pairing: psychiatrist!reader × benjamin "dex" poindexter
summary: dex finds his north star in his new psychiatrist in prison
warnings: incorrect treatment of patients, sadistic (?) reader, incorrect use of medications, mention of killing, abuse of authority (?), blood, violence (not really described), INSANE reader, probably some more along those lines. but there's some fluff at the end!
notes: i started it meaning to do a freak4freak but it ended more like a psychotic4psychotic lol. reader it's really inspired by a DC character (it's really obvious who is it). it's my first time writing for dex, so I'll still refine the way to describe and write him. not that inspired by "she's my collar" by gorillaz, but it got some vibes. english is not my first language, so there are probably a few mistakes. if you enjoy the story, please interact! :)
A lot of things happen in “the oh so gleaming” New York.
For the prying eyes from the outsiders, it's almost a living daydream. The overpriced urban acquisitions, the buildings almost bigger than the citizens egos. That brand feeling of opportunities floating: a positivity that movies created and spread over the years.
And even if the city wasn't that glorious when you looked deep down in it, on the dark alleys, the filthy streets and the plans made behind the closed doors – some dreams do come true there.
And you can say yours did.
Your childhood… Well, it wasn't easy. Bullying only didn't hit you harder than your “friends”. So when you grew up, you didn't have any company other than your raging grandparents, your fertile imagination and the growing obsession around the human mind.
In the first opportunity you had, you flew away from your hometown. Ran away from your old life and all the disgrace that haunted you whenever you were. Looking for a new beginning, you bet on the city of dreams: New York. Not the beautifully written one, but the raw and mean Hell's Kitchen.
And like in a magic trick, your dreams were fulfilled.
You passed college, gave yourself to the studies and useless jobs to get where you are now – one of the most renowned psychiatrists of your area.
And what is your area of specialization? Forensic psychiatry. Or for the laypeople, a subspecialization focused on understanding the relationship between mental health and criminal behavior, combining psychological knowledge with the justice system.
You are the principal of the psychological area in the highest security jail of the State, something that you would proudly announce. Your work consisted in monitoring interns and medications given to inmates, participating in boring meetings and taking important decisions. But what was really your passion was assisting, evaluating and interfering in the development of the prisoners, the worst and most dangerous of them.
The truth is: you are obsessed with the disturbed minds. The rotten, disgusting and out of place ones, neglected by society and themselves.
You love to see their perspective of the world, and what that took from them.
You love to be in control of them.
You love to have them at your mercy.
You love the fear, and how you could inflect it so easily in your patients.
We are who we are. And that is you.
And the prison? It was your playground, where all your ants would gracefully do whatever the experiment you wanted. A slightly not recommended method of treatment, some switched medicine for the ones you made, watching how their system would react to it. You would affirm it was the right dose for them. And if anyone dared to question your truthfulness? Well… let's only say that your last assistant has been missing for a while.
You never believed in fate. That was for little kids and fantasy stories, that need something bigger than them to hold on.
No, you believed in facts. You believed in searches, in power and in yourself. And you didn't feel guilty about it.
But, even if it hurts your guts to admit it, it wasn't just you who brought you two together. It couldn’t be.
Something led you to him.
Perhaps it was that journal headline you barely saw the first time, but in the following ones you became more and more interested.
Perhaps it was when you searched for anything you could find about him. Where he is from, past jobs (legally and not), occurrences, appearances on supermarket cameras. It wasn't that easy to find, after all he wasn't just a common guy, but everything turns out right with time. And you've always had access to very good sources.
Perhaps it was when he was going to be sentenced and you did his psychiatrist report, so he would be in your prison.
Looking back, it didn't look like “fate” did anything to help you. But nothing, not his mugshot plastered on the news or the stolen pictures of him you found, nothing prepared you to see him in person.
If you ever came closer to believing in destiny, it was at that moment: when his greenish hazel orbs looked coldly into yours, and for once in your life, you felt as if maybe there was someone close to be just like you.
And if that was the case, that person was him.
When you started to work with him, he was difficult. Every single one of the patients are in the beginning, of course, but he was different. He wasn't difficult in the “not wanting to talk” way (even if sometimes he would go quiet with a petulance of a little child), but in the exact contrary: the bastard talked too much, but nothing at all.
Not that that isn't the objective of psychology, but the lies and useless metaphors he proclaimed danced between you in a challenging way. He was playing around with you. And he knew that you were aware of that.
Not that you didn't like fun too.
In the middle of a consultation in a rainy Wednesday, while you were still testing the boundaries, you adjusted the little glasses around your eyes and said:
— You know, they can't hear you here It’s soundproofed, and I wouldn't spoil it. So feel free to say anything you want.
It took some seconds for him to answer, as if measuring the information. As if that changed anything.
– You're lying. Don't try to fool me.
You squint your eyes. Oh, so that's the thing. Alright.
— Elaborate that to me. Come on, Benjamin, you can do it.
After a few moments of a heavy silence, he started:
— That's not true, — He cracked his neck, a glimpse of a controlled, familiar, annoyance as a result of the way you called him — because you're a liar. You lie to your supervisors about records, to the patients about what they have… You use these glasses, but you don't need them. Its lens doesn't look right in the light, these are not prescription glasses. You can say you use it as an accessory, but it's a mask. That makes you a liar.
You freezed for a second. Now, that's interesting. Containing the growing grin, you sigh dramatically, tilting down your head and slowly taking off your glasses and placing it down on the table.
— I can't say I agree with all you said but, yes, you're right about that. I don't have any problem in my sight. Actually, I see things much clearer than anyone here. And you know that.
That same silence filled with tension breaks into the room again, but not cutting loose the electricity between you both.
— Here's not soundproofed.
He continued, now with a firm tone, looking deep in your eyes.
— They wouldn't allow it to happen. They want to know what I'm talking about. They wouldn't let you be alone with me.
A light chuckle comes from your mouth, more like you were huffing.
— Let me explain something to you, Benjamin. — You get off your chair positioned in front of him, calmly placing it in the right spot, after adjusting your coat in a calculated manner. — Not meaning to break your expectations but, nobody wants to know what you're talking about. The people out there? They are interested in what you had to offer in those moments, but they don't want anything else from you in the slightless.
You try to elicit a reaction from him, but apparently receive nothing in return. You take a few steps in his direction, standing by his side of the desk while he looks up at you.
— If you're here with me, alone, without anyone bothering us, it's because this place is mine. My territory, my method of working… For them, you're nothing more than a wild animal. And animals don't talk, so they don't want to hear you.
You got closer to him, letting your fingertips slowly touch his face. He wasn't sure of why, but he let that happen. Maybe stupidity, trust or something more reckless. When you cautiously traced the scar on his cheek, he was paralyzed. He didn't move anything except for his gaze, that was traveling through your face. Your hand moved to his hair, as if it was caressing him. He had to use all his force to not lean into your slender hands. Changing abruptly your gentle touch, you grab his hair in a second, pushing it up, forcing him to meet your eyes.
— But me? I'm hearing every word that comes out of your mouth, I want to hear what you’ve to say. I need to… Responding to what you affirmed before, yes, I lie a lot. But not to you. I know everything about you, Benjamin. To every person you ever killed to where you sat in class… — Your words faded, as if they were turning to dust in the air — No one wants to know anything about you. No one but me.
He felt his heart bumping too fast and a strange movement in his stomach. That moment did something to him that maybe will never go back to what it was before. That answer, even in his slightly medicated state, throws him off.
Doctors don't talk in this way.
Psychiatrists don't talk in this way.
He started to wonder that, maybe you were truly looking for him. Maybe the feeling he had when you passed through that secured door for the first time was right. Maybe you were different.
So, after many consultations of gazes that were warring with each other, you two finally came to an agreement about who you are to each other. Still with your hand pulling his hair, he managed to say:
After that day, things started to flow like water.
Dex told you about his old habits and routines to stay in control, to deal with his… impulses. Not that you didn't know that about him before, but hearing it from him was like winning an award to you. Like a puzzle fitting together perfectly.
He needed to feel what he was doing was right, a constant need for something to reassure him. Someone, reliable and stable, for him to mirror and fit in. He acted like if he had precision, he could control his reality in some way. You thought that was cute.
When you craved the backfire with him through sneering answers, you lowered his medication to the necessary level, enough to keep him in check, taking him out of his mind and bringing him to earth (or the hell he lived in). But when you wanted to stare into the real him, raw with no barriers, you liked to keep him as doped and docile as possible. He would mutter with his tired harsh features about baseball's rules, all he lost between the burning ambers and the deafening noise inside his mind. Like a tame beast.
Not that he complained about any of that.
The twisted part of him enjoyed the games you played so deeply that it ached.
The “closer to normal” part of him thought that was the closest from intimacy that he ever had. And in a way, he was right.
Sometimes, those four claustrophobic white walls around him looked less like a trap and more closely to a date. Your words seemed less analytical and more sincere, curious. As if your conversations were just innocent blathering, an exchange of listeners.
You listened to him. You cared about him.
For a few minutes, he could almost forget the cold cuffs around his hands and the enormous bodyguards waiting for him outside the door, focusing just on you. Your hair styled so perfectly every single day, formal black clothes unlikely the rest of this hell and scandalous red lipstick. The way you always knew exactly what to say, the unfitting cross around your neck, the confidence you hold so tight with you. There was an afternoon where your fragrance lingered with him a little longer than usual, letting him obsess over it until he could remember it so vividly that you would be with him at all times.
You, you, you. His mind is filled with you.
He would get in trouble with other jailbirds just to get more sessions with you, stealing from you your rest weekends (which he was happy to).
He would give you the answers you wanted to hear, rewarded with your satisfaction.
He didn't know why he liked the fact that you knew everything about him, but he didn't feel threatened (even though maybe he should).
Maybe that made him feel less lonely. He didn't feel detached, or with the need to adjust. He felt truly understood for the first time.
Was it wrong that you used your knowledge in his disorders for your own well? You didn't think so. In the end, you weren't doing that only for you. It was for him. For you two.
The thought was implied between you, so strong that it was almost visible, palpable, but never really verbalized. It would lay in the middle of the words, hidden in the meanings. Quiet and restless, but it existed.
The idea of a future. Of you two. Out of there.
The climate was surprisingly hot the first time you talked about it. At least, it was to the people outside there.
You could hear the hum of the air conditioner behind you. Out of nowhere in the conversation, as a separate comment instead of answering your question (something that always occured), he said:
— I remember that in one of our first sessions you told me that nobody could listen to us here. — He huffed — Actually, I'm being nice about what it was like. You humiliated me telling me that nobody had interest in what I had to say.
The tone in his voice while saying it was odd in a good way. Like a child when they want to express a new idea. The tone of someone who had a different intention.
— I wouldn't put it in that way, but it worked, so it doesn't matter... And yes, nobody hears anything. Nobody but me. You should be sure of that after all this time.
He could see that spark of curiosity and unknown that gleamed so bright in your eyes. That anticipated what he had to say, as if it had been longing for it for a while.
— Why are you talking about that, Dex?
— You didn't let me finish what I was saying, Doc…
Even if you told him a hundred times to call you by your name, he uses the nickname more than often to tease you. He leans over the table, as if trying something. Getting closer to you. Too close to be considered professional to you let it happen. When he starts to talk again, it comes as a murmur only for you to listen.
— That day, you humiliated me about how nobody had interest in me but you. That's when I knew you were the one.
A very few things caught you off guard. You were always so controlled, with everything in the palm of your hand. You were used to your cautious plans, thoughtful decisions until you reached your goal.
But that? That changed everything.
It left you stranded, wrecked. Not in a despairing way, but in a revealing way. As if it was revealing your nature, your true self.
It felt like opening up the door of a cage.
It felt like he was taking off your mask and seeing you look exactly like him.
Everything was gracefully falling into place, and you waited too long for it.
He could feel what that did for you. Maybe in the change of your eyes or the uncharacteristically long time for you to give him an answer. Either way, he did. You didn't have words waiting under your tongue.
You felt you were losing your mind. Or finally being complete.
And, in that moment, the exact same feeling rang in his bones.
You two didn't need more words to explain it, because everything was being said all at once. With that look, with that only sentence.
You were the one. His equal.
Recomposing, letting your smile reach your eyes (the first time he saw it, and he noted on his head to make it appear more times), you gave him in simple, yet profound, words what he wanted to hear.
— I think I agree with you.
You started the plan months before it would happen, because that's how you plan things.
He didn't like the too long time at first, but even his raging side for freedom reluctantly agreed. You said there is a difference between being deranged and stupid, and whatever you said he'd listen.
After all, you know the better for him. You're the only one who truly cares about him.
It began with a little change of his pills. Then with him getting in less trouble. Slow changes, almost imperceptible, but significant. The objective wasn't for the superiors and guards to go easier on him (they never would), but for him to “blend” in. For them to be more occupied with the others than him, until he was just another one. An old trick, but functional.
That part of the plan was easy for Dex. He didn't care about being involved in less problems, or to take whatever you think it's great to him. Actually, he prefers to live in this way. He likes to, needs to have someone telling him what's right and what's wrong, what he should do. An exact plan for him to follow, someone to rely on. And that someone is you.
But there's a part of the plan he wasn't that comfortable to follow. And by comfortable, it means the idea of doing it repulsed him.
It consisted of you changing the psychiatrist who takes care of him, so you wouldn't be the one who was directly working with him when he got away. You would replace yourself with another doctor which was under your jurisdiction, young and too naive to deal with him. You'd said to your supervisors that he was stable and with good behavior, that it would be just preparation through experience, and they agreed. He would do his part, you wouldn't be blamed, and you two could be together. It was perfect in your unsuspecting eyes.
Dex was completely against it. How could he have anybody else now that he has you? How could anybody else dare to try to help him other than you? You calmed his thoughts down by saying it was temporary, for the sake of both of you. You told him to be a good boy. Told him it was for a future together, out of there. He could survive a few weeks without you, right?
Reluctant, he accepted it. The plan was: he'd have a new therapist for two weeks, and after that he would make his escape. He had everything: your plan, the will, the small blades you carefully slipped him to hide. He had you.
So when the first day came, Dex thought he was ready. It would be two long weeks, but he could deal with it. In the early morning, he lost the small sleep he had caught the night before. He didn't make any unpleasant remarks to the other whiny prisoners, and restrained himself from looking in your direction when he noticed you talking to a doctor from a distance. Everything for the sake of the plan, he'd heard you whisper in his head. By lunch, he contained his anticipation with almost perfection. "I hadn't lost my touch yet", he thought.
Everything was working out, until the consultation with the different psychiatrist. They'd force him in the chair and lock his cuffed hands to the table, as always. He'd let out a snarky comment and they would tell him to shut up. Routine.
Until the intruder walked through the door. In your place.
He thought he managed to hold on for about 20 minutes. In reality, it was about six before he snapped.
You were in a reunion, on the other side of the establishment, when it happened. Earlier in the day, you had a feeling that something would go wrong, but you shook it off. You believed Dex, and even if it would be difficult for him to be with someone other than you (which you find extremely endearing), he could deal with it. You believed he could.
Well, you believed it until you saw him that morning.
Until you saw him crossing the grids that separate the enclosures, his usual threatening nature adorned with something else. He walked with confidence, like someone who has an ace up their sleeve that nobody knows about. To you, like someone who knows that is getting out of there.
And he actually thought that he was deceiving someone by his “normal” performance.
Of course he would act like that.
But somewhat, you couldn't be angry with him. Actually, you thought that was amusing. And if he wanted to have that attitude for a full two weeks? Then let the man enjoy himself.
You weren't sure if you really believed he could handle it for that long or if you were just trying to convince yourself that he could, but either way, you continued with your day. You told yourself you were too busy to think about that, which was true, but it didn't stop it from arriving in your thoughts every once in a while.
And you were doing pretty well pretending to not care about it, until the sound of the sirens filled the entire place. Until all the employees started running around in all directions, desperate because of the misinformation about what was happening. An alarm sounding in a prison was never a good sign. While they were dragging you along the rest of the doctors, the cells were forcibly locked by the system, so no one else could escape. But that wasn't what you had in mind.
What went through your mind is that you knew exactly who was responsible for that chaos.
You glance at the circus around you and then at the silver clock around your wrist. It tells you that his consultation started about 5 minutes ago.
He'd probably hide one of those blades between his teeth or whatever to the therapy, which was enough for him to cause damage, and he knew it. By now he probably found anything throwable and it's having a lot of fun wherever he is.
The plan to make a discreet escape fell through. Now you needed a plan B – which was scribbled in the back of his mind and consisted of finding him. Which it was almost impossible by the looks of the place.
Sweat and dread hung in the air, people pushed each other to the nearest exit door, and police officers tried to restrain the other outlaws from doing anything else. Behind them, someone was tracing a trail of blood and bodies while going to the nearest window.
Nothing was really clear at the moment, but he managed to spot you. And, without a shred of shame, as if everything had gone according to plan and you weren’t seething with rage, he flashed that trademark smirk of his and winked. But just as you tried to make your way over to him, as if that was the cleverest to do, someone shoved you hard, and by the next second you were already out of there breathing fresh air.
All of this, as you only realized when you managed to get out, with the biggest smile ever recorded on your face.
When the night came and Dex made sure that he fooled everyone that were after him, he made his way to your apartment. It would be much easier if you had just told him where it was, but you didn't because you knew he would find it somehow, and knew it would be fun for him to search himself for where to find you. Your home was simple on the outside, a complex like any other, thankfully more further away from the noisy Hell's Kitchen center.
He thought about knocking on your door, but what's the fun about that? So he climbed up the emergency stairs and entered through your, open and unaware, window. As if you were waiting for him. Which he knew you were.
He cautiously jumped in the window that led to your room, analyzing his surroundings. The room was like any other one, but it wasn't simple for him. There were traces of you, your true self, everywhere around. And he was sinking into it.
With trained silence, he continued to walk through the rooms to find you. He walked past your neatly made bed and saw a single teddy bear on top of it. The maroon doors, the paintings hanging on the wall together with old photos of you. A younger you graduating, laughing with friends he was going to meet. Being in your own home was far more intimate than he had imagined it could be. It was like a sneak peak of your life when you weren't working.
He was truly entering your world.
He saw your expensive looking couch, useless decorations until he found what he was looking for.
You were with your back to him, with a bottle of wine in your hand filling a glass, while another empty one stood beside it. He knew you were aware of his presence (you always were somehow), but for a little enjoyment, he threw a small dagger in your direction. He could swear you flinched, but he was probably deceiving himself. It landed firmly in the cupboard next to you, not meaning to hurt you – he would never do anything to hurt you in any way – but as a way of marking his territory.
— The city feels off tonight. Not in the elusive way, the one that we want, but quieter. Covered in sweat and precaution, as if it was finally waking up from a bad dream. — you fill the other glass and take it in your hand — Not that it changes anything. But still, it fits the situation.
You sigh loudly, the way you do when something doesn't go as planned. Maybe you can have some fun before you welcome him
— I thought we had agreed on a non-apparent exit. I thought you would be good and follow the plan, and not give that performance.
His expressions failed after hearing it. Dex didn't understand. Weren't you happy to see him? Did he do something wrong? Did you regret everything? Did you hate him? The feeling of disappointment coming from you was unbearable for him. He couldn't stop his tongue from working before he could think about it.
— I had everything under control, I swear, but then that woman came in your place, and I couldn't take it. I couldn't help it. I-...
— You did good. — You interrupted him while turning to finally see him. The relief on his beaten face was immediate — I’m still mad because you couldn’t listen to me and behave, and all this will probably cause more trouble for us but, you did good.
The words flowed too fast. Too vulnerable. You cross the kitchen, placing the two glasses on the balcony.
— Yes, I do. You're not dead, after all. That's enough for me.
The colors came back to his face and he flashed that grin to you.
— It will take much more to kill me, sweetheart, be sure of that.
Silence returned to fill the space between you two, now meaning something more. Not just recognition, but a sense of belonging. As if everything had guided him to this point. He went towards you, not sure of what this could mean, taking up some of your personal space, as if it were meant for both of you.
— I know you're still angry at me, and I promise I will make it up to you but, I did have my moment back there. — He murmured, that small grin growing further as the memories came to his mind— It was far more satisfying than I imagined. You should've seen it. You would have been proud.
He puts an end to the absence, receiving a knowing smile from you. Before you could answer, he continued quietly:
— It's nice to see you other than your professional clothes. You look… cozy
He tilts his head, mentioning your pink pajamas.
You lightly laughed off, looking him up and down while letting yourself get closer.
— Yeah, you too look much better in black than in orange. Even though I don't agree with that red on your face.
He looks down as you mention it. He managed to clean himself, but only enough for him to look acceptable - someone normal, who absolutely didn't just escape from prison. He had bruises and dried blood (mostly not his) all over him. And even if a part of him wanted to rip himself off because of the look in your face, he couldn't not enjoy seeing you so worried about him.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, you let your hand wander to his face, analyzing the cuts in his traces. Your skin feels light on his rough features, closer than you ever could. You touched him as you meant it, with not the intention to hurt. You touch him with no fear, as if he wasn't a threat. As if he was just a man.
— The lawyer who was on your trial, the blind one, came after me today.
His shoulders tense up, the frown in his eyebrows come back, and you almost regret saying that.
The name shone blue, etched with blood in the corner of his mind.
His tone was low, too soft. His jaw clenched, as a way to suppress his anger.
— Not really. — you brush it off — He told me to beware because you would probably go after me now you're out. I said you wouldn't dare to come after me.
He laughed at the image of you making fun of the guy, easing the tension around his eyes. That was such a you thing to say.
— I just wonder if we should worry about him. I don't want to have any obstacles between us anymore.
— No, — Benjamin answered almost immediately, with a firm and assertive tone — you don't have to worry about him. He's just… a pain in my ass. It won't be a problem.
You gave him a shy smile.
— Good. I wouldn't want it to be.
You didn't drink anything (yet), but you felt light by his side, as if you weighed the same as the wind. You finally took in his sight - really looking at him. His stolen guard black uniform, bangs under his eyes softened by the low lights. His big and calloused hands aching for the proximity, too cautious to reach out and truly touch you.
Close enough for your fingers to interlock.
Close enough that you could feel his warm breath hitting you.
Close enough that Dex feared that, if he blinked, he would wake up from a dream. His first nice dream.
— So now that's how it's going to work? — he murmured, subconsciously (or not) leaning into you — Us? Without bars, security guards or any red sirens behind us? It's… quiet. It feels weird.
You move your hand from the scar on his cheek to his jaw, letting it stay there. He leaned in your touch for the first time.
When he heard that coming from your sweet voice, something fell apart inside of him. It was as if you had untied a knot you didn't even know existed, transforming it into something delicate, special.
You were willingly accepting him exactly how he was. You were allowing him to come in, to rest beside you, as if he deserved it.
He felt like he belonged somewhere for the first time. And even if he couldn't believe it, he wouldn't deny it either. So he let himself sink into you.
He let himself enjoy your intoxicating presence. He let his hand make its way to your hips.
He let his fingers find the soft skin of your back.
He let his gaze drill the dark side of your eyes.
He was stuck into you, and-
He followed the command in the same second. He loved an order, an obligation for him to follow, and he was more than excited to follow whatever you wanted him to do.
So he closed the unwanted distance that remained between you, feeling your plump and wet lips against his.
The kiss started slow, but you were both impatient. You've waited for so long to take it slow now.
Your hands went to cup his face, his grip on you was tight enough to leave marks by the morning. The kiss started to get wilder, a mess of teeth, blood and your favorite chapstick all together.
And even then, you were probably the sweetest thing he ever tasted. He couldn't get enough of it, of you. You're like a drug. Not a solution to his problems, but something that embraces them. You were the only way since the beginning. He's messed up (and so are you), but he's yours. Yours to keep, yours to use, to love. All yours.
You make him certain of that while pulling his hair. While biting, lovingly and harshly, down on his lips. While giving every single piece kept in all those months of your dedication, your obsession, your love, to him.
On the other hand, he would take everything you gave him like a promise. Like a prayer to salvation. He would look at you like a rescued puppy, loyal, obedient and honest. He would get on his knees and worship you like a naive follower, treat you like you deserved to be treated. His rough hands on you, your name crossed in his heart. That was his way to show you his love. To show you that, in the same way that he's yours, you're his.
You're starting to think that you loved him. He was already sure he did.
He didn't know where he started and where you ended, or where you two got interlocked in the way, but he didn't need to. Not now that he belonged there, right beside you. Not now that he had you.
You break the kiss, tearing off a grunt from him, stepping back to admire his looking mess. Blonde hair spitting to different ways, blood flowing from the cut on his lower lip and a pair of lovedrunk eyes staring at you. Your masterpiece.
Breathy and shaky, you managed to mutter:
— Dex… I think we're gonna get along.
