❝      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. 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…”

❝      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. 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."

✶ LET IT GO HONEY + akotsk men™

when you want to divorce them.

◜ including ⠀! ⠀valarr targaryen. aerion targaryen. daeron targaryen. duncan the tall. bealor targaryen. maekar targaryen.

◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀obsessive characters? modern au. angst. fem reader. masterlist. gif by @.borgialucrezia. english is not my first language.

Valarr Targaryen

When you tell Valarr you want a divorce, he doesn't speak for a long time.

You expect anger. Maybe pleading.

Instead he just sits there.

Quiet.

Looking at you like you've spoken a language he doesn't understand.

Valarr has spent years trying to be good.

Good husband. Good man. Good partner.

He isn't perfect. He knows that.

But he genuinely believed the two of you were forever.

So when you say you're leaving, his first reaction isn't rage.

It's grief.

Pure grief.

"Did I miss something?"

The question comes out rough.

You shake your head.

"It just isn't working anymore."

Valarr nods slowly.

But you can see the devastation happening behind his eyes.

Because he isn't hearing it isn't working.

He's hearing you weren't enough.

For weeks afterward he keeps reaching for his phone to text you.

He stops himself every time.

Then starts again.

Then stops.

Then starts.

You still find groceries left outside your apartment sometimes.

The specific tea you like.

Medicine when you're sick.

Winter tires when the weather changes.

No note.

No name.

Just things that need doing.

Because loving you has become instinct.

And instincts don't disappear just because someone leaves.

Months later he still checks whether you've gotten home safely.

Still knows your schedule.

Still notices when your social media goes quiet.

Not because he's trying to control you.

Because part of him never figured out how to stop being your husband.

And some nights he sits alone wondering which version of himself you needed.

Because he would have become him.

If only you'd told him.

Aerion Brightflame

Aerion laughs.

Actually laughs.

The second you say you're leaving.

A sharp ugly sound.

"You're joking."

You aren't.

The realization arrives slowly.

Then all at once.

Aerion has never handled rejection well.

Not from anyone.

Certainly not from you.

Because somewhere along the way he became convinced you belonged to him.

Not legally.

Not romantically.

Fundamentally.

The way people think the sky belongs above them.

The way people think tomorrow will arrive.

He takes your divorce papers and stares at them.

Then throws them across the room.

"You think this is about choice?"

The anger isn't loud.

That's the frightening part.

It's cold.

Controlled.

The kind that cuts instead of burns.

For weeks he oscillates between anger and desperation.

One day he's sending messages calling you a fucking bitch.

The next he's standing outside your apartment at three in the morning asking if you're sleeping well.

The next he's acting like nothing happened.

As if eventually you'll come home.

Because reality keeps refusing to fit inside his head.

Aerion doesn't know how to process losing something he loves.

He only knows how to possess it.

And possession becomes impossible after divorce.

So he starts unraveling.

You hear about him through mutual friends.

Not sleeping.

Picking fights.

Drinking too much.

Working obsessively.

Looking worse every month.

Because underneath all the arrogance and cruelty is a terrible truth.

You were the only person he ever allowed close enough to wound him.

And you wounded him mortally.

He just refuses to die from it.

Daeron Targaryen

Daeron already knows.

Before you say anything.

He has known for months.

Maybe longer.

The late nights.

The distance.

The way conversations became shorter.

The way your eyes stopped searching for him when you entered a room.

Daeron notices everything.

He just pretends he doesn't.

When you finally sit him down he sighs softly.

Like a man hearing confirmation of a diagnosis he already received.

"Oh."

That's all.

Just oh.

You immediately start crying.

Because somehow that's worse.

Daeron reaches over and wipes your tears away automatically.

The habit is so ingrained neither of you notices at first.

Then both of you freeze.

And that hurts.

God.

That hurts.

"You deserve somebody better than me."

You shake your head.

"No."

But Daeron smiles sadly.

Because he doesn't believe you.

Never has.

The divorce is surprisingly peaceful.

No screaming.

No threats.

No revenge.

Just heartbreak.

Slow.

Relentless heartbreak.

The kind that follows you home.

Months later he still writes messages he never sends.

Still buys gifts before remembering he has nowhere to send them.

Still dreams about you.

He sees you occasionally.

Mutual events.

Mutual friends.

And every time he smiles.

Every time he's kind.

Every time he lets you leave again.

Because Daeron loves you enough to let you go.

Which is unfortunate.

Because some selfish part of him desperately wishes he didn't.

Duncan the Tall

Dunk looks genuinely terrified.

Not angry.

Not offended.

Terrified.

Like somebody just told him the floor beneath him is collapsing.

"What did I do?"

You hate that question.

Because it isn't one thing.

It's a hundred little things.

Life.

Time.

Distance.

People changing.

But Dunk keeps looking at you like if he can just find the mistake he'll fix it.

And that's the problem.

He always tries to fix everything.

You tell him it's over.

He asks if counseling would help.

You say no.

He asks if some time apart would help.

You say no.

He asks if there's somebody else.

You say no.

Every answer somehow makes him look worse.

Because then there isn't a solution.

And Duncan is a man built for solutions.

Afterward he throws himself into work.

Everyone notices.

Longer hours.

Extra shifts.

No vacations.

No weekends.

Anything to avoid going home.

Because home doesn't feel like home anymore.

The apartment is full of your ghosts.

Your coffee mug.

Your blanket.

Your favorite movie still saved on the television.

He can't throw them away.

Can't keep them either.

Sometimes he almost calls you.

Not because he wants you back.

Because something funny happened.

Or because he saw something you'd like.

Or because after years together you're still the first person he wants to tell things to.

Then he remembers.

And the silence that follows is unbearable.

For Duncan, losing you isn't dramatic.

It's worse.

It's ordinary.

A thousand tiny absences every day.

Forever.

Baelor Breakspear

Baelor does not argue.

Which somehow makes it harder.

You sit across from him expecting negotiations.

Counterarguments.

A plan.

Baelor always has a plan.

Instead he listens.

Carefully.

Completely.

Then folds his hands.

And asks one question.

"Have you already decided?"

You nod.

The conversation ends there.

Because Baelor respects decisions.

Even the ones that destroy him.

Especially those ones.

You don't see the damage immediately.

Baelor is too disciplined.

Too controlled.

Too proud.

The breakdown happens privately.

Late at night.

Alone.

Where nobody can see it.

Because Baelor built his entire life around responsibility.

Duty.

Commitment.

And he takes the failure of his marriage personally.

He examines every memory like evidence.

Searching for the moment things started dying.

The terrifying thing about Baelor is that he never really stops loving you.

He simply learns to carry it.

Years later he can have another partner.

Another life.

Another future.

And still remember exactly how you took your coffee.

Exactly how your laugh sounded.

Exactly which side of the bed you preferred.

The love never disappears.

It just becomes something quiet.

Something permanent.

A scar beneath the skin.

Maekar Targaryen

Maekar gets angry.

Immediately.

Not screaming.

Not throwing things.

Just that sharp controlled anger that means he's trying very hard not to lose control.

"Why?"

The word comes out like an accusation.

You explain.

He interrupts.

You explain again.

He interrupts again.

Not because he isn't listening.

Because he doesn't want to hear it.

Maekar has spent years convincing himself that if he works hard enough, provides enough, protects enough, then the people he loves will stay.

So when you leave, it feels like proof that effort means nothing.

The divorce becomes a battlefield.

Not because he hates you.

Because he cannot accept defeat.

Every discussion becomes an argument.

Every agreement becomes another negotiation.

Until one day he finally sees you crying.

Really crying.

Exhausted.

Broken.

And something inside him finally snaps.

Not anger.

Acceptance.

The worst thing imaginable.

After that he signs everything.

Lets you go.

Stops fighting.

You think that's the end.

It isn't.

Because Maekar's love doesn't vanish.

It hardens.

Years later he still checks your name online.

Still knows where you work.

Still remembers every anniversary.

Not because he's planning anything.

Not because he's stalking you.

Because he cannot forget.

And perhaps never will.

If someone asks whether he loved his ex-wife, he'll stare at them for a long moment.

Then answer quietly:

"More than was good for either of us."

And that's the closest thing to a confession you'll ever get from him.

Triple threat of dogshittery but this app babies and protects him to death and acts like none of these are verifiable from his own fucking social media and podcast 🥴

There is really something strange about how female celebrities that show their true colors like Sydney Sweeney gets easily lambasted but their equally gross male celebrity counterparts that are unapologetic with their dogshit stances like Bernthal is given endless grace and protected. Why not keep the same energy? Wonder why.

And btw Sydney Sweeney didn't even did half of shit that this mf had done.

Also I'm glad I never ever found him physically attractive. Thanks fucking god.

commission for @crowinpines

❝      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. 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."