benjamin poindexter has a huge breeding kink. the idea of filling you up drives him crazy. the way youād look with a baby on your hip, the way youād need him to take care of you because your body is going through so much. heād give it all to you, over and over until you donāt want it anymore. when you give him permission to cum inside him on an off day, heās already gone for you.
āfuck, yeah, gonna fuckinā fill this pretty pussy up. takinā me so fuckinā well, she doesnāt wanna let goā heās grunting into your ear, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise the soft skin as he drills in and out of you. you canāt form a coherent thought because heās hitting your G-spot over and over again. ātell me you want my babies, yeah?ā he slurs, completely out of his mind drunk on the thought of you being so full of him. āi-i want your babies, dex, pleaseeāā and he swears he sees stars when you say it, you sound so drunk on his cock that he canāt help but go faster and moan right into your ear. āthatās right. gonna make you a fuckinā mommy, attagirl, take itā is the last thing he says before he cums inside of you, fucking you through your orgasm gently as he presses kisses to your neck.
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š šššš. šš benjamin poindexter.
Dex spirals into a breakdown over a betrayal, but you ground him by keeping him inside you.
cw į° .į HAPPY KINKTOBER ,, nsfw ,, cockwarming ,, gender neutral reader ,, sub!dex ,, coercion ,, manipulative reader if you squint ,, emotional comfort sex ,, MDNI
It started with the glass. Not the chair, not the rug, not something that could be nudged back into place, this time it was the sharp crack of glass against the wall, the shatter so sudden and violent it didnāt sound like it came from his own hand. Except it had. His hand was already bleeding, small cuts across his knuckles where the rim had splintered. He barely noticed. He was too busy grabbing the next thing within reach, hurling it at the opposite wall, watching it explode into fragments. A plate. A lamp. The sound was better than silence. The sound was proof he was still here.
He couldnāt stop. The rage kept climbing, blind and white-hot, lashing out at everything in sight. His fist went through the drywall, the crunch reverberating up his arm. He didnāt even feel the pain until he pulled back and saw the blood smearing across the pale surface. The hole gaped back at him, ugly, jagged. He pressed his forehead against it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like heād just run ten miles. It wasnāt enough. It never was.
Fisk. The name alone set his teeth on edge, bile in his throat. Heād believed him. That was the sickest part of it, he had actually believed him. Every word, every carefully placed kindness, every glance that seemed to cut through the noise in his head, heād held onto it like a lifeline. Heād let it convince him he wasnāt broken, that he was valuable, that he could be something. And it hadnāt been real. None of it had been real.
He thought he was something. Thatās what burned the most. He thought he was seen. He thought the weight he carried, the urges, the violence, it all had a place, a use, a reason. Fisk had given him structure. A role. A mask that wasnāt a joke. He thought, God, he thought, he mattered. And now, all at once, he could feel it unraveling, like heād been tricked into standing on a bridge that was never really there. One step forward and it crumbled under him.
The apartment felt too small. His head felt too loud. He kicked the table leg out from under it, watched it topple, wood cracking against the floor. Not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He wanted to tear down the walls. He wanted to scream until his throat bled.
The only thoughts that formed clear enough to hold onto were the ones that gutted him: Youāre nothing. Youāre nothing. He played you. He used you. He made you think you were more, and you were stupid enough to believe it.
He hated the mess, hated it, and yet he couldnāt stop making more. His body moved, rage propelling every twitch, every swing. He didnāt care. He wanted it gone, wanted everything gone.
He thought he mattered. He thought the structure meant something. He thought he was worth something.
Was Fisk laughing? Right now, was Fisk somewhere laughing about how easy it had been? Did everyone know? Did everyone see how desperate he was for someone to tell him he wasnāt broken? That he wasnāt dangerous? That he wasnātā
His head snapped toward the door like he expected someone to be standing there, watching. His skin crawled with the thought. What if they all knew? What if every kindness was all pity, or worse, manipulation?
Being chosen, being noticed, had become such a normalized part of his day that he hadnāt seen the danger in it. Why would he? Fisk made it seem ordinary, routine, expected. Praise when he followed the structure. Assurance when the rest of the worldās noise threatened to overwhelm him. The kind of steady guidance Dex thought, naively, that he could trust.
But trust was a word that now tasted rotten. Fisk had known exactly which strings to pull, and Dex had mistaken the manipulation for meaning. He thought it was more. That he was more. That the monster he carried around in his skin had a purpose under Fiskās command. But how easy it is to overthink those things after the fact.
Fisk. Fisk who made him feel like a soldier instead of a weapon. Fisk who had offered a place, a title, a reason to exist beyond the impulses clawing at him. Fisk who had pulled him in close just to prove how disposable he really was.
The thought alone cut something loose inside of him. The rage that had been pouring out in broken glass and split drywall stuttered, faltered, cracked beneath its own weight. His chest heaved, every breath shallow and frantic, the edges of his vision pulsing dark. His knuckles were raw, smeared in dust and blood. His apartment, a place that had always been sterile, lined up exactly so, was a wreck. He wanted to keep tearing it apart, he wanted to obliterate everything Fisk had touched in his head, but his arms felt heavy, his body catching up with the spiral.
He pressed his back to the wall, knees drawn up tight, breath catching in his throat as if the air itself had turned solid. His eyes burned hot, vision blurred, and though he bit down hard enough to taste copper, it didnāt stop the sting from gathering at the corners. His hands found his knees, rubbing in restless, twitching circles, desperate to anchor himself in some kind of rhythm. Too fast. Too shallow. Too much.
Had it all been a lie?
And then, almost without realizing it, his body gave out. He slid down the wall, collapsing fully onto the floor. His breath rattled and hitched, a sound he couldnāt control, something dangerously close to a sob that threatened to break loose. He pressed his palms harder into his knees like that might hold him together, stop him from splitting open completely.
The door opened.
He didnāt hear it at first, too deep in the spiral to register anything outside of his own head. But then movement cut through, the shift of light spilling across the wreckage of the apartment, and he jerked his head up. You stood in the doorway.
And for a moment, his panic only sharpened, his first thought was that youād see, that youād know, that his collapse was spread out like an autopsy under your gaze. The shards of glass glittering on the floor. The cracked drywall. The overturned lamp. The complete violation of the order he always clung to. His chest twisted when he caught the look on your face, the way your expression fell the second you took it all in.
Dex looked nothing like the man he pretended to be. He was curled against the wall like he could fold himself out of existence, eyes red and glossy, breath trembling, muscles twitching beneath skin stretched tight with adrenaline. He looked undone.
Youād been worried because his last messages had been a mess. He always replied fast; that was stupidly reliable. If he didnāt answer within ten minutes it was nothing, if he didnāt answer within an hour you texted again, then called. When he didnāt pick up the call you hovered between rationalizing, maybe he left his phone, maybe something at work, and the small, cold knot that told you this silence was different. Hours passed. You texted. You left a voice message that sounded like you were holding in panic. You told yourself you were being dramatic, then you put on your shoes and came.
The door closed behind you with the soft click of something ordinary in a place that had become anything but. The apartment, always so exacting, mugs aligned on the counter, the stack of newspapers at the same angle, his jackets hanging by color, had been vandalized by his own hands. You paused in the threshold, a slow inventory: a lamp toppled, frame glass scattered where he'd hit it, a ragged hole in the drywall. The neatness he clung to had been demolished.
Your heart did a quick, stupid double-take when you saw him, because you knew him, and what you were looking at wasnāt him. Not the tidy, clipped-off sentences he liked; not the man who arranged his pens by weight on the desk and who kept his mug on the same coaster every evening. You moved instinctively slower, because you knew the wrong speed could be a threat. Dexā world tilted when things moved too fast. You had learned, from bruises of argument and late-night practice, which syllables calmed him and which jumpedscared him straight into fight-or-flight.
For a second you simply stood there and let your eyes scan him for damage. He hugged his knees to his chest, hands rubbing at them in a repetitive, anxious motion, thumbs working circles that didnāt make it better. His breath was a ragged; he blinked like someone trying to clear fog from a windshield.
You considered saying his name out loud to cut the distance, but you didnāt. You let the silence hang a beat longer, the way you had learned to wait when he needed to decide whether you were friend or danger. (It was always a little terrifying, the way his assessment could flip on a look.) Instead you stepped forward, very slowly, each movement measured and small, palms visible, shoulders low. Your bag was on your shoulder only until you set it down gently beside the door; the noise of it hitting the floor was careful, no sudden clatter to startle him.
You sat down opposite him on the floor, crossing your legs slowly because you wanted to be smaller, nonthreatening. You kept your hands on your knees, palms up, because he could see them, no hidden fists, no phone glowing with messages. The distance was deliberate: close enough he could reach if he wanted, far enough that he wouldnāt feel crowded. You watched him watch you watch him, and in that loop you did the math of what to say next and decided the first thing he needed was steadiness, not questions.
When you finally let your voice out it was soft and small, an observation turned gentle: āYouāve messed up the geometry,ā you said, and there was the faintest attempt at humor. It landed a little; he blinked, the twitch at the corner of his mouth almost a memory of a smile, then vanished. His eyes went back to the hole in the wall like it might be a source of answer.
You kept cataloguing in your head, everything to know how to stay safe and how to keep him safe. Donāt lean over him. Donāt touch without permission. Donāt make sudden moves. Breathe slow; mirror his exhalation to show him youāre tethered to the same rhythm. You thought of the time heād taught you to breathe through a panic attack, the ridiculous military cadence he swore was clinically unsound but had worked for both of you, and, before you realized you were doing it, you matched it: inhale for four, hold two, exhale for six. It was both a thing heād taught you and a thing you were now using to show him you hadnāt left.
He watched that, watched the rise and fall of your chest and something in his shoulders loosened just a fraction, like a muscle relaxing when itās safe to do so. You could see suspicion still there: the blinking shadow behind his eyes that said what if this is another lie? But under it, care pricked through, because he recognized the cadence and because he recognized you.
He made a small sound then, not a word, more a rasp, like someone clearing a throat that had been full of glass. His hands stilled on his knees. For the first time since youād opened the door his gaze met yours and it was shaky, but it wasnāt fleeing. You stayed sitting on the floor across from him, and waited to be invited in, without pressure, without judgement, because you had learned that with Dex the only way in was patience and proof, slowly given, every single time.
His lips parted once, twice, before sound finally scraped out.
āHeā lied to me.ā
The words didnāt make sense on their own to you, but you didnāt rush to fill the silence. His eyes darted away as soon as theyād found you. You let the words sit between you, not prying. Still, gently, like one might try to coax a feral thing closer, you spoke, soft enough that your own breath nearly swallowed it.
āWho lied to you, Dex?ā
His head jerked in the smallest movement, not quite a shake, not quite an answer, more the recoil of someone who didnāt trust the ground beneath them. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a name, maybe nothing at all. He swallowed it down so fast it burned.
You could see it, the fracture line between rage and collapse. Youād seen it before. The way his pupils sharpened like he was ready for a fight, only to dull again into something like despair when he realized there wasnāt one to win. His hands flexed uselessly against his own legs, open-close-open-close, like he couldnāt decide if he was supposed to strike or cling.
And you waited.
When you shifted, he flinched like the movement itself had teeth. Still, you let him watch you, let him track every second as you crawled closer across the floor, existing in his space without demanding entry. He didnāt move away. That was enough. āDex,ā you said again, firmer this time, grounding. āItās me.ā
Something in his face broke at that, his jaw working, his throat tight. You could feel the prickle of panic still radiating off him in waves, but beneath it, exhaustion was creeping in, tugging his shoulders down, blunting his edges.
You took that as the opening. Carefully, you reached out to lay your hand over his, stilling the nervous twitch of his fingers. His skin was clammy, but he didnāt pull away. āCome on,ā you coaxed, not commanded. āLetās get you up.ā
It took time. His legs were stiff from the way heād been curled, his body reluctant to unfold from its cage. You steadied him without smothering, guiding him as he leaned heavily into your shoulder. āCareful,ā you said under your breath, as much for him as for you, as you nudged him away from the worst of the mess. You paused and tossed the bigger shards of glass in the trash, enough to keep bare feet safe later. The finer mess could wait. For now it was enough that you made the floor walkable again.
Dex sagged more heavily against you the longer he stood, his body betraying the burnout. You steered him toward the couch, the closest thing, lowering him gently down until he was sitting instead of folding in on himself. His hands found the fabric of your sleeve, holding tight, desperate enough that you knew he was asking you to stay.
You brushed a thumb along the ridge of his knuckle, not forcing eye contact he couldnāt hold yet. āItās okay. Iāve got you.ā
For a beat he only breathed, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like if he looked too long heād shatter all over again. Then his jaw worked, the words dragged up from somewhere. āFisk,ā he rasped, voice cracked. āFisk lied to me.ā
Your heart clenched, the truth hitting harder because youād had suspected it, at least in the corners of your mind, that Fisk wasnāt who he claimed to be he was for Dex. The way Fisk always gave with one hand while tightening a leash with the other. Youād felt it before you ever saw it, that the man didnāt offer anything without a reason, that he built loyalty by feeding hunger only so he could starve it later. And now you saw what that realization did to Dex, how it hollowed him out from the inside.
āOh, sweetheartā¦ā The word slipped from you, your throat aching with it. You leaned a little closer, careful not to crowd him. āIām so sorry.ā
He shut his eyes tight at that, chest rising like he wanted to argue, but there was no fight left in him. Sweat dampened his hairline, clung to his shirt. You kept your tone firm but gentle when you said, āArms up.ā
He obeyed instantly, without hesitation, without thinking. It broke you a little, the way compliance was etched into him so deep that even undone like this, he moved the second you asked. You tugged his shirt up over his head, careful not to jostle him too much, and set it aside. His skin was scolding, clammy, overheated.
āBetter,ā you murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair back from his forehead. āCan I get you something? Water maybe?ā
His eyes cracked open, and for a second he looked like he didnāt even understand the question. Then, almost desperate, he said, āYou.ā
His hand reached toward you, fingers flexing like he was afraid he might break you just by holding on. He wanted you, but the wanting itself scared him, like everything in him was wired to destroy the things he reached for. His hand faltered like it might drop away. You caught it gently, folding his fingers into your own and guiding them until they rested at your waist. The grip was hesitant, feather-light, but you pressed closer, settling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him until his hands had no choice but to feel you there.
Your arms looped up around his neck, fingertips brushing the back of his head, grounding him in the simplest ways you knew how. His gaze was scattered, unfocused, darting toward every dark corner of the room like there were eyes hidden there. So you tipped his chin just enough to make sure all he could see was you.
You kissed along the line of his jaw, a series of touches that demanded nothing in return. He tensed, then released it in a shaky exhale that shuddered against your collarbone. Your mouth drifted lower, lips pressing to the side of his throat, then parting just enough to suck softly at the skin until the noise he made was something between a sigh and a broken sound.
Each each press of your mouth was meant to drag him back from the edge, to cut through the spiral with something simpler, heat, touch, proof. His hands tightened at your waist, anchoring himself. His eyes fluttered closed at last, lashes damp against flushed cheeks, and for the first time since you walked in the panic didnāt own him entirely. Another shaky sigh left him, softer this time, like he was letting the fight drain out of his body just by leaning into you.
āDoes that feel good?ā
The sound he made in return was half-sob, half-whimper, his head falling back against the couch as though the weight of sensation was too much to hold up. His hands gripped tighter at your waist, not daring to push, not daring to guide, just clinging. A muffled mh-hm slipped out, shaky with the kind of emotion that stripped him raw. He was caught in it, pleasure, panic, the needing of something to replace the spiral.
You trailed your mouth along his jaw again, slow nips and sucks meant to keep him tethered, āThatās it. Donāt think.ā
He shuddered. His mouth opened, closed, until finally the words broke free in a voice that sounded cracked open, pleading:
ā...More. Closer. Please.ā
You pulled back enough to meet his eyes, which were glossy and seeking, before slipping off his lap. His gaze followed every move, wide and frantic with worry, but you kept your touch steady. Your fingers brushed his hip, then slid to the waistband of his pants. You helped him tug them down, then easing him out of boxers too, stripping away the layers that kept him locked tight in his panic.
It wasnāt new. You had been here before, not this exact spiral, but this need, this wordless plea. The first time it had happened it hadnāt been planned, hadnāt been something either of you had put words to. He had been restless, unable to stop pacing, running hands through his hair, clawing at his arms like something was going to rip him apart. Then when you had pulled him into bed, coaxed him to sink inside of you and just stay, it had quieted. His body had remembered what his mind wouldnāt let him trust: safety, warmth, belonging. Something to hold onto that didnāt break in his hands.
It was like that now. You could already feel the weight of what he wanted in the way he shook, in the way his eyes kept flicking to you like you might vanish if he looked away. Cockwarming wasnāt about sex to him. Not about chasing release or edge. It was about being so completely consumed by the feeling of being inside you that everything else had nowhere to root itself. The panic didnāt leave him, but it blurred under the intensity of sensation. He couldnāt spiral and hold onto you at the same time; the two states didnāt coexist.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. āI know,ā you whispered, more truth than comfort. And you did. You always did, even when he couldnāt find the words.
You eased back just enough to strip yourself down, pants shucked off, underwear too with a simple slide of your fingers. It wasnāt hurried, it was the kind of slowness that told him you werenāt afraid of him. You were both bare now, skin against his, and he could feel it in the way your thighs pressed to his, the heat radiating, the proof of you solid in his hands.
He trembled beneath you, eyes flicking over your body like he couldnāt decide if this was another trick of a mind that had been eating itself alive all night. His breath hitched when you reached between you and took him in hand, guiding him, lining him up with your heat. The world narrowed for him in that second. What was sharp, what was undeniable, was the feeling of you holding him, ready to take him in.
The relief when you sank down over him was immediate. His jaw went slack, a sound catching in his throat and breaking off into silence as his head dropped against your shoulder. He clung to you with both arms, locking around your waist like he could weld you to him. The stretch, the warmth, the reality of being buried inside you, he melted into it.
You stayed still, letting him feel it, letting him fill you completely and just be there. His cock pulsed inside you, every twitch betraying how much he needed the stillness. He was extra quiet now, not a word leaving his lips, only the sound of his breathing against your shoulder. His skin was damp with sweat, chest pressed tight to yours, every inch of him bare against you, and yet the closeness wasnāt suffocating.
He held on tighter, fingers digging into your back like he was terrified youād be pulled away. You let him clutch, let him bury himself in your body, let him feel the undeniable proof of you wrapping around him.
It always amazed you how it worked. How something that seemed so simple could rewire the entire mess of his mind. He wasnāt thinking about Fisk now, or betrayal, or the certainty of being nothing. He was only thinking of this, of the way your body enveloped him, the way you let him stay there. His breaths evened out slowly, one by one, and each sigh that left him carried less of the panic, more of the relief.
For a few blissful minutes, he existed only in you. His entire world had shrunk to the slick heat enveloping him, the overwhelming pleasure of being inside you, the way your body moved just enough to remind him he wasnāt alone. His hands gripped your hips, digging in, and he swore, low and breathless, āFuckā¦ā
He melted further, teeth sinking into the crook of your shoulder, hands roaming like they couldnāt decide where to claim you first. He was gasping now, barely coherent, and for a few moments it worked, he couldnāt think, couldnāt spiral, couldnāt remember betrayal or Fisk or anything beyond the pleasure you were giving him.
But as the minutes stretched, you felt the tension returning. His hips twitched against yours, and his hands gripped your shoulders like he needed to push himself into you harder. His breaths became shorter, more frantic, eyes opening just a fraction, and you felt the panic creeping back into his mind.
āIāheā¦ he made me think I was something. Iām nothing.. Iāmā¦ god, Iām such a fucking idiot.ā His body stiffened, small shivers rolling across his skin as he started to withdraw just enough to be consumed by his thoughts. āI believed himā¦ I ā- I thoughtāā His chest heaved as if the truth was suffocating him. His grip loosened and then clutched again at your waist like he was terrified to let go, terrified to think without the distraction.
You pressed closer, letting your body move with him, subtle at first, teasing, just enough for him to feel you move. His words stumbled over themselves as your hips began to shift, gliding against his. His head snapped back, breath hitching mid-sentence. āWhat are youā?ā
āItās alright,ā you cooed, one hand braced against his shoulder. āJust let me take care of you. You donāt have to think right now. Not about him, just me.ā
He shivered, words catching in his throat as your hips pressed against his. āNāno,ā he tried, hands pushing lightly at your waist as if trying to resist a gravity he couldnāt fight, every syllable half-protest, half-plea. His body betrayed him, sliding against yours in spite of his stiff refusal, slick heat reminding him that part of him didnāt want to pull away.
Your hands moved to steady him, fingers tracing the tension along his muscles, grounding him even as he jerked, squirmed, whined softly. āItās okay,ā you whispered, voice patient. āJust let it be good.ā
His jaw clenched, the whine slipping past his lips again, the words shaky: āI shouldnātā Iām notāābut his hips betrayed him, shifting ever so slightly to follow yours, sliding inside you despite his denial.
You pressed a hand to the curve of his cheek, tilting his head toward you, brushing a thumb softly against his clammy skin. āItās okay. Youāre okay.ā
His lips parted, teeth catching slightly, eyes half-lidded as he fought the urge to give in, cheeks flushed with the heat of it.
āNotā¦ thisā¦right now,ā His voice broke, swallowed by a sharp intake of breath as your hand moved lower.
āDonāt fight it,ā you pressed your forehead to his, then traced the tense line of his neck with soft kisses that made him twitch against you. āYouāre allowed to let go.ā
His hands loosened just enough for you to guide his body. His chest rose and fell erratically, pupils blown wide, lips parted in gasps that mixed protest with desire. The tension that had clung to him began to melt under your touch. You could see it in the way his jaw slackened, the way his eyelids fluttered, the tremble in his hips as he finally gave the smallest, hesitant push back against yours.
And then the surrender started to settle in. His face was undone, sweat slick, flushed, brows furrowed, lips swollen and parted, eyes heavy with the mixture of panic fading into pleasure. Every flicker of his muscles, every shiver, every soft, gasping whine painted the picture: he was drowning in sensation, completely undone by the way you moved him, teased him, claimed him.
āSee?ā you murmured against his ear, fingers threading through his hair. āYouāre okay.ā
And finally every push of your hips made his body respond whether his mind wanted it or not. His hands tried to wrest control, pressing against your shoulders as if to slow you down, but you kept going, knowing that movement was the only way to keep his mind fuzzy from everything else. Little by little, the tension in his back softened, shoulders dropping just a fraction.
His noises and gasps became desperate little sounds caught in his throat. Every thrust made him tremble, his body clinging to yours as if trying to hold himself together while simultaneously giving in. You felt the tight, trembling pulse of him inside you, the way his body reacted to every press and release.
You increased the pace, letting yourself ride the friction just as much as you guided him, leaning into the motion so that each movement set off little shivers through both of you. His hands found your back and shoulders again, clinging, pulling, seeking some sense of stability as he gasped against your neck, letting the sensations ripple through him.
āShit, Iāā The way he pressed into you, clinging to your heat, gripping your sides and hips, made it impossible to deny how much he needed this, needed you to push him past the panic, to hold him, guide him, and consume him.
Your movements intensified until the warmth, the slickness, and the friction built into a coiling tension that had both of you seeing stars. You could see it all over his face: the panic fading, replaced by lewd abandon, fucked out like some pretty little doll for you to ruin.
Dex' hips stuttered and jerked as the coil inside him snapped. He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural moan tore from his throat. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, sure to leave bruises, as his body went rigid. The feeling of his cock pulsing and throbbing inside you, flooding your insides with his hot seed, triggered your own climax.
Your vision went white as you felt his cum start to seep out around his still-pulsing length, dribbling down your thighs. His head rested against your shoulder, hair damp and sticking slightly to the sweat on your skin, lips brushing lightly across your collarbone as he let out a soft sigh. His hands clung to you with needy ownership. āDonāt go,ā he voiced, caught somewhere between exhaustion and contentment.
You shifted slightly, brushing a hand down his arm, nudging gently. āCome onā¦ letās at leastāā
āNo,ā his reply was immediate, heavy with fatigue. Normally, heād insist, heād fuss, heād clean up, but not tonight. Tonight he was soft, pliant, utterly reliant on you, and you let him be.
āOkay.ā
He nestled closer, and you could feel his pulse slow, the frantic flutter of earlier replaced by a slow, steady beat.
Every nerve ending seemed tuned only to the press of your skin, the sway of your body, the heat and tension that had you both tangled together. He was sloppy and messy, shivering faintly from overstimulation, and yet perfect in his surrender, unable to think of anything beyond the way you felt pressed against him.
ā a / n : first time publishing smut since like 2020 donāt shame meā¦.. ummmm i went for something not super extreme to dip my toes into the water and see how i felt i will see about writing more explicit scenes š¤
I don't know if you write for him, but would you write something for Dex? It doesn't have to be canon compliant. I was thinking Wrath for Dex where maybe the reader's bf hurt her and Dex gets protective? Or whatever you think. Feel free to ignore!
I havenāt written anything for Dex before so I donāt know how this is but, I gave it a try? And yes, definitely not canon compliant. Itāll be like the difference between Killy Russo and Billy Russo for me haha. Butā¦ I tried? Lemme know how it went.
*gif not mine*
***You walked down the hall slowly, already dreading the conversation you knew you were going to have to have with Dex. If you could keep it from him, you would, but you figured heād notice the huge bruise on your cheek.Dex called for you to come on in when you knocked on the door so you stepped in. It smelled great and you commented on that as you turned to put your bag where you usually did. It gave you an extra few moments before you had to face him.āItās one of your favorites,ā he said as you finally turned to him. He looked up from where he was mixing something as he continued. āI have garlic bread in theā¦ oven.āYou knew heād seen the bruise and you hesitated for a moment as you tried to turn away from him. āI love garlic bread,ā you started to say, desperate to cling to the hope that maybe he wouldnāt say anything as you avoided his gaze.That didnāt work because he moved to stand in front of you, his eyes roaming over your face. You could see the emotion starting to boil over behind his eyes and you wanted to smack yourself for getting him this worked up.āWhat happened? Was itā¦ did he do this?āYou didnāt have to ask who he meant.āYes, but itās not what youāre thinking. It was an accident,ā you defended, feeling pitiful for doing.āThat wasnāt an accident,ā he shouted as he pointed at you, dropping his hand and his voice when you flinched away from him. āIām sorāthe angle isnāt right for an accident.āYou sniffled a bit and reached out, telegraphing your movement as you grabbed his wrist.āIām fine, really. Do you mind if I freshen up before we eat?āHe gave you a stiff nod, marching back over to the stove to check the food. You slipped into the bathroom and closed your eyes for a moment before you looked at yourself in the mirror.What would Dex say if he knew that your boyfriend had āaccidentallyā hit you after finding out that you were going to have dinner with him? Or worse, what would Dex do?As you looked at the bruise on your cheek, you swallowed a bit. Maybe you should tell him. Maybe it was time for you to let Dex take care of you the way he always seemed to want to.Maybe it was time you left your dick of a boyfriend.
š = affection (how do they show affection? how affectionate are they?)
dex shows affection by orbiting you like he physically canāt stay away. he is there, all the time. he learns you. everything. the way you breathe when youāre falling asleep, the sound of your footsteps in the hall, the way your voice shifts when youāre lying. heāll do little things for you constantly, fix the crooked picture frame, refill your drink before you notice itās empty, adjust the thermostat because he knows what temperature you like. affection for him is proximity; being near you, knowing youāre safe, knowing you still look at him like heās something good. he touches more than he talks, hand on your back guiding you through a crowd, thumb brushing your jaw when youāre focused, fingertips tracing patterns against your thigh while you read. when youāre gone, heās restless, like he canāt breathe right until youāre near again. you become his center point, the anchor he builds his whole day around. he doesnāt just love you, he fixates, studies, protects. itās not about gestures or words for him, itās about being needed, about making himself essential, so even your smallest routines start to revolve around him too.
š = best friend (what are they like as a best friend? how would a friendship with them start?)
as a best friend, dex latches on in a way thatās both flattering and a little unsettling. at first, heās quiet, watching you more than talking, learning how you move, what makes you laugh, what irritates you. and once he decides youāre someone worth orbiting, you become his blueprint. everything you do filters through him; he starts mirroring you without realizing it, your phrases, your gestures, the way you carry yourself. if you love a certain song, itās suddenly on his playlist. if you hate a food, he wonāt touch it again. his sense of self gets tangled with yours because, to him, being close means becoming what you love. you become his compass, his moral anchor, and his idea of normal. when youāre gone he flounders, like he doesnāt know how to exist right without you there to reflect off of. it starts innocently, wanting to impress you, to be good enough, but it grows into something more consuming. he starts basing his worth on your approval. your moods dictate his, your praise lights him up, your disapproval wrecks him.
š = cuddles (do they enjoy cuddling? what are they like during cuddles, and how long can they stand it?)
at first, cuddling feels foreign to dex. his body will stay stiff against yours, locked like heās waiting for something to go wrong. but the longer it lasts, the more it unravels him. the warmth, the closeness, the sound of your breathing, it hits him somewhere deep, somewhere he didnāt know was starving. soon it becomes a need. he starts craving your touch. if you donāt reach for him, heāll hover close enough that you have to, brushing his knee against yours, resting a hand near your thigh, anything that makes you close that distance first. when you do hold him, he melts instantly, all that built-up tension dissolving as he buries his face against your neck or your chest. he likes when you hold him tight, grounding, like you mean it. if you pull away too soon he notices, his mind immediately spinning: did i do something wrong? are they mad?
š = domestic (how do they handle chores, cooking, cleaning, and everyday living?)
routine keeps him sane. he needs things ordered, each object in its exact place, each surface spotless enough to catch the light. thereās comfort in repetition, in folding shirts the same way every time, in scrubbing a dish until the sound of it squeaks. he doesnāt trust anyone else to do it right, not because he thinks youāre careless, but because the smallest difference, one misplaced fork, one crooked frame, throws him off balance. heāll redo things after youāve done them, smoothing wrinkles, straightening lines. cooking is the same ritual: measured movements, careful precision, like itās the only thing that keeps his hands steady. he moves through domestic life with an intensity most people reserve for work, itās the only way he knows how to keep the chaos out of his head.
š = ending (if they had to break up, how would they handle it emotionally and practically?)
he wouldnāt do it lightly. endings are catastrophic in his mind, every word, look, and small movement is dissected afterward until it burns in his memory. if heās pushed to the edge, if the sense of betrayal or fear becomes too much, he might lash out in anger first. but once reality sinks in, heād spiral into obsessive guilt, replaying every interaction, every misstep, wondering how he could have fixed it. practically, heād either vanish without a proper goodbye, leaving you with the sudden weight of his absence, or heād stay until you both cried it through, incapable of leaving without witnessing the fallout of his actions. the aftermath would linger, heād check on you from afar, still wanting to know youāre safe, still entangled in your life even if he canāt admit it.
š = family (do they want a family? kids?)
his idea of family is intense. if there were a child, heād hover constantly, learning every routine, habit, preference, anxious about doing everything perfectly yet determined to be there for every moment. heād be protective to the point of tense over-management, watching interactions, checking safety obsessively, and struggling to give space. heād worry constantly, sometimes overthink minor things, but heād also be deeply attentive, noticing small moods, changes in behavior, wanting to understand and respond. if parenthood wasnāt part of the plan heād accept it, no matter what thereās always a longing for total devotion from you that sees you as his world. in either scenario, heās capable of care. he wants you to be happy, and is willing to settle for either.
š = gentle (how soft are they physically and emotionally? how careful are they with peopleās feelings?)
heās not gentle by nature, heās controlled. he knows exactly how much pressure to use, how to land a hit, how to make pain look like an accident. that same control is what makes his gentleness with you so startling. he handles you like youāre breakable, like one wrong touch might undo everything heās built around you. his voice softens in a way it never does for anyone else, movements slowing down as if heās forcing his whole body to remember this is you. with other people, heās indifferent at best, cruel at worst; he can manipulate, exploit, even smile while someoneās falling apart if it gets him what he wants. but with you, never. every touch is measured. heās the kind of gentle that feels like worship, youāre the only person he believes deserves softness.
š = hugs (do they like hugs? how do they hug, and how often do they give them?)
heās always looking for a reason to wrap you up. even if itās just passing by in the kitchen or sitting on the couch, heāll pull you close, arms tight around you like youāre the most fragile thing in the world. thereās weight behind his hugs, a protective intensity that makes you feel anchored. heās constantly aware of your reactions, adjusting the pressure if he thinks heās too tight or holding just enough to remind you heās there. heāll linger, resting his head on yours or against your shoulder, and sometimes he doesnāt even let go when you try to step away, watching to make sure youāre okay. he craves the closeness as much as he wants to give it, and if he notices youāre tense or upset, heāll hug you tighter, until heās convinced you feel safe.
š = i love you (how soon and how often do they say it? do they mean it seriously or casually?)
he doesnāt say it right away, he doesnāt even let himself think it for a long time. itās too big, too final, too exposing. but once it slips past his defenses, once he realizes that everything he does, every thought he has, every breath he takes somehow circles back to you, thereās no putting it away again. when he finally says i love you, itās not casual, its like a confession heās been holding in for years. after that, he canāt stop. the words come out, muttered into your hair, your neck, against your fingers when heās holding your hand, for himself as much as for you. when you say it back, his whole body stills. he listens like itās proof youāre still his, that you still mean it, that heās not imagining this whole thing.
š = jealousy (how easily do they get jealous? how do they act when jealous?)
it doesnāt take much; a glance that lasts too long, a name that comes up one too many times, a laugh that isnāt meant for him. heāll go quiet first, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight enough to ache. the anger isnāt just at the other person, itās at the idea of sharing you, of someone else getting to see even a fraction of what he sees. it festers, and depending on how deep it digs, he can get dangerous with it, manipulative, obsessive, cutting people out of your orbit before you even realize heās doing it. if it ever reaches the point where he thinks someoneās a real threat, his restraint frays completely, and thatās when it turns dark, the quickest and easiest solution turning to murder. heāll want reassurance. heāll need you to touch him, to tell him itās fine, that heās the only one.
š = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss and be kissed?)
his kisses start out restrained, careful, testing, like heās afraid heāll do it wrong, but it doesnāt take long for him to get addicted to the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth. he kisses like someone whoās waited his whole life to be allowed this close. his favorite place to kiss is your neck, not just because of the sensitivity there, but because itās where he can see what heās done, the bruises and red marks that say mine without words. he never admits how much that satisfies him, but you can feel it in the way he pulls back just to look at them. he loves when you hold his face and pepper kisses all over his skin. when you start pressing light, rapid-fire kisses over his face, his nose, his eyelids, his temple, his mouth, he shuts down in the best way: eyes fluttering closed, breath stuttering like his brain canāt handle that much affection at once. he ends up clutching you tighter, overwhelmed, his mouth still chasing yours like he canāt bear for it to stop.
š = lying (how good are they at lying? do they lie to you, and how can you tell?)
exceptional at lying but he hates doing it to you. his tells are microscopic, invisible to anyone else: the way his jaw tightens, the delay before he answers, how heāll deflect with a question to steer you off course. most of the time, his lies arenāt meant to deceive you maliciously, theyāre protective, desperate, spun out of fear that youāll see too much of whatās wrong in him and leave. āiām fine,ā heāll say, voice too even, when you can tell he hasnāt slept, or that heās spiraling again. sometimes heāll omit things rather than outright lie, like the details of a bad night or what he did when someone crossed a line with you. if you call him out heāll crumble quick, eyes flickering down, shoulders tightening, that almost childlike panic surfacing because the thought of you not trusting him terrifies him.
š = mornings (what are they like when they wake up? slow, chirpy, groggy, or chaotic?)
mornings with him are ritualistic, measured down to the second. he wakes before the alarm, always does, and breathes in deep like heās steadying himself for the day. the bed barely creases when he slips out, movements so precise itās like heās trying not to disturb the air itself. the shower runs for exactly the same number of minutes, the coffee brewed to the same strength, breakfast plated just right. and then thereās you, the only variable he allows. he always circles back, leans down to press a kiss to your temple or your lips, depending on how awake you are. same time, same softness, every day. if you ever broke his routine, pulled him back into bed, made him late, heād grumble and act thrown off, but secretly, heād spend the whole day a little dazed, a little high on the fact that you could undo his precision that easily.
š = nights (how do they spend their evenings with you? bedtime routines, night talks, night habits?)
he doesnāt like deviation, not from himself, not from you. the lights dim at the same time, the shower runs at the same temperature, the sheets are always pulled tight before you climb in. he brushes his teeth when you do, folds his clothes in the same order, waits for you to crawl into bed before settling beside you. if you forget or get distracted, he doesnāt scold, just gently steers you back. once youāre both in bed, everything slows. his arm draped around you, thumb tracing the same small pattern on your hip until you drift. he canāt fall asleep until you do; he listens for the shift in your breathing, that soft exhale that means youāre gone. only then does he let go enough to rest, because his night isnāt over until yours is.
š = openness (how much do they reveal about themselves? do they open up quickly or in pieces?)
he doesnāt open up easily because so much of whatās inside him feels messy, shameful, and unlovable. when he does start talking about himself, it happens in pieces. a casual story about his childhood that sounds rehearsed, a passing mention of a scar that he instantly regrets saying out loud. heāll dodge direct questions, joke his way out, change the subject to you instead, heād always rather know everything about you. but once youāve earned his trust, once he starts believing you wonāt flinch at the uglier parts, heāll unravel more. when you donāt push and just listen thatās when he lets himself say the darker things.
š = patience (how easily do they get irritated or upset? how do they show it?)
his patience is paper-thin, and most of the time he doesnāt even realize how close he is to snapping until he already has. itās not always anger, sometimes itās that twitchy, restless agitation that builds behind his ribs and makes him pace or pick at his skin or grind his teeth. he tries to keep control, but small frustrations stack fast in his head until it feels unbearable. if something throws off his routine, if people donāt listen, if you pull away when he needs you close, it unravels him. heāll go silent for a while, trying to regulate, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. heās trying to be patient, he just hasnāt quite learned how to exist without the world constantly pressing on his nerves. there will be moments when his anger controls his actions.
š = quirks (unique habits, little oddities, or distinctive mannerisms that make them them?)
he lines things up obsessively: pens, utensils, your shoes by the door. everything has to be at a precise angle, like the world only makes sense if itās symmetrical. sometimes, heāll go quiet mid-conversation just to stare at you, tracking your micro-expressions, the twitch of your mouth, the way your eyes move. he mimics your gestures without realizing, the way you cross your arms, the tilt of your head, your favorite phrases. once, you caught him stirring his coffee the exact way you do, and he blinked, confused, like he didnāt even know heād learned it.
š” = remembering (how well do they recall details about you? whatās their favorite memory of you?)
he remembers everything, down to the smallest, most impossible details. once he learns something about you, it stays permanently. every piece of you lives in his head. you donāt have to remind him of anything; heās already memorized it, catalogued it, replayed it a hundred times over. his memory is selective that way, he forgets whole days if they donāt have you in them, but he could quote what you said on the first night you met word for word. his favorite memory, the one that replays the loudest, is the first time you told him you loved him. he didnāt breathe for a full ten seconds. he still replays it when heās alone, the exact pitch of your voice, the warmth that spread through him like he was finally allowed to exist for something good.
š¢ = security (how protective are they of you physically, emotionally, or socially?)
extremely possessive. every sound, glance, and stranger becomes a potential threat the second youāre in the room. itās not even conscious; his body reacts before his mind catches up. if someone raises their voice near you, heās stepping in. if someone looks at you too long, heās pulling you behind him. he doesnāt trust the world to treat you right, so he takes it upon himself to do it for you, screens your messages, insists on walking you everywhere, memorizes the layout of every place you go together so he knows the exits. emotionally, itās worse. the idea of you being hurt or doubting yourself makes him physically sick, and heāll do anything to pull you back to him, even if that means isolating you from whatever (or whoever) made you feel that way. in his mind the only place youāre truly safe is in his arms, and heāll destroy anything that tries to prove him wrong.
š£ = trust (how easily do they trust others? do they test loyalty or just believe instantly?)
trust doesnāt come easy with him. everyone starts as a potential threat. but once you break through that wall, once he decides youāre safe, itās over, he gives you everything. he wonāt question you, wonāt double-check, wonāt listen when others warn him. you become the one fixed point in his world, and heāll believe whatever comes from your mouth. itās not that heās naĆÆve, itās that he needs to believe in you. testing loyalty doesnāt even cross his mind once heās attached; heās all in, no halfway. when he trusts, he does it so completely that betrayal doesnāt just hurt him, it breaks him apart.
š¤ = unflattering habits (what are some bad habits, annoying traits, or pet peeves they have?)
heās impossible to shake. the kind of clingy that doesnāt even register as wrong to him, he needs to be near you. if you pull away, even for something small like closing a door between you or saying youāre tired, he spirals instantly. his mind fills in the blanks with rejection, with loss, with you deciding heās not enough. heāll linger outside the room, hover, ask if he did something wrong in that wounded tone thatās half guilt trip, half plea. every time you want an inch of space, he takes it like a mile-wide rejection. privacy doesnāt really exist with him, he checks in constantly, hovers over your shoulder, insists on helping with things you donāt need help with because being needed helps him. itās suffocating, the way he turns care into control, love into dependency. he just wants to keep you close, to make sure you never have to want anyone else, because the thought of you doing anything without him twists something in his chest that he doesnāt know how to live with.
š„ = vanity (how concerned are they with their appearance, style, or image?)
he never used to care much about appearances, but somewhere along the way it started to matter. you started to matter. now he notices the things you seem to like, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his jaw freshly shaved, the specific cologne that clings when you hug him. he starts trying without admitting that he is: struggling to pick a shirt, fixing his hair, changing his aftershave because you mentioned liking something with cedar once. he checks his reflection more than he used to and runs a hand through his hair before seeing you. he doesnāt care what anyone else thinks, he just needs you to look at him like heās something worth keeping.
š¦ = weird (quirky behaviors or odd little things they do that make them unique?)
out of nowhere heāll make an animal sound in the middle of talking or sitting with you. itās just him noticing something about your mood and deciding, without thinking, that a dumb noise might break the tension. then he sits there, deadpan, watching to see if you react. itās the kind of thing that makes you laugh in spite of yourself, because itās absurd and random and completely unselfconscious, this is how he connects.
š§ = xtra (fun fact? something unique or specific about them)
he collects things without realizing heās doing it, objects that remind him of you. a bottle cap from a drink you shared, a movie stub, the corner of a receipt with your handwriting. he keeps them organized, tucked into drawers or lined neatly on his nightstand. sometimes he doesnāt even remember taking them until he finds one later and gets stuck staring at it.
šØ = youthfulness (how playful, spontaneous, or silly are they? do they keep a youthful energy?)
heās not naturally playful, his seriousness and intensity show, but when itās just the two of you he can let himself be silly. corny jokes, exaggerated expressions, teasing only you, small, deliberate ways to make you laugh. he doesnāt seek attention or fun elsewhere, but heāll create little pockets of joy for just the two of you, like heās crafting a world where only you exist and he can afford to be softer and lighter just for you.
sleep doesnāt come easy to him. his brain doesnāt shut off, replaying every conversation until exhaustion forces him under. even then, itās light and fitful. he doesnāt snore, but he does twitch sometimes, small jerks that tell you heās trapped in half-dreams, half-memory. when youāre there, itās different. he falls asleep faster, his breathing syncing with yours. he needs you close, a hand against your stomach or his forehead tucked to your shoulder, always touching. the nights he wakes up from nightmares, heāll pull you closer, burying his face against your skin until he steadies again. heās strict about routine, same bedtime, same order of things, because he needs that control. without you he just lies awake, fingers tracing the dent your body left in the sheets, counting the seconds until morning.
ā a / n : easy post today while i figure out what to work on next ā¦ I MISSED YāALL TOOOO thank you for the love š«°š«°
YAY love your dex writings so muchš„¹š„¹š„¹ iām a chronic skin around my nails(?) biter and i saw that in your autistic!reader x dex headcannons you wrote about him letting you stim using his hand!! howād you think heād react in this scenario i just wanna gnaw on his fingers. lol hope this is ok this is my first time ever requesting to a writerš„¹š„¹
š«iting š±is šÆingers šš ben poindexter !
r e q u e s t e d ā”
cw į° .į dex x reader ,, blurb / mini headcanons ,, mentions of reader biting nails
youāve thought about it before. not in any kind of polite way either, just late at night, head on his chest, staring at his hands where they rest on his stomach. big and veiny, knuckles thick, the kind of hands that look like theyāve been built for holding things too tightly. youāve caught yourself wondering how theyād feel between your teeth. but you never said it out loud, you were sure heād flinch, or worse, mock.
it happens without you thinking, the movieās half-forgotten, room dim, his hand dangling over your chest and keeping you pulled tightly to him, because even when dex is comfortable he still canāt bare the thought to let you go. youāre curled into his side, jittery with restless energy, and at some point you tug his hand up just to hold it, just to feel it there. but your teeth grow a mind of their own before you realize, that old familiar gnaw taking over, little nips where youād normally destroy the skin around your own nails.
dex doesnāt move at first. his breath catches, then steadies. you can feel him tracking the motion, all hyper-focused quiet, the way he gets when heās deciding if something is threat or comfort. and then he huffs a tiny laugh, not mocking, just stunned.
āyouāre chewing on me.ā his voice is low, like heās not sure saying it out loud wonāt break the spell.
you freeze immediately, heat crawling up your neck, ready to pull away, mumble some excuse. but his hand doesnāt let you. he keeps it there, curled gentle against your lips, like heās testing your weight on him.
āhey. relax.ā softer now, coaxing. he tips his head and studies you with that unnerving sharpness that usually makes people fold. only this time itās not interrogation. āthat helpinā?ā
when you nod, small, embarrassed, something shifts in his face. like heās filing it away with all the other things he guards about you. the tension drains from his shoulders. he even flexes his fingers a little, nudging them back against your teeth.
āgo on then,ā he insists. ābetter me than you tearing yourself up, right?ā
you give him a look like youāre not quite sure if he means it.
ādonāt stop.ā his toneās harsher than he means, desperate almost. āyouā itās fine. i like it. i like it when youā- touch me.ā
and god, he does. it shows in the way his pulse thunders under your mouth, how his whole body seems tuned to this one little act. not just acceptance; heās soaking it up, greedy for the contact, for the proof youād rather gnaw on him than yourself.
thumb brushing your jaw, pushing, urging you to keep going. āitās fine. i donāt care. i want it.ā
his fingers are big, bigger than you even realize until theyāre in your mouth. heavy knuckles, callused from endless training, wide palms that could close around your whole wrist. they donāt feel like something you should be allowed to bite, but you are, and heās letting you.
dex watches like a man starved. eyes dark, fixed, pupils blown as he feels you drag your teeth over his skin. every slow nip seems to lock him deeper into some trance. his jaw works once, like he wants to say something but canāt.
the first time, heās confused. genuinely. his brain does that flicker-quiet thing where he catalogues every movement and feeling. at first itās pure assessment, why are they doing this? is it stress? is it a threat?, but then he notices your body language. youāre calmer, more still than you usually are, and his pulse spikes because this is the first time youāve reached for him like this. once he puts it together heās oddly gentle about it. he doesnāt pull away; instead, his fingers go loose, almost offering themselves up while heās still processing.
the next couple of times he starts testing the waters. resting his hand near your mouth on purpose, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, seeing if youāll do it again. itās like heās feeding a stray animal. he starts flexing his fingers a little while youāre doing it, learning how you like to bite, pushing against your teeth just enough to feel it.
dex has a compulsive, obsessive streak; once he associates your biting with comfort (yours or his), it becomes a ritual. if youāre anxious, heās offering his hand before you even realize youāre chewing your nails. ādonāt wreck your hands,ā heāll mutter, shoving his fingers between your teeth like itās a normal thing. if you hesitate, heāll tilt his head and give you that sharp little smile thatās not quite a question. āgo on. you know it helps.ā
he starts needing it. not just letting you, craving it. the contact, the little sting, the way your mouth fits around him. youāll catch him staring at your mouth when youāre not doing it, like heās waiting. if you stop mid-bite, heāll flex his hand, urging you back like heās starving for it.
starts keeping his hands ridiculously clean. he did before, but now itās almost ritualistic. washing them before you get home, keeping his nails neat, because in his mind youāre āsupposedā to bite him instead of yourself and he doesnāt want you to get hurt.
he starts seeing it as a marker, something only he gives you. if youāre stressed and you start chewing your own skin again he gets weirdly irritable, almost jealous of your own hands. ādonāt do that. use mine.ā
every time you do it, thereās this violent mix of calm and need. theyāre touching me, theyāre choosing me, iām the one they go to. itās soothing and electrifying all at once. his pulse spikes; heāll hold his breath without realizing. even days later heāll rub the faint marks of your teeth and think about it until heās twitchy.
starts sitting closer on couches, putting his hand on your knee or dangling it by your mouth absentmindedly when youāre both reading or watching tv. heāll joke about āfeeding the beastā under his breath, but his eyes are too dark for it to be an actual joke.
dex is addicted to being touched, he doesnāt even realize how much until you start this habit. he wants you to need him in weird ways, to crave him like a compulsion.
eventually, he expects it. if you donāt do it when youāre curled against him, he nudges you with his hand. sometimes heāll even pout, āwhat, you donāt want me tonight?ā like youāve denied him something vital.
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"Where are we going?" Elena asked. they were driving for what felt like hours and Elena was getting bored. She never was much for road trip yet here she was driving to the unknown, all because Damon asked her to. Ā She would go anywhere with this man. She looked at him as he stared straight ahead. He was determined not to answer her. He told her before they left that it was a surprise but Elena Ā thought that she would have been able to get it out of him by now. "Come on Damon, you could at least give me a hint," she begged.Ā
"I would relax a lot better, if you distracted me." she whispers in his ear. Damon shivered. Elena moved closer now, placing her hand on Damon's lap. Sliding her and back and forth on Damon's leg she lean in closer, and kissed his neck. Damon stiffen, He pushed his foot on the brake causing them both to jerk back.
"Elena what are you doing are you trying to make us crash?" asked.
"I think we just need to take a break,don't you." Elena said opening the door and stepping out the car.
"Elena we are in the middle of nowhere what are you doing," he asking stepping out the car after her. Ā Elena ran to Damon side and kissed him, catching him off guard. She pinned him against the door and let her tongue slide in his mouth. Damon grabbed her by the waist and Ā flipped them over so that he now had Elena pinned. He kissed her down from her neck to her shoulder, slowly pulling down her shirt strap. Elena grabbed Damon and threw up on the hood of the car, and climbed on top of him. She pulled her shirt of over her head and leaned it to kiss Damon. He rubbed his hands up and down her back, She flicked her tongue in his mouth. She sat up, and snatched open Damon's shirt, kissing down his chest. Damon flipped them over so he was now on top. He climbed off his camaro and stood in front of the hood. He unbuckled his pants and let his jeans drop tho the ground. He snatched Elena by her thighs pulling her closer to him. He pulled down her shorts and snatched her off the hood,he kissed her hard let his tongue massage her. He pulled her back by her hair and turned around bending her on the hood of the car. He thrust forward sliding himself inside her, hitting her clit with purpose. Elena screamed out. Damon kissed the back of her neck, before biting down, causing Elena to scream out, in pleasure. She reached forward hoping for something, anything to grab on for support, but there was nothing. Damon thrust harder and faster hit her clit faster and faster, Elena screamed out again. She felt a rush of uncontrollable pleasure as Damon bit down harder. Damon was stroking her so fast now that it felt like he was vibrating inside her.Elena scratched at the hood of the car and screamed out one final time, causing Damon to scream with her, before Elena collapsed on top of him, and Damon collapsed on her. "You were right we needed a break,"Ā Damon breathed on Elena's neck causing her to shiver.
