summary: you forgot to socialize your cat and now it became your girlfriend's problem
word count: 1k+
tw: none!! set in early season 4, reader is not a supe
a/n: based on this request! me and my cat bucky hope you like it
| getting a cat while working full time in government probably wasn't the smartest decision of your life but you somehow made it work anyway. tabby, a long haired boy that you adopted from some old lady from facebook was definitely a full personality. honestly you would let him represent you in court. tabby wasn't a typical cuddly kitty but he had your whole apartment always under watch and ruled a very strict schedule of feeding times. he also had a lot to say. because of the way you worked, at some point you had to get him a petsitter, pretty common thing in new york city. elizabeth, that was her name, quickly became almost a part of your family. you even ended up hosting a birthday party for her after stalking her friends online. with that being said tabby knew personally two people - you and his petsitter.
even if you actually had time to meet with your friends it never happened at your place, and when your then almost-girlfriend, victoria was suppose to come over for the first time you realized that tabby actually has never seen another person in his cat life. for the first few brief meetings that vicky was at your place, drinking wine and talking, he kept his distance usually just watching the two of you from the highest platform of his cat tree. he was quiet enough that victoria didn't even notice you having a cat till one time he meowed loudly because you forgot to feed him. she mentioned then that she never had a pet in her life or knew anyone who did. tabby ignored her presence completely not even looking up at her, focused on you preparing him food and meowing loudly so you would do it faster.
now, good two months later victoria started staying at your place for more nights in a row and tabby started to act like he usually did. walking infront of you, making you almost trip over him whenever you stood up. looking at both you when victoria was cuddled around you on the couch like he was measuring whenever you needed saving. it wasn't anything new that you had full conversation with him but victoria seemed pretty shocked when he kept meowing back at you. at first she would pretend tabby didn't actually exist and honestly it wasn't hard as he wasn't the type to join you in bed. she would stand and curiously look over your arm when you were preparing him food, at some point she started telling him to shut up and wait till you finish and you would laugh at how he completely ignored her.
vicky quickly figured how much this cat meant to you. but she also understood why stan edgar never allowed any animals in the house. it's not like she exactly dreamed of having a cat or a dog as a child, she grew up pretty quickly and was focused on whatever her father figure wanted from her. she didn't hate pets, no but she noticed how time consuming those little creatures were and that she didn't have enough patience to bother with it even if it meant having company. she also liked (to say at least) having everything under control so the way you would be always unbothered by tabby doing whatever he wanted was not exactly understandable for her. once she tried to pick him up from the counter and he jumped out off her arms the second she lifted him in the air. she almost had a heart attack. and he yelled at her after landing on four paws.
one day you left victoria alone at your place when you went downstairs to pick up the takeout. vicky nodded, closed the door behind you and the second she turned around tabby was standing infront of her looking as she later said "straight into her eyes".
- what? - she asked seriously looking down at him.
- meow - tabby didn't move a step, actually he decided that sitting down infront of her was the perfect choice.
victoria kept the eye contact few more seconds and carefully went over him to go back to the couch. tabby meowed again after her like he was offended that she so casually ignored his presence. before vicky could answer he spawned now infront of the couch again looking at her while licking one of his paws. vic frowned back at him and tried to look at her phone when tabby meowed back making her move her eyes away from the screen.
- what do you want from me? - she asked, dead serious like he could actually answer (well, usually he did but it's not like she would get it).
tabby stayed quiet looking at her still so victoria lifted herself up and put her hand out to pet his head. she saw you few times before, patting him or going through his long fluffy fur with your nails. maybe that's what he wanted. some touch and love since he was left just with her. maybe she had an actual shot on forming an alliance with this creature. unfortunately, tabby instead of leaning into her touch, very dramatically stood up and walked few steps away from her hand to sit down again. victoria signed when he meowed back.
- i think your cat hates me - that was the first thing you heard when you walked inside with takeout in your hand.
- meow - you laughed hearing him meow back at it and placed the boxes on the couch. tabby stood up and bumped your leg with his head.
- see he agrees - vicky seemed almost offended by it but got distracted when you handed her a box of fries.
the conversation drifted off after, both of you sitting down on the couch to eat. tabby kept you company now lying down on a coffe table, apparently when you get a cat every surface becomes his automatically. you stopped trying to stop him long time ago. at least he wasn't the type to steal food like you knew some cats were cause victoria wouldn't survive sharing her food with a cat. even though you had to share yours with her almost everyday.
- do you think he knows i'm a supe? - victoria asked at some point looking back at him.
- i mean, i'm a firm believer that animals can sense more stuff than we can - you answered putting more fries into your mouth - can you imagine pets on v?
- yeah, maybe that's why he hates me - vicky murmured not really commenting on your new theory.
- imagine like murderous chickens or something - you laughed at your own thought, ignorning what victoria just said and also how she furrowed her eyebrows while avoiding your gaze slighty, focused on her drink now
- crazy concept
a/n: shoutout to my favorite episode of the series wih this one! requests are open for vicky, firecracker and whoever you want honestly. share your thoughts, like and reblog
warnings : fem!reader x soft!dom!baran . nsfw , mdni . mommy kink . pussy slapping/spanking (r!receiving) . teasing/denial . brat taming . light humiliation . power imbalance . overstimulation .
wc : 1k
find the request here
you’re sprawled across the bed on your back, knees bent and thighs parted just enough that the cool air hits you where you’re already aching. baran stands at the edge of the mattress, in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled up to her forearms like she just walked in from a long shift and decided this was the next thing that needed fixing. her eyes are steady on you, a quiet, assessing look she gets when she’s sizing up a situation. not mad exactly. just disappointed, which hits harder than yelling ever could.
“you knew what i told you this morning,” she says, voice low and even, almost conversational. she reaches down and runs two fingers along the inside of your thigh, slow, like she’s checking your temperature. “don’t text me anything dirty during my shift. and what did you do?”
you swallow, hips twitching without meaning to. “i texted you.”
“three pictures.” her fingers stop just short of where you want them. she gives your thigh a light tap, more warning than anything. “you know better. you don’t listen very well, do you?”
before you can answer she climbs onto the bed, knee pressing the mattress between your legs so she can settle in closer. her hand slides down inch by inch, fingertips brushing over your hips, then lower until she’s cupping you lightly through your underwear. you’re already damp and she lets out this quiet hum, like she expected it but still likes feeling it. she hooks her fingers in the fabric and tugs it aside with a small smirk before pulling it down, exposing you completely. the first smack is light, almost teasing, right over your pussy. the sound is soft but it makes your breath catch anyway.
“say thank you, mommy,” she murmurs, rubbing the sting in slow circles with two fingers. her tone is almost gentle, like she’s teaching you something important.
“thank you, mommy,” you breathe, cheeks burning.
“good start.” she nods, satisfied. she rubs her palm over your pussy in slow circles, spreading the slick that’s already leaking out of you. and lands another one, a little firmer this time. the heat blooms fast, mixing with how soaked you’re getting. every slap makes your clit throb harder and you can hear how wet the sounds are now, obscene in the quiet room. baran watches your face the whole time, composed as ever, but there’s this tiny flicker at the corner of her mouth when you start to squirm.
she spanks you again and you gasp out another “thank you, mommy.”
you’re repeating it like a mantra between little hitched breaths, thighs trying to close but her knee keeps them open. she’s methodical about it, never too fast, never letting you get used to the rhythm. sometimes she pauses to drag her fingers through your folds, spreading the slick around, pressing just enough on your clit to make your hips buck before pulling back and landing another spank. your voice cracks on one of the thank yous and she leans down, brushing her lips against your temple.
“good girl. you’re getting so soaked for me.” her fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance but not pushing in. “so messy and desperate just because mommy’s correcting you.” her fingers tap lightly against your swollen clit, not quite a spank but enough to make your legs tremble. “does it feel good when mommy puts you in place?”
you nod fast, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the mix of sting and need. “please, baran- mommy, i need you to take care of me. i’ll listen next time, i swear, just let me cum. it hurts…” you whine, voice wrecked.
“then i guess you’ll be a good girl and take what i give you.” she says, but there’s warmth under the words, the way her free hand strokes your thigh like she’s proud of how well you’re holding still for her. another firm smack lands and you moan, back arching. the sting is sharper now, your pussy throbbing and soaked, every slap echoing wetter than the last. you can feel it dripping down between your cheeks, ruining the sheets, but baran just keeps going.
you can barely hold out, you don’t care what consequences she’ll give you at this point, you just need to come. “please… just touch me properly, let me come, i’ll be good-“
she hums like she’s considering it as she leans down closer, breath warm against your ear as her fingers rub slow, slick circles over your clit again, just enough pressure to make your legs shake. you think she’s giving in. her touch feels so good after the sharp smacks, warm and sure, the way only she knows how to touch you. your back arches a little and you whimper her name again, softer.
your hand reaches up to grip her shirt, pulling her closer, whispering please over and over like it might convince her.
her fingers slow, then stop. she presses one last soft kiss to your temple before pulling her hand away completely. you make this wrecked little sound, hips chasing her touch, but she’s already moving. she wipes her fingers casually on your inner thigh, leaving a shiny streak there like a reminder. then she swings her leg back and stands up, smoothing her shirt down like nothing happened.
you blink up at her, dazed, pussy throbbing and dripping onto the sheets.
“i have something important to finish,” she says, her voice is back to professional. she glances at you once more, taking in the sight of you spread out, panting and ruined. “don’t touch yourself.”
you make a broken sound of protest but she’s already turning toward the door.
the door clicks shut behind her, leaving you aching and dripping. you can still feel the ghost of her hand, the sting, the slick and the promise that she’s not really done with you tonight.
jason todd x fem!reader, smut? idk man, not edited
“Jason, please," you whine into your phone. It's connected to his comms. You can hear his heavy grunts and the bodies of goons slamming to the ground.
All that only made you wetter and more desperate.
Now you have needs. Needs that Jason can’t always take care of from miles away. That’s fine. You have your trusted pink vibrator. Expect this time it decided to give out in the middle of it all. You'd been thinking of Jason while you played around, thinking about how he'd whisper filthy things into your ear, all while somehow still being so sweet and careful. him trying not to crush you when all you needed was for him to do just that. it was all you could think about while you were on the phone with him, your body buzzing with need. You want your man to crush you.
"i need you," you beg, all sense of shame gone. Your fingers play around with your clit, but god, none of it—not even your beloved vibrator—had or will ever compare to your boyfriend.
He's panting on the other side. though, for completly diffrent reasons. "fuck, sweetheart, you know i cant—
"Then talk me through it," you argue.
"I'm fighting criminals, theres nothin' sexy about it." he grumbles. "Just a bit longer?" then, he lowers his voice. "please, baby?"
Nothing sexy his ass. As if any of that mattered when he has you talking to him so wonderfully.
"Fuck you, todd," you mutter, not really meaning it.
"Later," he says as he—you think—swings at someone becasue you hear a crack.
“dex needs like a really weirdo fucked up girlfriend” (ben poindexter x reader)
whatever wilson said ;) (ill post a part two with more unhinged ones, these are quite vanilla)
warnings?: shes crazy, he loves it.
1. you are a lovely girlfriend, cleaning up when dex wasn’t home, cooking simple meals for when you want to have a night in, fixing up his suit when the fabric tears.
while you do such lovely, domestic acts for dex, you also become giddy when he stumbles into the apartment bleeding from his side. stitching him close with precision and love. your tongue bitten between your teeth.
he was yours in these moments, slouched against the couch, panting in your ear, saliva lightly dripping down the corner of his mouth- mouth slightly agape as he watched you mend you up.
2. on late nights when dex was gone for hours on hours, and it felt wrong to be in bed alone. you would grab your book, blanket and any clothing dex had worn before leaving and snuggle on the couch. sitting on the couch meant you had direct view of the front door.
you memorized the sound of his footsteps, so when he was outside the apartment you would unlock the door before he could knock.
the first couple of times dex found it amusing and a little creepy. now he finds it comforting and greets you with a kiss and nibble on your bottom lip every fucking time.
3. the first time you meet matt murdock, its under quiet violent circumstances.
matt realizes something is deeply wrong with you almost immediately. he hears your heartbeat slightly change while dex talks about violence and instantly understands, you like this.
your big, bad, misunderstood boyfriend is just creating boundaries, trying to better himself for you!
and it turns you on so so bad.
4. one night you went to sleep quite early, dex smiles with glee finding his missing knife tucked inside your nightstand beside lip gloss and receipts like it belongs there. he leaves it, just to see what you’d with it.
should’ve taken in because dex opens his eyes to you straddling him, nose almost touching his with the very same knife digging into his neck.
your eyes are glassy and red, lips wobbling as you whisper out, “who is karen?”
“karen?” dex repeats, like he’s annoyed the name is even in your mouth.
“she can’t even choose between murdock and castle and you’re worried about me talking to her?”
a short, humorless exhale.
“there is no one for me in this world, except you”
then, quieter he whispers against your lips while softly taking the knife from your shaking hands “so stop acting like there’s anyone else here.”
5. dex was maybe a block away from the apartment when he felt you behind him, he stopped and smiled. “sweetheart…i know your there.”
you emerged from the shadows pouting, “you only kissed me two times.”
you heard dex’s muffled laugh through his mask as he sauntered over to you, sliding his hands over your ass. he leaned down to kiss you and you deepened it wrapping your legs around him.
“you left this” you whispered handing him one of his main knifes. dex smiled as he rubbed his thumb across the engraved blade ‘taken’.
he looked up to see you walk away back home, “thanks for the kiss.”
dex being dex, made sure you got in and locked the door before walking back down the street.
6. he found a box of his belongings, not belonging but what else do you call it? his broken tooth from a fight, a bullet case you personally removed from his body months back. polaroids of him sleeping, and one with him taking off his suit mid way. you kept clipping of his vigilante name from newspapers.
you were scared when dex approached you with the box in his hands, “you kept these things?” he asked lowly.
shamefully, you nodded. and in return he smiled and slammed his lips onto yours.
“no one has cared for me like this ever.”
7. you liked documenting stuff on your phone, photos and videos of scenery, food, little ducklings in the park.
detailed videos of his scars and wounds across his body as he slept, a video of him putting on his suit, mask and weapons in their respective places. selfies of the both of you in dim lighting, as he softly licked into your mouth.
at night, you would record the marks he would leave all over you after fucking while he was in the shower. a keep sake for when they would fade away. your favorite was photos of him candid at home, shaving his beard with a towel wrapped around his waist hanging dangerously low on his hips.
——————————————————————————
the things i would do to play dex’s weirdo fucked up gf
synopsis: when you started dating dex, he kept his masked alias s secret from you just so he could get around unseen and make sure you stayed safe on the crime ridden streets. unexpectedly, you caught him. and he found your fear of bullseye more amusing than was humanly acceptable.
word count: 2.9k
warnings/content: stalking, dex being a maniac, toxic relationship, reader being scared out of her mind, mentions of violence, scars, mentions of mental illness
pae speaks ~ i hope you enjoy dex being scary because who doesn’t love that ;) divider from @thecutestgrotto !!
A loud clang rattled through the apartment as you frantically moved about, knocking pots and pans onto the linoleum floor. You moved around with urgency, chest heaving and hands shaking with fear and adrenaline.
All of the curtains were shut, doors locked but you couldn’t remember if you’d left a spare key under the mat outside the front door.
You ran to it, yanking it open and shrieking as a man stood there. He quickly took hold of your arms, strong hands biting into your skin.
“Hey,” he said in that grounding tone you knew so well. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s just me.”
You blinked rapidly and through your panic you made out his face. Dex. Your heart slowed back to a steady rhythm but your breathing was still choppy.
Dex stepped closer, his broad shoulders filling up the entire doorway. You barely stepped back, letting his hands slide to your shoulders. “What happened to make my girl so scared, huh?”
You tilted your head back, staring up at him. You gripped his bicep and with the other hand gestured behind you. “He… he was there.”
Dex brushed some hair behind your ear. “Who—”
“I saw him.” You gasped, your pulse thrumming in your ears again. “He was there. He was there. He was coming after me… I… I saw him. And… and he’s coming, Dex.”
He forced the grin off his face, leaning down slightly to your level. “Who was it, baby? Who’s coming for you?”
Your eyes flicked over his face, dragging along the gorge of a scar on his cheek. You swallowed hard.
“Bullseye.”
That one little word sank like claws into his chest, an unfurling pride that made his eyes nearly turn feral. You didn’t notice. He stepped further inside your half-ransacked apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Sit down,” he instructed.
You shook your head. “He’s coming! He’s going to get me and—”
Dex gripped your jaw firmly, not bruising but just enough to shut your mouth. “No one’s touching you with me here, understood?”
Without another word, you went to sit on your couch, every little creak in the settling building or a groan of a pipe outside made you flinch. Every tiny disturbance of quiet made your skin prickle with unease. You pulled your legs your to your chest, worrying your lip between your teeth.
Dex crouched down in front of you, looking up through his lashes, his massive body trying to accommodate to the smaller space. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. Just stared. Memorized. Storing away every detail of your distressed features, making you even more beautiful than he thought was possible.
Then, he slipped something out from his pocket.
Your eyes tracked the movement before he reached for your hand. He uncurled your fingers from their tight fists and placed dark blue fabric there instead.
Dex gently pushed it towards you.
Hesitantly, you slowly but surely unfolded it and held it up in front of you. It was a balaclava. But not just a random one. Bullseyes.
“How’d you get this?” Your voice was nothing more than a timid whisper.
He stood back up, his shadow looming over you. “Put it on.”
Your eyes went wide, staring up at him like he was insane. Put it on? Your hands were trembling as you looked back at it. “But Dex, he’s coming for me…”
“Then show him you aren’t afraid.”
But you were terrified. More than you’d ever been in your life. Yet, after a long moment just staring at it, you slowly began pulling it over your head. It was loose on you and it smelled familiar. Like someone you knew. Maybe it was just the fact that Dex was standing right in front of you.
Once it was on, Dex had to hide his reaction. You looked like him now—a symbol of fear, lethal precision, and insanity. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, staring at him like he had just defeated the man you were trying to outrun.
The man who was now inside your apartment, taking up the safety of your home without you having a clue of who and what he really was.
And that’s what made it so fun. He fed off the way you clung to him when you were frightened, how you were so afraid of Bullseye that you were willing to put on his mask to prove that you were trying not to.
Something twisted inside him. Something hungry and crooked and so very wrong. But he couldn’t help it.
Dex lifted you off the couch, you compliant as he led you to the bathroom. Once you saw yourself, your fingers tightened on his hand.
“Not so scary now, hmm?” He hummed into your ear, the sound only slightly muffled.
Your reflection wasn’t you. It was Bullseye in another form of soft curves and small stature. The large shirt and sleep shorts adorning your body looked completely out of place with the dark balaclava on your head. It was clearly too big, but at the moment it didn’t seem like a big deal.
“I…” you took a deep breath. “He wouldn’t appreciate me pretending to be him.”
Little did you know, he was loving it. If it were anyone else, they’d be dead before they even saw him coming. But you? His beautiful girl? It was a sight he’d keep ingrained in his head forever.
“You’re not pretending.” Dex curved his skilled fingers around your wrist, coaxing you to face him. “Not yet, anyway.”
When your eyes met his, they were hot, blazing with an intensity that sent sparks shooting down your spine. Without any jerky movements, he brought your hand to his throat. Your breath hitched as your fingers wrapped around it.
Dex felt a jolt of need surge through his veins. “There you go,” he breathed out. “Now you are.”
Your pulse was thumping hard, your mouth dry. But your body was still locked in flight or fight mode, your brain alert for danger. “He’s coming, Dex. He’s not going to like this. You stole from him.”
He let out a blunt chuckle that made your skin prickle with unease. Then, he began to pull the balaclava off your head. “I’m not a thief.”
When he slid it on, your entire body locked up. Your mouth hung open. Terror and recognition and betrayal shot through your body like a bullet nestling deep within your bone tissue.
Dex wasn’t Dex anymore.
He was your worst nightmare.
Panic flooded through Dex. This wasn’t how he wanted you to find out but he was desperate for you to accept him. To see how messed up he was and still want him.
But when you took a step back, face ridden with insurmountable fear, he knew he would have to get you to understand. Even if that meant giving you the upper hand for a little while.
“Run.”
That single word put your legs into motion. Without a second thought, you sprinted out of the bathroom. As you made a beeline for the front door, the rug slipped beneath your feet. You collapsed to the floor with a strangled cry, a million emotions slamming into each other like broken waves against rocks.
Your boyfriend was Bullseye. The same man you’d watched feed the neighbors cat, the one who gave the homeless money, the one who you thought was good.
You let him into your home every day willingly. He kissed you good morning and good night, held you when the day went badly, slept in your bed and kept his strong arms tight around you like he couldn’t bear you to leave.
And now you understood why that was.
His heavy footsteps crept behind you, steady thumps that sent you flying back to your feet.
Once you were in the hallway, the lights dim and humming, you ignored the elevator and flew down the stairs. You didn’t stop running, now even when you accidentally fell down the last few steps at the bottom.
Would he hurt you? The answer seemed obvious. Dex wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Or maybe that was just the Dex he let you see.
Bullseye was the monster of Hell’s Kitchen. He locked on his target and didn’t stop until they were dead, using everything and anything at his disposal to eliminate those who he saw as threats and a waste of space.
Now he was truly after you. Not just the Bullseye you had seen across the street after a quick late night run to the corner store, watching you and tracking you like a predator stalking its prey.
He put a target on you. Smack dab in the middle of your face to let the entire city know Bullseye was coming for you next.
Tears obscured your vision as you clambered into a cleaning supplies closet. The smell of bleach and other chemicals infected your nose. You pressed up against the back wall, the only sliver of light coming from beneath the door.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, praying that this was a good enough hiding spot. You listened over the sound of your rapid heartbeat, trying to hear him.
Maybe he thought you left the building you told yourself, trying to cling onto the hope that you had outsmarted New York’s most deadly assassin.
Then you watched a giant shadow creep closer until you could see the tips of his boots.
You closed your eyes.
The door opened.
“No!” You screamed as those heavy, gloved hands latched onto your arms and begin to drag you out of the closet.
Dex wasn’t grinning anymore even though he wanted to find this amusing. He was frustrated, filled with toxic rage that his own girlfriend was trying to escape from him.
You thrashed around as his metal bands of arms wound around you, keeping your legs facing away from him as you kicked aimlessly.
“Let me go!” You cried.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he rasped into your ear, barely struggling even as you writhed.
“Then let go!”
“You’d just run again.”
“No shit!” You fired back, letting out a high pitched wail as your foot slammed into the wall.
“You’re just making this worse for yourself.” He grunted, hand sliding down to grip your thigh and prevent your leg from kicking out again.
As the fight drained out of you because he was far too strong to compete against, you panted hard, body going limp. “Please don’t, Dex.”
Your little, breathless plea gutted him. Did you really think he’d hurt you? If only you knew he had been following you around to keep you away from harm.
“Just stop fighting me, baby,” he said again, pulling off the balaclava. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what? That you’re a mentally deranged killer who slaughters people in broad daylight?”
He went to argue but you weren’t entirely wrong. “Just come back up with me. Please.” His hand came up, smoothing over your hair. “Please. I promise I’ll make it better.”
He made it impossible to say no. Not when you could feel every hard inch of him pressing against your back, his arms holding you like he wouldn’t let go even if you begged him to (he would).
And you hated yourself for it but you nodded anyway, victim to his whiny pleas.
You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. There was no way you’d ever be able to see him the same ever again. He was a murderer. A psychotic vigilante who you were starting to see as more of a villain.
Of course you knew about Dex’s mental illnesses going into your relationship with him. Now you were berating yourself for not having noticed when he stopped taking his medication. At first it wasn’t too noticeable but now it was practically being shoved in your face.
Dex was in front of you on one knee, tending to your ankle that was now more than bruised. Neither of you said anything. He saw how you kept your gaze trained on the wall ahead of you instead of looking down at him.
Finally, after he finished, he pressed his hands to your knees. He felt a pang of hurt when you tensed up.
“I was going to tell you.” A lie.
“Were you?” You asked sharply. “Or were you just going to keep letting me think my boyfriend was just some average guy who made me breakfast every morning and helped me make the bed and kept me warm at night?”
Dex gripped a little tighter. “I am. I still am.”
“You’re a vigilante!”
“Didn’t I do all of those things while being a vigilante?”
Your mouth slammed shut. He got you there and you hated it. As you stared at your lap, a single tear slipped from your eye.
“Hey,” he said softly, tipping your chin up a little bit and catching the tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry.”
You sniffled, shaking your head a little bit. “You… you’ve killed people.”
Dex watched your pretty face flush with all the emotions you were processing. He thought you were so beautiful when you got like this. “Yeah. To protect you. You understand? I did it to protect you.”
At this point, you weren’t even sure what to believe. He’d been keeping this from you since the beginning of your relationship. Was that his version of protection or just an excuse? You had no idea.
Dex felt that familiar panic surge in his chest. His fingers dug in until he left small bruises. “You believe me, right?” Please tell me you do.
You bit your bottom lip, staring off to the side and as much as he wanted to force you to stay looking at him, he let you take a moment. He couldn’t let you go. He wouldn’t. You were the only person in his life that made the world stop spinning. The only one who gave him something to come back to.
Then he thought of a new tactic to get you to stay. There was no way you’d leave if you knew everything he’d done to keep you safe, he thought.
“Do you remember that guy from the laundromat?”
The question was last thing you were expecting. But you wiped your nose with the back of your hand and nodded. “I do.”
Dex almost got giddy with the prospect of you finally finding out the lengths he went to make sure you were okay. That he cared so much that he did those things for you.
“Your friend called you,” he continued. Your heart squeezed, finding it creepy he’d been watching and was close enough to hear your conversation. And still, you hadn’t noticed him.
He took a tuft of your hair in between his fingers, feeling its softness. “You were too busy talking to her about what you were going to wear on our date that night.” Dex grinned, remembering every little detail. “You wore that dark blue dress, the one with the thigh slit and lace. Yeah… you only picked it because you knew I’d slip my under it.”
Despite everything, it made your breath catch. He wasn’t supposed to know that part.
His skilled fingers slid over the curve of your shoulder. “You didn’t notice the man follow you out. At the crosswalk you still looked both ways but never behind you.”
You’d always considered yourself an observant person but clearly you were wrong.
“I kept an eye on him from the moment he walked into the laundromat.” Dex studied your face for a reaction. “When he started following you, I stepped in. He never got close to you. I made sure of it.”
He smiled again. “Don’t you see, baby? I was looking out for you. I always am. I’m one of the good guys, okay? You know that.”
Your eyes were locked on his now and suddenly, you weren’t so scared anymore.
He always let you run.
He just kept all the violence hidden from you.
Slowly but surely you slid off the edge of the bed and into his lap. Dex sat back, large hands hovering over your lower back in case you needed any help. He felt a bout of satisfaction that you were coming onto him willing. His plan worked.
You didn’t touch him. Not yet. Just looked at him, seeing him in a whole different light now.
He had been keeping you safe without you knowing. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as everyone made him out to be.
He was a vigilante but he was doing it to keep you from harm. Maybe, just maybe, you were willing to give his alter ego a chance.
Your eyes drifted over his shoulder to the mask that was discarded on the floor. It didn’t seem so daunting anymore. Not when he was letting you hold him under you.
You grabbed the balaclava and carefully pulled it back over his head. Dex didn’t protest. Once only his eyes were visible, you let out a shaky breath. You could see the lines around his eyes and they reminded you of the man beneath the mask.
Finally, your hands came to rest on the back of his neck. Dex took this as a sign that you really weren’t leaving him. He settled his hands on your hips, his usually furrowed brows now soft around the edges.
“Thank you.” You whispered, hovering your mouth over his where it would be when not covered by cloth.
The only way you knew he smiled was because of the squint of his eyes. Anything for you.
Your lips pressed over his and he nearly reacted just from you accepting this. Accepting him and embracing it.
Running from Dex was useless.
Hiding from him was impossible.
And both of you knew that he loved you too much to ever let you run away from him ever again.
Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures (ONE SHOT)
Benjamin Poindexter x Reader
TAGS/WARNINGS: none
Synopsis: You find out that Dex is Bullseye and ask for some space while you mull things over. Dex cannot handle space, he needs you. And so? He begs.
“No, nonono, please-” Dex is moving towards you, eyes desperately searching yours, hands reaching for you. “Please, I can fix this, just let me fix this-”
“Dex,” Your eyes fall shut and you’re pinching the bridge of your nose, exhaustion evident. This is unbelievably overwhelming and fuck’s sake, you just need to be alone so you can think clearly.
“Baby, please,” He’s pleading with you, moving from the chair he’s been sitting in for the last thirty minutes so he can try to stand in front of you but you hold your hand out to stop him.
“Dex, stop, please, I can’t do this right now,” There’s an edge to your voice, frustration painfully evident as you move to turn away your boyfriend. Was he that still? You honestly weren’t sure anymore.
“Y/N, please,” he sounds desperate, eyes wide with panic, breathing laboured as he continues to try and station himself in front of you. He’d spent the better part of the hour explaining that he was, in fact, the masked killer Bullseye.
He’d been tucked into your living room chair, palms pressed flat to his knees as he explained, in detail, what his second life was like. You’d stood there, arms crossed, body rigid, as you mulled over what your boyfriend had told you.
So not only had he hid a secret identity from you, but he was also, essentially, a villain.
Great.
And the worst part? It made so much god damn sense. How had you not seen it? Were you really that fucking blind? Or had you hoped, prayed, that you’d finally been dating a good, decent man?
You knew that Dex had killed, yes-he was in the FBI, of course he’d had to. But killing out of necessity was very different than a criminal paying you because they put a hit on someone. The late nights, irregular bruising and body aches made so much more sense now. Yes, some part of you figured he was doing vigilante work but this wasn’t vigilant work.
It was straight up immoral.
Dex had tried to keep this a secret. He hadn’t wanted to, but this had been so good. He had been so good. He liked this relationship, had fallen in love with you, and was happy. Coming home to you had proven to be as adjustment he looked forward to. It had made him feel…normal. He didn’t have to pretend around you: he had his outbursts, his moments of panic, felt the need to keep things organized and in their place, and you were always so kind about it. He’d been put in his place by you, of course, but he’d been trying. He wanted this, needed this, needed you. But the look on your face now left him feeling scared, terrified even. Fear rose like bile in his throat and he felt his heart beating frantically in his chest, like a caged bird beneath the confines of his ribs.
The wretched, angry animal in him was clawing at his insides, begging to be set free.
She can’t do this to me. She can’t leave.
You’d been standing with your arms crossed the entire time he’d been talking to you, and god he’d been trying so hard not to shake or sweat but the hardened look on your face was making it difficult not to. And now you wanted space? Time to think? So you didn’t understand him like you’d said you did. If you’d actually understood him, knew him, cared about him, then this would make sense. You’d be understanding.
Why weren’t you understanding?!
Sweat had gathered on Dex’s temples and he swallowed loudly, palms facing you, terrified you were suddenly scared of him after realizing what he was capable of.
“Please, just-” The panic was evident in his usually calm, level voice. “Let’s just sit and talk. If you let me explain-”
“Benjamin,” Your voice is curt, short and nearly halts him in his tracks. “We have been talking. That’s what this was. You explained yourself and I asked for space.”
Dex felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack. The need to fold in on himself was beginning to chisel away at whatever was keeping him standing in front of you at this moment.
He could feel the tremor in his hands as he fought the urge to lunge forward and pull you into him. He couldn’t let you have space. Then you could leave him, decide it was better to be apart, and what if you didn’t want to see him again? What if you broke up with him? What was Dex supposed to do? Nonono, he needed you. He needed you.
Dex’ breathing was sharp, his heart in his throat as he moved to block your path again, his hands still out, palms facing you, showing he was safe.
I’m safe baby please.
I’m safe.
Safe.
Your face twisted and Dex could see your frustration with him quickly shifting into anger. He was overwhelming you, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop. This awful, awful ache in his gut made him feel like he was drowning and you hadn’t even left. What would he do if you did? What would he do if you said you needed space and actually took it?
He tried to keep himself from reaching for you, from touching you, from pulling you into him and making you listen and just fucking understand him.
He side stepped when you moved, planting himself back in your path.
“Dex-” A warning.
“Please, just-” He could hear how desperate he sounded, and maybe he should have cared but he couldn’t. “Don’t leave. Can we please talk? About this? Please?”
An exasperated sigh left you, and Dex watched your lip curl in a way it only did when you were reaching your limit.
“I know you said you needed space,” He rushed to explain himself, muscles tense as he prepared to physically stop you from moving away from him. “I just think we need to go over some things a little bit more.”
“Dex, did you lie to me?” It was curt, short, abrupt.
He froze, eyes boring into your own.
He swallowed.
“Yes, but-”
“That’s all I needed to hear,” You’d thrown your hands in the air, eyes rolling as you turned to move away from him again. “Please leave now. I just need some time to myself-”
Dex should have been embarrassed at his desperation. Honestly, he’d never even imagined he’d end up in a relationship let alone love someone the way he loved you.
He needed you.
You’d guided him. Hell, he’d even worn the mask exponentially less because he wanted to be around you so often. He wanted to be more like you, to love you, to protect you, to own you. You were his and only his.
So he did what any sane man would do: Benjamin Poindexter dropped to his knees and begged.
“Oh god,” it escaped you in a startled whisper.
“Please,” His voice was strained, brows drawn together as if it pained him to speak. His hands were on his thighs in front of him, flexing, as if he was forcing them to remain there. “I-I’ll do anything Y/N, just-just don’t leave.”
It was pathetic, he was pathetic. Begging on his knees in your apartment, pleading with you to just give him another chance.
His chest was heaving, sharp breaths escaping him as he gazed up at you. He looked wild and barely contained, and you could tell in that moment that even if you tried to make him leave, it was more than likely that he’d simply refuse. Or linger in the area. You hated how much you loved that about him.
“Benjamin,” It escaped you in a startled sigh, blinking rapidly as you gazed down at your boyfriend. You’d never seen him so distraught, so desperate.
It made your chest and pussy ache.
“Please,” His voice was hoarse. “I…I can’t do this without you.” Dex leaned forward on his knees, tentatively reaching towards you. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to. I’ll be good, I promise.”
Your hand came up to cover your mouth, lashes fluttering in surprise at how earnest he was being. You really had only wanted space…just-just some time to think. The realization that Dex was Bullseye was heavy. And, truthfully, you knew that this was manipulative. Dex could, absolutely, be manipulative. But he was also desperate and possessive. And honestly? Pathetic.
You loved that about him.
“Dex…” It was soft, the way you said it, and Dex moved to wrap his large, warm hands around your thigh, drawing you closer to him.
“Baby, please, I need you,” It was rushed, whiny, “I-I can fix it, just let me fix it.”
“Dex,” You started, eyes fluttering shut as you turned your face to look away from him, overwhelmed by his demonstration. “You can’t stop being yourself, and this is-”
He looked anguished. “I know I upset you, I know I lied and I promised I wouldn’t-” His hands were flexing around your leg, demanding, fingers almost bruising. “I fucked up. But I need you Y/N.”
Fuck.
You lifted your gaze to the ceiling for a moment, cursing yourself under your breath. Were you really going to cave? Fuck, it was so hard not to with him. He was so…Dex.
When you finally looked down at him again it almost made you catch your breath. His lips were parted, cheeks a soft hue of pink, brows drawn together and hair moussed. He was a wreck, begging on his knees for you, his hands wrapped around your leg. He’d moved closer so that your foot was resting between his knees now as he gazed up at you.
“Don’t make me leave,” His voice cracked as he spoke and you nearly wailed in frustration.
“Fine,” It was a soft murmur and you reached out to gently smooth his hair back from his forehead. “You can stay. Just…calm down, okay?”
Dex’ eyes fell shut, face immediately shifting into one of relief as he leaned into your touch.
“Thank you baby,” He managed, and when he gazed up at you, you nearly caught your breath. “I promise I’ll behave.”
He pulled you closer to him then, crowding around your leg as he began planting open mouthed kisses atop your thigh. You could feel his tongue and teeth dragging along the skin as you continued to rake your fingers through his hair.
“Thank you, thank you,” He kept whispering between kisses, hand hand smoothing up the back of your thigh as he drew you even closer to his body.
popstar!reader trying on lingerie for her next concert and bodyguard!dex walks in 🤭
saying “look, my assistants busy and i just need your opinion. my underwear needs to be cute incase i accidentally upskirt… again. so, pink or white?” you’re stood there like a total vision, lifting your mini skirt to him just like he’d always imagined, showing the cutesy white panties beneath, holding the pink matching pair in your other hand. he sighs, breathing out a chuckle. ₍ᐢ._.ᐢ₎♡ ༘
“jesus christ. really?”
“dex.” you pout, tilting your head to the side pleadingly.
“alright, uh — i don’t know. they look the same. i’m gonna have to see both on.”
you smile at him playing ball and tap your feet happily on the wooden floor of the dressing room. “okay but what do you think of the white? cute right?”
dex glances around from where he stands leaning against the doorframe and steps into the room, quietly closing the door behind him for your privacy of course. “very cute. i don’t know though, spin for me.” he makes a lazy spinning motion with his finger, chin tilted up a little, eyes trained down at your panties, slight smirk tugging his lips. you giggle.
“fine. for research purposes.” you huff, pretending you’re not loving every moment.
“mhm.”
you give him a slow twirl, keeping your eyes on him as long as you can without twisting your head backwards like an owl. you don’t miss the way his tongue passes over his lips when you show him the back of your panties, a small puffy bunny tail sat above your ass crack. he chuckles once more.
“yeah. cute.”
“so white over pink?”
dex shoves his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, shrugging a shoulder. “could always show me the pink. just to be sure. wouldn’t wanna make a fool out of yourself out there, right?”
Silly reader needs some help fixing something and she doesn't want to wait hours to call for some pro (she just wants an excuse to call dex) so she goes and asks him for help and stalls and makes him stay and he sorta realises but he brushes it off
silly!reader x neighbour!Dex (as Tony as seen in ddba s2)
2.5k words
summary: you just needed your neighbour to help fix the AC unit, instead you end up with him doing your chores unprompted.
tags: reader: fem presenting, wears skirt, has her periods (2nd person pov), weird lack of boundaries, domestic fluff, dex wants to be domesticated so bad, raw display of strength from Dex, size difference (reader implied to be smaller than Dex OR prefers to wear extra small/tight clothes, it's more a clothes thing than body, Idk if i explained this well, just lmk), possessive Dex, no beta read, lying Dex, suicide mention
a/n: me to silly!reader: "do you know you have 30 minutes?????" 😬
"Can you please help me? The maintenance man is on holiday,"
You're standing in front of Dex's door, vibrating with anxiety, you're practically about to start crying because you're so nervous and you'd HATE to sleep another night with a broken AC unit.
Your neighbour, Tony, is standing there watching you with a little frown, then as soon as what you said registered in his head he smiles, easy as ever, "Sure, what's up?"
Shoulders sagging and a relieved sigh leaves your mouth, "Oh my gosh, thank you!" You wipe at your eyes, at the unshed tears, "My AC is broken and it's so hot and I'm on my periods and I can't regulate my body temperature like normal,"
Dex hums, and reaches behind the door to grab his keys, he steps out, in his slippers, t-shirt and sweats, and closes it behind himself.
"It's also making such a horrible noise! Don't know if you can hear it from here but it goes; RRATATAA MMRATATATA MMRRATATA—" You follow him to your flat and he steps inside - the door was left open - you follow him, nose almost hitting his broad back when he suddenly stops in his tracks. "What—"
Your neighbour looks tense for a second and he slowly turns around and makes eye contact with you, "Can I… come in?"
You're confused, because he's already inside but then he has an odd look in his eyes. Like he's nervous, maybe scared. You stand there, thinking, and the longer your silence drags on the more anxious he's getting. A vein pops out along his neck and he swallows, Adam's Apple bobbing.
"Of course," You smile, big and toothy for good measure.
That does the trick. Dex immediately relaxes and makes it straight to your AC unit. The layout of both of your places are practically identical. The only difference being Dex's minimalism and your maximalism in comparison. While he's got barren white walls, yours are plastered with posters and cut up magazine pages. A mess of prints, sticker sheets and postcards.
"So, can you fix it?" You hover over Dex as he's on one knee on the floor.
"Yeah,"
"Do you need me to help?" You ask.
Dex looks up, his eyes dragging from your toes to your head. You have on a bright orange t-shirt. It was oversized and it looked like you cropped it with scissors by yourself. Then for bottoms you had a plaid skirt that stopped at your knees and socks. Everything else was a mixture of different accessories, of varying colours, metals, rocks and beads, adorning your neck, wrists, ears and fingers. You looked too adorable to get on your knees and get dirty. It wouldn't be right. Plus, you did say you were on your periods, and that, to Dex, means pain and discomfort.
"No, thank you," Dex smiles a little, and you nod, "Okay, I'll make you something to drink,"
You turn on your heel, your skirt spinning with you and Dex makes eye contact with the tiger printed at the back of your t-shirt.
The whole thing takes half an hour to fix, and that is, without proper tools too. Dex Tony is smart as shit and fantastic with his hands, turns out.
While Dex was fixing your AC, you fussed over him, offering a pillow for his knees while he works. You prepare water, a tall glass of orange juice with ice cubes, a straw in it and an orange peel on the rim for good measure. Because you're a good host and he's doing this for you, for free. Then you make him a plate of biscuits too. You sit on the sofa by the side, basically on standby in case he wants a drink or snack because you can't leave the food anywhere near him, the inside of the AC was filthy and it's starting to stick to Dex's clothes and hands.
You're not even looking at what he's doing inside the thing, you're just watching him.
You could turn the TV on, have some noise in the background, but then you'd feel rude, especially since he's getting all dirty fixing your AC for free. It wouldn't be right, you'd look like an ungrateful person.
So you're both there, sitting in silence. Dex looks at you and you get up before he even opens his mouth.
You lower yourself to be eye level with him and stick the cold glass of orange juice in front of him and the plate of biscuits.
"Thanks," Dex smiles, and wraps your hand over the glass, and brings it to his mouth so he can take a long sip through the straw. His eyes flutter shut for a second, clearly enjoying the beverage. Then he slowly releases your hand and his eyes land on the biscuits, "What're those? The heart ones,"
"Jammie Dodgers, I made them myself! And the juice too! Squeezed it yesterday!"
Dex is smiling, "Really?"
"Yeah!"
Dex looks around for something to wipe his hands with and you realise you didn't even give him a rag to clean with. You don't want him getting up so you just grab it yourself, "My hands are clean, I promise,"
"I believe you," Dex chuckles and opens his mouth so you can feed it to him. The biscuits are small enough that Dex eats it all at once, he's chewing, and hums, "Good?" You grin.
He nods and you squeal, "I'm such a good baker!"
.
.
.
Once your AC is fixed, you're so relieved you basically collapse on your sofa, energy zapped out of you. You were still on your periods after all and you're slouched against a bunch of pillows, the plate of biscuits sitting on your belly.
Dex makes his way to the kitchen for cleaning supplies unprompted and starts cleaning and wiping the mess he made around the AC. You don't even say anything, you watch him do his thing as you eat the leftover biscuits on the plate, eyes following his every move. And he looks extremely focused, cleaning everything properly and putting everything away like it should be.
Then when you think he's done, he fetches your vacuum and starts it up. He's vacuuming your living room, your neighbour, your mysterious tall and strong and big neighbour.
You're sort of in a trance when Dex grabs the empty plate from your hands and takes it to the kitchen, putting it in the sink, and comes back to vacuum under your coffee table and then he bends, right in front of you, and grabs your sofa with one hand and lifts it, with you sitting on it.
A squeal tumbles out of your mouth in shock as Dex vacuums, one handed under your sofa, a focused frown on his face. You open and close your mouth like a fish, trying to say something. But you can't.
It doesn't even take another minute before your sofa is slowly lowered back on the floor. Dex moves to the other end of the living room, completely oblivious as you stare at him with wide eyes.
He's all done sooner rather than later when he puts your vacuum back in the kitchen where he found it, and then he's standing in front of your sink, hands on his hips.
You practically leap out of the sofa, almost tripping over your own feet to get to him before he starts washing your dishes.
"Wait! Thank you!—" You scramble to his side, and he looks over his shoulder at you, "Hm?"
"Thank you so much for your help! I appreciate it so much, and you basically saved my life! I owe you, seriously," You smile, linking your hands in front of you when he turns to fully face you.
"Oh, it's alright," He smiles, shrugging.
"Uhm, yeah," You don't know what else to say.
"Can I have a look at your sink? There's something wrong with it," You glance at the sink behind him, and you know he's right, because earlier when you twisted the handle to wash your hands, the water did come out stronger than usual, like much stronger.
"Uh, I don't know, you already fixed my AC…" You say, tucking your chin in. You feel like such a pest.
"I don't mind, really," Dex smiles easily, and you eventually nod, "Okay,"
He turns around to have a look at the sink and you step back to give him space to work, and you really should've kicked him out with another round of thanks and a promise of dinner or baked goods, but instead he grabs the handle and your kind, helpful neighbour is all but drenched in water.
He gets sprayed right on the face and when he reaches to twist it close, it sprays on his chest.
You're screaming because water has reached the ceiling and he's trying to stop the water with his hands. "Oh my God! What do I do?! What do I do?!" You panic.
Dex grabs a towel from the side and covers the faucet with it, "Stay back!"
"Okay," You nod, taking a couple of steps back with your hands over your mouth.
.
.
.
Fixing up the sink and cleaning the kitchen takes about two hours of team effort, or mostly Tony effort, because turns out he's the kind that doesn't really like it when someone else is in the kitchen with him at the same time, so you're mostly on the side watching him work, and fetching him whatever he needs.
He even makes you go change shoes in case water leaks, so when you come back with bright yellow wellies, he laughs and asks if you've got a torch.
You're squatting next to Dex as he works under your sink, and he makes you hold the light steady for him.
"Good?" You randomly ask to check if you're doing a good job.
"Yeah, it's good, we're almost done," He hums.
"Okay," You squeak, because you're so close to him you can feel his body heat, especially since he took his wet t-shirt off. He was shirtless, and he looks much more bigger now for some reason.
You try to stay respectful and not stare too much, but he's so strong. You can't keep your eyes away from the blonde hairs on his arms and chest, the small, tiny freckles, and especially the scars. Like, he has so many. You remember him telling you a while back that he works in security, so maybe that's how he got them? But then, he's got a lot of them, his job must be super dangerous, you only hope he gets paid handsomely. But you dread to think that might not be the reality, because he lives in this dump of an apartment building with you.
So maybe he's a spy. Or a contract killer. Or a super-hero!
Whatever and whoever he is doesn't really matter. He's your neighbour and he's kind.
Then you see the big scar down his back, from his neck to his tailbone and you feel bad for him. Sadness settles heavily in your belly, he must've almost died to get a scar that big. Physical therapy must've been hell.
You're pulled out of your thoughts and you're standing in front of Dex and he's looking at you with a clenched jaw. His eyes are laser focused on yours, as if he's trying to pull something out of you. He's still shirtless and the floor is still wet by that point.
You blink up at him, "What happened to your back?"
Dex's hands clench into fists by his sides, and he attempts a simple smile but fails, "Work Injury,"
"Did you get compensation?" You ask.
"No, but I will, soon," He answers and it makes sense in your head. These things take a long time to get sorted, with lawyers and stuff. So he's saving money by living in a place like this until he gets his settlement.
"Does it hurt?" Now you should probably shut up.
"Sometimes,"
"I'm sorry, that must be hard," You apologise and you're confused, and a little surprised to see a big, honest smile appear on his face, "Thank you,"
Your heart leaps in your chest, as if you've said something without knowing what it means. Like, you're somehow not in the loop anymore, "Do you—" You clear your throat, "Nevermind, I'll just get you a new t-shirt,"
Dex watches you disappear off to your bedroom, then come back with a folded t-shirt and a towel. He grabs the towel first, wiping his neck, shoulders, belly, anywhere water touched him really, because he's sort of semi-dry.
Dex grabs the black t-shirt handed to him without thinking and he shakes it loose, frowning at the size of it, "Who's t-shirt is this?"
"Mine??"
"This t-shirt…is three times your size," Dex says and the sudden coldness in his voice makes you nervous.
Dex glances down at the item in his hand, it's black, a colour he's never seen you wear, and it was clearly a men's t-shirt by the cut and of course, the size of it, it'd fit him, but it won't fit you.
"Uh, it's mine, I promise, I didn't steal it from anyone or anything!" You spill out clumsily. It was the truth but you're not sure you had to tell him you didn't steal it. "I buy them big like this to sleep in them comfortably!"
Dex flips the offending piece of clothing over and there's text on the back, white and bold, 'MY TUMMY HURTS'
"Oh," Dex says, shoulders sagging and smiling.
At his reaction, you smile too, anxiety leaving you all together, "It's mine, swear it,"
"I know," He chuckles, slipping it on, and when he smooths it over his chest, he tucks his chin in, smelling the collar, "Smells nice,"
"Yeah, it's just been washed,"
"We should have dinner together, you said you owed me," Dex smiles, leaning against the counter, completely relaxed like he wasn't seriously, for a split second, contemplating killing himself after he leaves to his apartment at the idea of you giving him some other man's clothes to wear after he's been looking out for you and taking care of you.
"Yeah, sure, what do you want?" You open your fridge, looking inside.
"Sandwiches and chips," He answers.
You're surprised, you'd imagine he'd want a more elaborate dinner considering the labour he's been doing for you for half of the day, "Okay, like TV dinner or dinner dinner?"
"TV dinner, at my place this time," He chuckles and you laugh, "Yeah, okay,"
"Wouldn't wanna give my TV ideas about breaking down too,"
"Yeah, or I'll have to stay here forever, fixing stuff for sandwiches and Jammie Dodgers," Dex jokes easily, and you ignore the uneasy feeling in your stomach at his words.
"Oh, there's still orange juice left, could have it with the sandwiches!" You exclaim.
"Yeah, why not,"
"Oooh, I can make dip to go with the chips!"
"Sounds like a date," He smiles.
"Oh, haha, yeah," You giggle, albeit a little nervously. If your neighbour Tony was anyone else, you'd be 100% nervous and maybe scared, but he's never done anything to hurt you. He's been more than friendly and extremely helpful. The least you could do is make him whatever he wants for dinner.
content : dex enlists the help of a nun very close to matt
word count : 1164
“Sister,” Dex heaved- it was the third time he’d seen you this week. Always at night. Always alone. “Won’t you help a dying man?”
In the beginning it had been very innocent. You were young, and training before you formally took your vows, when in between one of your lessons at St. Agnes, a man had come. He seemed nice enough- handsome enough, but that was impure, and so you’d banished the thought and prayed for forgiveness at what was such a foolish desire. He had a large gash down his cheekbone, which he’d later tell you he got in a horrid car crash. He sat with you, asked you questions, and smiled in a way that banished your impending vows to the darkest, unholiest parts of your mind.
You never told Matt about him- why would you? You didn’t tell Matt much of anything, not really. He came for his own problems and you turned a blind eye to his Daredevil activities for the sake of justice, you said. He helped who the police would not under Fisk’s corrupt ruling. You never tended to Matt yourself but brought him tea and soup and conversed in godly conversations, for Matt was a man of God and a good one at that.
Dex- that was his name- was fairly peculiar. He had a nervous edge to him, and sometimes he’d steer conversation towards a suspicious route, and regain himself in the most abrupt ways. It was the tendencies of men, you thought, to be violent in nature- but he seemed apologetic for it. He wanted to learn more about Catholicism, and about God, and be a good man. “Won’t you help a dying man?” He’d jested, as though he were drowning in some sin that he reserved for the confession box.
“It is my duty,” you agreed simply- unwisely, but willingly still. He visited you at night. He worked for the fbi, and was away almost all mornings early and late into the afternoon. So night was all he had, sitting opposite you and listening to your stories.
It was pure fascination, initially, that led Dex to St. Agnes. He wanted to see where Matt Murdock could grow up, and more maliciously, he wanted to see the weakness in the little Catholic boy. He’d seen Matt with you more than once through windows, and when he’d first spoken to you, he hadn’t thought he’d find you so… pious, shy, naïve. Then it was something much more- the need to corrupt something good in Matt’s life. The key to his spiral.
You blinked over Dex, his form struggling to stand as he leaned into the doorway of the back entrance. Blood rolled down the side of his head, across his cheek, smeared over his jaw, and in the place where he rested his hand across his abdomen. “Dex–”
“Come on, sister,” he drawled, his voice low but strained with pain as he leaned a little closer to you. He was wearing a dark blue suit, and it struck you as strange, though you didn’t think much more of it as your eyes were dragged back to his. “Don’t leave me to bleed out here… that wouldn’t be very charitable of you, now would it?”
You shook your head, “no,” you breathed. “Of course- come in, I- I’ll get the nurse-”
“No nurse,” he nearly snapped, staggering down the hallway. “No nurse… you can help me.”
He reminded you of Matt in all the worst ways- refusing medical help was never good. As you shut the door, a black crumple of fabric lay over the threshold. Bending down to pick it up, you felt the bloodied leather in your palm, and your thumb traced the engraved rings of circles on the glove. Maybe he was more like Matt than you cared to admit, and at the same time, drastically different.
Dex had collapsed on a bed- your bed, you’d discovered at a level of horror. “You have a kit? Know how to patch me up?” He groaned, head falling back onto your pillow. You nodded, pulling a small kit out from a drawer, and approaching him. “I-uh… I don’t typically do this.”
“I know. You’re more the soup and tea girl.”
“…How did you know that?” You frowned at him, dragging a chair to sit beside the bed. Dex huffed and shut his eyes- he was losing his composure. It wasn’t the same with Julie. No matter what he did there was no level of attraction, only a desire to be like her. But with you… there was a need to break you, and that was a sadistic fascination Dex could almost mistake for love. “Lucky guess.”
“Right…”
Dex opened his eyes to roam them over your uncertain face. “You’re gonna be fine- I’m not a picky patient.”
“I’m not supposed to…” you whispered quietly, feeling it was entirely improper to stitch a wounded man you thought about it such a way.
“Help the injured, sister,” Dex preached. “I don’t bite.”
Oh, but he did. He was a calculated predator, is all. He watched as his prey fumbled with the zip of her bag, and yet carefully laced the thread through the needle before she cleaned the blood around the wound at his abdomen and stitched him up with a dedicacy that came from embroidery work perhaps. He watched and waited. He watched and salivated. He watched and then- he’d sink his teeth in deep.
Bullseye. No- that was a horrid thought. Dex had been kind. He had been good. That symbol was… meaningless. It did not necessarily mean… But if Matt were here? He might tell you what you’d hate to know.
“Are you okay?” Dex muttered ironically, seeing as he was the one being stitched up. It was because your hands were trembling slightly, and you’d fallen into a contemplative silence that couldn’t escape Dex. You smoothed a bandage over it, and as you did, Dex caught your hand. “Hey.”
“Yeah?” You blinked up, wiggling your wrist free. “You’re done- uhm-”
“Are you scared of me?” Dex moves to sit up, a mildly amused look on his face. He doesn’t want you to run from him, but definitely he’d enjoy the game. He’d enjoy breaking you to break Matt. “No…” you shook your head. “No, why would I?”
“Because you know what I am. Who I am.”
“No- no I don’t.” You can’t get your wrist free and the panic seeps in icy cold.
“Yes you do.” He nodded for every shake of your head.
“I don’t,” you said adamantly. If he tells you now, if you admit to knowing what he is, then it’s all bad- then you’ve willingly helped this murderer for more than just fear. You’re already reciting prayers in your head, wishing desperately to atone.
Dex can read the inner turmoil as though every word was blasted in large print for him to read. “I’m Bullseye.”
Dex can't help but smirk under his mask when his phone dings, a message from you he was waiting to recive, he saw you typing it from the rooftop of a flower shop in the middle of town.
"are you following me?" he reads as he shakes his head, his smirk onlygrowing bigger when he sees you looking around and failing to spot him.
"no."
"i heard something on the roof, was that you? i don't think cats are that heavy"
Dex thinks a few seconds before replying, watching you keep scanning the nearby rooftops to see if you can make out his figure him among the dark sky of the night. but you don't, he is too good to be found.
"maybe"
"walk with me instead" you wait for about 5 minutes before you feel a hand on the small of your back gently guiding you to keep walking. Dex stands tall besides you, his eyes on you.
"what a coincidence finding you here" he talks softly as he not so gently moves people out of the way so no one touches you on accident.
"where were you?" you mumble as Dex sits on the couch with a smug smile, legs spread out, his black top red and sticky, his gloves long forgoten on the coffee table. his hands flex and open over his thighs resisting the urge to pull you into his lap and kiss your frown away.
"working" he whispers, dazzed on how much you worry about him and how cute he thinks you look when you scold him.
"no shit, why didn't you tell me!" you pace infront of him, he gets his phone out of his pocket to check it, 15 missed calls, it only makes his smile grow bigger.
"i'm sorry, angel, don't be mad" he whisper once more, stopping you by holding onto your hip with one hand and pulling you in so you stand between his legs. "i was in a rush, i thought you wouldn't wake up" Dex places a soft kiss on your clothed belly and rests his chin there to look up at you.
"you are an idiot"
"yeah?" his hands squeeze gently on your sides as if to keeo himself grounded, he wants to dee you angry, he loves it. "what else, angel? want me to beg, want me to get on my knees, yeah? say it, tell me to beg for your forgiveness"
Dex almost went crazy when the tracker on your phone went out, his leg bouncing up and down as he looks at the door and back at the blank map on uis phone. the screen cracks from how hard he is holding it. "it’s just a work event, don't worry" he repeats on his mind, your soft smile as you brush his cheek. he feels stupid.
the wind messed up your hair bur luckily Dex's big leather jacket was keeping you warm. your voice was soft as you answered to your coworked with tiny mhms and ohs. you insisted on walking home alone, that it eas close enough, but he insisted.
"and then she said-" a small tud can be heard and before you register it, your coworker falls to the ground, still breathing, you let out a sigh, there was no blood, just Dex's now broken phone laying besides him.
"your phone died" his voice sounds rough, shaky, his breath is too. you turn aroun to watch him walk over to you and hug you tightly.
"didn't realize, sorry" your hands find his face and gently rub his cheeks, looking him into the eyes. "i'm here, i'm fine"
"shouldn't have let you go" he mumbles, squeezing harder, "i could have killed him... i should have, did he touch you? is he a friend? who is he?"
"no one, let's go home, he doesn't matter" you keep rubbing his cheeks and he lets out a soft long sigh, his hands still shaking around you. he cant be mad at you, he never is, he just wished he didn't hold back when throwing his phone.
parts: previously
plot: "It's a blip in your history of otherwise uneventful self-sacrifice. One moment in the grand timeline of your life where he'd helped you take control. No one else could have you in that way but him."
pairing: benjamin poindexter x gn!reader.
cw: canon-divergent from daredevil: born again s2e7, slow burn, crackfic that takes itself seriously sometimes, dark themes, stalking, murder, just straight up murder, detailed murder because dex talks you through it, alternating pov, reader is getting divorced, dex is bored so he gets involved in your marital drama, dex finds you kinda hot when you’re angry, your ex sucks and dex is willing to do something about it, dex cannot be assed to remember your ex's name, asexual!dex agenda a little bit.
words: 9.4k. + 1.5k (alternative ending).
a/n: thank you for reading this ridiculous coping mechanism. love dex and prosper. amen. I listened to these songs while writing this:
I. with a little help from my friends - the beatles
II. smile - lily allen
III. new york state of mind - billy joel
"Let me kill him for you."
The "Let me" bothers you more than the "kill him". You expected a demand. A threat, even. But as you look into the eyes of this strange killer, mapping the openness of his expression (what little you could see of it, anyway), you register his asking permission. As if he needed you to issue the command. To tell him you needed the help that only he could provide.
You'd heard stories of the havoc wreaked across Hell's Kitchen back before you'd arrived in town, and the sudden appearance of a man in dark blue with pinpoint accuracy and an absolute mortality rate. You remembered break room talk about the attack on Bel Aire Diner, about the massacre of AVTF agents left in his wake. You knew not one bullet was fired that day. The story had walked with you all the way home from work. You did not think Bullseye was the type to ask for permission.
Your heart rate spikes when you think of the hairpin he'd given you, too delicate for someone like him to just casually carry around, and you think of the way those agents were killed in the diner. Forks in the backs of their kneecaps, a lobster claw to the brain. A hairpin would've dropped you in that alleyway if he was the one to throw it, and you had stood there like a perfect target. You were only alive right now because…
Because the man above you let you be.
You wrack your mind for some kind of logic. A renowned killer has inserted himself into your failed marriage, taken a criminally low commission to kill you, seemingly changed his mind, and is now asking for you to let him kill your ex instead. And he'd get what? The satisfaction of the kill? For "the love of the game"?
Kyle may hate you now, and you may feel almost as strongly, but he was someone to you once. You needed to be rational. "Prove it." You hiss through quickened breath. "How do I know you're not lying? Prove he wants me dead."
Bullseye looks irritated. Like you'd yanked the dangling carrot out of his reach.
He slips his hand into his pants pocket, drawing out a flip-phone. He snaps it open with his thumb, pressing into the keypad all the while keeping eye contact with you. You look at the screen from the corner of your eye as he selects his messages and hits play. Your ex-husband's voice hits your ears for the first time in over a week.
"Hey, uh... hey. Man. I'm just calling about that thing we talked about at Big Hops the other night. You know... the job I paid you for. Um. Anyway. Please pick up the phone. I can't... I can't let this be for nothing, man. I know you've got a heart. You— you listened when I told you my story. You know I'm the victim here. Right? You... taking care of them would do me a big favor. You know? I won't win this case otherwise. They know that. That's why they're draining me for everything I have. I can pay you more if that's what you need to get it done quick. I just can't lose, man. I'll do anything if it means that bitch suffers for ruining my career. Plea—"
The voicemail ends.
You both sit in silence. The part of you that held on to this all being an elaborate prank dies under the glint of the phone screen, showing Kyle's number under the name "Hairline (from the bar)".
You play his words over and over in your head. Victim. Big favor. Everything I have. I can pay you more. Bitch.
Eventually, Bullseye closes the phone and tosses it aside.
You swallow. "When was that?"
"This morning. He called while I watched you walk out of your apartment, down the street." Your mouth goes dry. "You stopped for a jackass on a bike with a flat tire. He made you late to work. You stayed late, gave me some time to look around."
You can't help but sniffle, feeling another wave of tears coming on. "You were going to kill me this morning."
"I thought about it."
"Why didn't you?"
He'd avoided that question once already. He couldn't dodge it again. "I don't like liars."
That was one thing you and Bullseye could agree on.
You were fine with the divorce, fine with calling this chapter of your lives to an end. What you'd resented was the story he weaved to make you the villain, and the loneliness that followed. It wasn't enough trying to get everyone who knew you on his side? It wasn't enough trying to take your money, too? His ego was so badly wounded that he had to kill you about it. And he couldn't even do it himself.
"I need to think about this." You worry that the annoyance in his eyes would be enough to change his mind about killing you, get the hassle out of the way—two birds, one stone—but he just huffs against the mask. "Tomorrow's the first day of trial. My head... I..."
Bullseye climbs off of you and a rush of cool air hits your skin. You're a little wobbly as you try to stand, as he looms off to the side and watches you.
For a brief moment, you consider your chances of getting to your gun. You hadn't shot the thing since the day you bought it, carried it around more for peace of mind than you did with the understanding that one day you might use it.
You don't get much time to consider your chances against a man named Bullseye, because you hear a shunk! sound as a knife flies into your peripheral and embeds itself in the carpet. The tip of the knife sits snugly in between the trigger and trigger guard. All chances go out the window.
You walk briskly around the couch, into your bedroom, and lock the door behind you.
Dex hears you drag a chair under the doorknob for good measure. He admires that—even if it wouldn't stop him—and considers your apartment once more.
Your bag lays by the front door, items spilling out after your tumultuous entry: a wallet, some lotion for your hands (he brings it up to his nose and purrs at the clean, melon scent), your phone. He picks that last one up and taps the screen.
Your lockscreen is a picture of pink tulips from the park, taken mid-bloom. You've got notifications from family asking how you're handling things, emails about bills, likes on your Instagram story. He doesn't carry around a phone that can look at things like social media, feels too old to care about it, but he thinks if he'd had more time to look into you, he'd have liked to know what you put out for strangers to see.
Dex glances at your bedroom door. In a few slow strides, he crouches outside it and slides your phone underneath the gap. He hears you gasp, and his lip twitches up. "In case you'd like to call for help."
It's silent on your side for a few. Dex is close to putting his ear up to the door to listen for your breathing, when he hears the floor creak inside. He pictures you standing nearby, looking at your phone like it might be a bomb, before he hears it unlock. Then, "Can you pass the gun under too?"
The laugh escapes him. "Don't think it'll fit. Could crack the door open a smidge, I could hand it to ya." You don't say anything for a bit, and Dex gets the feeling that's all you have to say on that.
He removes his mask on the way to your couch, dropping into it with a deep sigh. His muscles ache from scaling his way into your apartment. He rubs his thigh with one hand, looking up at the ceiling as headlights reflect through the windows with each passing car. He watches them pass, counting down the minutes.
Without meaning to, he drifts off.
When Dex wakes up again, you are kneeling in between his legs.
It's not an unwelcome sight. The juvenile part of him that felt little arise from Playboy magazines still feels vindicated, but the way your eyes quickly flicker up to his has him resisting the urge to lock his legs around you and keep you there.
Instead, he focuses on what you're holding.
You've got the look of a deer caught in headlights, his phone flipped open in your hand. From the way the sunlight turns your skin golden, he knows it's early morning. You seem to be waiting for him to do something to you. He shifts his foot, boot knocking against your leg, and you jolt a little. Dex zeroes in on the stiffness of the movement. Your eyes look freshly wet. He leans his back off the couch and comes closer. "What is it?"
He doesn't mean to sound harsh, but he feels the need to get to the point.
"Kyle." You stammer. "He's coming."
Dex snatches the phone out of your hand and looks through the series of texts he'd received, all since early this morning.
Hairline (from the bar)
2:26am
Hey
Hairline (from the bar)
2:27am
So I realized that you never actually confirmed if they were dead or not
I just want to know if you have some proof?
My mind's racing haha
Hairline (from the bar)
2:30am
Was that photo from earlier right before you did it? The one of their back?
I know you said you'd do it in the apartment but if you had to improvise that's cool too
Hairline (from the bar)
2:33am
I haven't seen anything on the news. I'm just curious
Wouldn't surprise me if no one checked up on them for a while, I took the friends in the divorce haha
I'd go check out the scene myself but I don't wanna leave evidence haha
Hairline (from the bar)
3:02am
You're probably asleep
I'd be sleeping too if I could
It's hard enough not telling Chad about it, but if anything goes wrong, he'd be the first one they'd look for, you know? He was chill enough to let me stay with him. I can't do my boy like that
Hairline (from the bar)
3:06am
Tomorrow's the trial. If they don't show up it's gonna be awesome
My lawyer sucks. He doesn't believe in me. Little does he know hahaha
Hairline (from the bar)
6:16am
Hey
6:17am
(1) One missed call from Hairline (from the bar)
Hairline (from the bar)
6:20am
Please fucking pick up
Hairline (from the bar)
6:21am
I'm freaking out, man. I just need to know you took care of it
Anything
Hairline (from the bar)
6:25am
please
Hello???
Hairline (from the bar)
6:32am
Fuck it
I'm heading to their place
I got some shit to get out of there before the cops show up
Hairline (from the bar)
6:34am
If I shouldn't go, tell me right now
Hairline (from the bar)
6:35am
Fuck
I have to be at the courthouse at 8
I'm going
whatever
I'm going and I'm deleting this number
You should too
Dex's eyes flicker up to the little clock in the corner of the screen: 6:47am.
He's yanking you up by your shoulders before you can blink those tears out of your eyes, moving you out of the way as he stomps toward your front door. Looking through the peep hole, he can't see anyone wandering outside in the hallway.
When he turns back to you, you're standing right where he left you, holding your arms to yourself. Dex puts his phone in his pocket and stalks over. "Make your choice."
"I can't."
"Like hell you can't."
"I can't!" You plead, voice cracking. "Don't you get it? He comes here, you kill him, then what? All signs point back to me."
"You'd rather he find you alive and do something about it himself?" You frown, nose twitching like you're trying not to sniffle. Dex grabs you again, and it takes considerable effort to not bruise you in the urgency. "It's you or him."
Your eyes blow wide. "No. No, I'll call the cops and—"
"And what? Tell 'em your ex is trying to kill you? With what proof? With what story?"
He watches you trying to put something together, but you lag like you keep running into a wall. Your eyes scatter across his face, trying to find a way. He sees the cogs turning in your head and knows that there is no answer to this equation that doesn't end with one of you being fucked over. And he's not a hero, those days are long gone. He won't let it be him. He would prefer it not to be you.
The adrenaline pumping through him is setting his veins on fire. He feels his mind going rigid, linear. The way it does when the thrill of the hunt begins to kick in. His hands—which cling to you—itch for a knife.
Dex is now close enough to see every minute shift in your expression. You shake, even as his hands hold you in place. He looks at you, and it's different without the mask in the way. When he forces you to look him in the eyes, he's forcing you to see him. Dex. Not Bullseye. It makes him feel as uncomfortable as it does alive.
"Let me." His voice has dropped to a hush. Dex had never been very good with fragile things, but he has to be if he's to get what he wants. What you need. And then, a word he has not employed in a long time: "Please."
Your mouth drops open. Your eyes flit between his, looking for the catch. If you find one, you don't seem to hate it.
There's an irritating sound at the door, like something jiggling in the lock. Dex looks to it immediately.
"I changed the locks." You whisper, and Dex catches the look of fear in your eyes.
One of his hands drops to a knife at his side. He doesn't need to say it, but the movement is clear: Make your choice.
Dex's jaw ticks in annoyance when he hears soft thumps against the door, like the idiot had given up on lockpicking and resorted to breaking the door down. If a neighbor heard, and you were really dead on the floor like he was hoping you'd be, how would he get out of that one? He knew Kyle was stupid. He was not prepared for him to get stupider.
It shocks Dex when you push him by the chest against the wall, shoving him into the corner behind the front door. He's only partially hidden by the coat rack beside it. You say nothing, and then you unlock the door.
It's difficult to see from his perspective. He can see the hallway through the sliver between door and frame, the shape of Kyle blotting out the hallway light. He can see your hand holding the door open, inches from his own, gripping the knob tight enough that it trembles.
Dex did not like imagining life without sight. He had always been able to draw out the numbers with his mind; figure out the exact angle he'd need to ricochet his knife into someone's throat, the measured curve of his wrist needed to bounce a baseball off a pole and through to the soft meat of Coach Bradley's head. How Murdock handled it—relying only on the sound and the rhythm of the earth—he could not imagine. But he had to. Dex breathes slow through his nose, listening for what he can't see.
He can hear Kyle's exhausted breathing with the weak plank of wood between them both. He listens for the scuff of shoes on the carpet as Kyle finally says, "...Hey."
"What are you doing here?" Dex makes note of the warble in your voice. He watches your fingers on the doorknob.
"I was coming to talk to you before the trial. My key didn't work."
Dex looks down at the floor and notices your gun has been wedged back here with him. It was a Ruger. Small, lightweight. Easy to hide. It wasn't his preference but he imagines putting the barrel to the door, right where he thinks Kyle's head is, and blowing a hole through them both.
"If you wanted to talk about the trial, you could've just unblocked my number."
"Look, I— can I come in, at least? I'd like us to talk like civil adults. Face to face."
Dex rolls his eyes.
He sees the metal of the doorknob beginning to fog around your fingers. Slowly, he nudges your hand with one of his fixed blades and watches your grip falter. He waits. "Yeah." You say, and reach your pinky out to wrap around the hilt of the blade. "In the kitchen."
Kyle walks in, you take the knife behind your back, and Dex shuts the door.
This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea.
You feel Bullseye's breath on the back of your neck for just a second, and then he's slipping behind the couch and out of sight as you watch Kyle walk into your kitchen. You fumble with the knife Bullseye had given you, nervously attempting to tuck it into the back of your pants, afraid it might slip and cut you. Right now, based on that voicemail Bullseye had shown you, that was the least of your worries.
Kyle looks... rough. He'd bothered to dress up in a suit and tie for trial, but it was clear that was the extent of effort he put into his appearance. The last time you'd seen him in person, he'd appeared fine (if not irritated), but now he looked wired. There was something behind his eyes that might've concerned you if you didn't know why he was here.
Kyle takes a seat at your breakfast table, and you take the seat across from him.
Kyle pushes his overgrown fringe out of his face, tucking the black hair behind his ears. Your eyes follow the scope of his cheekbones. Ones you used to kiss in the mornings. "Alright, I'll just come out and say it. We don't need to go to trial."
You blink. "I... agree."
A flicker of frustration crosses Kyle's features. "But I do think I deserve something."
"Kyle, I haven't taken anything from you that you own. You moved out. You took most of your stuff. I want you to take the rest of your stuff. I want this to end, you're the one who keeps dragging it out. What else could you possibly want?"
"That's easy for you to say! You've always been the one with the stability, the money, the nice, cushy job. You've been fine laying at corporate America's heels while people like me—real artists— struggle to make ends meet everyday. I'm... I'm sleeping on Chad's couch. You know Chad. He's had a silverfish problem for two years and he hasn't fixed it yet. It's really fucking gross."
You remember Chad. And the silverfish. "I'm sorry to hear that, Kyle."
"I lost my business, I lost this apartment—"
"Okay, you didn't lose this apartment. You moved out because only my name is on the lease and you said you didn't want to be with me anymore."
"Well, I didn't want to be with you anymore because you never supported my business."
You almost can't believe your ears. The wildness behind Kyle's eyes tell you that he fully believes in what he's saying.
You laugh, bordering on hysteric. "Okay, fine. Let's pretend like we live in a world where I didn't put every cent in my bank account and then some toward your stupid fucking food truck. What about every weekend I helped out when you insisted on going to little league baseball games, parking outside, and trying to sell your hipster falafels to a bunch of eight year olds? Or how about all the grocery runs I did for you? When you ran out of money to pay for your chickpeas because you didn't sell any falafels that week? Who was the one who had to take the subway all the way to that fancy grocery store on Ninth to get you those chickpeas that were twice as expensive as the normal ones because you said they made a real difference in your recipe?"
"They did."
"You treated me like your backup plan for everything. Except there was never a plan in the first place."
"What happened to 'in sickness and in health'? 'For richer or poorer'?" You hear a noise in the living room, suspiciously sounding like a chair scuffing the floor. Or a scoff. "All I'm saying is... you could spare some money to help me out. You know what position I'm in."
"Kyle, I've done nothing but spare you money for the entirety of our marriage. I was there, eating falafel salad every night for a week so we didn't have to toss out food. I singlehandedly kept your business funded because even your friends couldn't spare a few bucks to buy some food off you. I paid the rent, I paid utilities. I supported you in your dream. Have you ever considered that maybe your recipe just sucked?"
Kyle throws his hands up, looking to the side with a scowl. "You want to go there? If I remember correctly, you mom loved my recipe."
"She was just being nice."
He folds his arms on the table and leans forward, staring up at you through his eyelashes. It confuses you how a guy this hellbent on arguing over something so stupid could have paid someone to kill you. Right now, you're angry enough that you'd pay someone to... you bite your lip. "Well, it's okay. I've got a loyal customer base who's interested in my next venture."
That stops you in your tracks. "Your next what?"
A shadow crosses Kyle's face. It seems to dawn on him that he's said something he shouldn't have. He looks away from you, finally appropriately sheepish. "Ethan... you know Ethan. He said... he'll be my partner as I start up a new business. I'm gonna clean up the food truck and start selling street tacos."
You know Ethan, Kyle's best man at the wedding. You could count on a closed fist the amount of times Ethan had paid for the food he got from Falafel Fixins and FIxes.
Your eye twitches. You hear another noise from the living room, closer this time. You do not want to accept that it was a laugh. "Tacos?" Kyle nods. "Kyle. You're not even good at making fucking tacos."
"See? This is why I'm divorcing you. You could never say anything nice about me."
"I'm not going to say this again." You start, shifting in your seat, and you feel the cool blade of Bullseye's knife against your sweating spine. "You take your money, I take mine. You get the fuck out of my life and we don't have to talk about this anymore."
There's a flare of anger in his eyes that almost gives you pause. "You owe me for putting up with you for six years."
It's hard to admit, but your heart seizes at that. "Putting up with you". Like loving you was charity and not desire. You hate that you feel tears coming on again. You couldn't seem to stop crying since last night. "You loved me."
"I did. Until you started shoving your successes in my face, making me feel like I would never amount to anything. And you're still doing it now, 'cause you just can't help yourself, can you? The least you can do is give me a couple thousand dollars to get me on my feet. Then I'll never talk to you again."
"Fuck you."
You feel the table lurch into your gut, almost forcing out yesterday's lunch. You see Kyle jump up, reaching across the table for you with one hand, while the other—
You do not register the screaming at first.
You've got Bullseye's knife skewered through Kyle's hand and the table. You don't even remember giving your brain the okay to do it, but you do know that you saw him coming for you, and something just... clicked. You let go of the knife but it stays firmly in the table, pinning Kyle to it.
Almost as soon as you let go, Bullseye is grabbing the dishtowel hanging off your oven door and shoving it into Kyle's mouth from behind, forcing him back down into his chair. Bullseye holds Kyle's other flailing wrist in one hand, and the other cups Kyle's chin, pressing his head into Bullseye's stomach. The killer looks down at your ex-husband, shushing him gently. There's a small smile on his face as his eyes trail over to your own. "Impressive, sweetheart. Fast reflexes."
"I stabbed him." It's more of a statement than anything. You can't quite believe what you've done. You watch the blood slowly pool around the wound, where blade binds to flesh and muscle. Kyle's eyes are wide, dripping fat tears down his cheeks.
"Real clean." Bullseye leans over Kyle, taking a good look at your work. "I've never seen someone work my knife quite as good as me."
"Please, Bullseye. I—" Kyle screams something into the towel. You think it was "Bullseye?!"
Bullseye's head tilts. "Call me Dex."
It feels so mundane. Bullseye is holding your ex-husband by the chin, cooing at him to stop crying about the knife you'd stabbed through his hand, and he's asking you to call him by (what you think) is his real name. Like this split second decision had made you friends.
You press your hands between your thighs, punishing them for their offense. "Dex... that was assault. I assaulted him. I fucked up."
Dex doesn't seem bothered. In fact, he seems pleased as you test out his new name. "Not from what I saw. It looked like self-defense. I mean," Dex moves his hand from Kyle's chin to his hair and yanks his head closer to the knife, forcing him to look at your handiwork. Hearing Kyle's muffled cries ought to scare you, but... "What were you going to do, cowboy? See who shoots first?"
Dex releases Kyle's hair and reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a revolver and setting it on the table. Your breath hitches. When you look into Dex's eyes, he's already looking back at you. The question is already there. Waiting.
You look away. "We have to..."
Have to what? You could call the cops and they'd see the gun, and perhaps after a lengthy trial they would figure out what your ex had done and put him away in prison for life without parole. Perhaps your good lawyer would see to it that you get off scot-free, even for the knife in his hand. Dex would not be needed. You could send him on his way with his $350 and freedom from your unnecessarily complicated divorce. Leave this whole thing in the kitchen, between you and the cops.
You could do that.
You push up from the table. Feeling Dex's eyes on you, you take a glance at the other knives on his belt. They vary in shape and size. You reach around and grab the end of the dishtowel hanging out of Kyle's mouth. "Don't scream, or you'll have to explain that gun to the police. And I know you don't have a fucking permit." You warn, and then yank out the towel.
Kyle coughs up some spittle into his lap. "It doesn't matter. Ethan knows everything, and if I don't show up to court, he'll expose you and your new boyfriend here to everyone."
You shriek when Dex suddenly slams Kyle's head on the table, drawing him back by the hair so he can speak directly into his ear. "You told your buddy Ethan everything? Did he also tell you to come all the way here with a loaded gun to finish the job? Well, that would make him complicit. And you see, I've got a long string of texts from you on a phone I've taken great effort to make untraceable. And the voicemail. God, the voicemail. It's almost like you've never had anyone killed before. If I was a cop, I'd start drawing some pretty damning conclusions. Don't you think, sweetheart?" Dex grins at you, giddy with the alibi he strings together.
Kyle's breath shudders. "Then I'd tell them it was you I was texting. Bullseye. They'd put you on death row."
"But it wasn't Bullseye that you told Ethan you were talking to, was it? It was a... a stranger who didn't give you a name. Who you couldn't even really describe because you were seeing double by the time you reached in that wallet of yours and put down the cash. And what makes you think you'd live long enough to say something?"
"H— How do you know I don't have a wire? Maybe all this is being recorded. Maybe the task force would like to hear about how you've been holed up in this bitch's apartment—"
Dex slams Kyle's head against the table again, cutting him off. "I know because you're stupid, Kyle. Six years with this guy?" When you don't react to that jab, he stands to his full height and tucks Kyle's gun into the back of his pants. "I'm not going to ask again."
What Dex didn't know was that you had already made your decision. You had hoped that maybe you wouldn't have to, but as Kyle looks up at you with nothing but disdain, and his words from earlier continue to eat away at your heart, you feel something worse than contempt: rage.
You'd put all your money and time and love into this man who couldn't bother to kill you himself until the final minute. And of course he did, because he sucked at everything else.
You had given him the benefit of the doubt until you just couldn't anymore. And you were tired. Bone-deep tired.
You look up at Dex. He must know what your choice is, because his dark eyes spark with exhilaration. "How should we do it?"
Kyle starts to protest, but Dex is quick to take the towel from you and gag him once more. "Well, we've roughed him up pretty good, so the police wouldn't buy attempted murder-suicide. Gun's too loud, and if we stab anywhere it'll look like murder. Best we can do is slit his throat and stage him a little bit."
"Stage him?" You ask, swallowing down the thickness in your throat.
Dex hums. He holds Kyle still with little effort. "Would you like to watch?"
You stare at him. How you'd gotten here in your life, you did not know. You wish you'd never asked your cousin for that falafel truck. "I... Yes."
Dex smiles, almost proud. He takes out a knife and holds it up to Kyle's neck. "Would you like to help?"
Kyle is whining for mercy, and Dex holds him down like a squealing pig. "How?" You ask.
Dex whispers a "c'mere", and beckons for you to stand in front of him. You move, reluctant, slipping between the back of Kyle's chair and Dex's chest. He's solid behind you, just like he had been last night, but you don't feel the same panic you did hours ago when you thought it'd be your neck he'd slit. Dex hands you his knife. "Here's what we're gonna do: I'm going to hold his hand so he doesn't try to get loose. You're gonna grab his chin to hold his head back," You cup your hand around Kyle's sweaty jaw. "And push until his big, fat head is digging into your belly."
You shiver when Dex's chin finds the spot between your neck and shoulder, his stubble tickling you. You do as he says, and make eye contact with Kyle. He pleads with his eyes for you to let him go. "Like this?"
"Yeah, that's it. You're doing good. We have to use your right hand 'cause Kyle here is right-handed. Now, you're going to put the knife to his neck. A little closer to the Adam's apple; starting at the ear is a tip-off that someone else did it. Usually, when someone slits their own throat, there's hesitation too, so it's okay if you're a little uneven at first. But then you'll want to cut fast. Can you do that?" Dex walks you through it like he's showing you how to change a tire, or fix a clogged pipe.
"I don't know... I..." You feel Dex's hand slip over your own holding the knife, and the warmth shocks you. It wasn't enough that he was holding you, talking you through your ex's demise. He was going to guide the knife with you.
He helps you place the blade under the left side of Kyle's jaw and presses against your hand to make the first prick. You squirm when Kyle screams and the first of the blood begins to pour down the front of his shirt. "It's okay. You're doing good. You just gotta block it out. That's good. Now, fast. On three, with me. One, two—"
You shut your eyes and let Dex yank your hand to the right. You hear the shocked gurgle, and then a loud thump as you release Kyle's head to hit the table one last time. You stand there, heaving breath against Dex, and you squirm when his chin hair rubs against your shoulder. You feel nauseous. You think you may throw up on your ex's dead body.
You feel Dex reach in front of you, shifting somewhat. "You wanna see?" He asks. You open one eye and see him examining your work. The light in Kyle's eyes have already dimmed. From the opening in his neck pours rivulets of deep crimson. Your hand is dripping with some of it, and you cling to the knife like you've got rigor mortis. Was that insensitive to think in front of a dead person? "Not bad at all." He praises. If you were in your right mind (if this was a normal morning, and your ex hadn't brought a gun to shoot you with), you'd have thoughts about all this praise for killing someone well.
"What do we do now?"
Dex's chest rumbles. He plucks the knife out of your hand, wipes the blade with the towel in Kyle's mouth and sheathes it. Then, he grabs your knife-wielding hand and wipes it clean on his thigh. You feel the tough muscles flex beneath your touch and you thank God he lets you go before you feel something else. "Cleanup. Can't leave too much blood on the floor. Table's fine, I've got an idea for that." You watch him strut over to your kitchen sink and peer out of the window, eyebrow raising. "Looks like he brought the truck. We'll be needing that."
"The food truck?" You rush over, and sure enough, he's got the falafel food truck parked in the alley. You wonder if he'd put it there so that he could bring your body out without anyone noticing.
"I'll handle it. Once I've got him in the truck, you call the cops and tell 'em your ex tried to kill you, you stabbed him, and he took off." Dex says with finality.
You look up at him, this seasoned assassin. He'd accepted this peculiar situation of a love life you had, helped you avoid getting killed by your crazy ex, and helped you kill said crazy ex. And now he was offering to take care of the body for you. For free.
"And then what? What are you gonna do with him?"
Dex glances at you. "Better if you don't know."
"So you're just going to help me cover this up? Just like that? And then I just go on with my life, telling no one?"
"If you'd still like to have a life, then yeah."
"What about you?"
"You never saw me."
He grabs a different dish towel from one of your drawers, and you don't have time to wonder how he knew where to find it. You watch him move into the living room, retrieve his knife and your gun with the towel, and then make his way into your bedroom. You try not to bristle when he finds the safe under your bed with just as much ease, tucking your weapon away. He's staging.
When he walks back out, fixing his gloves around his wrists, he sees you still standing in the kitchen, hand stained with your ex's blood. The morning sun is shining through the blinds more brightly now, waking the world. Kyle lies dead a few feet behind you.
"I'm sorry." Is all you can think to say. You feel like even with his generosity, this is somehow your fault. You've dragged someone into your messy marriage and now someone's dead because of it. You think that's how you should look at it. That you were the problem. That even in the midst of your ex putting a hit on you, you were responsible for the scheme.
Dex crosses the room in a few easy strides, stopping right before you. There's such a leisurely look on his face, as if some wild dog inside him had been fed. You only knew because you felt the same. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, almost sleepy and belly-full. "Nah, don't apologize. I should be thanking you. This was fun."
Fun. This was the worst thing to have ever happened to you. This was fun for Bullseye. You rub your nose with your arm, trying to wipe away the snot starting to drain there. "So, what's our story?"
"I'll need another one of your ex's suits. Don't need to fit perfect, just need something that looks like his. And a straight edge razor." You watch him reach a hand up to his jaw, scratching at his stubble. "Could use a good shave."
"So, just to get this straight: this morning—the morning of your scheduled divorce trial with Mr. Kyle... Nuttenberger, you were visited by the suspect at your apartment in Clinton at around seven in the morning. You were alerted to someone trying to enter because you heard what sounded like someone—who you leanred to be Mr. Nuttenberger—trying to shove a key into the lock but was unsuccessful. You then heard Mr. Nuttenberger repeatedly kicking the door, as if he were trying to break in. This is when you unlocked the door."
"That's correct." You sit on your couch, knees drawn together and thumbs twiddling. Inside your apartment, several cops and investigators were coming in and out, taking pictures of the crime scene and dusting for prints. Kyle's gun had already been taken in for further examination.
Of the two cops questioning you, one keeps a very detailed account of your attempted murder. He sits on the edge of your coffee table with a pen behind his ear and a sagging face like a sweet, old bulldog. He'd introduced himself as Officer Harvey. "Mr. Nuttenberger insisted you let him enter, and you guided him to the kitchen where he proceeded to coerce you into settling and giving him a 'couple thousand dollars' to help him start a street taco business, rather than go to trial. You claim he said his lawyer wouldn't be able to win against you if you did. When you refused, Mr. Nuttenberger reacted aggressively, going for a gun he was keeping in his suit jacket. You believed he was going to kill you."
You nod.
Both cops glance at each other, flipping to the next page on their notepad. "Okay... you then claim that you managed to knock the weapon out of Mr. Nuttenberger's hands and onto the floor. You grabbed a knife from the counter and stabbed him in the right hand through your kitchen table. At this point, Mr. Nuttenberger abandoned his plan to hurt you, removed the knife, and ran out of the apartment. We have reports from some of your neighbors saying they saw a man in a suit come in earlier, and believe they saw the same man leaving with a hoodie over his face and a duffel bag over his shoulder. He ran into the alley next to your building to flee in the Falafel Fixins and Fixes food truck you helped him purchase a few years ago. You haven't seen or heard from him since. Is that correct?"
You watch one of the investigators carry out your gun safe, and your heart beats a little faster. "Yes. He, uh.... he's had my number blocked ever since he told me he wanted a divorce. He moved out with his friend Chad, he said. He told me he was done with me, except... then he tries to break into my house and..." You trail off.
Harvey gives you a sympathetic look. He was an older man, and this clearly wasn't his first time dealing with a domestic dispute. Maybe it was his first one driven by falafels, but he doesn't seem too surprised by anything you're telling him. "You're lucky to be alive. Most people in situations like these don't think as fast as you do."
You gnaw on your bottom lip, trying to keep eye contact with the officer. Most people in situations like these didn't have Bullseye talking them through slitting their ex's throat either.
Harvey continues. "Do you know what was in the bag, by any chance?"
"Some of his stuff, I think. I bagged it all so I could give it back to him whenever this was over." You gesture to the remaining bags in the living room, watching the investigators poke through for evidence. "In the rush, I think he just grabbed what he could and got out."
"Well, it seems he left some things too. We found his phone out in the hallway. We're currently working with our investigators to see if we can glean anything. Without any idea of his whereabouts, it's likely he sacrificed it for an easier getaway. Running away in a big food truck with falafels on the side seems counterintuitive, but..."
If they had a warrant to search it, they'd see everything.
"There was someone else." You start, trying to remember exactly what Dex had instructed you to say. "When Kyle was here, he kept mentioning Ethan. Ethan Holland. He was Kyle's best man at our wedding. Kyle kept saying that Ethan knew everything, and that he would cover for him if he got caught. It was strange but now that I think about it, I've felt weird for the past few days. Like someone might've been watching me. It was the worst yesterday."
Both cops perk up. The other cop, a short woman with a low ponytail, stands behind Harvey with her hands on her belt. The name on her badge reads "Weston". "Did you know Ethan well?"
"Uh, sort of. They met back in college. He never... struck me as someone who would be involved in something like this."
You remember the stranger on the street outside your apartment complex, face covered by a Yankees cap and drinking bodega coffee, feet away while you helped that biker. The way his shoulders stood out beneath his jean jacket. The way you felt his eyes burning a hole into you. Too big to be Ethan. Too observant.
"You said you've felt like someone's been watching you. Do you think it could've been someone else?"
Your eyes snap up to hers, and you speak with conviction, "I can't think of anyone else it'd be." Both cops look at you then. "It's just that... ever since the divorce started, Kyle's been telling all his friends awful, untrue things about me. It wouldn't shock me if he convinced his best friend to go along with this. You think you know a man when you marry him."
Weston nods. "It's not uncommon for abusers to try to isolate you, make you feel like no one is on your side."
Harvey stands, nodding to Weston. "Well, we'll reach out as soon as we get an eye on that truck. In the meantime, your trial will most likely be suspended. If we can find the guy, you may be able to file for divorce uncontested. At this moment though, all we can do is wait. Is there anything you'd like to know? Concerns? Any other leads?"
Dex had been true to his word. You had no idea where he was now. It was your relief he hadn't changed his mind and dropped the body off at the precinct just for fun.
You had no way of contacting him.
It shouldn't have made you sad. Out of all the things that had happened to you in the last two days, this was the last thing that should've made you sad. "Just, um... if you find him... tell him the last thing anyone in this neighborhood needs is a white guy making street tacos."
Harvey and Weston's mouths open, then close. Harvey nods, "Thank you for your time."
It's been two months.
Time passes slower for Dex with all the laying low. He spends his days in routine: making his bed, cleaning his kitchen, taking his timed walks around the city. His treat for checking off his to-do list is watching you.
At first, it was precautionary. The police found the truck a day after he'd crashed into a tree with Kyle sitting in the driver's seat, knife in hand, buckled in. He'd wiped down your prints from the weapon, so the investigators assumed that he'd tried to get away, failed, and decided taking his own life would be better than prison. Still, he keeps his eye on the court proceedings and the investigations (and you).
After Kyle was confirmed deceased, the divorce trial had been dismissed and you were legally considered widowed. It was a lot more paperwork, especially because Kyle hadn't thought to remove you from the will, but you made sure whatever you were left went to his parents. It was nice of you to do. Dex wouldn't have done it.
And then there was Ethan. The police didn't waste much time arresting him for connection to your attempted murder, and while he clung to his assertion that he had not been the one Kyle hired, he could not describe Dex because Kyle did not describe Dex. Because Kyle was an idiot.
But as much as Dex wanted to stretch his legs, he also knew that it'd be a while before he could get back to his new normal. So, with measured patience, he began following you.
It was simple: waiting for you to leave for work, walking you there. Reading in the park while you take your lunch. Camping out on the building over as you prepare dinner and head to bed. It was muscle memory from his time with... Julie. He tries not to compare her to you. Tries to not let that fragile thing be fragile.
But sometimes—lately—you surprise him.
Dex hasn't been in a bar since the fateful night he met your ex. He sits in a corner with his back to the wall as always, sipping lightly on a fine bourbon. He's brought the book he'd been reading at the park with you (near you), and every few paragraphs, he looks up to see you and your new friends laughing over shared commiseration over work. After Kyle, you'd ventured to make new connections. He was happy for you. Mostly.
He wasn't jealous. Dex was comfortable with his lonesome. It was uncomplicated. No deep emotions to parse through, no social blunders and unspoken expectations. He was not beholden to anyone. It's what he loved so much about his coworkers in the FBI: they were at arm's length on a schedule. Manageable. Healthy.
And it was hard finding people who he could talk to. The hiding was exhausting. It was easier being alone.
So he's not jealous, because he knows that morning changed you too.
He knows how much you divulge about your ex. It's easier to say you had a "rough relationship" and you "wish it ended differently", and it's necessary to skirt around all the details because talking about that with a regular person would never end well.
And that's how he'll keep you. It's a blip in your history of otherwise uneventful self-sacrifice. One moment in the grand timeline of your life where he'd helped you take control. No one else could have you in that way but him.
Your friends can have you this way.
When you eventually cut the night short, he leaves a tip on the table and waits a beat or two longer to follow you outside, bookmarking the last page of his book.
He keeps considerable distance now that you've been training with that gun more. You keep it on you every time you go outside, tucked discreetly in a bag or the back of your jeans. You keep your keys between your knuckles and, though you don't tell anyone about this one, you keep a knife on your hip. He'd been there the day you walked into a military surplus and asked for something sturdy and easy to hide. He'd watched you practice throwing it into pillows across the room, into trees on your weekend walks through the park where no one could see you but him.
He slips into the building beside yours, scales the stairwell up to the rooftop like he did two months ago, and sets up shop on the ledge as he waits for you to get to your apartment.
You'd learned to keep your blinds closed now, so he only knows you're home when you flick on the lamp. He makes a game of it: timing how long it'd take you to get to your door, get inside, lock it, and survey the area before turning it on. You'd shaved down unlocking and locking by six seconds since he first met you.
And you're full of surprises tonight because, every once in a while, you would open your blinds anyway.
He sees you at your living room window, behind the couch where the fire escape is. He sees you scoping out the alleyway as you always do. You hadn't learned to look up yet. A part of him hoped you never would.
From up here, he could see the you that belonged to him.
You'd replaced the table in the kitchen (he'd learned one night while he watched you wash dishes), so there wasn't much of a physical mark left of Dex there. Something to remind you every morning that he'd been there. Your appointments with your psychiatrist were some of the only bits of privacy he allowed you. Because he knew what losing that privacy felt like. Because he was nice like that.
So he looked for signs of himself in everything. This little routine of yours was one of those signs.
It's a lovely sunny morning, and the bodega on your street was out of jalapeño and cheese croissants. It threw him off a little bit, but he still arrived at your stoop 45 minutes early, coffee in hand, cap low. You'd spent your weekend inside, so Dex was good and found other things to do to pass the time. He'd bought a new book, a diatribe on love and relationships that the bookseller had recommended him after he mentioned helping a friend through a "difficult divorce", and was now leaned back against the wall on chapter twenty.
He takes a break every few minutes to people watch. Spring was in full swing, so there were shorter and lighter clothes out. Pretty soon, you'd be wearing the same. Dex takes a longer sip of his coffee.
He hears the door open beside him and he keeps to the shaded corner provided by the stoop, listening for the sound of your keys clanking in the way only they do. Your shoes scuff the concrete. You must've been wearing sneakers today. Park lunch it is, then.
Dex waits a bit for you to get going, eyes catching on a passage about the importance of connection. Taking those small invitations to build something more.
"Tony."
He doesn't react at first. There's probably a million Tonys in New York City, and half of them probably live in Hell's Kitchen. But... it's your voice saying it.
He looks up slowly, and you're standing there in your spring clothes. You look a little more done up today, but he was right about the sneakers. Your eyes hold him steady. You step closer, and Dex is forced to realize that you are approaching him. You are breaking routine. You notice him.
He hasn't fully revealed his face to you, so he tries to play it off by sticking his head back in his book, roughing up his voice. "Sorry, you must be looking for someone else."
"Dex?" You try, quieter now.
Dex is stuck on the passage: "The truth is, we are human. Even with our misshapen insides. We often miss opportunities to connect out of fear of being cut open for everyone to see."
He glances at his watch—7:47am—then finally raises his head to greet you. "You're going to be late to work at this rate."
You narrow your eyes, then smile as if despite yourself. "I took today off. I'm sick." And then you fake a cough into your fist. "Did you pencil that into your schedule for me?"
Dex blinks. He wonders how long you've been aware to tease him. He straightens up, dogearing his page and tucking the book under his arm. He puts on an easygoing smile. "No, no I did not."
"Well, it's a nice day out. I was going to get breakfast somewhere. Would you like to join me?"
Dex knows this goes against his philosophy of never being a regular, drifting where he can for his own sake but, then again, he's been going against his philosophy for two months. You've come to notice him. He tells himself he doesn't need it, but he does like it. He'd even come to miss it a little bit: being noticed for a good thing.
And what else was he going to do? He was going to follow you anyway.
He heaves a deep sigh. Makes a show of it being such a hassle, and falls into step with you as you begin to walk down the street. "How long have you known?" He asks, kicking a rock down the path.
"Not long. Maybe a week? I saw you at the bar last night."
"That's good." Dex says. "You're getting better."
"Or you're getting worse."
He jerks his head to you when you say that, but you're already laughing, and it feels like this is a you he shouldn't have. The you he'd gotten a glimpse of when he approached you in the park. He doesn't even defend himself, he just smiles.
Suddenly, there's a shrill bell ringing behind Dex. He hears you gasp, feels you tug his arm to get him out of the way, and Dex turns in time to see that same jackass biker from before barrelling down the sidewalk yelling, "Get out of the way!"
Dex has nothing to throw, but he knows you might get hit, so it's enough for him to grab the handlebar of the bike as it passes by, jerking it to a stop so hard that the biker flips over the front and crumples to the ground in a bleeding, scabbed mess.
"Oh my God!" You scream. Dex realizes his mistake as soon as he's made it, dropping the bike like a dog with a shoe in its mouth. He thinks you'll insist to help this guy again, maybe walk him to an urgent care, and it bothers him even more than it should because he'd rather drink piss from a bottle. But then you tug Dex forward, walking around the biker whining for help. "Asshole! Sidewalks are for pedestrians."
You really were full of surprises.
a/n: I included the alternative ending that I didn't end up going with, but I do still really love... and prefer? enjoy!
It's a month later.
It was a fairly busy month, one that your boss had granted you ample vacation time to deal with after finding out about the attempt on your life. Spring was in full swing, and you've only had a few nightmares about killing Kyle.
The police had found the truck a day after it happened, crashed into a tree with Kyle sitting in the driver's seat, knife in hand, strapped in. Your prints were wiped clean from the weapon, so the investigators posited that he'd tried to get away, failed, and decided taking his own life would be better than going to prison for trying to kill you. It was a gruesome sight, they'd showed you the pictures. Bullseye was pretty good at staging, it turned out.
After Kyle was confirmed deceased, the divorce trial had been dismissed and you were legally considered widowed. That also meant all of his belongings became yours because of course he planned to open another food truck, but did not bother to write you out of the will. You hadn't been too happy about that, and had passed on everything you could to his parents who you absolutely could not look in the eye. You packed the physical things into boxes with a letter, and everything else they took after the funeral.
Ethan had been on trial for aiding in the attempted murder, and while he clung to his assertion that he had not been the one Kyle hired, he could not describe Dex because Kyle did not describe Dex.
And... then there was Dex.
No Bullseye sightings had been confirmed in over a month. You didn't know where he would've gone to after crashing the truck, and if he had been keeping an eye on you since then, you wouldn't find out unless he wanted you to.
It felt strange. He'd come into your life like a whirlwind, upending everything you ever knew in the span of two days. And then, just as quickly, he'd gone. It felt about as heartbreaking as a really good one-night stand. Dex had seen you in a way no one else had before—a killer—and perhaps no one else would again.
When people ask you how you're doing, you have to not talk about it. Who could you tell without getting arrested? You hadn't even worked up the courage to write about it in your journal.
So you moved on with your life. Even as you scoped out corners and double (and triple, and quadruple) checked the shadows of your home, looking for him in the dark, you had moved on. You needed to if you wanted to make any new friends.
It's been a month, and you are walking home after a night of drinks.
You keep your keys between your knuckles and your gun in a convenient pocket. You know how to spot bad people who look too long, and you keep close to other strangers.
When you get to your apartment door, you do a quick check of the hallway, but it's almost two in the morning. Quiet enough that you'd hear if someone else was awake right now. You quickly unlock your door and shuffle inside, head on a swivel, and then you shut and lock it behind you with your back to the door. Your apartment is dark. Silent. The blinds are flipped up so no streetlight can get through. You have a lamp turned on by your couch, something you leave on for whenever you're due to get back late.
You comb the room with your eyes, keys still tucked in your hand, but you don't see anything out of the ordinary. A quick check of the kitchen says the same. You walk by every open door, stopping to make sure nothing blended into the shadows too well. Your bedroom returns the same report, and after a few moments of standing in the doorway, you let the warm light of the lamp inside lull you in.
You drop your bag first, then kick off your shoes; you're working on your shirt next, walking over to your bedside table to drop off your phone, when you feel it. Warmth. A vice grip on your ankle.
The world flips ninety degrees and you land on your back with a hard thump, knocking the air out of your lungs. Black stars form disorienting constellations in your vision, but it's not enough to catch you fully off guard.
The next thing you know, you've unsheathed the knife at your hip and thrust it into the hot, heavy weight that climbs on top of you. It hisses out a "shit". You can't blink away the dizziness fast enough.
Above you is Dex. And your knife in his shoulder.
"Oh my God!" You panic, but the position you're in makes it hard to remove the knife. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Dex's teeth are clenched, but you can smell the bourbon on his breath. His eyes are squeezed shut, intensifying the crow's feet that outlines them a little more now. "That was good... you're pretty good." He rolls off you onto his back, looking up at the ceiling with glistening eyes. You immediately get up on your knees to take him in.
He's in no costumes or suits this time. Your knife had gone through a black jean jacket and matching tank underneath, and his face was fully open to you. You could still see his stock of handheld weapons around his waist, tucked into his belt and pockets, but he was lightweight today.
You press your hand to his forehead and he looks at you, his own hand hovering awkwardly near the knife protruding out of him. You shine your phone light in his eyes and watch their slow reaction. "Are you drunk right now?"
"Could ask you the same thing."
You frown. "How long have you been hiding under here?"
Dex's head lulls to the side, but you think it's more from his lax attitude than being inebriated. "Thought I'd check up on you."
Your chest constricts. "Dex. How long have you been hiding under my bed?"
"Just... twenty minutes. Had to beat you home."
You watch his chest rise and fall slowly. "You were watching me?"
The side of his mouth quirks up. "Sometimes."
You don't know what to say to that. So instead, you look at his shoulder. "I'm s—" And then you catch yourself on an apology. "You shouldn't scare people like that."
"You're faster now."
"And you're slower."
He laughs, then groans when it shifts the blade in his shoulder. "That's just the whiskey, sweetheart. I could still take you." He sits up, smoothly removing the knife and his jacket, and you curse at him as he moves his bad shoulder to shrug it off.
You help him pull the damned thing off, and then you help him sit on your bed, checking his wound for how deep the blade had gone. "I should wrap this." You inform him, and he watches as you pull the strap aside to examine him closer. "Maybe then you can tell me where you've been."
"Why? D'ya miss me?" Dex grins, and you almost want to dig your finger into the tender flesh of his wound just to wipe it off. But behind the booze and shock, you did miss him. It feels weird to think. You don't know if you could say it out loud.
And, in a weird way, you don't have to. Dex looks at you and it's like he knows. His grin softens.
You flush. "I'm gonna get the gauze."
You stand to your full height, staring into his eyes as if he'd disappear if you looked away. He stares back. "Turns out the jade was real." He says quickly, and while there's teasing in his tone, there's something else. Something reciprocal. You glance at the hairpin he'd "gifted" you a month ago, sitting on your dresser. "Well, mostly. It probably was treated and stuff but, uh... did you know jade can symbolize protection from evil? Healing, too. They call it the 'stone of heaven'."
You huff out a laugh. "I don't think I'm getting into heaven."
Dex shrugs, winces. "That makes two of us."
"Where'd you get that thing, anyway? Doesn't seem like something you'd buy."
You see Dex's eyes glaze over a little bit, different from their drunk sheen. You tilt your head. "I didn't. Old man gave it to me for free. Said to give it to my lucky someone." You swallow. "I was going to kill you with that thing. Can you believe that?"
You step over to the dresser, picking up the hairpin and sitting down on the bed next to him to inspect the resin-y sheen of the jade. The petal charms tink against each other as you shift it in the light. It looks far too delicate for the violence you know Dex could've wrought with it. Perhaps its very nature had spared you.
If you asked him, he'd probably say it was bullshit. You hoped you weren't wrong when you thought he looked a little softly at you. "Seems pretty lucky to me."
