ꫂ ၴႅၴ VDL’s ꫂ ၴႅၴ

✶ SUCH A GOOD BOY!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

His love language is acts of service.

He read that somewhere—some stupid quiz you made him take一and he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.

See?

See??

He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.

He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.

You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.

"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do you—"

"Just water, baby."

Baby.

His knees almost buckle.

Focus.

Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him go一such a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.

He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.

Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter because—

He have to be patient.

Waiting.

Just waiting for it.

Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.

"Thank you, love."

Oh.

The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.

He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of coke—

Cute isn't he?

No.

No, he's not cute.

He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.

And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.

Always hard.

Always.

You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.

You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.

What a loser, right?

His dick twitches.

Jesus Christ.

He's hard again.

Weirdo.

Disgusting.

Pervert.

He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.

Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?

Oh god oh god oh god.

You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the point—

"Such a good boy."

Huh?

Good boy??

Him???

He freezes.

Did you just一did those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.

Good. Boy.

And you're smiling.

You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever—

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

He's so hard he could die on spot.

"Um... excuse me."

The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.

Smooth.

Real smooth.

You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.

He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

Okay. Okay, breathe. It's fine. Everything's fine.

You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has to—

no no no no no NO!!!

Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???

If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.

OH!!!

Okay that's better. He gets it now.

Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimes一throws up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himself—

Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Deep breath.

Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's not—he's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be true—

Shut. Up.

Focus.

His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

First—first, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.

He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.

Your panties.

The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.

The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.

Fuuuck.

The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.

He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.

You'd hate him if you knew.

He hopes you never know.

He hopes you find out.

He hopes you walk in right now and see him—cock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his face—and he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.

Your good boy.

Yours.

He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.

But it's fine.

Everything's fine.

He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.

He looks normal.

He is normal.

He's a good boy.

Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.

"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.

And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.

Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.

"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.

You stroke his hair.

He almost gets hard again.

He's so fucked up.

But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.

So he must be doing something right.

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

touch is your language, soft taps on his skin to communicate, it takes him longer than he likes to admit to realise you’re using morse code to talk.

it’s genius too, so smart, his smart sweetheart.

despite the complications in the beginning of your friendship, where it was a little more than hard to communicate, now? now he can read you easy with his hands.

it’s honestly just given him a bigger opportunity to linger, to touch you, to be close to you in a way he can’t get away with being with others.

his hand always curled around your elbow when walking in public, one of your hands always on his bicep to tap when you’re not really doing much.

you both use touch as your language, so much so that matt finds himself forgetting other people don’t talk like you do.

he enjoys laying his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat.

it’s adorable the way you try and make a little more noise with the things you do around the apartment just to indicate you’re still there.

and he’s noticed patterns.

like you shutting the door a little louder some days when you’re annoyed and just want time, or clicking it shut when big really just need him to hold you.

he loves it. loves you he thinks, no he knows.

loves your heartbeat.

your smart little indicators.

loves tracing his hands over your skin to memorise you, like your body holds the answer to every question he’s ever asked himself.

꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ drunk!jason todd x fem!reader, fluff, talks of pregnancies, art by ciricearts

“Sweetheart, we’re gonna have a baby?” he mumbles, lifting your shirt to press messy kisses up your stomach. You’re not sure where he got this idea from. The two of you have never talked about kids, mostly because you’ve been afraid to bring it up.

You learned early on that the future was something you didn’t mention around him. Every time you made an offhand comment about a ring, or how cute babies were, you’d see his shoulders tense, his throat bobbing.

Now, at his words, your heart speeds up. “Uh…”

“I hope she has your eyes and your nose and your pretty smile,” he slurs.

“Jay, what are you—”

He cuts you off when his nose brushes your stomach softly. “Our baby,” he adds. 

When he looks up at you, his blue eyes are glassy, cheeks dusted in pink.

You can’t bring yourself to shatter the moment. Especially not when he’s looking at you like that.

“That’s…nice, honey,” you hum, fingers threading through his black curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

He sighs like a puppy. “You feel nicer.”

Your lips curve up at that. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you whisper as you try to pull him up.

But the man's too stubborn. He stays rooted and grunts in disapproval. 

"Not done talkin' to her," he tells you, arms wrapping around your hips.

“her?” you repeat softly. “How do you know it’s a her?”

"Father's intuition," he says it like it should be obvious. 

You laugh and he pouts when he feels your shoulders shaking. "You really want a baby?" you ask him. 

He tilts his head. And he's never looked so unguarded before. 

"Wanna give you everything." 

Maybe in the morning you'll find the courage to ask him again. But for now, your expression softens. You don't know what to say, so you kneel with him and throw your arms around his neck. He smells like gunpowder and leather, and this time a tang of alcohol clings to him. 

he’s always smelled like home.

"Princess?" he whispers.

"Yeah?

"what're we naming her?" 

Instead of replying, you just hug him tighter.

✶ PINK BRACELET! pt.6

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ a quiet evening with you unravels when dex realizes he can’t stand the softness in your voice every time matt’s name comes up. what starts as ordinary conversation turns sharp and ugly under the weight of his jealousy, until one careless question ruin everything.

including ⠀! ⠀ benjamin poindexter. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession. jealous dex. dex is mentally unstable as usual. angst. part 1 + part 2 + part 3 + part 4 + part 5. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language. ✶

The conversation is fine.

That's the worst part.

Nothing is wrong.

You're sitting across from him in the little café you dragged him to after work. Your hot chocolate has gone half cold because you keep forgetting to drink it. The whipped cream collapsed into a soft white puddle twenty minutes ago.

You're talking.

Smiling.

Laughing.

The city glows beyond the window behind you. Rainwater still clings to the glass in thin silver veins.

Everything is fine.

Everything should be fine.

"—and then Foggy told him that was literally illegal—"

You laugh.

Dex smiles automatically.

The right response.

Smile.

Nod.

Listen.

You're telling a story.

This is normal.

This is what friends do.

You keep talking.

"And Matt—"

There he is.

Again.

Dex stares down at his coffee.

Don't.

Leave it alone.

He can feel it starting.

That awful pressure.

Like a bruise being pressed repeatedly.

Not enough to injure.

Just enough to remind you it's there.

You keep talking.

Something about Matt helping somebody.

Something about Matt saying something funny.

Something about Matt being stubborn.

Something about Matt smiling.

Something about Matt.

Matt.

Matt.

Matt.

The name keeps appearing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And every single time your face softens.

Every single time.

His stomach tightens.

Stop it.

Leave it alone.

It's none of your business.

She can have friends.

People are allowed to have friends.

Normal people talk about their friends.

Normal people don't sit there dissecting every smile and every word and every blush.

Stop.

You keep talking.

Dex takes a drink of coffee.

Bitter.

Cold now.

He barely tastes it.

"...and then Karen said—"

Good.

Karen.

Talk about Karen.

Karen is safe.

Karen doesn't make his chest hurt.

"But Matt—"

Fuck.

His jaw tightens.

You don't notice.

You never notice things like that.

Lucky.

He notices everything.

You keep talking.

"...and Matt went to—"

Buzz.

The sound appears suddenly.

Faint.

Electric.

Somewhere deep inside his skull.

Buzz.

His fingers tighten around the coffee cup.

No.

Not now.

Buzz.

The conversation keeps going.

Your mouth keeps moving.

But the words start slipping apart strangely.

Like they're underwater.

Like they're being pulled away from him.

Buzz.

Leave it alone.

Leave it alone.

Leave it alone.

You don't need to know.

You don't want to know.

If she likes him then she likes him.

What difference does it make?

Buzz.

Your smile widens again.

There.

That smile.

That fucking smile.

The one you only seem to get when you're talking about him.

Buzz.

His chest feels tight.

Too tight.

The café suddenly feels warmer.

Smaller.

The sounds around him begin stretching strangely.

Silverware.

Voices.

Traffic.

Buzz.

Stop.

You don't need to ask.

You absolutely should not ask.

None of this is your business.

You're being weird.

You're being obsessive.

Stop.

You keep talking.

He can't hear any of it anymore.

Just pieces.

Fragments.

"...Matt..."

Buzz.

"...he said..."

Buzz.

"...brown eyes..."

Buzz.

"...Matt..."

The name keeps hitting him.

Over and over.

Like something tapping directly against a cracked tooth.

Buzz.

His pulse is loud now.

His thoughts are louder.

Don't.

Don't.

DON'T—

"Do you like him?"

❝      friendship was supposed to make things easier. that's what dex keeps telling himself. you're his friend now. he gets to see you, talk to you, walk beside you after work, sit across from you while you laugh and ramble and force him to try drinks he never would've ordered himself. but somewhere along the way, something starts changing.⠀⠀❞⠀ 

◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.

◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 5 of series. part 1 + part 2 + part 3 + part 4 + part 6. fem reader. obsessive dex. jealousy. dex is fucked in the head. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.

After that, seeing you becomes part of his routine.

Not a habit.

Something worse.

Habits can be broken.

This settles itself deeper than that.

The first morning he walks into the café after you agreed to be his friend, the bell above the door jingles softly.

And before he even sees you—

he hears you.

Laughing.

Somewhere behind the counter.

The sound reaches him first.

Then your head lifts.

Your eyes find him immediately.

And your entire face changes.

It happens so fast he almost thinks he imagined it.

One second you're talking to a coworker.

The next—

you light up.

Actually light up.

Your smile stretches across your face so suddenly it almost startles him.

"Dex!"

His stomach does something strange.

Something painful.

Something warm.

You sound happy.

Happy.

Because he walked through a door.

Nobody has ever sounded happy because he arrived somewhere before.

Not like that.

And then you're already moving around the counter.

Walking toward him.

Fast.

Like you were waiting.

His brain immediately starts trying to find another explanation.

You're just friendly.

You're like this with everyone.

Don't be stupid.

But then you grab his wrist.

Just casually.

Naturally.

Like you've been doing it forever.

And before he can even make it to his usual booth, you're pulling him away from it.

"Nope."

"What?"

"You can't sit over there."

His eyes flick toward the dark corner automatically.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

You tug his hand again.

"Come on."

And suddenly he's sitting at a table much closer to the counter.

Close enough that he can actually see you working.

Close enough that you can see him.

Close enough that every time he lifts his head—

there you are.

The realization makes something flutter unpleasantly inside his chest.

You return to work afterward.

Customers keep coming.

Orders keep coming.

People keep talking.

The world keeps moving.

But every few minutes your eyes find him again.

And every single time—

you smile.

A real smile.

The one that reaches your eyes.

The one that makes your cheeks lift.

The one that somehow feels directed entirely at him.

And every single time his chest tightens.

Because he doesn't know what to do with that.

He doesn't know where to put that feeling.

People aren't supposed to smile at him like that.

People smile because they're being polite.

Because they're professional.

Not because they're genuinely happy to see him.

But you do.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A week passes.

Then two.

Then three.

And before long, everybody at the café knows him.

Not well.

But enough.

Enough that nobody asks if he's waiting for someone anymore.

Enough that your coworkers glance between the two of you and smile knowingly.

Enough that his usual table is unofficially his.

Enough that you stop asking what he wants.

"Banana milkshake?"

"I was gonna order coffee."

"Too bad."

"What?"

"You need to try this."

And suddenly you're already making something else.

Dex watches you move around the different machines.

You always do this.

You decide he's trying something new.

And then you stand there waiting afterward.

Watching him.

Expectantly.

Like a parent waiting for a child to eat vegetables.

"Well?"

He takes a sip.

You stare.

His stomach twists.

You stare harder.

"Weeell?"

"It's great."

Immediately your face brightens.

"There."

Like you've personally accomplished something.

Every time.

Every single time.

You care.

You actually care.

The realization never gets easier.

At first you wouldn't let him pay either.

That lasted approximately four days.

"No."

"I'm paying."

"Dex."

"I'm paying."

"Dex!"

"I'm paying."

And then somehow he ends up paying while you're glaring at him.

You never actually stop him.

You just complain about it every time.

Outside the café things begin happening naturally.

At least naturally for you.

Nothing about this feels natural to Dex.

You walk together after work.

Sometimes just for a few blocks.

Sometimes for an hour.

Sometimes until neither of you notice how late it's gotten.

You introduce him to food trucks.

Street vendors.

Tiny restaurants squeezed between larger buildings.

Places he would've never entered on his own.

You seem to know everybody.

Or maybe everybody just likes you.

The distinction feels irrelevant.

You always talk while you eat.

Always.

About customers.

Coworkers.

Stories.

Random things.

You fill silence effortlessly.

And Dex mostly listens.

Because listening to you feels easy.

Because your voice never feels like noise.

Because somehow his brain makes room for it.

And the more you talk—

the more he learns.

You love your friends.

That becomes obvious immediately.

Painfully obvious.

"Karen stole my sweater again."

❝      you offered him a chance when he was already preparing to lose you. so now, sitting across from you with trembling hands and too many thoughts, dex does the one thing he's always been terrible at—he tells the truth. about the loneliness. about the silence. about the way people always seem to leave once they realize there's something wrong with him.⠀⠀❞⠀ 

◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.

◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 4 of series. part 1 — part 2 — part 3 — part 5 — part 6. fem reader. obsessive dex. fluff? masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.

The hour feels unbearable.

Dex spends most of it sitting in the corner booth pretending not to look at you while every thought in his head tears itself apart.

You offered to stay.

That’s the thing his brain keeps circling back to.

You could’ve said no.

You could’ve told him politely to leave and never come back.

Instead you said:

We could have coffee together.

Coffee together.

Like normal people.

The phrase feels strange inside his head. Almost unreal.

He watches you from the corner while trying very hard not to look like he’s watching you. Which probably just makes him look worse. Every time your eyes briefly flick toward him, he immediately looks away too fast.

Stop doing that.

Jesus Christ.

Act normal for once in your life.

But his pulse won’t settle.

What if you only said yes because you felt bad for him?

What if you’re scared to reject him directly?

The thought makes nausea twist through his stomach.

He keeps replaying the look on your face earlier.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

But concern.

Carefulness.

Like you were handling something fragile that might suddenly bite you.

The thought digs under his ribs.

By the time your shift finally ends, his nerves feel skinned raw.

You emerge from the back room wearing a softer sweater than before, sleeves covering your hands slightly. Your hair’s down now, loose around your shoulders.

You look younger out of uniform somehow.

Softer.

“There you are,” you say lightly when you spot him still sitting there.

Like you expected him to stay.

Of course he stayed.

Dex stands too quickly.

The table bumps softly against his knee.

Shit.

You pretend not to notice.

“That place across the street is quieter,” you tell him. “We can go there.”

We.

The word lands heavily inside his chest.

Outside, the rain has mostly stopped. The sidewalks still shine wet beneath streetlights, reflecting blurred gold across the pavement. Cars hiss softly through puddles while people hurry past bundled in jackets.

Dex walks half a step behind you automatically.

Not too close.

Don’t crowd her.

You keep glancing back at him occasionally while talking about random things. The weather. A customer who spilled an entire latte earlier. Some guy who tried flirting with your coworker and accidentally asked for her “Instagram number.”

You laugh while telling the story.

Dex watches your mouth move more than he listens.

You laugh so easily.

He doesn’t understand people who laugh easily.

The café you bring him to is small and warm and mostly empty this late in the evening. Soft jazz humming quietly overhead.

You order hot chocolate immediately.

“I hate coffee,” you admit sheepishly.

Hate coffee.

Another thing his brain stores away instantly.

The barista smiles at you like he already knows you.

Of course he does.

People probably remember you everywhere.

Dex orders black coffee because he always orders black coffee. Not because he likes it particularly. Just because it’s efficient. Bitter enough to keep him awake.

You both sit near the window.

And suddenly—

silence.

Awkward.

Thick.

The kind that presses against skin.

You stir whipped cream slowly into your hot chocolate while looking out the window.

Dex can hear the spoon tapping ceramic softly.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Say something.

Anything.

But his thoughts keep colliding against each other too fast.

Don’t scare her again.

Don’t ramble.

Don’t stare.

You glance at him finally and smile awkwardly.

“So…”

❝      dex was convinced he has frightened away the first person to ever treat him with genuine warmth, and so he returns to apologize.⠀⠀❞⠀ 

◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.

◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 3 of series. part 1 — part 2 — part 4 — part 5 — part 6. fem reader. obsessive dex. fluff? masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.

That night, Dex puts the bracelet on the second he gets home.

The apartment is dark except for the kitchen light he forgot to turn off that morning. Pale yellow spilling weakly across the floorboards. Rain still taps softly against the windows. New York sounds distant tonight. Muted by weather.

Usually he likes rain because it dulls the city down a little.

Tonight it just makes him feel hollow.

The front door clicks shut behind him and suddenly the silence inside the apartment presses against his skin too tightly. The rooms feel wrong again. Empty in the way abandoned hospitals feel empty. Like something should be alive there and isn’t.

Dex drops his keys onto the counter.

The sound cracks through the apartment sharply.

Too loud.

Everything feels too loud after you.

Your voice still lingers in his head like warmth trapped beneath skin.

Hey, it’s okay.

His jaw tightens immediately.

No.

Don’t start.

But his brain already has.

The memory replays itself instantly.

Your face softening.

Your voice lowering gently.

The way you looked at him while he stood there unraveling in front of you.

Not annoyed.

Not scared.

That’s the problem.

You saw it.

That’s what keeps digging under his ribs.

You saw it.

You saw something wrong inside him.

He knows you did.

People always notice eventually.

The strange pauses in conversation. The staring. The intensity. The way he starts talking too fast once panic gets into him, words spilling over each other like blood rushing from a slit artery.

Normal people pull away after that.

They get uncomfortable.

Careful.

Guarded.

Dex stares at the bracelet inside the drawer for a long moment before taking it out carefully.

Pink stones.

Rose quartz.

Your hands touched this.

The thought moves through him slowly.

Warm.

Painful.

He slides the bracelet onto his wrist immediately.

The beads settle against his pulse.

And God—

It feels good.

That’s the pathetic fucking part.

The pressure of the stones around his wrist feels grounding somehow. Like something holding him together loosely before he comes apart.

He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed.

The mattress creaks softly underneath him.

His apartment smells like rainwater soaked into old concrete. Laundry detergent. Metal.

His eyes stay fixed on the bracelet.

You noticed when he wasn’t wearing it.

You actually noticed.

Nobody notices things about him unless they’re bad.

Nobody notices if he cuts his hair.

Nobody notices if he stops sleeping.

Nobody notices him at all half the time unless he’s fucking something up socially.

But you noticed the bracelet immediately.

His chest tightens painfully.

Dex lies down eventually without changing clothes first.

One arm folded across his stomach.

The other curled against his chest tightly.

Protecting the bracelet instinctively.

Like he’s afraid somebody’s going to cut his hand off and take it.

The thought should disturb him.

Instead it settles naturally into his mind beside everything else.

The ceiling above him is cracked faintly near the corner. He stares at it while your face keeps resurfacing against the dark behind his eyes.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

Your voice saying just breathe, alright?

His throat tightens.

Why did you say it like that?

Why did you sound—

Kind.

The word feels unbearable.

Because kindness feels invasive to him. Violent in its own way. It crawls under his skin and touches places nobody else reaches.

People are supposed to keep distance from him.

That’s safer.

For them.

For him.

But you stepped closer.

You kept stepping closer.

Even after seeing him panic.

Even after hearing the rambling.

Even after realizing there was something deeply fucking wrong with him.

His eyes squeeze shut hard.

Sleep.

Just sleep.

But his thoughts keep moving.

You looked at him differently near the end.

Didn’t you?

A little distance.

And more fearful too.

Like you finally understood something.

Dex turns onto his side abruptly, curling tighter around himself.

His hand closes around the bracelet against his wrist.

Please don’t be scared of me.

The thought appears suddenly.

Raw enough to make his chest ache.

Please.

He falls asleep eventually sometime near dawn with the bracelet pressed against his chest hard enough to leave marks in his skin.

❝      a simple act of kindness becomes something far more important when benjamin finds himself unable to stay away from the barista who gave him a pink bracelet. after three sleepless days spent replaying every detail of their meeting, dex returns to the café only to see his favorite barista again.⠀⠀❞⠀ 

◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.

◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 2 of series. part 1 here — part 3 here — part 4 here — part 5 here — part 6 here. fem reader. obsessive dex. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.

The thought of you has rooted itself somewhere deep in his nervous system over the last seventy-two hours, and now everything keeps circling back to you no matter what he does. Training. Paperwork. The subway ride home. Standing in his kitchen at two in the morning staring at nothing while the refrigerator hums loud enough to feel like a drill bit pushing through his skull.

Your voice keeps resurfacing.

You need it more than me.

Again.

Again.

Again.

His mind doesn’t replay memories normally. It dissects them. Slows them down until every tiny detail becomes unbearable.

The warmth of your fingers around his wrist.

The exact shape of your smile afterward.

The slight embarrassment in your voice when you apologized for thinking he was a creep.

He remembers all of it with nauseating clarity.

His apartment had felt wrong after meeting you.

Too quiet in some places.

Too loud in others.

The pipes behind the bathroom wall clicked every forty minutes. The neighbor upstairs dragged furniture across the floor around midnight. Water dripped slowly from the kitchen faucet no matter how tightly he shut it off.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

His thoughts wrapped around the sound until it felt like water leaking directly into his skull.

He barely slept.

Every time he closed his eyes, his brain reconstructed your face automatically.

Not intentionally.

It just happened.

Like a reflex.

Your smile appearing suddenly in the dark behind his eyelids while his body jerked awake again.

He’d stood in front of his dresser that morning holding the bracelet for almost fifteen minutes.

Pink stones resting against his palm.

Tiny.

Fragile.

Soft looking.

It looked absurd against his hand. Like somebody had draped flower petals over a gun.

Wear it.

No.

Wear it.

What if it breaks?

His stomach tightened immediately at the thought.

The bracelet snapping during work.

Beads scattering across concrete floors.

Somebody stepping on them accidentally.

Crushing them.

Destroying the thing you touched.

The idea bothered him more than it should have.

Way more.

Embarrassingly more.

So instead he wrapped the bracelet carefully inside an old towel and placed it inside the top drawer beside his bed.

Not tossed.

Placed.

Protected.

Like something alive.

That thought followed him all day.

You touched this.

Your hands were here.

Three days later, he goes back to the coffee shop.

He tells himself it’s because the place is quiet enough to sit in after work.

That’s a lie.

The second he walks through the door, his eyes immediately go to the counter.

Not there.

His stomach drops a little.

Okay.

Fine.

Maybe you’re in the back.

He walks toward the same booth automatically anyway. The dark corner near the wall where the overhead light flickers every few minutes like it’s trying to die. Nobody else ever sits there. People like windows. Sunlight. Open space.

Dex likes corners.

Corners let him see everything.

The door.

The counter.

The hallway to the kitchen.

Everybody’s hands.

Everybody’s faces.

A teenager near the window keeps bouncing his knee under the table. Fast rhythm. Anxiety maybe. The woman beside him smells strongly of lavender detergent. Somebody burned milk recently. He can still smell it faintly underneath the coffee beans.

But you’re not there.

He sits down slowly.

Maybe you’re late.

The thought settles badly.

You didn’t seem irresponsible.

You seemed—

No. Stop.

Don’t do that.

Don’t start building a whole personality out of a conversations and a fucking bracelet.

A waitress approaches him after a minute or two. Red lipstick. That's the first thing he notices.

“What can I get you?”

His eyes flick toward the counter again before answering.

“No thank you.”

Too blunt.

He hears it immediately.

The waitress pauses slightly.

Weird answer.

Yeah. He knows.

You can’t sit in a café without ordering, idiot.

She walks away.

Dex keeps looking toward the entrance every few seconds.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Twenty.

Still nothing.

Rain taps softly against the windows outside. Steady. Wet. Gray light bleeding through the glass. The café feels warmer today because of the storm. More crowded too.

Couples.

Always fucking couples.

A woman near the front laughs and rests her hand against her boyfriend’s arm.

Dex looks away immediately.

His jaw tightens.

Twenty eight minutes.

You’re late.

What if something happened?

The thought appears so naturally it almost feels logical.

Subway platform.

Wet pavement.

Car accident.

No.

Stop.

But his brain doesn’t stop once it starts moving.

You were walking home. Somebody grabbed you. Somebody followed you. Somebody hurt—

STOP.

His fingers tighten hard around the edge of the table.

The café noise suddenly gets louder.

Too loud.

Ice clinking in glasses.

Milk steaming.

Fork scraping plate.

A man coughing near the bathroom.

His head starts hurting.

Where the fuck are you?

Thirty four minutes.

His leg starts bouncing unconsciously beneath the table.

You’re fine.

You’re obviously fine.

People are late all the time.

But then another thought slides in underneath the panic.

Maybe you quit.

His stomach twists immediately.

Maybe you told your manager about the weird guy sitting in the corner watching you like a psycho.

Maybe they told you not to approach him anymore.

Fuck.

He shouldn’t have come back.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He should leave now before you even get here.

But he stays.

Because if he leaves and you—

What if you walk in right after?

What if you look for him and he’s gone?

The thought hits him so hard emotionally it actually startles him.

Look for him?

Huh.

He grips the edge of the table harder.

You don’t even know him.

No.

He stays.

Thirty nine minutes.

Then—

your voice.