٩(＾◡＾)۶

Waking up from death was quite different from waking from a nap. Your eyes fluttered open and you were hit with a wave of confusion. You were so cold. Your body felt weak like you had atrophied in what should've been a regular night of sleep. Everything was wrong.

You didn't have much time to consider the subtle strangeness of your situation before you were wrangled from the stone slab you laid on - quite different from the bed you fell asleep in - and into the arms of your master.

Dorian was never all that affectionate with you. You had to go above and beyond to get the smallest smile and tiniest praise. The juxtaposition in the treatments threw you off heavily.

"...sir?"

He didn't respond. It took a brief moment for you to realize, but he was crying. Crying! Him, the wisest mage that ever lived, crying over you for what seemed for no reason.

"Sir!" You yelped in distress. Seeing someone so powerful cry was a reasonable thing to be alarmed by.

"You died." He choked once he had collected himself. It was an absurd statement since you were very certain you were alive and well. Your confusion must've shown on your face because he continued, "I brought you back. I had to bring you back."

The words brought an unregulated amount of terror. You were still just a student, but even you knew that necromancy was a crime. He could be declared a traitor for this. No, that wouldn't be enough. He'd be declared a sinner of the highest degree for daring to use magic to violate the laws of the world.

"...I can't stay alive, sir." It was such an easy thing for you to say. You had never really wanted to die, but now that you've crossed over once, you were so acutely aware of how wrong it felt to be living, "I need to die. I can't stay-"

"You can." Dorian said resolutely. "You will. You have no other choice."

---

Dorian knew that you wouldn't be the same upon your return, but he wasn't ready for just how insistent you were to undo his work. He had to lock down his tower with his strongest of runes to ensure you wouldn't try to run away when his back was turned.

He had hoped you'd at least be a "blank slate" as other necromancers described it as, but he should've expected better from you, his best and most stubborn apprentice. No, you were very proactive in seeking out death. So much so that he had to keep you tethered to his side just so you wouldn't do something drastic.

"Have you eaten today?"

"..."

"That was a rhetorical question. You haven't eaten."

"..."

The silence was getting to him. He knew it wasn't because you lost ability to talk. Giving him the silent treatment was a very annoying habit of yours even before your incident. He sighed and pushed away from his work.

"Come." He ordered. You stubbornly didn't follow, so he had to double back and drag you by your hand to the small living space of the tower. A small bowl of soup that he had prepared in advance sat at a table.

Dorian pushed you to a seat and sat across from you, waiting impatiently for you to eat a meal. You, obviously, refused with silent inaction.

"Child, do not test me." He hissed. Dorian had promised he'd be gentler while you recovered from your resurrection, but he was not known for a good temper.

"Test you? Like you have tested the limits of ethic- mmf!"

You were interrupted by a spoonful of soup. Dorian did not like having to do this, but he disliked the thought you dying a second time on his watch.

"Silence, child." He forced a bit of softness into the usual gruffness of his voice. The last thing he wanted was to create an unnecessary fear of dinners with him.

He hesitantly pulled the spoon from your lips and dipped it back into the bowl to gather more broth.

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.

ben 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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. 

your head snaps toward the sound. leaves rustle again, too deliberate to be the wind

there’s only one person who could track you down this easily

you spring up, ready to run before you’re caught red-handed, but a familiar voice stops you in place. before you can react, a calloused hand catches your wrist, spinning you around. both hands cup your face, fingers searching frantically for any scratches or injuries

“what were you thinking, (name)?” his voice is tight. “jumping out the window and making everyone worry, just to come here?”

you gulp, avoiding his sharp gaze. fighting back would lead nowhere, it always does

“the stars are beautiful tonight, brother,” you say softly while pointing to the sky. “it would be a waste to sit alone in my chamber, right?” as you try to make a point

his expression doesn’t soften

“no more going out alone,” he says. “ever again. even the garden.”

your jaw drops as you look up at him. “even the garden? that’s ridiculous!”

“just like your attitude tonight”

his grip tightens as he pulls you along, dragging you back toward the estate. you don’t resist. you know better than to make things worse.

instead, you walk in silence, stealing one last glance at the stars above. they twinkle quietly, the forest humming in rhythm, as the final traces of freedom slip away.

You don’t remember how you got to the window.

You remember the night, though. Warm, muffled, with the hum of the city tucked under your bedroom like a heartbeat. You remember the way your stuffed animal slipped from your hand and you rolled over to grab it, only to see the curtains billowing when no breeze was there, and the moonlight making everything soft and pale.

And then a boy was there.

Not a grown-up, not like the ones who tell you “soon” and “later” and “you’re too little.” He was your size — maybe a little older — with messy hair like he’d been flying through the clouds and a grin that didn’t look tired. His clothes didn’t match, but not in a bad way. More like he’d chosen everything fun and refused to take any of it off.

“Hi,” he said like you were already friends. “You looked lonely.”

You blinked at him, sitting up. “You’re in my room.”

“I am.” He tipped forward into a little bow, playful. “Peter Pan. The Peter Pan.”

You’d heard stories. Somebody had read them to you, once. You remembered. A story about a girl named Wendy, and stories, and flying. You scrunched your face. “I thought you were… not real.”

He made a face like of course he was real. “You’re real. I’m talking to you. That makes me real.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Kids don’t need to. If it’s in front of you, it’s real.

He hopped to your windowsill like it was a stage. “I was looking,” he said, tilting his head as if studying you. “There are lots of windows. Lots of children. But you were awake. And you were sad.”

“I wasn’t sad,” you said automatically, because kids don’t like being called sad. It makes people look at them with that grown-up face.

“Oh?” Peter leaned in, green eyes bright. “Then why were your eyes shiny?”

You pouted. “I was just thinking ’cause Mama said I can’t go to the park alone anymore, and she’s busy, and Daddy’s busy, and I have to stay home, and it’s boring, and I don’t have friends.”

Peter’s smile stretched, not mean, not yet, but sharp. “Then I came at exactly the right time.”

“How?”

“Because,” he said with a theatrical little spin, “I’m the boy who takes children to Neverland.”

You gasped. “Flying?”

“Flying.” He held out his hand without hesitation, without worry, like this was inevitable. “Come on. You won’t be bored there. You can play. No naps. No chores. No —” he wrinkled his nose “— school.”

You wrinkled yours back. “No school?”

“No school.”

That was the best sales pitch anyone had ever said to you. You threw your blanket off.

He laughed — a free, ringing, bell-like noise — and grabbed your hand. “You’re light,” he declared, like this was a compliment. “Good. Makes it easier.”

He sprinkled something over you. It glimmered, warm as a hug. “Think happy thoughts.”

“Like… like ice cream? And Mama? And…” You glanced up at him. “You?”

His expression did a small, strange thing. For a heartbeat he looked almost surprised. Then his grin snapped back, wider.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like me.”

Then he pulled you out the window, and the world tipped, and you flew.

You screamed. Not because you were scared, not really. Just because this was too big to be quiet about. The air rushed past, cold on your face; the stars looked close enough to touch. Peter didn’t let go, not even when you tried to reach with your other hand. His grip stayed tight.

“Hold on,” he called over the wind. “It’s a long way to the second star to the right and straight on till morning!”

You laughed. You would’ve gone anywhere.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Neverland is for you

Neverland was exactly the way it should be in stories: green and wild and bright, with water so blue it hurt, and mermaids who stared and giggled, and pirates far away, just enough to be scary but not too scary.

The Lost Boys shouted when you landed. “Peter’s back!” “Peter brought someone!” “Is she staying?”

Peter puffed up proudly. “This is mine,” he said, like introducing a treasure.

You didn’t notice the word choice. Kids don’t. You just waved.

He kept your hand for a long time. Even when you were walking. Even though you could’ve kept up fine.

“This is the camp,” he said. “That’s where we cook. That’s where we play. That’s where we chase pirates. That’s where we sleep. You sleep next to me.”

“Okay,” you said, because why wouldn’t you?

He smiled, satisfied. “You’re small. You fit.”

The Lost Boys circled you, asking questions, too fast and too many. Where are you from? Do you like mud? Can you sword fight? Wanna see a crocodile? How old are you?

Before you could answer, Peter raised his hand and they quieted like he’d pulled a rope.

“Not too much,” he said. “You’ll tire them out.”

“I won’t get tired,” you protested.

He looked down at you. “You will. Grown-ups make you tired.”

“I’m not a grown-up.”

“Exactly.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing. “So you need rest.”

It didn't make sense, but you didn’t argue. He was Peter Pan. He knew about being a kid. That was his thing.

That first day was perfect. You ran and climbed and swam with Peter always in front or beside or just behind you, shadow long over your shoulder. If you got too close to the cliff, he tugged you back.

“Hey!” you giggled. “I was looking!”

“It’s steep.” His mouth twisted, like at some memory. “You could fall.”

“I can fly!”

“Not if you get scared,” he said, immediate. “Happy thoughts go away when you get scared.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

He reached down and brushed sand off your hair. “So stay where I can see you.”

You nodded. Kids nod at things they don’t totally understand. He smiled, but he didn’t move away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The way he watches

At first, it was sweet.

Peter liked playing with you more than with everyone else. He’d call out, “Come on!” and the other boys would groan because that meant you got to ride on his back through the trees, or he’d pick you for the most exciting parts of the game, or he’d tell stories where you were the hero.

You liked it. You’d never been the special one before.

He showed you the lagoon, but kept an arm around you when the mermaids swam closer. “They like to pull,” he said lightly. “And I like you better.”

He brought you berries, even when the Lost Boys could get them themselves. “These are sweeter,” he said. “I was saving them.”

“For who?”

He stared at you like it was obvious. “For you.”

He made a crown from leaves and stuck it on your head. “Now everyone knows,” he said, satisfied. “You’re with me.”

“Everyone already knows,” Tootles muttered from somewhere.

Peter gave him a look. Not angry. But flat. The kind of look that said don’t ruin this. Tootles ducked his head.

You didn’t see that part. You were busy touching your crown.

That night, when everyone was in the hideout and the fire was low, you couldn’t sleep. You were excited. You wanted to talk about flying again. You rolled over.

Peter was awake.

He wasn’t lying down. He was sitting up, knees pulled to his chest, watching the entrance.

“Peter?” you whispered.

He looked over quick, expression softening. “Can’t sleep?”

You shook your head, blankety-warm. “Are you ’fraid?”

“Me?” He laughed quietly. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then why’re you awake?”

He hesitated. Just a second. Then, very lightly: “So I know if you leave.”

You blinked. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good.” He relaxed, visibly. “Then I don’t have to go get you.”

“Go get me?”

“If you left.”

You yawned. “But I said I won’t.”

He scooted closer and tucked the blanket around you better, fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who spent all day climbing and fighting. “People say that,” he murmured, almost to himself. “They like it here. They like me. And then they want to go back. They always want to go back.”

“Who?”

He went still.

You remembered the name from the story, even though you hadn’t thought of it since he pulled you from your window. “Wendy?”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“They said they’d stay,” he said, voice hushed, like the night was listening and might tell on him. “They said it was fun. They said I was wonderful. And then —” his mouth twisted again “— they grew up. Or they wanted to. Or they got bored.”

He said bored like it was the worst word in the world.

You sat up a little. “I won’t get bored.”

“You better not,” Peter said, a smiling warning. “I picked you.”

You smiled sleepily. “You picked me.”

He nodded. “So you’re not allowed to go.”

It didn’t sound scary the way he said it. It sounded like a rule of a game. No cheating. No leaving.

You mumbled, “Okay,” and fell asleep.

Peter stayed awake a long time after that, watching the hole in the roof, listening for flapping wings, for pirate boots, for anything that might try to take you.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You might’ve screamed if you weren’t gagged by a rag. 

Your vision blurs again, but when you finally refocus, the setting changes. In front of you stands a masked man dressed in green and black from head to toe. You couldn’t see his eyes, they were covered by orange visors. Still, you recognized him.

Everyone in your town knew him. He was the local psychopath that was terrorizing your city for years. 

“I’m glad you made it!” Vigilante continues, oblivious to your panic. “I definitely thought I went overboard with the sedative there. Sorry about that! I’m not used to taking people alive.” He laughs and you instantly feel sick at how cheerful he sounds. 

He squats down to your level, examining you. You shrink away from him, but considering how weak you were and your bound wrists and ankles, you didn't get very far.  

He takes a minute, fully taking in your limp form, before he hums in satisfaction. Your heartbeat slows the tiniest bit, but you don’t feel any safer. 

You know what Vigilante can do. You’ve seen the pictures of people brutalized and massacred. It was horrifying, but you thought you could avoid him by making sure to get home before dark, stay indoors, be a normal person, stay out of the spotlight. 

Maybe that’s exactly what led you to be tied up in a musty basement, right at his mercy. 

“Are you thirsty?” He suddenly asks. You stare. “Are you hungry? I make a great PB&J.” He gloats through his mask. 

When you remain quiet, he smacks his forehead with a sigh. 

“Right.” He trails off. “You can’t talk. My bad! Here, lemme–” 

He leans forward. Before you can flinch, the rag is pulled from your lips. You lay there for a moment, taking in deep breaths for your lungs. 

“...please let me go…” your voice is dull and slurs in places. You still aren’t in full control of your mouth or your voice. 

Vigilante just shakes his head, sitting down next to you. He wags a finger in your face. 

“You know I can’t do that,” his voice is sympathetic but still light, “you did something really bad.” 

Bad? What the fuck was this psycho talking about? You wanted to yell at him, but you were still terrified to move. 

He seems more than happy to talk without you even asking. Gloved hands reach over to your fingers, barely grazing them. The nausea in your stomach only grows. 

“I was really disappointed when you did it, too,” he tells you, “other than that, you were so perfect! No crimes. No drugs. No littering. Your record was spotless, it’s what I really liked about you, too.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. 

“What?” Your voice feels so far away. “What–what did I do?” 

You can feel his eyes through those orange visors. 

“Jaywalking,” he finally says. 

You can only stare. 

“In this county, that’s a 200 dollar fine.” Vigilante points out. 

You suddenly remember something. There was a reason this man called himself Vigilante. He didn’t just go after criminals. Drug lords, robbers, other killers weren’t the only ones on his plate. He’s killed people over fucking graffiti. He serves his own version of justice. 

To a deranged bastard like him, there was no moral difference between murdering an innocent person and crossing a road with no crosswalk.

This was a joke. You wanted to laugh. 

You start crying instead. 

“I’m sorry.” You blabber, words spitting out. “I’m sorry–I–I really am–”

You hush when gloved fingers reach for your cheek. He slowly wipes away your tears. It’s the sort of comfort a butcher gives a lamb, right before he raises the knife. 

“Y’know, I usually get annoyed when people cry,” he tells you gently, “but you’re so pretty.” 

The admiration in his voice is enough to make you stop weeping. There’s a chill down your spine. 

Vigilante grabs a box of tissues, dabbing away at your sensitive cheeks until the wetness is gone and your skin is left irritated. 

“I really should’ve killed you,” he tells you after a minute. “I mean, I’ve done it for others. It’s really not fair that I let you off the hook, right? But you were so nice to me, I think I grew a soft spot…” He trails off. 

You register his words. You’ve never met this man in your life. And yet, his voice sounds really familiar like–

“So, I brought you here!” He gestures to the rest of the run-down basement. “This is where you’ll be until we can finally fix you up.” 

You helplessly stare at your captor. 

“I mean, it’s not like you did it on purpose, right?” He looks at you, and his voice sharpens ever so slight. 

“It was an accident, right?” 

You nod. 

He immediately brightens. 

“I knew it!” You flinch when he pats your head. 

“So that’s why you have to stay down here, until you’re all better, okay?” He stands up, easily towering over your limp body. 

“I’m kinda’ excited about this.” He admits and you feel like you’re not supposed to hear this. You’re forced to anyway. “It’s like rehabilitation sorta’, right?” 

You don’t answer. He’s not looking for a response. 

He walks to the edge of the basement. Before he opens the door, he says: 

“I’ll go make that sandwich now.” He looks back. “Be good.” 

You nod. 

The door slams hard enough to rattle the basement.