The Bed Where We Can Make It All Right. // [benjamin poindexter x fem!reader] (spotify playlist)
WORD COUNT: 4k.
SUMMARY: As the FBI investigation closes in and his perfect life begins to peel, Dex, heavily depressed and scared, retreats home and seeks refuge in his wife's arms.
TAGS/WARNING: MDNI 18+, established relationship (dex is married to the reader), obsessive/stalker dex, heavy smut, porn with plot, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it up pls), praise play, crying during sex, heavy angst, and slight mention of gore/violence, dex is a dom, but you make him switch anyway, rough and desperate intimacy, reader is okay with dex's psycho self lmao.
A/N: first time writing smut! although i prefer dex fanfics without smut, i had to write this one the moment the idea hit me cause i knew yall would eat depressed, horny dex up anyway. ignore the 100 mistakes i’ve made, english is not my first language. heavily recommend listening to the playlist as you read xx.
Nadeem drops the bomb: the FBI is digging, and Dex is at the top of their list. Investigated. The word itself makes him want to puke. Carrying the weight of his actual actions is difficult enough, but it is even more difficult to know that the perfect persona he has spent years crafting over his twisted facade is finally starting to crumble.
A leopard can't change it’s spots anyway.
They see a man who just needs a nudge in the right direction. A man who can be "cured" of his nature if he just listens to the right tapes or sits in the right therapist's chair. Even Nadeem looks at him with that hopeful pity. All of them want him better. They want him to be just normal. Just like he does too.
But then there’s you. You’re not his North Star, not necessarily. You're the only one who doesn't look at his flaws and try to sand them down. Whether he's the devoted, faux-normal husband or letting the cold psychopathy leak out of his eyes in the dark, you just ... face the reality.
Which is why he needs to get home. Now.
Walking back to his desk after the talk with Nadeem is like walking to the gallows. The bullpen is a sea of darting eyes. Conversations die mid-sentence as he passes. The silence is more terrible than the whispering.
He sits, the leather of his chair squeaking loudly in the silence. And he can feel it — the twenty different eyes boring into his back. He misses being seen just as a regular colleague and not as who he really is.
The office is turning into a minefield. Usually, a misplaced pen on his desk is a minor irritation he can fix with a flick of his fingers. But today that pen looks different, the silver point of it shines brighter and looks sharper.
He glances around the bullpen. The stapler. The letter opener. The glass paperweight on the corner of the intern’s desk. Everything in the room is transforming into a deadly weapon. Unconsciously his brain is calculating the amount of force required to push the plastic casing of a highlighter down a human throat. If he doesn't leave, if he doesn't get out of this cage in the next hour, there will be a crime scene, and he'll be in the middle of it. And that investigation won't need any further investigating.
Thirty minutes, he tells himself, his fingers curling into white-knuckled fists under his desk. Just thirty minutes more.
He wants to be the man the tapes tell him to be. He wants to be the man you deserve. But the FBI is already on his ass, and he can feel himself unraveling.
His chest tightens with a sharp, stabbing pang of pure dread. His eyes burn with the blue light; his vision goes blurry as he stares at the monitor. He picks up a pencil and puts it in the sharpener. The repetitive whine is the only thing loud enough to drown out the buzz in his head. He watches it shave itself into those curled ribbons of waste. He doesn't stop when the tip is a needle, nor when the graphite breaks. He keeps doing that restless grind until nothing's left but a craggy one-inch nub that barely fits between his fingers.
He lets it fall and it hits the desk with an aggressive clack that feels like a gunshot in the silent office.
He collapses inward, burying his face in his hands. They’re freezing, the skin clammy and pale, but they are shaking so violently he can feel the vibration in his teeth. He presses his palms into his eyes, trying to crush the panic back down. He just needs to get to the door. He just needs to get to you.
The drive home is a parody of an action movie chase scene. He drives like a man being hunted, though he isn't chasing a destination; he is chasing the grounding weight of being between your legs — the only place where the noise in his head finally goes quiet.
Every time he blinks, the day replays behind his eyelids: a damned horror movie. It only snaps when the flickering yellow light of the apartment complex’s sign shines through the windshield. He is almost at the only altar where he can confess his sins and have them swallowed whole.
The lock clicks open, a sound like the first deep breath he’s taken in eight hours. He leans his forehead against the cool wood of the door for a second, letting the relief wash over him. The apartment is filled with that warm glow that can only be found within these four walls, a painful contrast to the sterile, bleach-scented air freshener clogging the FBI hallways. It smells like home here, like you, like warmth and like the terrifying possibility of a life he shouldn’t have. And will soon lose if he has to get exposed.
He moves into the room, eventually bracing himself against the dining table. He spreads his palms flat across the wood, leaning his weight forward until the tightness in his shoulders begins to bleed down into the hard surface.
"You're home early."
Your voice drifts in from the hallway, tinged with the fatigue of your nine-to-five grind. But your own tiredness seems like a faraway sound when you see him broken like this.
"Yeah," he chokes out. He doesn't lift his head; he can't. His entire frame is vibrating, sweat slicking his skin and dripping onto the dark wood beneath him. His chest heaves in painful contractions as he fights to keep his stomach from turning completely. You don't need to ask to know the source of the breakdown; Nadeem’s warning had already reached you before it did Dex.
"Did they find out, baby?"
You step closer, the soft tap of a tea mug hitting the table. Your hand finds a point on his back.
He finally looks up, though his gaze avoids your face, fixing instead on a point somewhere over your shoulder.
"Nadeem tell you?"
A silent nod from you confirms it.
He lets out a shaky exhale, his eyes squeezing shut. "Not yet," he whispers, backing away from the table with clumsy and desperate movements. His fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, yanking it free from his waistband as if the fabric itself were suffocating him. He moves toward the kitchen, draining a glass of water in one draught before collapsing onto the couch, limp.
"I'm so fucking scared," he admits, the words spilling out of him, shaken. He looks at you then, his eyes wide, his chest rising and falling in a panicked motion. "They’re so close. I can feel them breathing down my neck, and I can't… this can't happen. Not now. Not when I’m actually trying to be good."
You cross the small distance between you and him and sink onto the couch beside him. Your left hand rises to cup the side of his face. Your thumb brushes against his cheekbone, trying to guide his gaze upward, to force him to look at the one person who doesn't see a monster, but he resists.
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut. The tears escape him then, hot and spilling over his lashes and seeping into the soft skin of your palms. He leans into your touch, his face hidden in the refuge of your hand as the sound of ugly sobs starts to break through him.
"They’re going to take me away from you," he wails against your palm. "They’re going to put me in a cage, and I’ll never... I won’t be a good man anymore," he sniffs again. "I’ll be the beast I am. I… I don't want to be that? I want to be yours."
"Let 'em look, Dex. Let them dig till their nails bleed. " You transfer your weight, coming forward until you are leaning over him. "But you are not their property. You’re mine. I am the only one that knows where the bodies are buried, and I am still holding your hand, aren't I?
He opens his eyes a little, the clogged tears dropping altogether. He lets out a laugh, one that doesn't have a trace of humor in it. "You're making a mistake. You know I'm crazy."
And you do know. You have always known.
This was the man who had stalked his way into your life, a predator who had spent months studying your patterns. The man who had so carefully curated a version of himself just to win you over. But that's what you've always liked about him. His obsession with you had always just made you fall deeper. You weren't attention-starved; there were plenty of men in line for you. But Dex had never stood in a line in his life. He had simply stepped in front of it and closed the door. He had presented himself as the only option, a man who somehow knew your favorite obscure book and the specific way you liked your coffee before he’d ever even set foot in your apartment.
When he had finally confessed to the stalking — the long nights sitting in his car outside your window, the way he’d tracked your GPS just to "coincidentally" run into you at the grocery store — he had expected you to scream. He'd expected you to run. Instead, you reached out to touch his hand and smiled.
His hands come up to your waist and slither around to pull you closer. "But I don’t care," he growls. "I’m not going to play the martyr and tell you to run; you know I don't do that. I’m going to keep you anyway. I’ll drag you into the dark with me before I let you walk away into the light."
He's starting to sound like himself again.
"Good. I like you better like this." You smile as you reach for his tie, hook a finger beneath it, and slide it open until it falls onto his lap. You make your way onto the first button of his shirt, then the second, then as many as your fingers can find. He watches you with the same devotion he has always had. His breath hitching still, nose sniffing away the remnants of the sobs. He starts to realize what you are getting at; you are trying to get him to sleep. But sleep here is the last thing on his mind.
He picks you up abruptly and stands up with a hand supporting your hip. "No, we can't sleep, not yet." He walks over to the bedroom, his shoes scuffing aggressively against the floorboards until the small of your back hits the bedroom wall. The impact sends a jar of perfume on the dresser rattling. He barely flinches at the sound and pins you there, his body a crushing weight against yours.
"I need you to drown it out," he growls as he stuffs his face in your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of your neck. "Make it go away. All of it. I want to be yours until there’s nothing left for them to investigate."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the sight is devastating. His eyes still brimming with a wetness he can't quite blink away yet. "Tell me you can make it go away. Tell me you want this too."
You can’t say no to him, not when he is falling apart like this. And it isn’t like you ever really want to anyway. You nod a silent yes.
But that's not what he needs. He doesn't want you to have sex with him just because he is miserable. He wants you to want it too.
"Don't look at me like that," he chokes out, seeing the pity in your eyes. "Don't be sorry for me. Just… use me. Fuck this pain away."
You reach up, your fingers tangling roughly in the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull his face back down to yours until your noses brush. "Don't you dare mistake this for pity, Dex," you hiss.
"I’m not doing this because you're a mess," you continue, your thumb dragging across his lower lip. "I don't want to help you. I want to use you until you can’t remember your own name, let alone the name of the man investigating you."
That is all the permission he needs.
He begins to tear at his own clothes, the remaining buttons of his shirt popping under the force. One hits the floor, and then another. He doesn't have the patience for the foreplay anymore. He rips the fabric off his shoulders, leaving him half-naked and shivering in the golden light of the bedroom. He looks like a fallen god, slicked with sweat and heavily muscled.
He grabs your thighs, hoisting you further up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. And he walks you to the bed, his fingers digging into your skin with a firm grip. He doesn't even try to be gentle when he sets you down, but he doesn't exactly throw you either. He could never afford to hurt you, no matter how much of a psychopath he is.
He is all over you then. His mouth catches your lips again and again, as if the moment he stops, you will simply vanish from beneath him. He kisses you with such a bruising intensity that your lips go numb. The way he rocks against you, the friction of obvious tightness in his pants does nothing to soothe the ache building in your gut. You’d always known he was big — this isn’t the first time you’ve had sex with him. But there is an attitude to him now that almost scares you in the most exhilarating way possible.
"I need to eat you out, please." He growls. He isn't asking for permission anymore; he is just making his way downwards, sliding your pants off swiftly. He catches the elastic hem of your underwear between his fingers and tugs at it, but before he takes it off, he buries his face deep between your thighs. His nose catches on to the wetness that gradually soaks the cotton. And he loves every second of it.
"I've been waiting all fucking day for this," he growls, his voice dropping low. He doesn't waste another moment. He finally slides the lace off your hips and flings it across the room without a second thought. He dives in, his tongue wrapping between your folds with a starving energy, licking up and down with a speed that betrays just how thin his composure has become. His slick tongue moves in relentless circles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor you, your nails digging deep into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
He pulls his head away just long enough to slide a finger inside you, the sudden contact making you gasp. You involuntarily arch upward, forcing yourself against him, desperate to get him deeper. Your eyes are shut so tight that it actually hurts.
A second finger slides in as his other hand steadies your hips, grounding you against the mattress. His digits hit just the right spots that make you cry out his name. He dips his mouth right back in and starts to suck your clit, leaving it swollen like never before.
Your fingers tangle deep in his hair. You thread your hands through the thick strands, fisted tight at the roots. A fire begins to build up in your stomach; your toes curl, and your leg slides up crumbling the sheets. Your back arches up as you chase your release. He slides his fingers back out when your pleasure shouts his name loudly. He licks you clean one last time, tongue flat and wide, and dips his drenched fingers into his mouth. He moans with his eyes closed, enjoying every last drop off of his long fingers.
It's embarrassing to admit how much you like it when he loves what you taste like.
Once he's satisfied that he’s tasted every bit of you, his hands fumble with the fastening of his trousers, shoving the dark fabric down along with his shorts. His length springs free then, hot and tense. The tip is already red, a clear bead of precum glistening in the dim light of the bedroom. He lowers himself and settles beneath your thighs as he spreads them open. His face comes up to yours, and he looks at you once again.
"Gonna let me fuck you, pretty baby?" His eyes are dark, shadowed by a longing that is almost frightening in its beauty. He looks completely undone by the moment.
You nod, breathless, and reach out, your fingers curling around the burning weight of his length. As you stroke him, your thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over the sensitive tip, he lets out a low, shuddering groan. His hips jut forward instinctively, seeking the friction of your palm, and you guide him toward your entrance — but not before you drag him slowly against your clit.
However, he has had enough waiting. Usually, Benjamin is a man of patience, a man who makes you giggle with sweet talk and gentle teases until you are both laughing and breathless. But today, the laughter is dead, buried under the weight of the suffocating fear of losing you. He knows he has your permission, and he knows your body well enough to know its limits, so he doesn't hesitate. He pushes into you — a sudden intrusion that makes your breath hitch as you stretch to accommodate the thickness of him.
He didn't give you time to adjust before he was bottoming out, the very depth of him hitting a place that made your vision white out for a split second. The moment he was fully seated inside you, there was no foreplay and no teasing anymore.
"Oh, fuck—" he chokes out, the words muffled against the crook of your neck. He leans forward, his hand flying up to find yours above your head, his fingers entwining with yours, pinning you to the pillows. "Fuck, I needed this. I needed to feel this."
His hips are rolling into you with a bruising and desperate force. He was trying to forget his pain in the heat of your body, trying to drown out the investigators with the sound of your heavy breathing. His free hand fumbled with the buttons of your shirt, his movements clumsy, eventually just tearing the fabric aside in his haste.
His palm finds your breast, squeezing with a possessive urgency that mirrors the desperate pace of his hips. He shifts his weight, his mouth finding your nipple, pulling it in deep as he sucks and bites with an almost feral hunger. He moves from one to the other, his mouth leaving a trail of dark, blooming marks across the soft skin of your chest while his thumb fiddles with your nipple.
"I've missed y— fuck—"
He drops his head to your shoulder again, his mind unable to process the overwhelming wave of pleasure hitting him after a day spent in a paranoid hell. "I’ve really missed you," he rasps. He lets out a throaty sound, his eyes squeezed shut as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.
You feel a warm wetness dripping onto your collarbone. You reach up, cupping his face and tilting it back to find he’s crying again. It’s involuntary. His eyes are streaming, but he doesn't even seem to realize it; he’s too far gone in the filth of it all.
"Dex?" you murmur, forcing him to meet your gaze. His soft, hitching breaths hit your face in shaky puffs.
You pull him into a kiss immediately. His lips are soft, moving clumsily against yours as the salt of his tears mixes between your mouths. You wipe the tears away with your thumbs, your heart aching. You fucking hate seeing him in this kind of pain.
You shift, moving upward during the kiss and guiding him back against the pillows. He follows your lead, his usual vigor replaced by a hushed need. As you settle against him, his eyes flicker to yours, his pupils wide and dark — a picture of total devotion. He almost looks submissive, but he isn't fazed by it. He’s entirely focused on you; he needs you to fuck his pain away.
The movement between you is slow at first. His hands fly to your breasts, pressing hard, his fingers clinging to you. He’s seeking total contact, clutching at you as if your presence were the only thing keeping him grounded.
He slides a hand behind your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you down until your foreheads rest together.
"Tell me—" His breath hitches. "Tell me I’ve been a good man. A good, decent man."
You kiss him again as you pick up the pace of the moment. You want him to feel the truth of your words in every motion.
"You are a good man, Benjamin," you whisper against his lips. "I don’t care what has happened or what you’ve had to do. You’ll always be my perfect man."
He takes a sharp inhale, followed by a long sigh of relief that shudders through his entire form. He closes his eyes, soaking the words into his soul, finally letting the tension break.
"Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou," he murmurs relentlessly, the syllables blurring together into a desperate prayer. His hands move down to your ass, his strength returning as he holds you down onto him and moves fast into you. Letting you rest atop him as he does all the work.
Your hand slides down your torso, fingers finding the sensitive, swollen knot of your clit, which by that point was already throbbing heavily, swollen beyond limits. With a few circles, you feel yourself coming for a second time.
"Dex!" You gasp, falling over onto his shoulder to stifle a cry. Your walls flutter and clench around him in a tight beat, and the sensation around his cock is enough to finally make him scream your name back.
He’s unable to keep a steady pace anymore, his hips stuttering in crazy fast ruts as he hits his own peak. You feel him pulse inside you — filling you with his load. He clings to you with a loud growl, his body trembling against yours as he finds the liberation he’s been hunting for all day.
You fall limp against his chest. For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the two of you trying to catch your breath, lungs burning, and skin slick with sweat. He's still moving inside you, shallow and slow, finding just one last sweet thrust.
His hands move to your hair, threading through the sweaty strands to pull them back from your face. He holds your head steady, tilting it up until you’re forced to look at him. The hollow, almost manic look in his eyes from earlier is gone. Instead, there’s just a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s your Benjamin again — the one you managed to pull back from the cliff.
He leans in and kisses you once more. He keeps his lips pressed to yours for a long instant, a modest way of saying "thank you" without having to find the words again. When he finally pulls away, he just holds you.
"You’re the only thing I can't quit." He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing you in. "Don't let them take me away from you."
"I'm not letting go, Dex. I've got you." You reach over him and click off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into absolute darkness. He tightens his grip, his fingers digging into your skin one last time as if trying to memorize the feeling before he loses the right to it.
Whatever happens when the sun comes up doesn't matter anymore. Soon, the investigation will finish what the tapes couldn't, and the husband you're holding will be replaced by the weapon he was born to be. The precision he uses to love you is the same precision that will eventually destroy everything else.
But tonight, he’s still just Dex. And as long as you're the last bit of happiness he gets to feel before the world rats him out, he can almost pretend he’s already been forgiven.
