as soon as possible.

He knows that. He knows he shouldn’t.

But his feet is already moving closer towards the bed before his brain can catch up to how much of a bad idea this is.

He gets closer to her, almost sharing a breath, and affectionately swipes a thumb over her brow bone. His heart drops into his stomach when the action caused her to move her head, nuzzling deeper into the pillow.

He decides to leave then. Moving as quietly but as swiftly as possible, looking back briefly to whisper, “Good night. I’ll see you soon.” Before slipping away into the night. Like he was never there.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚ ꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚ ꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷

Once again i pulled an all nighter to finish this. So idk if anything makes sense.😍 I’ll edit it out as i go! Let me know if you enjoyed it!!

Oh oh annddd, the song that reader played in the shower is titled “Safe” by Newdad. Go listen to it!

Only one chapter left to go. Stay tuned for the final installment to the ‘Honeyed Heart’ series.

[polaris-daydreams]

the art of noticing

pairing : benjamin poindexter x reader

warnings : extremely suggestive below read more, not outright explicit in detail (cause im not talented enough for full on smut lol) but just to be safe, don't read if below 18 !! quite a few religious themes/imagery too.

a/n : hii ! i've never written fanfiction before let alone anything spicy but the dex brainrot was too strong so please bear with me. special thank you to @kyamiia for inspiring me and letting me expand on the idea based on this, and to @babyangeldex for being THE sweetest ever with her encouragement, especially on me wanting to write for the first time !! credits for the header images goes to @bullseyelover, THE no1 bullseye fan hi i love you !! hope you enjoy fellow dex lovers <3

dex notices things.

it started even before you guys got together.

dex's eye for details only intensifies when he crawls his way into your heart. your home. your shared home. it was one thing being able to look through the glass of your apartment window, studying your routine. timing his sips perfectly to yours, anticipating that look of bliss when the coffee hit just right. pretending that faraway look and smile out the window was directed to him, reserved for him.

now though, dex doesn't have to be delusional anymore. there's no need to time his drinking with yours because he is making your coffee and spending the mornings with you. he knows just how you like it. he's memorised all your morning routine steps, catalogued every small tick in your face when you eat your breakfast, has your glossy eyes from watching your favourite romcom seared into his brain. he knows how to see that satisfied and "on cloud 9" face. how to be the reason for that pleasure.

when you laugh at dex's poor attempt of a joke, really laugh with your eyes crinkling in the corner, he thinks his heart stops. he thinks this is it. the sound of an angel come to gently lead him towards the afterlife, with the way your laughter wraps around his body like the soft embrace of an angel's wings.

so it makes perfect sense for dex's penchant for noticing to seep into your shared bedroom too. he needs to remember everything, he needs to file away every little sound, every facial expression. keeps it in the folders of his mind, locked away for nobody else to see. only unlocking these memories when he's hard at work, away from his angel. clings to the image of you, the sound of you like a lifeline. counts the seconds down to when he can finally lock up his place of worship again because you're back in his arms. but its not just for himself, to keep his hunger satiated. its for you too. so he can replay your reactions to everything he does and says. analyse what made you feel good. what can make you feel even better. let you float up to the same high he gets from watching you, being with you. don't worry, he'll be there to catch you in his protective embrace when you land back down.

the first time he sunk to his knees for you, he never took his eyes away from you. couldn't bear to, not when your face was so beautifully contorted in pleasure, pleasure he was giving to you. the rising pitch of your voice, the up and down movement of your chest, the low tilt of your eyes to keep that eye contact with him going. when you absentmindedly reach for dex's hair, tugging the short hairs at the back while begging with that sweet saccharine voice of yours,

"pl- please dex, i can't anymore. i need, ohmygod, i need it please, i need you dex"

it takes every. single. cell. in dex's body to not roll his eyes to the back of his skull and finish in his pants then and there. his years of military training, experience as FBI-SWAT all lead up to this moment. to practice that honed skill of restraint. he can't let go until you have, until you've reached that peak. when you do, you collapse backwards with a heaving chest. dex unclenches his bruising (posessive) grip on you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. not to waste a single drop, he licks his hand clean while slowly standing back up from his place of worship.

the sight that greets dex has him believing in God.

your hair is tousled just above your head like a halo.

your eyes that look up at him are completely glossed over, a single tear slowly cascading down the right side of your face.

your smile, oh, your sweet loving smile. directed at him, only him as if he was the answers to your prayers.

those aren't what drives dex over the edge though, oh no.

its you.

you looking like the epitome of an angel.

slowly hiking up your legs, opening them up shyly.

"more? please, dex?"

if this is how dex dies, he believes its worth it.

a/n : thank you so much if you've read to the end <3 !! this is very very beginner so pretty please be nice if you reblog with comments/ramblings, though i'd still appreciate any kind of support with likes/reblogs/comments hehe. (also yes i wrote this on my phone on drafts, and nearly got a heart attack when the draft vanished and accidentally uploaded before i was done so if you saw ... no you didnt)

[kyamiia]

dex choking me with his biceps,,, that’s it that’s the post.

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 2: You’re Not My Homeland, Anymore.

Summary: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter is a shattered man, once again confined to Riviera Psychiatric Institution. Stripped of his badge, his purpose, and anything resembling peace, he spends his days in a numb routine—therapy sessions, meds, silence. The walls close in a little more every day.

Then there’s you.

The chaotic variant who crash-landed into his life with bad coffee, sharp eyes, and a mouth that didn’t know how to shut up. You, who sat across from him like you’d known him for years. You, who didn’t flinch at his name or the weight of his past. You, who on that first day out of his room, made him feel something—for the first time in a long time.

Thrown together in group therapy, shared rec hours, and whispered conversations through thin walls, the two of you form an unlikely alliance. Over time, that threadbare connection deepens—into something volatile, raw, and painfully real. A bond forged in shared fractures and quiet defiance, one that spans across years.

Before the world dragged him back into the darkness, there was this: two broken people in a broken place, finding a strange kind of clarity in each other.

Warnings: Slow-Burn, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing, Violence, Flashbacks, Fluff, Smut. Pairings: Benjamin 'Dex' Poindexter/Reader.

Masterlist:

Chapter 2. “Sometimes, the walls felt permanent, like the only thing left to do was carve tally marks into the bricks and try to remember who he used to be. But then she’d show up with that look—half defiant, half amused—like she saw straight through every defense he threw up. It scared him how easy it became, letting her in. Not all the way. But enough for sunlight to bleed through the cracks. Enough to make him wonder what it might feel like to be seen and not condemned.”

It was the nausea that hit Dex first—a rolling, oily wave twisting low in his gut, radiating outward until even the thought of sitting up made his head spin. For a moment, he kept his eyes squeezed shut, fists curled in the scratchy blanket, as if he could will the sensation away. It didn’t budge. The queasiness moved slow and stubborn, settling beneath his ribs like something alive and hostile. He lay there, frozen, listening to the world move on the other side of his eyelids: the metallic rattle of a laundry cart, a nurse’s clipped footsteps, distant voices echoing off tile and linoleum.

He forced his eyes open and was immediately greeted by the too-bright ceiling light, stark and merciless. He blinked against it, a sour taste blooming in the back of his mouth. His tongue felt thick, his lips dry as old paper. He tried to swallow, but even that small motion seemed like work. The taste was always there now—a faint bitterness that never quite left, as if the pills had stained his blood.

He pressed the heel of his palm into his eye, tried to sit up, and immediately regretted it. Dizziness slammed into him, the room tilting just enough to make his stomach lurch. Every limb felt heavy, weighted down by something more than exhaustion. He blinked through the haze, trying to focus on the far wall, counting cracks in the plaster to steady himself.

It never used to be this bad, but lately… Every day felt a little harder, his mind wrapped in cotton, his body sluggish and disconnected. There was a dull ache at the base of his skull, crawling down his spine, and the faint tremor in his hands made it hard to keep them still.

He could still hear your voice from a few mornings ago, wry and unbothered as you eyed his daily ritual. You’d seen the three clear plastic medication cups on his tray, each brimming with an assortment of color-coded tablets—antipsychotics, antidepressants, anticonvulsants.

“Looks like you’re swallowing a whole chemist there Poindexter,” you’d laughed, elbowing the edge of his table, your eyes bright with dark amusement.

He’d managed a half-hearted smirk, but even you could see it—the way his hands shook as he tipped the pills back, the slight grimace as he forced them down with lukewarm water that did nothing to wash away the aftertaste.

He drew in a slow breath, feeling the heaviness in his chest, the anxious flutter just beneath the nausea. Side effects—they called it. A phrase that felt both clinical and cruel. Like it was just another line in his chart, another small price to pay for sanity.

But there was nothing small about it. Not the way his mouth stayed dry no matter how much water he drank, or the way his hands twitched when he tried to hold them steady. Not the constant, low-grade headache, or the waves of fatigue that crashed over him by mid-morning, leaving him hollowed out and irritable. Not the restless legs at night, the dreams that slipped away before he could remember what terrified him.

Dex ran a hand over his face, jaw clenched, breathing through the nausea as it slowly ebbed—never quite gone, but manageable. He knew he’d have to drag himself up soon. They’d be knocking for breakfast, and then the nurses would come with the next round of pills. The routine was as relentless as the side effects themselves.

But as he forced himself upright, his thoughts—heavy, clouded—caught on the memory of your laugh, the sly curl of your lips as you teased him about his ‘whole chemist’ buffet. For a moment, that image burned a little brighter than the sickness. For a moment, the weight was just a bit easier to carry.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress springs creaking beneath him, and planted his feet onto the cold linoleum. The chill shot up his calves, shocking his senses a little closer to waking. He sat for a long moment, elbows on his knees, head bowed, eyes closed against the watery morning light that filtered in through a slit of reinforced glass. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, each breath heavy, almost resentful.

One more day, he told himself, the words less a promise than a tired ritual. Just get through one more day.

Every muscle ached as he forced himself upright, his joints stiff, tendons protesting from another restless, medicated night. His hands shook faintly as he gathered his things—thin towel, cheap bar of soap, institution-issued shampoo that barely masked the smell of bleach. The walk to the shower felt endless, his legs leaden, head thick and stuffed with cotton.

Inside the tiled cubicle, he let the lukewarm water cascade over him, thin and insufficient. He pressed his forehead to the cool, chipped tiles, letting the water pool around his feet. The ache in his shoulders seemed deeper here, seeping into his bones, magnified by the dull roar of the pipes overhead.

He closed his eyes, letting the sound drown out everything for a second.

But the silence in his mind wasn’t empty. It never was.

Ray’s voice echoed there—unwelcome, but relentless. "It's not too late to turn things around, Dex. Fisk manipulated you, just like he did me and Tammy and everyone else. I can help you cut a deal with the DA. We can take him down, you and me. Two federal agents... like we were before."

He remembered the way Ray had looked at him, not as an enemy, but as a man on the edge of a cliff. Ray had pleaded with him—voice raw, desperate—a last, trembling thread of faith binding Dex to the better man he might have been. He hadn’t been strong enough to grasp it, hadn’t been willing to step back from the edge. He’d pulled the trigger anyway, and in the echoing aftermath, there was a flicker of regret so sharp it made his vision swim. For a moment, Ray Nadeem was not an obstacle, not an adversary, but a friend—a man who had tried, even when Dex had all but given up on himself.

The water turned colder, snapping him back to the present. He straightened with a soft groan, tracing a line of condensation on the tile with his forehead, feeling the heavy, familiar press of guilt settle in his chest. He wondered if this was all he’d ever have left: the weight, the ache, the knowledge that someone had once believed he could be saved.

A knock on the door startled him, dragging him out of the past.

“Come on, Poindexter. Time’s up. Breakfast,” the orderly called, his voice flat and bored, echoing off the tiles.

Dex let the water run another few seconds, trying to soak up what little relief it offered, before turning off the tap. He dried off in slow, mechanical motions, wincing as another wave of dizziness threatened to send him sprawling. He dressed methodically, pulling the thin shirt over aching arms, every movement stiff and weary.

In the mirror, his reflection was pale and hollow-eyed, hair still dripping, jaw clenched tight. He didn’t recognize himself some days. Maybe that was a mercy.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, forcing himself to breathe steady, to move, to keep moving. Because that was all there was—keep moving, keep your head down, survive another day.

Dex stepped out of the bathroom, blinking hard against the assault of fluorescent hallway lights that always seemed just a little too bright, a little too sterile. The orderly didn’t bother with small talk—just jerked his chin, and Dex followed, head down, the familiar drag of fatigue pulling at every step. He moved on autopilot, body aching, stomach still unsettled by the morning’s chemical cocktail. Another day. Another tray of pills. The routine was as relentless as the headaches.

The cafeteria was already loud, the scrape of plastic chairs and the clatter of cheap trays filling the air. The smell of overcooked eggs and instant coffee hung heavy as Dex paused at the doorway. His instinct was to keep his head down, scan the room for an empty corner where he could disappear, where no one would ask questions or try to make conversation.

He told himself that’s what he was doing. He was not looking for you.

But then he heard your voice—a sharp, incredulous exclamation that cut through the morning haze with surgical precision:

“Oh my god.”

He didn’t need to see you to know exactly where you were. It was as if your voice pulled him in, anchored him in a place he usually tried to avoid. He looked up, searching the crowded room, and found you standing at a table with three others—your usual orbit, apparently. Josh, the ever-exasperated orderly, hovered just behind you, sporting a look of cosmic regret, as if one more debate might actually break him.

“Tony Stark is not a good person,” you declared, waving a rubber spoon loaded with fruit for emphasis. Dex saw the glint of mischief in your eyes, the kind of spark that suggested this was far from your first cafeteria argument of the week.

Josh, standing tall but sagging in spirit, looked like he was two seconds from quitting or possibly checking himself in. “Go and sit down,” he told you, his voice heavy with defeat.

But you weren’t done, not by a long shot. “No, no, this needs to be said. Because Abigail’s obsession with a multi-billionaire with a savior complex is actually awful. Fuck capitalism and all that.” You punctuated the sentence with another bite of syrupy peaches.

Abigail, the redhead whose hair was brighter than the morning sun but whose tired eyes told a different story, scowled. “He shut down his weapons manufacturing, though. He became an Avenger. He helped when that Sokovia thing happened, remember?”

You lifted a finger, still chewing, and held it up like a lawyer building a case. “He only shut it down when he saw the consequences up close. Before that, he didn’t care that his bombs were dropping on people as long as the profit margin stayed fat. Don’t tell me that’s hero material. And becoming an Avenger? Please. Retribution, notoriety—definitely not altruism. And if these so-called heroes really cared about people, why aren’t they in places like Hell’s Kitchen, Brooklyn, Harlem?” You gestured broadly, drawing the attention of at least two nearby tables. “And don’t tell me they can’t help the smaller neighborhoods. At the very least, they could give the street-level folks a pat on the back—say, ‘Hey, good job stopping that mugging, Spiderman. The cops sure weren’t gonna help.’ Because ACAB, obviously.”

You kept going, undeterred by the gathering audience, ticking off points with your fingers. “And Tony Stark, let’s not forget, actually caused the whole Sokovia mess to begin with. So, yeah, fuck Tony Stark.”

Josh heaved a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at his temples. “It’s not even nine a.m.,” he muttered, as if maybe that would slow you down.

Someone else—a scruffy guy Dex recognized from group—spoke up, nodding in your direction. “Okay, but she’s sort of right.”

You shot him a triumphant smile, as if you’d just won a prizefight. “Thank you.”

“Get to a table and stop arguing politics before breakfast,” Josh grumbled, nudging your foot with his own in a futile attempt to move you along, “Because next you’re going to make some bullshit argument about why Steve Rogers isn’t a real American patriot or whatever and I don’t have time to be pulling you off the ledge today.”

Dex caught himself smiling—a brief, Involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth that felt almost foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. For a fleeting moment, the dull ache in his joints, the persistent throb at the base of his skull, and the churn of nausea in his stomach all faded into the background. He was aware, with an acute sharpness, of just how out of place that smile was here, in this place built on silence and repetition and pain.

There was a gravity to you. Chaotic, magnetic, pulling him in whether he wanted it or not. You had a way of making the whole sterile room feel a little less suffocating—a little less like a holding cell and a little more like somewhere someone could actually live. It was dangerous, that feeling. But right now, he’d take dangerous over empty.

“You gonna stand there all day, or are you going to sit down?” your voice rang out, slicing through his thoughts. You were already settled into a chair by the far wall, legs tucked up and tray balanced on your lap, your posture casual but your eyes sharp and knowing. The look on your face said you’d seen this scene a hundred times. You knew the routine by heart. And—if he was honest with himself—so did he.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow breath, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he made his way across the room, weaving through the clatter and chatter, ignoring the curious stares from a few of the other patients. He moved like someone who had learned how to avoid drawing attention, but he felt every step, every glance.

The routine had shifted somewhere along the way, he realized. At first, he’d tried to sit alone, disappearing into the corner with nothing but a cold tray and the low hum of the cafeteria for company. But slowly, imperceptibly, his mornings had started to orbit you. You’d never asked—never made a show of saving him a seat, never forced a conversation. But you were always there, an empty chair beside you, an offhand comment tossed his way. And after a while, it just… became what you did. You sat together.

Maybe it was unspoken, but it was understood: in a place where most things were taken from you—privacy, freedom, even the right to grieve in peace—this tiny, unremarkable routine became an anchor. A stake in the ground. Something to come back to.

And somehow, since the day he’d walked in all those months ago, shell-shocked and angry and desperate to vanish, you’d become that for him. The thing he could rely on. The thing that made each day just a little more bearable.

He slid into the chair beside you, his body moving stiffly, muscles aching in a way that felt permanent now. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow down to just this—just you, just him, just the brittle sunlight filtering through the dirty windows. You looked at each other across the battered table, an unspoken exchange flickering between your eyes—a mutual understanding, one that didn’t need words. Not quite a smile, not quite a challenge. Just… recognition. He wasn’t alone. Not right now.

You broke eye contact first, scooping another sticky spoonful of fruit from your cup and popping it into your mouth, chewing with the lazy patience of someone who had learned there was no need to hurry in a place like this. It almost made Dex smile, seeing how at ease you could look here, of all places.

He let out a long, slow breath, not realizing until that moment how tightly his chest had been wound, like a coil threatening to snap. The simple act of sitting beside you—routine as it had become—still managed to ground him, to make the rest of the cafeteria fade into harmless background noise.

You side-eyed him, mouth tugging in a way that could’ve been concern, could’ve just been your usual dry wit. “Full offence, but you look like monumental shit,” you said flatly, flicking your gaze over him from head to toe.

Dex huffed, almost a laugh. “Can always count on you to keep me humble,” he replied, voice low and rough but colored with a warmth he never quite managed with anyone else. He let his eyes drift to your tray—half-eaten fruit cup, an oatmeal bowl that looked more like cement, rubbery utensils scattered with the resigned finality of institutional dining.

You didn’t look away. “Not eating?” you asked, tone light but not prying.

He shook his head, “Not really hungry,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

You just nodded, turning your attention back to your food. For a few minutes, you let the quiet settle—comfortable, not awkward—while Dex found himself strangely grateful for it. The low buzz of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the routine clatter of the cafeteria didn’t seem to matter. The space between you never needed to be filled for the sake of it.

But Dex had learned something about you over the months: you could handle silence, but you rarely let it stretch for too long if you thought someone was drowning in it. Sure enough, your voice cut through, gentle but clear. “How, uh, how’d the visit with the social worker go?”

His jaw tightened a fraction. The social worker.

Dex’s mind flickered back to that sterile, over-lit interview room. He remembered the drag of handcuffs against his wrists, the institutional sleeve swallowing his hands so he couldn’t use them—like he was some animal barely fit for company. He remembered the man who called himself Graham, a brunette whose eyes darted anywhere but Dex’s face, like he’d rather be anywhere else. There had been another man too—crisp suit, polished shoes, a stack of paperwork so thick Dex almost laughed. The lawyer was only there as a formality, another box ticked on a long list of bureaucratic steps.

For two and a half hours they’d talked at him—about next steps, asset liquidation, victim restitution. His apartment, most of his belongings: all to be sold off to cover court-mandated reparations. Anything remotely personal would end up in a storage locker he’d have to pay for himself, which was a joke, given where he’d likely spend the rest of his life. Every detail was discussed with the cold efficiency of people who’d long ago run out of real empathy. All that was left was paperwork.

“It was fine, I guess,” he said, voice flat, barely inflecting the words. Just another part of the routine.

You watched him for a second, searching his face for cracks, but you didn’t press. You just nodded, a simple gesture that meant you understood—really understood—that some things weren’t worth talking about before eight in the morning, if ever.

“Fair,” you replied, setting the empty fruit cup aside with a thunk. You picked up your bowl of oatmeal, studying its lumpy, unappetizing mass as if considering what crimes it had committed. “Can I tempt you with whatever the fuck this is?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow in mock-offer.

Dex shook his head, lips twitching into a weary, lopsided smile. “Tempting,” he said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

You grinned, accepting the answer, and slid the tray aside with exaggerated care. “Your loss,” you said easily.

In a place where everything was rationed and routine and stripped of joy, the banter felt like something sacred—an act of rebellion, a reminder that you were still here, still human. For a few minutes longer, Dex let himself just be—sitting beside you, letting your energy fill the empty spaces in his head, letting the exhaustion and bitterness ebb, if only for now.

He almost didn’t care that the coffee tasted like burnt water, or that the oatmeal was a war crime. With you, the world was quieter, and—just for a little while—he could breathe. <><><><><><>

Group therapy, Dex had realized early on, was less about healing and more about containment. It was a controlled experiment—put six volatile people in one room, sprinkle in a little forced vulnerability, and see who cracked first. In the warped logic of Riviera Psychiatric, it was as much about risk management as it was about rehabilitation.

The sessions were kept small—six patients at most. No one wanted to tempt fate with more. The staff understood that too many unpredictable variables in one place made for bad headlines and worse paperwork. The circle was always the same: the battered chairs arranged in a lopsided oval, the linoleum scuffed and dulled by restless feet, Jane perched at the center like the calm eye of a hurricane. “Call it the worst group project you’ve ever been a part of,” you’d once whispered as you slid into the chair beside Dex, voice pitched just for him. There was a crooked smile on your lips, equal parts amused and resigned. “Jane here thinks we’re all good people, somewhere under all this. I’ll give her props for trying,” you’d added with a low laugh, the sound light and sharp at once. Jane, the therapist, always took her seat at the center—legs folded beneath her, clipboard perched on her knee, gaze steady but not unkind. She never reacted much, just quirked an eyebrow or gave a knowing smirk when you needled her. She had the patience of a saint and the nerves of someone who’d seen everything twice.

Week after week, Dex had listened as his fellow patients—each of them dangerous in a different, distinctly tragic way—talked about guilt and regret, about the small, sharp pivots that had sent their lives spinning off course. Some spoke in riddles, others in rehearsed confessions, eyes never quite meeting Jane’s. Dex had learned to piece together fragments, to guess at their stories from the cracks that showed around the edges.

But you were different.

You rarely spoke in group, and when you did, it was only when every other distraction had been exhausted, when Jane wouldn’t move on without an answer. You were the wild card in the circle—seemingly too ordinary, too alive, to fit among the broken machinery of the others. There were no tells, very few hints about what you’d done, why you were here. The others offered up their wounds for inspection, but you kept yours hidden, tucked behind dry humor and that easy, practiced silence.

Dex found himself watching you as the group sessions dragged on, studying the tilt of your head, the way your foot tapped in restless patterns, the way you seemed to take up space without ever drawing attention. He wondered, often, what it would take to make you speak. What it would sound like if you ever told the truth about yourself.

Every now and then, Jane would try—gently, persistently—to draw you out. She’d look your way, voice warm but insistent. “What about you? Anything you want to share with the group today?”

You’d just shrug, lips twisting into a lopsided smile. “Pass. Nothing profound in the tank today, Jane. Sorry.”

Sometimes, one of the others would try to prod you, too—maybe out of curiosity, maybe just to shift the spotlight. But you never rose to it. You sat back, arms folded, watching the game play out, your silence as calculated as any move on a chessboard.

Dex couldn’t decide if it was self-preservation or defiance—or maybe both. Either way, it intrigued him. In a room where everything was supposed to be on display, you managed to keep yourself an enigma. And for someone like Dex, whose whole life had become a case study in exposure and unraveling, your secrecy was magnetic.

Today’s session started the way they always did: Jane waiting until everyone had settled, her clipboard balanced across her knees, pen poised but relaxed. The circle was smaller today—just five, including Dex and you. Two chairs remained empty, a reminder that this place ran on absence as much as presence.

The door thunked shut behind the orderly. For a moment, nobody spoke, the silence thick with anticipation and boredom. Light flickered overhead, humming against the hush.

Jane’s gaze swept the room, lingering a beat longer on Dex before sliding to you. “Let’s check in. Anything anyone wants to start with today?” Her tone was gentle but with an undercurrent of expectation—a well-practiced invitation, “How are we feeling? Anything to share that’s happened since our last session?”

Abigail was the first to speak, as she usually was. “I had a phone call with my brother. He’s getting married.” Her voice was brittle, pride and bitterness entwined. Jane offered her a nod, writing something on her pad.

The man to Dex’s right, Henry, shrugged. “Didn’t sleep again. I’m tired, I know I’m tired, but my brain won’t turn off. I close my eyes but I can’t stop thinking,” He muttered, as he looked down at the floor. Jane nodded softly before turning to Dex, “And how are you feeling today Benjamin?”

Dex stayed silent, knuckles bone-white as his hands twisted together in his lap, thumb scraping anxiously at the old, rough scar on his palm—a nervous habit he’d never been able to shake. The room felt small, the air thick with stale institutional heat and the underlying tang of disinfectant. He could feel the old tension settling in his spine, the familiar prickling sense of being watched, even before Jane’s attention found him.

But it wasn’t just Jane’s eyes. He could feel you, too—across the circle, leg bouncing with restless energy, posture relaxed but gaze unblinking and hungry, cataloguing every shift, every hesitation. You always noticed the details—the way he held himself, how long it took for his eyes to lift, the way he sometimes forgot to breathe when the questions got too close.

His mind spun, a silent reel of unease and regret. Group was supposed to be a safe place, or so they told him. A place to unburden, to speak your truth. But for Dex, it was just another kind of stage—a place where you performed the version of yourself that hurt the least. He’d learned, early on, that honesty here was currency spent too easily and rarely repaid. These walls listened. People listened. Security listened.

He felt the ghost of last night on his skin—sweat-damp sheets, the desperate thump of his own pulse in the dark, dreams splintering into memory. Ray’s voice, pleading with him not to pull the trigger. Fisk’s shadow, heavy and inevitable, always pressing down, turning every good thing inside him into a weapon. Last night, the dreams had clawed their way up from whatever pit he’d tried to bury them in, sharper than ever—faces blurring, blood on his hands, guilt a weight that never seemed to fade. He’d woken gasping, jaw locked, sheets twisted around his body like restraints.

He’d thought about telling Jane once. He’d even rehearsed it in his mind: the way he’d describe the dreams, the way he’d confess to waking up afraid of himself. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not in this circle where every word was dissected and every admission could become ammunition.

“Benjamin?” Jane’s voice broke through, gentle but insistent, bringing him back. Her eyes were kind, but he could sense the weight behind them—an expectation, maybe even hope.

He shook his head, a movement so small he hoped it would go unnoticed. “Not really,” he mumbled, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Same as yesterday.”

It was a lie—an easy one, the kind you learned to survive by. He kept his gaze low, fingers worrying at the callus, pulse hammering. He wondered if anyone else could see how tightly he was wound, how close he was to coming apart at the seams.

He didn’t dare meet your eyes then. He wasn’t ready for what he’d find there—recognition, maybe, or disappointment, or that strange, steady understanding you always seemed to have for him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

He told himself it was just self-preservation—just prudence, keeping his pain shuttered away where no one could pry it open or twist it against him. It was safer that way. Safer to let the others talk and bleed and confess while he sat, stony and silent, shielded behind old habits. But if he was honest, it was more than just privacy he was guarding. He was holding on to something small and impossibly fragile, something he barely let himself believe in.

Hope that, beneath all the scars and guilt and rage, there might be something worth saving. That if he ever dared let someone see the truth—the whole, unvarnished, broken truth—it should be you. The only person here who looked at him like he was more than the sum of his worst days. The only one who met his silence with patience instead of pity.

He wasn’t ready yet. Not to unravel, not in front of these people, not in the center of the circle where every word became a matter of record. He wanted to keep the soft, shivering hope hidden just a little longer. Hidden until he found the right words, the right moment, the courage to trust you with it.

So he sat and listened, keeping his expression blank, his hands steady, letting the words of the others drift by like static. Still, he could feel your gaze anchored on him from across the circle—steady, curious, a little mischievous, a little daring. It felt like both a challenge and a promise: You don’t have to stay silent forever.

Finally, drawn by the pull of your attention, his eyes lifted and found yours.

You were grinning at him—an irreverent, lopsided smile that lit up your whole face and made the air between you feel a little lighter. When Jane’s focus shifted elsewhere, you took the opportunity to mouth his name in exaggerated, teasing fashion: “Benjamin.”

You mimed it with a smirk, lips quirking, eyes dancing with humor and something softer beneath it—something meant just for him. The unspoken message was clear: You’re not invisible here. Not to me.

Against his better judgment, Dex felt the corner of his mouth twitch in response. For a heartbeat, the suffocating heaviness of the room faded, replaced by something tentative but real—a flicker of connection, a private joke, a sliver of warmth in a place that rarely offered any.

He held your gaze for another moment, letting the shadow of a smile flicker and fade on his lips, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of hope rise inside him. It was risky, allowing himself that softness, but in the moment it felt almost safe—like your humor and steadiness could hold it for him, just for now. Maybe, Dex thought, maybe it wouldn’t be so impossible to speak after all.

Jane, ever observant, didn’t push. “Alright,” she said, letting the moment pass without comment. She turned her attention your way, her tone somewhere between hopeful and resigned, her eyes bright with challenge. “And how about the peanut gallery over here? I can see what you’re doing, you know. This isn’t my first rodeo,” she teased, raising an eyebrow at your antics.

You looked entirely unbothered, arms folded across your chest as you leveled Jane with a deadpan stare. “How extremely unprofessional of you, Jane,” you shot back, voice rich with dry humor. “But honestly? I’m feeling great. Living the American Dream.” You finished with a smirk, as if daring anyone to call your bluff.

Jane sighed, the sound tired but affectionate. “You know, the longer you’re uncooperative in these sessions, the more I have to report back to the judge—and the longer we have to put up with you for.” Still, beneath the banter, Dex could feel the real question hanging in the air: What are you really thinking? Why won’t you let us see? Jane smiled, but the invitation was clear.

You just grinned wider. “I’m an absolute delight,” you replied, as if that settled the matter for good.

Dex felt the tension in the room shift. The other patients had turned toward you, curiosity simmering beneath their careful exteriors. Jane crossed one leg over the other, tapping her pen against her knee, considering you for a long moment before pivoting the group. “Let’s try something different,” she said. “I want each of you to name one thing you wish you could change about your past. Just one. It doesn’t have to be the biggest thing. Maybe something small—a decision, a moment, a word.”

The room stirred with a familiar unease. Henry, the tall man with nervous eyes, muttered, “This again?” but nobody argued. It was easier, Dex knew, to comply than to resist when Jane got that look.

Abigail’s voice was first, fragile as a snapped thread: “I wish I’d said goodbye to my mother. I wish I’d picked up the phone.” Her hands trembled, knuckles white.

Henry said, “I wish I’d listened when they told me I needed help. Before it got bad.” His voice cracked, shame flickering behind his eyes.

Sonia, quietest of them all, never looked up. “I wish I’d run. That night. I wish I’d run.” Her fingers traced the seam of her chair, her words little more than breath.

Then Jane looked at Dex, and the air around him thickened. His throat tightened, the old panic squeezing his chest. His mind flashed through memory after memory: Ray Nadeem’s desperate, pleading eyes. The crack of a gunshot echoing in his skull. Blood on his hands, promises broken, the impossible weight of his own choices pressing down until he felt he might suffocate. It was as if he could see the whole chain of decisions that had led him here—each one a small betrayal, a flicker of weakness, a moment where he should have turned away but didn’t.

He wanted to say so much. That he wished he’d walked away from Fisk before the first lie left his mouth. That he wished he’d called for help. That he wished he’d never picked up a weapon in the first place. But the words tangled in his chest, too big, too raw.

He hesitated, the silence stretching just a heartbeat too long. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and flat, the syllables scraped raw: “I wish I’d walked away when I had the chance.”

It was such a small phrase for so much regret, and yet it felt heavy, ringing in his ears even as Jane nodded and moved her pen across the page, recording the moment like it was just another piece of data.

Dex barely noticed. He was busy fighting the urge to look anywhere but at you.

But then Jane’s attention shifted, and all eyes landed on you. The air in the room tightened, expectation prickling along Dex’s nerves. For a second, you leaned forward, elbows braced on your knees, fingers laced so tightly Dex could see the pale strain in your knuckles. Your gaze lingered on the floor, and for one suspended moment, Dex thought—hoped—that you were about to let something true slip through the cracks.

Instead, you flashed a crooked, irreverent grin. “I wish I finished my drink quicker before SWAT put a gun to my head,” you said, your tone breezy, mocking even the idea of remorse. “Honestly, I thought I had more time, but those assholes move fast, apparently.”

A couple of the others laughed, the tension in the circle breaking for a split second. Jane rolled her eyes, exasperated but not surprised. She jotted down a note and let the session move forward.

But Dex didn’t laugh. He watched you carefully, searching your face for the truth underneath your deflection. He knew what it was to make a joke of pain, to pretend indifference when your regrets threatened to swallow you whole. He wondered what you would have said if you’d trusted the room with your real answer. He wondered if you would ever trust him with it, the way he wanted, desperately, to trust you with his own.

He felt a pulse of something—longing, maybe, or a fierce, protective ache—curl through his chest. You were as much a mystery now as the first day he’d met you, but beneath the armor and the bravado, he recognized himself in you: Someone desperate to survive, to hide their wounds, to hold onto something gentle for just a little longer.

[thevillainswhore]

Only A Touch From You Will Do

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: Dex always counts down the minutes until he’s home again. Until he can breathe again. Until he’s back in your arms again.

Warnings: Established relationship, fluff, canon related, some light mention of self esteem issues.

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Image by @bullseyelover on Pinterest.

hi again! Thought I’d try my hand at a more softer Dex. I really liked writing this one, the idea that all of his troubles melt away once he gets home to the one he loves makes me happy 🥹 hopefully I’ve done him justice and it isn’t too out of character. Enjoy! x

As soon as Dex walks through the door of your shared apartment, he closes his eyes and takes what feels like his first deep breath of the day. The door closes as his back slumps against it, body sagging with the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders. 

Work was a bust. The rigid structure the FBI provides him doesn't seem to be helping as it once did. His nerves fray with more caseloads coming in. The applause Dex formerly received when completing his assignments now crickets in a desert. 

Each crack in his preserved regime is beginning to reveal itself and Dex’s hands sweat with cold anticipation with the thought of going back tomorrow. 

“Hi, Ben.” And there you are, voice so soft with that soothing lilt that instantly deflates the anxiety that’s been living in his chest since he had to leave you this morning. A smile effortlessly upturns his lips as you drag him out of the dark. It’s just the effect you have on him. 

Dex opens his eyes and is graced by the sight of you, adorned with your favourite hoodie of his. He can’t help how his ears burn as the hem flutters over your bare mid thigh. “Hey, Angel.” 

Your feet patter delicately against the wooden floorboards, slowly making their way towards him. Dex’s heart increases in tempo as your scent gets stronger, the melody of the sweet perfume you normally spray upon your neck weaving its way into his consciousness and ridding the stress of the day. 

He welcomes you instantly, practically dragging you into his body and wrapping his arms around you like a lifeline. Your small oof makes him chuckle and he nuzzles himself into your neck to inhale you in. To make sure you’re real. “Christ, I missed you.” 

Giggling against him, you kiss his covered chest and hum tenderly. “I missed you too, love. Always miss you when you’re gone.” 

A crack splinters Dex’s heart. Your intimate declaration forces him to cuddle you tighter. He misses you all the time too, stares at the framed picture of you on his desk at work and wishes he could be with you instead. 

It only makes his frustrations of work fester; the growing demands he used to fulfill now suddenly too meagre, the injustice of himself being used as a scapegoat for the FBI’s failures. It was unravelling what was once his perfectly stabilizing routine he had curated with precision and instead shifting it into his personal nightmare. 

But all of that fades to the background, into the dark corners of Dex’s mind when you hold him in the delicate way you do. Like he’s made of glass, like he’s something so precious you’re scared if you let go he’ll shatter. Like he matters — worthy of being someone better than he’s destined to be.

He believes it because of you. 

You must feel the vines of stress winding themselves into Dex’s muscles. Propping your chin on his solid chest to look into his eyes, you offer him the most serene glimpse of comfort, eyes earnest and all seeing. As though you can see straight through him. 

Somehow, that doesn’t scare Dex. If anything, it made him feel lighter. 

“How about we snuggle while we order something in, hm?” You whisper gently. “You look tired, baby. Let me make it better.” 

Weakness comes in its purest form at a simple request from you. Dex can no longer be a strong man when you ask for something he so badly needed. Especially in the sugared, saccharine matrimony you hold for him. Like a siren, luring him in only with the sound of your voice. 

How can his answer be anything other than yes? “Yeah.” Dex’s styled hair begins to unravel as he nods his head, his nervous tick of combing his fingers through his hair resulting in several strands becoming loose. “Y-Yes. Please.” 

Dex swallows the lump in his throat. He sounds so needy, so vulnerable and with any other he’d hate himself. But with you, he can’t help but let go and allow you to see him exposed. 

Holding your hand out, you wait until Dex places his own in yours, intertwining your fingers together before leading him to your shared bedroom. 

The two of you are quiet, a silent understanding that only comes with time and grace, as you position yourself against the headboard and pat your thighs. 

“Come here, Ben,” you mumble, eager to not break the intricacy of your bubble. “Let me take care of you for a while.” 

Dex’s head begins to blur, the once sharpened edges of his mind now turning fuzzy. There’s no longer any voices calling him from the darkness, just a bright light on the horizon asking him to join her. 

With shaking hands, Dex undresses himself; tie, shirt, trousers landing on the floor unceremoniously as he rushes to be with you. It’s so unlike himself, such a vast display of disorder it would usually make him feel sick. But like any other since coming home, his worries have disappeared. For now at least. 

Crawling onto the bed, Dex makes his way towards you — so inviting, so deliciously tranquil that his heart races. 

You’re sitting there so patiently, with the kindest eyes Dex doesn’t deserve, waiting for him. He doesn’t let himself believe it most days, that you stick around and love every part of him. But you always lift him back up to the surface to remind him that no matter how hard he tries to push you away, you’re not going anywhere. 

Resting his head upon the plushness of your thigh, Dex fuses himself into you, weaving his arms around your waist and holding you as tight as what’s comfortable. 

You hum, content and happy, and begin to comb your fingers through Dex’s hair. Immediately, he exhales a shaky breath. The world has finally come to a stop, and time pauses for the two of you. 

“Feels good, right?” You mutter soothingly at the purr he lets go. Your newly manicured nails scratch Dex’s scalp so good he shivers with pleasure. 

With hooded eyes, Dex grabs your hand carefully and brings your fingernails to his eye level. “Is that the blue I picked out?” 

“It is,” you confirmed. “Do you like it?” 

“Mm,” he grunts, bringing the palm of your hand to his mouth and placing kisses to your soft skin. “Looks pretty on you.” 

Though he’s buried himself into your stomach, Dex already knows the shy smile you’re wearing and the heat that’s rising upon your cheeks. You had texted him a couple of days ago while he was at work, asking for his opinion on a nail design. A French tip in a shade of navy blue. Dex smiles to himself; you had accepted him, no questions asked. He’s not used to that.

Your motions continue, nails smoothing over his head and consistently hitting the sensitive spot from the migraines he experiences. 

Dex closes his eyes and allows himself a small slither of peace — only for a second, he tells himself. He needs his focus both sharp and precise and poured into you; your safety. But your loving touch is too strong that Dex doesn’t realise how heavy his eyes have become, or the concern that furrows your brows. 

“They work you like a dog,” you whisper into the tender atmosphere. “It’s not fair.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he rasps back to you. “I get to come home to you.” 

And Dex means it. It doesn’t matter what work throws at him, the very solid notion that you’re at home, protected and waiting for him trumps anything else. 

But your solemn whisper, one that Dex has a feeling has marinated in your own busy mind while he’s been working later and harder unnerves him. “Until something happens.” 

Though sleep is catching up with him in the cocoon of your warmth, Dex shakes his head vehemently, desperate to reassure you. “Never,” he declares, confidently. “I’lll always come back to you. Need you safe.” 

He hears you swallow the lump in your throat and feels you nod, the manoeuvre crescending down your body. “That’s right, Ben. You keep me safe.”

Dex holds it like a secret. Something so sacred it’s scarred in his mind. You think he’s important. You think he has a purpose. You’ll never understand how your innocent affirmations hold weight in his mind.

“And you keep me sane, Angel.” Sleep catches up to Dex, your touch like a lullaby. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Consciousness waves in and out of Dex’s mind as he succumbs to slumber, but he can rest easy as you tuck the two of you into the sheets and gift him one last kiss to his forehead. “Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out.” 

[koiwolv]

English is not my native language, and I could have made a mistake, 😖

I would be glad if you would point it out!

Okay, know that Dex is one of those guys who needs physical contact with you to feel your closeness and your need for him.

Even though his touch may feel a little suffocating or heavy to you, he likes to snuggle you on his bed, entwine his legs with yours, and generally feel your closeness as if he wants to dissolve into you.

Of course, if you don't pay attention to his head and scratch it, he may even bite you in an attempt to get your attention. But when he does get it, he purrs like the most contented cat.

His favorite kisses are not even kisses on the lips, but just rubbing their noses against each other

And every time you find yourself in an embrace, it lasts for a very long time. He doesn't let you change your posture even slightly, pulling you closer and closer to him.

If you try to pull away, he squeezes his hands around your waist warningly. And if you do decide to change position, he says a heavy and slightly rough, "Stop."

He doesn't need to tell you about his day, because he's already home, which means it's all behind him.

And speaking of behind. There is a small but very important rule in your house: leave work at the doorstep. However, that doesn't mean you don't share your emotions and problems.

[vigilantekisser]

Saw your post abt dex taking it like a good boy so I wanted to ask if u have any of your delicious fics or drafts about him taking strap maybe

hey i hope you know i dropped everything else when i got this and started writing like a woman possessed.... 18+ under the cut (pegging sub!bottom!dex)

...the way his body shivers under you—dex, solid dex, the same one who would shove a guy through drywall for looking at you wrong—now trembling and laid bare, cheeks being kneaded open by your palms as you spread him with reverence and hunger both. his hole clenches nervously under your thumb, fluttering shyly. his breath’s caught in his throat, that long, thick spine arched like a tensioned bow, back muscles rippling under the dim light seemingly carved and glistening from marble. but it’s your fingers parting that delicate ring that’s making him whimper—“nnn-fuck…”

you hush him without words. slick fingers coated in lube tease and swirl, first pressing, then pushing in—slow and steady, gentle enough, massaging the muscle to relax it. he moans with embarrassment at how easily he melts around one finger, then two, squirming when your knuckles twist and find that spot that makes his thighs want to twitch uncontrollably. you hear the wet gasp he tries to bury in the pillow.

“gonna be a good boy for me?” you murmur, tone syrupy, hand groping his cheek again as your other strokes deep inside, scissoring just slightly, the squelch obscene and soaking loud. he nods, his face already flushed and damp.

“spit,” you command, holding your palm out, and he turns his head to obey, saliva glistening as it drips warm into your hand. you slather it messily along your strap, smirking when his hips twitch backward unconsciously, hole twitching in expectation. he’s already completely whipped and you haven’t even started.

“you in a rush, baby?” you laugh at his frustrated huffs, tapping his ass affectionately. “alright, alright. ready?” you purr, lining the toy’s tip with his eager, lubed entrance, his thighs trembling under your hold. you push just the head in, slow, watching his fingers tighten in the sheets. his hips jerk minutely before you hold him down, palm flat and authoritative on his back.

“breathe.”

he does. and you ease deeper, inch by inch, taking your time like a predator drawing the kill out—he’s panting by the time half the length’s inside, his ass clenching and trembling, forehead digging into the sheets.

“fuuck.. hnn..” he moans, voice rasped and hitched, teeth sinking into the pillow to muffle it as the stretch turns to fullness, turns to a burn that melts into aching pleasure when you bottom out. you don’t move. you hold there, heat pouring off his dimpled back, the toy buried to the base, your fingers curling around his hips and leaving claiming half-crescents on the milky skin there. your pelvis grinds gently against his ass, just enough to make him feel it—feel how deep he’s taken you, how good he’s being. his body shudders with every exhale.

he starts whining, deep and low at first then turning high-pitched when you rock your hips just enough to drag the strap’s tip against that raw bundle of nerves inside him. that one that makes him groan uncontrollably, the sweet spot that has his entire body aflame. he’s your cute toy to play with, your big dumb thing, drooling on the sheets while you wreck him.

he can’t even beg properly for you to move, just mumbling and sobbing, “nnn-mmnh—please…”

“s’your first time, dex? coulda fooled me with how fuckin’ tight you are.”

you fuck him slow, intentionally, and each thrust presses him forward on the bed til the sheets bunch and twist beneath him, until his arms can’t hold him up anymore and he collapses into his elbows, then down fully, face pressed into the damp cotton while his ass stays raised like he was made to be taken like this. you slide a hand along the cut of his back, nails lightly scraping, then down front to his lower belly, teasing the head of his erect cock. he whimpers and his hand comes down, trying to jerk himself off while you’re fucking him, and you slap his hand away.

“only i decide when you cum, not you.”

“s-sorry, fuck—i’m sorry,” he gasps, hand yanked away as he crumples forward, cock pulsing untouched beneath him, angry at the denial. the precum spatters against his belly when he flinches, dripping in fat beads like syrup down his shaft and onto the sheets below.

“wouldja look at that...,” you whisper, chuckling a little, fingers ghosting over his leaking tip again. “so fucking predictable. you’re making a fucking mess for me already.”

finally finally, your hands close around his cock and stroke him hard and fast, hand slick with lube and spit. “...hnmff-! fuck, mmn..” he’s out of breath and struggling to keep up as your thrusts get harsher, the slap of skin on skin humiliatingly loud in the room. his breath comes in ragged sobs now, moaning like a bitch in heat as he starts pushing back against you, grinding his ass to meet every thrust like he needs it, like he’d die if you stopped.

the mirror from the bedside reflects it all—him, flushed and stupid, face streaked with tears, mouth open and drooling slightly. you shift to grab it and set it down in front of him vaguely, forcing his face toward it.

“look, look at you,” you snarl, leaning in to press a kiss to his back, your hips still rolling as the strap rails him over and over again. “look how pretty you cry.”

he does. he can’t not: eyes fluttering open just enough to see his own pathetic, cockdrunk expression in the glass. it makes him whimper louder, thighs straining to keep his ass up for you while you're fucking him, him dangerously close to his limit with you hitting and hitting that spot again and again.

“y- y’close, baby?” you coo, still stroking him, your grip tight and fast, fist pumping over his shaft while you pound him into the mattress.

“mm.. hh..” he tries to speak, but he can only manage to pant and whine pathetically, hips jerking helplessly. “nngh...yeah, m’gonna—!”

“okay, okay, let go, honey.. be a good boy, come for me...”

his whole body tenses, then convulses—cum shooting across the sheets and your fist, sticky and whitish and endless. his breath stops mid-moan, body arching, twitching, chest heaving like he’s been electrocuted from the inside. your thrusts don’t stop until he collapses, legs spread, hole still clenching weakly around the strap. you rub soothing circles along his hips, then his thighs, then slide out slow so he whimpers but doesn’t resist, twitching with oversensitivity.

“shhh... sorry, pretty boy. did it hurt?” you whisper, laying beside him, dragging his trembling frame into your arms, the mattress soiled with sweat and cum beneath him. he nods, but smiles weakly, pressing his face into your chest reassuringly, mumbling, “t-thank you.. for f-fucking me..” his eyes are glazed, cheek red and lined from being pressed face-down on the sheets, lips parted and breath shallow. you’re suddenly accosted by affection at the sweet sight of him like this, sighing, “m’sorry...” hand running through his sweaty hair, fixing it vaguely, “you did such a good job for me."

absently stroking his hair, you grab your phone by the bedside and lift his head by the jaw. pointing the camera at him, you make him look at you with his hazel eyes still dazed and teary. he doesn’t even flinch when the flash goes off, blinking slow and mouth parted like he’s too blissed to close it.

“another picture, alright? smile,” you say softly, grabbing his jaw to make him face the camera better. “you look so pretty like this.”

[urdreamydoodles]

MCU characters and how they meet their soulmate ?

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

How they meet their soulmates

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Wade Wilson & Logan Howlett

Tony Stark

- You do not meet Tony Stark the way people meet in books or movies. There is no slow unraveling, no lingering glances across a crowded room. No, Tony Stark arrives in your life like an explosion—sudden, blinding, impossible to ignore. He is a force of nature, all sharp wit and arrogance, a storm wrapped in designer suits and expensive cologne. And yet, beneath the flash, beneath the charm, there is something else. A tiredness. A weight he carries behind his smirk.

- He notices you before you notice him. And that is saying something, because Tony Stark does not spend time watching people—he is the one being watched. But you are different. You are not awed by him, not tripping over yourself to impress him. You challenge him. And Tony Stark, for all his genius, cannot resist a challenge. “Do I know you?” he asks, as if he hasn’t already run through every possible scenario of how to get you to notice him.

- You meet in the middle of chaos, because that is where Tony lives. A gala, a lab, a battlefield—it doesn’t matter. He sees you, and the world shifts just slightly on its axis. But love? No, love is not something Tony allows himself to believe in anymore. Love means loss. Love means pain. But you are persistent in the way the sun rises, in the way the ocean reaches for the shore. And maybe—just maybe—Tony Stark is tired of running.

- He flirts, of course. It is his armor, his shield. But there is something different in the way he teases you, in the way he watches your reactions like a scientist studying the most fascinating discovery of his life. “You must be new,” he says, tilting his head. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember someone like you.” And when you roll your eyes instead of blushing, when you match him word for word, something in his chest clicks into place.

- He does not call you his soulmate. That word is too soft, too fragile. But one day, when the world is quiet, when he is half-asleep and you are curled beside him, he murmurs, “I think… if I believed in fate, it would look a lot like you.” And in the morning, when he pretends he doesn’t remember saying it, you only smile. Because Tony Stark may not believe in soulmates—but he believes in you. And that is enough.

Steve Rogers

- You meet Steve Rogers the way a ship meets the shore—gradually, naturally, like something inevitable. He does not rush toward love, does not chase it down like a man afraid of time. No, Steve Rogers has patience. And when he looks at you, it is not with the urgency of a man who fears loss, but with the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

- He notices the little things. The way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your fingers drum against your thigh when you’re thinking. Steve is observant, not just because of the soldier in him, but because he cares. He does not love lightly, does not give his heart in pieces. When he loves, it is whole. And that is why he waits. Waits until he knows you see him not just as Captain America, not just as a man out of time, but as Steve.

- You do not fall into each other. There is no whirlwind, no reckless rush. Instead, there is understanding, companionship. It starts as friendship, because that is the foundation of everything Steve Rogers believes in. “You’re easy to talk to,” he admits one evening, leaning against a doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. And the way he looks at you then—soft, steady, certain—it is a look that says more than words ever could.

- When he touches you, it is with reverence. Not because he is afraid you will break, but because he wants you to know—to feel—that you are something precious. A brush of fingers against yours, the warmth of his palm against your lower back. He does not need grand gestures, does not need elaborate confessions. His love is in the way he listens, in the way he stands beside you in a crowded room, in the way his eyes soften when they find yours.

- The moment he knows, truly knows, is quiet. No fanfare, no dramatic revelation. Just a moment—simple and perfect. You are laughing at something, a sound so genuine and free that it tugs something deep in his chest. And that is when it hits him. This is home. You are home. And Steve Rogers has spent too many years without one to let this slip away.

Natasha Romanoff

- Love is not something Natasha Romanoff trusts. It is a foreign language, a place she has never dared to call home. She has seen what love does—how it weakens, how it breaks. And yet, when she meets you, something shifts. Not in a way that is loud or obvious, but in the smallest of ways. In the way her walls do not feel as necessary. In the way your presence does not feel like a threat.

- She does not flirt, not in the way most people do. Her affection is in her attention, in the way she remembers things others overlook. Your favorite drink, the way you fidget when you’re nervous, the songs you hum under your breath when you think no one is listening. Natasha watches, learns, memorizes. Because that is how she protects, how she cares.

- You do not realize she has chosen you until one day, you find yourself safe in her presence. There is something unspoken between you, something steady. You do not have to ask for her loyalty; it is simply there. And when she does touch you—fingertips grazing your wrist, the ghost of a smile as she tugs you closer—it is deliberate. Natasha Romanoff does nothing by accident.

- She lets you see pieces of her that others do not. The way she tilts her head toward the sunlight, the way her laughter is rare but real when it comes. She lets you in—not all at once, but slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for the moment you will turn away. And when you don’t, when you stay—that is when she begins to believe in the possibility of us.

- One day, in the quiet of an empty room, she speaks—not with words, but with her hands, with the way she leans into you, with the way her forehead rests against yours. And in that moment, she is not Black Widow, not an assassin, not a spy. She is just Natasha. And for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid.

Bruce Banner

- Bruce does not believe in soulmates, not in the traditional sense. The idea that someone could look at him—at all of him—and not be afraid? That is not something he allows himself to hope for. He has spent too many years running, hiding, keeping his distance. Because love, in his world, is dangerous.

- When he meets you, he is wary. Not because he does not like you, but because he does. And that is terrifying. You are warmth, kindness, something soft in a world that has never been soft to him. And so he keeps his distance at first, watching from afar, convincing himself that he is only curious. But curiosity turns to admiration. And admiration? That is a dangerous thing.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not demand. You simply exist beside him, a presence that is neither overwhelming nor suffocating. And for Bruce, that is everything. One day, he catches himself reaching for you—without thinking, without fear. His fingers barely brush yours, but the moment feels monumental. Because for the first time in years, he is not pulling away.

- He falls in love in moments, in increments. In the way you talk about things you love, in the way you tilt your head when you listen. And one day, when you look at him—really look at him—with no fear, no hesitation, he thinks: Maybe. Maybe this could be real.

- When he finally says it, it is not a grand confession. It is quiet, almost hesitant. “I think… I think I’m in love with you.” And when you smile, when you take his hand without hesitation, he exhales a breath he did not know he was holding. Because for the first time, Bruce Banner is not afraid of himself. Not when you are beside him.

Clint Barton

- You don’t meet Clint Barton in a way that feels significant at first. There’s no dramatic music, no lingering glances across a battlefield. He’s just there, like he’s always been, like he always will be. Steady. Reliable. He notices you before you notice him, blending into the background like a shadow, like a ghost. But Clint Barton doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t think matter, and the way he watches you—curious, assessing, interested—means that, somehow, without trying, you’ve already become important to him.

- He isn’t flashy, isn’t loud. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet or try to impress you. That’s not Clint’s way. Instead, he worms his way into your life so naturally that you don’t realize it’s happening until one day, you’re reaching for your coffee, and he’s already got one waiting for you. Until you’re in the middle of a conversation, and he finishes your thought before you do. Until you catch yourself looking for him in a crowded room, and the moment you find him, his eyes are already on you.

- He makes you laugh. Not in the practiced way of a man trying to win someone over, but in the way that feels easy. Like it’s second nature. “You’re trouble,” he says one day, shaking his head as he smirks at you. “I like trouble.” And maybe you should be wary, maybe you should tread carefully, but Clint Barton is the kind of man who makes you feel safe even as he leads you straight into danger.

- It’s in the small things, the details. The way he stands between you and an exit without thinking. The way he nudges his food onto your plate when he sees you eyeing it. The way he never quite lets you out of his sight, as if he’s already memorized a hundred different ways to keep you safe without you ever realizing. Clint Barton is a protector by nature, but with you, it’s personal.

- He never says the words soulmate, never makes grand declarations. But one night, when it’s just the two of you and the world feels quiet, he murmurs, “Wherever you go, I’ll find you.” And in his voice, in his eyes, you hear the promise: Always.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes does not believe in fate. He does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in a world that gives people things without demanding something in return. So when he meets you, when something deep inside him stirs in a way it hasn’t in decades, he does not trust it. Does not trust you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because he has learned, over and over again, that good things do not stay.

- He tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore you. But Bucky Barnes has never been good at lying to himself. Not when you laugh and something in his chest tightens, not when you look at him like he’s just a man—not a soldier, not a weapon, not a ghost. And that? That is dangerous. Because Bucky Barnes does not know what to do with kindness, not when it’s freely given.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not pry. You simply exist beside him, letting him come to you in his own time. And it is that patience that undoes him. Because Bucky has spent too long being feared, too long being avoided. But you? You are not afraid. You meet his silence with understanding, his hesitation with warmth. You never ask for more than he can give. And that? That is why he wants to give you everything.

- The first time he touches you, it is tentative. Fingertips brushing against yours, brief but deliberate. It is a test, a question without words. And when you do not flinch, when you do not pull away, something in him shifts. He lets himself be closer after that. Lets himself want. Because maybe, just maybe, he is not as broken as he thought.

- He does not tell you he loves you. Not with words, not at first. But one night, when he is half-asleep, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he exhales against your skin and murmurs, “You’re my safe place.” And that? That is enough. That is everything.

Sam Wilson

- Sam Wilson is warmth. He is laughter and easy smiles, the kind of man who makes strangers feel like old friends. And when he meets you, it is no different. He is charming, quick-witted, effortlessly magnetic. But beneath all of that, beneath the teasing and the grins, there is depth. There is steadiness. Because Sam Wilson does not love halfway.

- He flirts with you before he realizes he’s doing it. “You got a smile that could end wars,” he tells you, and when you roll your eyes and call him out on it, he just grins. But what starts as playful banter shifts into something real, something deeper. Because you are interesting, and Sam Wilson is a man who chases the things that make life worth living.

- He is observant. Picks up on things before you ever say them. He knows when you’re holding back, knows when you need space, knows when to push and when to stay silent. And that? That is what makes him dangerous. Because Sam Wilson does not just see people—he understands them. And when he starts understanding you, when he starts peeling back the layers, it is impossible not to fall.

- He makes you feel light. Not in the sense that he takes away your burdens, but in the way he carries them with you. He does not ask you to change, does not try to fix you. He just stands beside you, unwavering, unshaken. And that? That is what makes him different.

- The moment he knows is quiet. No grand revelation, no dramatic confession. Just a moment—a simple, perfect moment—where you laugh at something stupid, and he thinks, Oh. There you are. And from that moment on, there is no turning back.

Peter Parker (Tom H.)

- Peter Parker falls in love like he does everything else: all at once, headfirst, completely. He does not ease into things, does not take his time. No, Peter Parker feels—deeply, intensely, without hesitation. And when he meets you, it is immediate. A spark, a pull. Like gravity has just shifted, and suddenly, you are at the center of his universe.

- He is awkward, at first. Stumbles over his words when he gets nervous. But when he talks to you about things he loves—science, Star Wars, the feeling of swinging through the city at night—his nerves disappear. Because Peter Parker may be shy, but he is passionate, and when he lets you in, when he shares the things that make his heart race, it is the most honest kind of intimacy.

- He looks at you like you are the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. Like he is memorizing every detail, storing it away for later. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your voice sounds when you say his name. And when he falls, it is not gradual. It is instant. A realization that hits him like a train: Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

- He gets flustered when you touch him, no matter how small the gesture. A hand on his arm, fingers brushing his. It takes everything in him not to combust on the spot. But the first time you kiss him? He forgets how to breathe. Because Peter Parker has dreamed of a lot of things, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this.

- When he tells you, it is rushed, breathless, spilling out of him like he can’t hold it in any longer. “I love you,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and terrified. But when you smile, when you take his hand and squeeze, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Because Peter Parker may not always know what he’s doing, but with you? He is sure.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange does not believe in soulmates. He believes in logic, in science, in the tangible threads of reality that can be pulled and shaped at will. Love, in his mind, is chemical, nothing more. But when he meets you, something in him hesitates. A fraction of a second too long. A moment where time stretches and bends, and he is caught in it.

- He tells himself it is coincidence, this way you linger in his thoughts long after you’ve gone. That it is simple curiosity, nothing deeper. But then he begins to seek you. Subtly, at first. A glance across the Sanctum, a conversation extended a few minutes longer than necessary. And then, before he even realizes it, you have become necessary.

- He resists it. Of course he does. Stephen Strange is not a man who falls easily, and he is certainly not a man who hands over his heart without a fight. But you—you—slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls like light through ancient stone. And for all his knowledge, for all his power, he does not know how to stop it.

- He begins to notice things. The way your hands move when you speak, the way your lips curve before a smile fully forms. The way his name sounds softer when you say it. He hates that he notices. Hates that it matters. Because Stephen Strange is a man who has lost too much, and the idea of wanting something—someone—so deeply is terrifying.

- But one night, when the world is quiet and he is exhausted in a way that magic cannot heal, you touch his hand. A simple gesture, nothing grand. And yet, it is enough to unravel him. Because in that moment, he understands: he has already fallen. And this time, for the first time in a long, long while, he does not want to get back up.

Thor Odinson

- When Thor Odinson meets you, it is with the full force of a storm. He does not quietly fall in love. No, he crashes into it. Like thunder against the sky, like lightning through his veins. He sees you, and in that instant, you are known to him. A force as undeniable as the pull of Mjolnir in his grasp.

- He is immediate in his affection. In the way he smiles, in the way he speaks your name like a declaration. Thor does not hesitate. He does not play games. He wants, and he shows it. You are magnificent, he tells you. You are radiant. You are the sun itself, and he is not ashamed to orbit you.

- He watches you with reverence, as though you are something divine. He listens—truly listens—when you speak, as if every word you say is worthy of being carved into history. And when he laughs, it is unrestrained, full-bodied, a sound that shakes the air between you. He laughs with you more than he has in years, and it is then he realizes: he is home.

- He is protective, but never possessive. He trusts you. And that trust is sacred. He does not doubt your strength, does not seek to cage you. Instead, he stands beside you, a storm at your back, a warrior at your side. And if ever you should fall, know this: he will tear apart the heavens to catch you.

- One night, as the stars stretch endless above you, he turns to you, expression unguarded, voice low with certainty. “I have lived a thousand years,” he murmurs, “and yet I think I have only just begun. Because you—you are where my life truly starts.” And with that, the sky itself seems to hold its breath.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki does not fall in love. That is what he tells himself. Love is a trick, a weapon wielded by the foolish, and he has long since sworn to never be such a fool. But then there is you. And suddenly, everything he has ever known begins to unravel.

- He resists you at first. Pushes, teases, taunts. If he can keep you at a distance, if he can make you believe he does not care, then perhaps it will be true. But you are not so easily deterred. You see through his sharp words, through his smirks and his laughter that never quite reaches his eyes. You see him. And that? That is dangerous.

- You match him, step for step, wit for wit. You are not afraid of him, and that is what terrifies him most. Because he has built his life around being untouchable, unreachable. And yet, here you stand, hands open, eyes steady. You do not ask for the parts of him he is unwilling to give. You simply wait, patient, unyielding.

- And then, one day, without realizing, he gives. A glance held a moment too long, a touch that lingers. A secret whispered between you, something sacred, something real. He does not say the words, not yet, perhaps not ever. But you know.

- Because Loki Laufeyson does not love lightly. His love is sharp, it is consuming, it is fierce and endless. And when he loves, it is not a fleeting thing. No, when he loves—when he loves—it is forever.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is a man who carries the weight of an entire nation on his shoulders. He is a king before he is anything else. He does not have the luxury of reckless love, of foolish infatuation. But then there is you, and suddenly, he begins to wonder if perhaps the gods have written you into his story all along.

- He notices you first in silence. The way you move, the way you are. Strength and grace intertwined. He is drawn to you, though he does not yet know why. It is not a matter of beauty—though you are, undeniably, beautiful. It is something deeper. Something that hums beneath his skin like an unspoken truth.

- He is careful, at first. Measured. T’Challa does not rush, does not leap without looking. But as the days pass, he finds himself seeking you out, lingering in conversations he once would have ended quickly. And when he speaks to you, when he listens, it is not as a king, but as a man.

- He is deliberate in his affections. Every touch, every glance, every word is given with intention. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows what he wants, and he chooses you. Not because of fate, not because of prophecy, but because he wills it so.

- One night, beneath Wakanda’s endless sky, he turns to you and says, voice rich with quiet certainty, “A king’s heart belongs to his people. But my soul, my soul—it belongs to you.” And in that moment, there is no crown, no throne—only him, only you, only the promise of forever.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector does not believe in soulmates. He barely believes in himself. His life has been shaped by war, by violence, by loss. Love? Love is dangerous. Love is something to be taken away. And yet, when he meets you, something in him stirs. A quiet ache, a pull he does not want to name.

- He does not make it easy. He keeps his distance, walls high, gaze sharp. He is kind, in his own way—offering gruff concern, a jacket when you’re cold, a silent presence when the world grows too loud. But he does not let you in. Because he knows what happens when you love something. You lose it.

- But you do not scare easily. You do not demand softness from him, do not reach for the broken pieces and try to fix them. You simply stay. And that? That terrifies him more than anything. Because Marc has spent his whole life running, and now, for the first time, he wonders what it would mean to stop.

- The moment he realizes he loves you is quiet. Unassuming. A night like any other, the world reduced to nothing but your breathing beside him, the way your fingers brush against his own. It is not grand. It is not a revelation. It is simply true. And he does not know what to do with that truth.

- But love is not something he can fight—not this, not you. And so, in his own way, in his own time, he lets himself have you. A hesitant touch. A murmured confession. A love that is raw and aching and real. And when he finally holds you, truly holds you, he whispers against your skin, "I don’t know how to do this. But I want to." And for him, for you, that is enough.

Steven Grant

- Steven Grant believes in soulmates. How could he not? He has spent his life buried in stories, in myths, in ancient echoes of love that spanned across time. He does not think he is meant for something so grand—not him, not quiet, lonely Steven. But then, one day, he meets you, and suddenly, the world is not quite so lonely anymore.

- He falls fast. Hard. Like a man who has been waiting for a single drop of water in a desert, only to be given the ocean. He stumbles over his words around you, fidgets under your gaze. But oh, the way he looks at you. As if you are a wonder carved into history, as if he is memorizing every part of you like scripture.

- He wants to know everything. What makes you laugh, what makes you sad, what dreams live inside your head. He listens, truly listens, as if every word you speak is sacred. And when you ask about him, he hesitates, shy but eager, because no one has ever wanted to know him the way you do.

- He is gentle in his love. Soft-spoken confessions, hands hovering like he’s afraid you might disappear. But make no mistake—his love is fierce. It is unwavering. It is yours. And he would give you every star in the sky if you asked, even if he had to climb to the heavens himself to retrieve them.

- One night, he holds your hand in his, thumb tracing over your knuckles, gaze earnest. "I think, maybe, I was always meant to find you," he says, voice quiet but certain. "Like one of those myths, yeah? The ones where two souls are tied together, across lifetimes." And with that, his fate is sealed. Because Steven Grant does not love lightly. He loves forever.

Jake Lockley

- Jake Lockley does not speak of love. He does not believe in fate or destiny or the soft promises that come with them. Love, to him, is just another game. Another risk. One he is not willing to take. But then there is you. And suddenly, every rule he has ever followed begins to crack.

- He watches you before he lets himself know you. Observes. Studies. You are a puzzle he does not understand, and yet, he cannot stop looking. You move through his world like something untouchable, and yet, he aches to touch. To have. But Jake does not get to have things. And so, he fights it.

- But love, real love, is relentless. And you? You are patient. You do not push, do not demand. You see him, in a way no one ever has. And for the first time in his life, he does not feel the need to run. He does not feel the need to hide.

- When he finally gives in, it is not with words. It is in the way he stands closer than necessary, the way his fingers skim your wrist like a whisper. The way he shields you in a fight, not because he thinks you are weak, but because the thought of losing you is unbearable. His love is unspoken, but it is fierce.

- One night, after too much silence, after too many unsaid things, he finally turns to you and murmurs, "You’re mine." Not a question. Not a plea. A statement, low and rough with something he does not dare name. And when you do not pull away, when you only smile, he knows—he is yours just as much.

Scott Lang

- Scott Lang falls in love like he does everything else—with his whole heart, unguarded and eager. He is not subtle. He does not play it cool. He sees you, and suddenly, you are the best thing to ever happen to him.

- He flirts, shamelessly, but there is no arrogance in it. Just warmth, just affection. He wants to make you laugh. Wants to see you happy. Because, for him, there is no greater joy than making you smile. And when you do, when you so much as glance at him with amusement, he swears he feels lighter.

- He tells himself he is being ridiculous. That it is too soon, too much. But Scott has lost too much to waste time pretending. He wants to know you. Wants to hear about the things you love, the things you hate, the things that make you you. Because you? You are worth knowing.

- When he realizes he loves you, it is not some grand revelation. It is in the small moments. The way you roll your eyes at his bad jokes but laugh anyway. The way you remember the little things he says, even when he forgets them himself. The way you fit into his life like you have always been there.

- One night, without thinking, he blurts it out. “I love you.” Just like that. No pretense, no hesitation. And when you look at him, eyes wide, he only grins, shrugging. “What? I do.” Because Scott Lang may be many things—reckless, impulsive, a little bit of a mess—but when he loves, he loves openly, fully, honestly. And there is nothing in this world he would rather be than yours.

Matt Murdock

- Matt Murdock has always lived in the dark. It is familiar, predictable. He has built his world out of quiet suffering, out of whispered prayers and clenched fists. Love? Love is something distant. Something dangerous. And yet, when he meets you, he feels the earth shift beneath his feet.

- He does not know what to do with you. You are light, and he has spent too long in the shadows. But oh, how he wants. How he aches. He hears the steady rhythm of your heart, the way it stutters when he gets too close, the way your breath hitches when he says your name. And he knows. Knows that this, whatever it is, is real.

- But Matt is a man of guilt, of sacrifice. He convinces himself he does not deserve you. That his life is too dangerous, that you are better off without him. So he keeps his distance. Wears his charm like armor, keeps his touches fleeting, his words careful. But love? Love has never been something he could fight.

- One night, after a battle that leaves him bloody and broken, he finds himself at your door. He does not speak, does not explain. He just stands there, breathing heavy, hands shaking. And when you reach for him, when you pull him inside and whisper his name like a prayer, he realizes—he was always going to be yours.

- When he finally admits it, it is quiet. A confession murmured in the dark, between shared breaths and tangled sheets. "I tried to stay away," he tells you, voice rough with something fragile. "I couldn’t." And you do not tell him that you already knew. That you had felt it in every touch, in every stolen glance. Instead, you press your lips to his and whisper, "Then don’t." And he doesn’t. Not ever again.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle does not believe in love. Not anymore. He once had a heart, a home, a future. He once had everything. And then, in a single moment, it was all taken from him. Now, love is nothing but a ghost—something that lingers in the spaces between grief and rage. Something he can never have again.

- And then, there’s you. And suddenly, the world is not so quiet anymore. Suddenly, there is something—someone—that makes him pause. That makes him feel something other than anger, other than loss. And it terrifies him. Because Frank knows what happens when he loves something. It dies.

- He tries to push you away. He is cruel, sometimes, in the way that broken men are. Short words, cold silences. He convinces himself it is for your own good. But you? You are relentless. Not in a loud way, not in a desperate way. Just in the way you stay. In the way you look at him like he is worth saving.

- The first time he lets himself have you, it is a surrender, not a victory. A slow, aching unraveling. He grips you too tightly, kisses you like a man who does not believe in second chances. And when he pulls away, when he looks at you like you are something holy, something his, he does not say "I love you." He does not have to.

- Frank Castle loves with his hands, with his body, with the way he shields you in a fight, the way he pulls you close at night like the world might steal you away. He does not speak of forever, because he does not believe in it. But when he looks at you, when he stays, you know—he would burn the whole world down before he ever lost you.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Dex has always been searching for something. For someone. His whole life, he has wanted to belong. To be seen, to be chosen. And then he meets you, and for the first time, the world makes sense. Because you see him. You do not flinch. You do not run.

- He is drawn to you like a moth to flame, reckless and desperate. He wants you, needs you, in a way that is terrifying in its intensity. But Dex does not know how to love gently. He loves like an obsession, like a wound that will not heal. He wants all of you, wants you to need him just as much.

- He is good at pretending. At being charming, being normal. But with you? With you, the mask slips. And when you do not pull away, when you meet his darkness with steady hands and patient eyes, something inside him cracks. He has never been given love without conditions, without expectation. And he does not know what to do with it.

- The first time he truly breaks in front of you, it is ugly. A night filled with too much anger, too much pain. His hands shake, his breath ragged. "Tell me to leave," he whispers, voice raw. "Tell me you don’t want me." But you don’t. You never do. And that? That is what undoes him.

- Love does not fix him. It does not erase the sharp edges, the fractures in his soul. But it gives him something real. And for the first time in his life, he is chosen. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a man. And that? That is enough.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has always known loss. It is woven into her bones, into the very fabric of her being. She does not expect love. Does not dare hope for it. Because everything she loves is taken from her, and she does not think she could survive losing anything else.

- And yet, when she meets you, something inside her shifts. It is slow, hesitant. She does not trust it, does not trust herself. But you? You are patient. You do not push. Do not demand. You simply exist, warm and steady, a presence she never realized she needed.

- She loves you before she even realizes it. In the way she reaches for you first, in the way your laughter softens the sharp edges of her world. But Wanda is afraid of love. Afraid of what it could mean, of what it could cost. She tries to keep her distance, but it is already too late. You are in her veins, in her breath, in the spaces between heartbeats.

- The first time she says it, it is not in words. It is in the way she looks at you, magic flickering at her fingertips, a silent promise woven between them. It is in the way she lets herself need you, in the way she trusts you with parts of herself she has never shared before.

- Wanda Maximoff does not love in halves. She loves with her whole soul, with a devotion that is fierce and unyielding. She does not promise you forever—she has learned not to trust forever. But she promises you now. And for her, for you, that is everything.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff has always lived like a storm—fast, reckless, untouchable. The world has never been able to keep up with him, and he has never minded. Until you. Until the moment he meets you, and for the first time in his life, something makes him want to slow down.

- He falls for you without realizing it. At first, it is playful—quick remarks, teasing smiles, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. But then it is more. It is the way his body moves toward yours before his mind catches up. The way his heart races for reasons that have nothing to do with speed.

- Love terrifies him. He has lost too much, too many. His sister, his home, his past—all ghosts that whisper warnings. But you? You make him forget to be afraid. You make him believe, for just a moment, that maybe—maybe—he was never meant to run alone.

- The first time he realizes it, truly feels it, it is quiet. No jokes, no flirting. Just the way you look at him, like he is worth something. Like he is more than a blur, more than a joke made of speed and bravado. And in that moment, he knows—he is yours.

- Pietro Maximoff does not love in small ways. He loves like the wind—wild, consuming, everywhere all at once. He leaves notes in places only you will find, brings you flowers at impossible speeds, holds you like he is afraid you will disappear. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, he isn’t running away from something. He is running to you.

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has spent his whole life with his head in the stars, chasing the next thrill, the next adventure. Love? Love is a complication, a risk. He has lost too much, and he knows better than to hope. But then there’s you. And suddenly, the galaxy does not feel so big anymore.

- He fights it at first. Makes jokes, turns everything into a game. But it’s a losing battle. Because you see through him. See the man beneath the charm, beneath the cocky smirk and quick wit. And worse? You don’t turn away.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it. He is reckless with his feelings, careless with his heart. He pushes, then pulls, then pushes again. But you stay. You match him joke for joke, but when it counts, when it matters, you are there. And that? That undoes him.

- The first time he calls you his, it is unplanned. A fight, a close call, adrenaline in his veins. "Don’t touch my girl," he growls, fists clenched, eyes burning. And when it’s over, when you’re safe, he looks at you—uncertain, hesitant. But you just smile, because you had known long before he did.

- Peter Quill does not love with caution. He loves in grand gestures and stolen songs, in whispered confessions under alien skies. He plays you mixtapes, sings to you when he thinks you aren’t listening. And when he holds you, it is with the quiet desperation of a man who has spent his whole life searching for something he did not think he could have. Until you.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade Wilson does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in much of anything anymore. The world has taken too much, left him too broken. He is a man stitched together with bad jokes and worse decisions, and love? Love is for people with futures.

- And then there is you. And suddenly, love is not some distant thing. It is here. It is real. And Wade—God help him—does not know what to do with it. So he does what he always does. He hides behind sarcasm, behind crude jokes and exaggerated bravado. But you? You just see him.

- The first time he realizes he loves you, it is terrifying. Because it is not a loud thing. Not some big, dramatic moment. It is the way you look at him without flinching, the way you laugh at his worst jokes, the way you stay even when he gives you every reason not to.

- He tries to push you away. Tries to convince you that he is not worth it. But you are stubborn. You kiss the scars, touch the jagged edges of him without fear. And when you whisper, "I love you," he cannot breathe. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he believes it.

- Wade Wilson does not love easily, but when he does, it is all-consuming. He loves in stolen moments and whispered jokes, in fierce, desperate touches and ridiculous, over-the-top gestures. He calls you a hundred stupid nicknames, leaves you notes in the weirdest places, holds you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Because maybe, just maybe, you are.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan has lived too long, lost too much. He does not believe in love. Not anymore. He has seen it ripped away too many times, left too many ghosts in his wake. He is a man built for war, for pain. And yet, when he meets you, something inside him shifts.

- He resists it. God, he resists it. He grunts instead of speaks, glares instead of softens. He convinces himself that you are better off without him. That he is a man made of blood and violence, and you—you—deserve something gentle. Something whole.

- But love is not something he can fight. It is in the way you touch him, like he is not a weapon, not a monster. In the way you hold his hand like it is not something meant for killing. And Logan? Logan is tired of fighting.

- The first time he says it, it is rough, almost angry. "I love you," he growls, like it is being ripped from his chest. And when you smile—when you accept it—something inside him breaks. Because he had never thought this was meant for him. Had never thought he could have this.

- Logan Howlett does not love gently. He loves in quiet, protective touches, in fierce, desperate devotion. He loves in the way he stands in front of you in a fight, the way he holds you at night like he is afraid you will vanish. He does not promise forever—he has lived too long to believe in it. But he promises you. And that? That is more than enough.

[monicfever]

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

[amberlynnmurdock]

Dressing Room

Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Reader Insert

Summary: Dex takes guarding your dressing room at Lululemon a little too seriously.

Genre: FLUFF and a little angst

Note: I'm sorry if this isn't my strongest! I felt like writing a cute little something for Dexy since he's BACK!!!! <3 <3 my DDBA thoughts will have to be another post. ENJOY!

Dex guards the door with his arms crossed in front of him, suspiciously eyeing every person who walks by. It’s reminiscent of the missions he’s been placed on in the past—guarding the door for witness protection, guarding the door of a criminal. It's the same concept, really. Make sure no one gets to whoever is behind the door he guards. Deathly stare at anyone who even glances in his direction. 

A bead of sweat trickles down his back from the heat in the room. Every muscle in his body tenses at every sound he hears. Boots scuffing the wood-paneled floor, paper ripping—all send his heart rate skyrocketing and his eyes scanning the room obsessively for any kind of threat. It was important to him that he be aware of anything and everything. It was important to him that people know he sees them. 

An older woman approaches him. Before she can say anything, Dex holds out his hand to stop her. 

“This dressing room is occupied,” he says in his FBI agent authoritative voice. His eyes darken at her audacity. The woman cowers at his stern, unfriendly look and quickly walks away with shirts draped over her arm—as she should, Dex thinks. 

“Sir,” a male voice comes from his side. “I’m the manager. You don’t work here. I’m going to have to ask you to not scare our customers in the dressing room if you’re not trying anything on. There’s no reason for you to be standing here.” 

No reason? Dex looks at the man but hides his incredulous look. Dex has every reason to be standing in front of the dressing room you’re in—he has to make sure you’re safe. 

“I’m waiting for my girlfriend,” Dex states without a flinch, tightening his arms in front of his chest. 

“You can wait for her on the couches in the middle of the room,” the manager explained calmly. “You don’t need to guard the door.”

Frustration bloomed in Dex’s chest. What was so hard to understand? “Yes, I do. I need to make sure she’s safe.” 

“Sir, this is a Lululemon.” 

“Dex?” You open the door ajar to peek at Dex, standing in his FBI-esque stature, arms crossed and deathly glaring at anyone and everyone. Now, the manager fell victim to such a harsh glare. When Dex heard your voice, it was the only moment his expression softened. He looked at you attentively, as if the manager wasn’t there. “Could you tell me if you like this jacket?” 

Dex looked from you to the manager beside him, watching him suspiciously. When no one said a word, you sighed in exasperation and looked at the manager.

“Can my boyfriend please help me in the dressing room? He’ll be out once I get his opinion.”

“Sure,” the manager said. “But please also tell him to stop scaring our guests away.”

“I will,” you flashed a smile at him as he walked away. You uncrossed Dex’s arms and grabbed his hand, leading him into the dressing room. You shut the door, and Dex beat you to locking it. 

“Dex,” you said softly. “Why are you scaring people away?” You asked with an amused smile on your face. You were used to him being protective—you found it very endearing that he acted somewhat like your personal bodyguard, even if you were at a casual establishment like Lululemon. Dex’s face softened as he sighed.

“I just want to make sure no one will walk in on you,” Dex said. “I’m sorry if I was aggressive.”

“No, it’s okay,” you laughed, giving his upper bicep a gentle squeeze. “I appreciate how protective you are over me.”

Dex shrugged. “I just want you to be safe.”

“I am safe,” you affirmed. “Whenever I’m with you.” 

Dex smiled and held your gaze for a moment. You shrugged and tugged at the seams of the jacket you tried on.

“Well, what do ya think?” You asked him, breaking eye contact to look at yourself in the mirror. Dex was still looking at you, but as if snapping out of his thoughts, he looked at your torso and analyzed the jacket. 

“It looks perfect on you,” Dex said, meeting your eyes in the mirror. 

“Thank you, Dex. Do you like the black? Maybe I should try on the blue. Could you get me the light blue one out there? It’s called the Define jacket.”

Although he was captivated by how you looked, he still registered your command. “I’ll find it.”

He left you in the dressing room as he made his way back out to the main floor. The manager who scolded him before stared him down, but Dex wasn’t intimidated—he’s had much worse foes. He ignored his glare as he made his way to the table that read: Define Jacket. He found a light blue one in your size. 

Dex walked back to the dressing room area and stopped in his tracks when he saw your dressing room empty, door wide open. His alertness set in as his heart rate skyrocketed again, and this time, he was reminded of every person in his life who’d abandoned him without warning. His parents, his therapist… and now, you. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone again. A deep heaviness settled in his chest, a deep sense of longing he hadn’t felt in a while overcame him at the missing sight of you. Where did you go? Dex could barely hold onto the jacket he grabbed for you. 

Were you taken? He knew this would happen—he shouldn’t have left you alone. You, your kindness, he knew could be taken advantage of so easily. He didn’t care that this was just an establishment—nowhere is guaranteed safe. That’s what they taught him in training. Suddenly, he felt an intense resentment towards the manager who berated him for standing in front of your door. This is why he “scaring” guests—this is why he was protecting you. 

No, Dex thought. It’s nobody’s fault but his. It’s his fault you slipped from his grasp—it was always his fault. The minute he found the person who took you from—Dex was already planning the ways he’d make them pay. He’s counting each hanger that hangs inside the empty dressing room—it’s how many times he’ll throw it at whoever took you from him. There wasn’t any sadness at your disappearance anymore—he felt rage. Fixated on the hangers and how easily they would slip from his fingers. 

“Dex,” he heard you call his name, and just like that—as quick as a switch—all his anxieties disappeared. Something fluttered in his chest. There you were, standing in front of a large mirror, trying on a light blue tennis dress. Your hair was disheveled from throwing the dress on, but you looked beautiful in Dex’s eyes. Angelic, even—just looking at you brought a feeling in Dex he’s not used to. At first, it was scary, but then it was just…silent. Peaceful. Only you were capable of making him even taste that feeling. “Come here,” you said. 

Dex does as he’s told but doesn’t just stop to look at you and give his opinion—you could wear anything and he would think it’s the loveliest thing. Dex wraps his arms around your waist and holds you tight against him—his fears from before coming to the front of his mind. He thought he lost you. He can’t experience that feeling again.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. He feels you tentatively wrap your arms around him, embracing his hold. 

“I’m sorry,” Dex said, “I thought you were gone.”

“Gone?” You giggled against him. “Where would I have gone?”

“I don’t know,” Dex mumbled in your hair.

“I’m right here.” You pulled back from his embrace to brush your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. 

Dex suddenly couldn’t meet your eyes—ashamed of his paranoia and for thinking the worst. “I got your jacket in blue,” Dex muttered, holding up the soft article of clothing on his arm. 

“Thank you,” you said. “Do you like this dress on me? Your opinion matters to me, you know.”

His opinion matters to you. He matters. Dex looks at you again, and then he takes a step back, fully realizing the image in front of him. You looking at him like he’s the most important thing in the world, and he looking at you like you’re the most beautiful—because you are, to him. 

“It’s perfect,” Dex says quietly. It’s all he can say. The adrenaline of his paranoia from before exhausted him. You knew him well enough to know he was fighting an internal battle. And he was trying his best to hide it from you.

“Take a seat, Dex. I’m all finished up here. Let me change back into my clothes, pay and then we’ll go home,” you said softly. You pressed a soft kiss on his cheek and guided him to sit on the couches in the middle of the dressing room. 

Dex sat down at your command. In front of him was the mirror—he met his own eyes and quickly looked away. When you closed the door to your dressing room, Dex quietly got up to instead sit in front of your door, on the couch that faced it. He waited for you patiently there—just in case. 

[midnightslark]

BREATHE

Pairing: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x reader

Warnings: Panic attacks, teensie bit of angst

@nocturnal1slut asked “Maybe something with dex having a panic attack and reader comforting him?💕”

Summary: You return home to find Dex curled up beside his bed, broken glass littered everywhere. In a moment of self deprecating panic, you comfort Dex.

Notes: First post! I hope you enjoy, please leave your thoughts and any requests you have! ^^

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The silence of the apartment was unexpected as you unlocked the door and stepped inside, the lack of lights being on casting the rooms in a shadowed darkness. A frown furrowed in your brows as you took a step further inside, pausing at the sound of glass crunching beneath your shoe.

Broken glass? This was a sight that didn’t come often, but when it did, you knew that something was wrong.

“Dex?” You softly called out, leaning down to place your bag by the door, softly shutting it as you kept your eyes darting around the place. You couldn’t help the way your stomach nervously clenched, your chest following suit in the same tight, anxious manner.

You carefully stepped around the broken glass the best you could, eyeing the glint in the darkness as you navigated your way through. You knew that if there was danger, your best bet would be to keep the lights off.

If anyone ever breaks in, keep the lights off. No one knows the apartment better than you. Dex had once told you that, before rambling on about how he’d protect you and if anyone tried to hurt you, he would deal it back but a thousand times worse. You knew he wasn’t lying and it it’s own way, it was sweet.

You slithered past the counter, quietly slipping a knife out of the holder as you eyed the place further. If someone had a gun, you’d be screwed, but it was better than nothing. At least Dex would be proud that you tried to defend yourself but also really, really mad that he couldn’t be there to defend you himself.

You checked behind the couch, found nothing and quietly headed towards the bathroom. Before you entered, the sound of a sniff from the bedroom made you stop in your tracks, your lips softly parting as you listened out for the sound once more. When it came again, you knew you hadn’t imagined it.

And how much it sounded like Dex.

“Dex?” You softly called out again. You didn’t hesitate to head towards your shared bedroom, freezing in your tracks at the sight before you.

Dex sat curled up against the side of the bed, his head in his hands as his breathing came out in shudders, like he was struggling to pull air through his lungs.

“Dex-“ You breathed out, quickly sliding into the floor in front of him, placing the knife down and lightly grabbing at his wrists, feeling the way he was shaking beneath your hold.

“D-don’t.” He whispered, keeping his head in his hands, not daring to meet his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” You softly asked, your thumbs reassuringly rubbing across the skin of his arms. He was shaking beneath your hold.

“Don’t do that- don’t ask me that.” He lightly snapped. You softly frowned, knowing this. Knowing him. This projection, this self deprecation was something familiar to you. You’d seen it many times.

“Hey.” You softly spoke, tapping the backs of his hands that covered his eyes with your thumbs. “Hey, look at me.”

He let out a soft, defiant noise. A sense of conflict in his tone as he took a deep, shaken breath in, his whole body shaking. He softly shook his head, fighting himself before he pulled his hands away, his eyes still shut. He took another shaken breath in before meeting your eyes with his red ones from between his brows.

You tried not to have a reaction to the sight of blood across his features, a black eye already forming around his left eye. Speckles of blood across his cheek that was likely not his. You kept a soft expression, keeping his eyes on yours.

“Hi.” You softly smiled, grabbing his hands in your own, his grip loose. “You wanna talk to me?”

He stared at you for a moment. His gaze flickered between your eyes and the floor before he softly shook his head, a scowl forming on his lips. His chest kept its rapid pace, breathing hard through his nose as he fought through his emotions.

“No- just- I don’t wanna do that.” He whispered. Your chest lightly ached at the look on his face, the lack of trust. As if he didn’t recognize you, as if you had betrayed him.

You understood why he felt that way. He’d been abandoned by so, so many people. Just as many had betrayed him, made him think he wasn’t worth anything. You’d never let him feel that way again, not as long as you were around.

“Hey- hey. It’s me.” You whispered, trying to place yourself in his view so that he could see your eyes. See the truth within them. “It’s me.”

“Y/n- I can’t-“ He whispered again, desperation clear in his voice.

“That’s fine.” You gently squeezed his hands, relieved when he returned a soft squeeze back. “You know what you can do for me?”

He met your gaze.

“Breathe with me.” You softly smiled. “Come on, handsome.”

You removed your right hand from his grasp, placing it in the middle of his chest. In a motion of demonstration, you took a deep breath in before letting it fall from your lips in an equal manner. You could see the reluctance in his eyes before he took in a deep, but unequal breath, but he was still trying.

You took in another deep breath, feeling the way his chest raised beneath your palm before easing into a more even release. The shuddered nature of his breath slowly eased into a normal pattern, the tension in his features fading away as the panic in his body released.

“There we go, that’s good.” You whispered.

He placed a hand on top of the one resting against his chest, curling his fingers around it and pulling it to his lips, his eyes falling shut for a moment as he just breathed deep, taking in every drop of you as it brought him back to calm. He gently brushed his lips against your knuckles, the warmth of his breath tickling your skin.

Before you could say another word, his hands wrapped around your hand and upper arm and he tugged you towards him, pressing your cheek against his shoulder as your legs collapsed under you and your body fell subject to his needy grasp. You let him hold you close, finding your own comfort in the action.

You couldn’t help but softly smile as he let you back in. You knew this, you knew him. It wasn’t anything personal. He’s just been hurt a lot.

His fingers delved into your hair, drawing gentle circles as if he was comforting you in return. Your eyes trailed across his features. His now open eyes were staring ahead and the panic across his features seemed almost entirely gone, his breathing now steady. His heart was beating softly under your ear, a steady and even pace.

You placed a gentle hand on the bicep of one of the arms that was wrapped around you. You drew gentle circles, bringing him to a state of calm. Your breathing came to a sync, a guiding force to ground him. To show him that there was someone here to care for him. That you cared for him.

His head finally turned to meet your gaze, the tension in his face gone and replaced by something softer. The furrow in his brows was now because of something deeper, a grateful expression that filled his entire demeanor. He took in a deep breathe, bringing his hand stroke his knuckles against your cheek.

You softly smiled, leaning into his touch.

He leaned forwards, both of your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he pressed his lips against yours. You relished in the feeling, glad to have him back with you in this feeling of trust and care. He let the kiss linger before slowly pulling away, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment before pulling back to meet your eyes.

“Th-thank you.” He softly uttered.

“You wanna talk to me?” You softly tried again.

He softly nodded, pulling his gaze away from you for a moment as he took in a deep breath. There was a clear hesitation on his face. He knew that he should say it, say what he was feeling even if it was hard, really hard.

“Today was… really bad. I had a job to do and I promised that I would succeed, that i’m worthy. I can handle anything. I never miss, I never ever even waver but today..” He took a deep breath in, his breathing shaken. “I failed. It was a stupid mistake. And these thoughts.. they were in buzzing around in my head about- about-“

“It’s okay.” You softly encouraged, gently stroking a line across his jaw to tell him to keep going, but to breathe.

His eyes met yours and that look in his eyes made your heart ache. He softly frowned. “I started thinking about you. How I felt like I hadn’t just failed the FBI but also you. I should have done better- I could have. It should’ve been perfect. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

You softly smiled. “Dex, I don’t want you just to do things to make me happy, you know that. You didn’t fail, not to me. It’s just a small mistake-“

“It’s not small- it matters to me. Okay?”

“Okay.” You whispered, gently dragging your finger across his jaw again.

His eyes had reddened, his lips parted as he fought to stay composed. “I thought that it would cost me. That I’d lose you because of it. When I came home- you weren’t here. You were gone for so long and I thought… I thought that i’d been right. That you’d left.”

“I didn’t. I’m here, i’ll always be here.” You softly promised.

“I know.” He whispered. “But a part of me didn’t believe it and I felt like I deserved it. That it was gonna happen eventually. You’d leave, just like everyone else.”

You frowned, turning his gaze to meet yours with a gentle nudge. “Dex, I’d never do that. I promise you. I know you’ve been hurt a lot and I would do anything to fix that, to give you the life you need. I can’t change anything but i’ll do everything in my power to make sure you know that I care about you. More than you realize.”

He let out a sigh of relief, gently nodding. You really hoped he believed your words entirely, you wanted him to see that you really meant those words. That every utterance was a declaration of truth.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He breathed out.

“I do.” You lightly teased. “And it’s a good thing i’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not.” He spoke. You could sense in his tone that he was serious, a darkness in it that only you really understood. You knew what would happen if you somehow left him, if he was left alone. The chaos that would unfold. The people that would get hurt.

You leaned forwards to press another soft kiss to his lips, letting your fingers curl around the back of his neck and into the short hairs that sat there. You could feel the small shiver as he melted into your touch. His hand curled around your hip, his fingers pressing into the soft meat.

His hand pressed to the floor between you two and his movements paused as he touched the handle of the kitchen knife you had brought in here as a method of self defense in case of some crazed intruder. He pulled away, eyebrows comically furrowed as he glanced down.

“Why did you have a knife?” He softly asked, a light sense of worry in his tone. He was worried you’d brought this in to defend yourself against him.

“I thought someone broke in.” You sheepishly admitted.

He smiled, his eyes scanning your face with an amused admiration. “You and I both know they’d be dead before the window opened.”

You smiled and nodded, letting out a gentle laugh in unison with his as you leaned forwards to press your lips to his again and let your bodies melt further into each other. You let him guide you downwards, your spine pressing to the cold floor as he cupped your face.

You would never hurt him. You would never let him face abandonment again. You’d show him the love he deserves, no matter what it took.