I’m Ace (She/Her. 21. NYer) I run things around here.
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At the moment, the departments got an eye on these targets- Info attached below.
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ID: Benjamin Luther Poindexter
Aliases: Ben Poindexter, Dex
– Undercover: Tony, Daredevil, Franklin B.
Codename: Bullseye
Further documentation: 404 Not Found
ID: Spencer Reid
Aliases: Spence
– Undercover: N/A
Codename: N/A
Further Documentation: 404 Not Found
This blog is under review and is currently being developed. Please forgive our appearance :) Fics on the way.
Reader is a vigilante with a healing factor, Dex is tasked to kill her as bullseye by order of Vanessa. She survives, heals up with help of Matt at a secret spot and after a few days comes back home and Dex is in her appartment waiting for her 🫣
Fatal Attraction
pairings: benjamin poindexter x vigilante!reader
warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, fighting, stabbing, blood, injuries, bestie matt murdock, sassy sarcastic reader, banter, dex whimpering, he's very vocal, pinv sex, cowgirl on the couch, service bottom dex??, dex is implied to be bit inexperienced but not really, the bullseye suit stays on 🫦.
word count: 6.4k
a/n: sorry for answering this late but all the asks will be posted soon. the pictures shown are not a description of the reader, only for aesthetic purposes. Requests are open!!!
closer- nine inch nails playing ▶️
bullseye masterlist main masterlist
Vanessa Fisk does not raise her voice when she gives an order, and that is somehow worse than if she screamed it at you across a boardroom table. She had folded her hands on the polished wood of her husband's old desk and told Dex, in that same even, cultured tone she used to discuss shipping routes and real estate acquisitions, that the vigilante operating in Hell's Kitchen with the healing factor needed to be removed from the equation before she became a variable Wilson could not control.
She did not say your name like it mattered. She said it like a line item, and Dex had nodded, because nodding was what he did when Vanessa spoke, and because some small ugly part of him had been waiting for an excuse to finally see what you were made of.
He finds you on a rooftop three blocks from the pier, crouched over a low level dealer you'd already zip tied to a vent pipe, your hood pushed back just enough that the streetlight catches the line of your jaw. You hear him before you see him, the particular quiet of a man who has trained his whole life to be quiet, and you turn with a knife already loose in your hand like you'd been expecting rain and this was just weather. He likes that immediately. He likes it more than he wants to admit, watching you clock him, watching you do the math on his silhouette and his stance and the way he holds himself like a coiled spring, and somewhere in that math you must have landed on the wrong number, because you smirk instead of running.
"Vanessa send the B team," you say, "or is Bullseye supposed to be a compliment?"
He doesn't answer with words. He answers by throwing the first thing his hand finds, a loose bolt from the rooftop vent, and it catches you in the shoulder hard enough to spin you half around before you've even registered he moved.
You hiss through your teeth, more surprised than hurt, and when you look back at him there's something bright and delighted in your expression that he was absolutely not prepared for.
"Okay," you say, rolling your shoulder like you're warming up rather than recovering, "that one actually stung. Ten out of ten, would get hit by a rogue bolt again."
"You're supposed to be running," he says, and his voice has that flat, almost bored quality that people who don't know him mistake for calm.
"And you're supposed to be intimidating," you say, "so I guess tonight's just full of disappointments."
The fight that follows is not clean, and it is not fast, and it is nothing like the tidy choreography of the fights you've had with lesser men who fold the moment they realize you don't fold back. Dex throws a knife and you take it in the side rather than let it find your throat, and you laugh, actually laugh, a short disbelieving bark of a sound, because the pain arrives and then arrives again a second later as your body starts knitting the wound shut in real time, muscle and vessel stitching themselves together with a deep internal burn that feels like someone poured lit gasoline directly into your bloodstream.
You've never gotten used to that part. You doubt you ever will. The healing is a mercy and a punishment delivered in the same breath, your body's insistence on survival paid for in a currency of pure agony every single time, and you grit your teeth and close the distance on him anyway because stopping to feel sorry for yourself has never once been useful.
He is good. He is better than good, he is the kind of good that comes from a lifetime of being trained like a weapon instead of raised like a person, and every throw he makes lands with a precision that would have ended a normal fight in the first ten seconds. But you are not a normal fight, and that seems to be dawning on him in real time, his expression shifting from clinical focus to something rawer and more interested with every wound that closes up in front of him.
You take a blade across your ribs and answer with an elbow to his jaw that snaps his head sideways. You take a hit that cracks two of your fingers and answer by grabbing his collar with the same broken hand, ignoring the way the bones grind, and headbutting him hard enough that he stumbles back tasting copper.
"You're insane," he says, spitting blood onto the rooftop gravel, and there's something almost admiring buried under the venom in his voice.
"You're the one throwing cutlery at strangers," you say, "so let's not start comparing diagnoses."
He drives you back with a series of throws that force you into a retreat you don't want to make, and it's the last one, a wicked curved blade he'd been saving, that finds the gap in your defenses and buries itself just under your ribs at an angle that makes your vision go white at the edges. You go down hard onto one knee, hand pressed to the wound, blood welling up hot and fast between your fingers, and for one long moment the two of you just look at each other across the rooftop, him breathing hard with his chest heaving, you kneeling in your own blood with your jaw set like you refuse to let this be the thing that finishes you.
"Stay down," he says, and it isn't quite a command, it's closer to something else, something that sounds almost like he doesn't want to say it twice.
"Not really in my nature," you say, and you push yourself back up onto your feet through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, swaying, and he watches the wound at your side visibly begin to seal itself, the edges drawing together in a way that makes his breath catch even though he'd swear later he doesn't remember doing it.
"Vanessa wants you gone," he says. "Permanently."
"Vanessa can get in line," you say, "I've got a whole waiting room of people who want me gone. You'll have to take a number."
The end of that fight isn't a victory for either of you, not exactly. It's a near miss dressed up as a stalemate, a moment where Dex has you pinned against the low wall of the rooftop with a knife an inch from your throat, close enough that you can feel his breath and see the muscle working in his jaw, and instead of finishing it he just stares at you like he's trying to solve something. You use that half second of hesitation the only way you know how, driving your knee up hard into a place that makes even a man like him buckle, and you use the opening to throw yourself off the edge of the roof onto the fire escape below, half falling and half controlled, your body screaming the whole way down.
You don't remember much of the walk after that. You remember the wet warmth spreading down your side, the way your legs kept moving even when your brain wanted to stop giving them instructions, the particular clarity that comes right before a body decides it's had enough. You remember pulling out your phone with shaking fingers and typing a single word to the one person in this city who has patched you up more times than either of you likes to admit, and then you remember very little else until you're waking up on a cot in a space that smells like antiseptic and old brick, with Matt Murdock's hands moving carefully and methodically over a wound that is already half closed on its own.
"You need to stop doing this to yourself," Matt says, not looking at you, because he never really looks at anyone, but somehow always seeming to see you anyway.
"I didn't do this to myself," you rasp. "Some deranged human dartboard did this to me."
"Bullseye," Matt says, and something tightens in his voice, some old recognition. "You fought Bullseye and you're describing your injuries in a sentence instead of a body bag. That's not nothing."
"I'm aware I'm impressive, Murdock, you don't have to sound so surprised about it."
You wince as your body does its slow gruesome work beneath his hands, skin and muscle knitting closed millimeter by millimeter, and you grip the edge of the cot hard enough that your knuckles go white. "God, I hate this part. Everyone thinks healing factor sounds like a superpower and nobody mentions it feels like getting stabbed a second time, just slower."
"You should rest," Matt says, and he says it the way he says most things, gently but with an undertone that suggests he already knows you won't listen.
"I will," you say, and you almost believe it yourself for about four days.
You spend those four days in the dark, cramped little sanctuary Matt keeps for exactly this purpose, sleeping in long stretches that don't feel restful so much as necessary, waking every few hours to the low simmering ache of tissue still repairing itself somewhere under your skin. Matt checks on you when he can, brings food you mostly don't want, and doesn't push you to talk about the fight even though you can tell he's turning it over in that quiet analytical way of his, filing away every detail you let slip about the man who almost put a knife through your throat. By the fifth morning your ribs have stopped complaining every time you breathe, and the last of the deep bruising along your side has faded to something yellow and forgettable, and you decide, against every reasonable instinct you have, that it's time to go home.
"You're sure," Matt says, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, and it isn't really a question.
"I've got plants that need water and a bed that isn't a cot," you say, pulling your jacket on over the fresh bandages. "I'll live. I'm annoyingly good at that."
"That's not what I meant," Matt says, and there's a beat where you both know exactly what he means, the specific danger of walking back into a life where someone has already proven he knows your rooftops, your patterns, your face.
"Whoever Vanessa sent after you isn't going to just let this go. Men like that don't stop because they lost once."
"Then I guess I'll just have to win the next one too," you say, and you mean it as a joke, but it comes out sounding a little too much like a promise.
Your apartment key sticks in the lock the way it always has, a small stubborn detail of your life that feels almost sweet after four days spent somewhere that wasn't yours, and you have to jiggle it twice before the tumblers finally give. The hallway light is out again, which means the building super still hasn't fixed it despite three separate complaints, and you're already composing the aggravated voicemail you're going to leave him as you push the door open into the dark of your own living room. You don't turn the light on right away. Old habit. You stand in the doorway for a second just breathing in the familiar smell of your own space, and it's in that exact moment of quiet homecoming that you become aware you are not alone.
He's sitting in your armchair like he owns it, one leg crossed over the other, a knife spinning idly between his fingers with the kind of lazy competence that tells you this isn't the first minute he's spent in that chair. The streetlight through your window catches the sharp lines of his face, and for a second, just a second, you feel something that isn't quite fear and isn't quite anger, something closer to the electric jolt of recognizing an opponent you didn't expect to see again so soon.
"You know," you say, flicking the light switch because you refuse to have this conversation in the dark like it's some kind of ambush he gets to control the atmosphere of, "most people knock."
"Most people don't put a knee where you put yours," Dex says, and there's something almost conversational in his tone, like he's commenting on the weather rather than the fact that he broke into your home. "I've been sitting with that for four days."
"Aw, you missed me," you say, dropping your bag by the door with a deliberate carelessness you don't entirely feel, because your pulse is climbing and you're doing the math on every exit and every object in the room that could be a weapon, old habits refusing to switch off even as your mouth runs on autopilot. "That's genuinely the most romantic thing anyone's said to me all week, and I've been recovering from a stab wound, so the bar was low."
"I came here to finish the job," he says.
"You came here and sat in my chair for who knows how long instead of finishing the job," you say, folding your arms. "Which one of us is bad at this."
He stands up slowly, unfolding himself out of the chair with a kind of deliberate patience that feels more threatening than if he'd lunged, and you hold your ground even though every instinct screaming under your skin is telling you to put furniture between the two of you. He's close enough now that you can see the fading bruise along his jaw where you'd headbutted him, a mark you're absurdly proud of, and he studies you like you're a puzzle he's been chewing on for four sleepless nights and still hasn't solved.
"You should be dead," he says, and it isn't an accusation, it's something closer to bewilderment, the flat disbelief of a man whose entire skill set is built on the guarantee that his aim never fails to end a life. "I put a knife under your ribs at an angle that kills in under a minute. You should be dead, and instead you're standing in your kitchen making jokes about furniture."
"Sorry to disappoint," you say, though you don't sound sorry at all. "I'll try to die properly next time, really work on my technique."
"That's not—" He stops, jaw working, and for the first time since you've known of him, however briefly and violently, he looks almost frustrated with himself for not having the right words. "I've never had a job not finish. Not once. And you're just standing there like it's funny."
"It is a little funny," you say, stepping closer instead of back, because you've never once in your life been good at doing the safe thing when the reckless thing was right there available.
"You're Vanessa's attack dog and you got beat by someone bleeding out on a rooftop. If I were you I'd be having a real identity crisis right now, not sitting in my armchair brooding about it."
"I'm not brooding," he says, too fast, too defensive, and something in the way his eyes drop briefly to your mouth before snapping back up tells you that whatever is happening in his head right now is a great deal more complicated than professional frustration.
"You want to know what I think," you say, and you don't wait for permission before you say it, because waiting for permission has never once been your style.
"I think you've spent your whole life being told you're a weapon, a tool, something Vanessa points at a target and forgets about between uses. And I think you came here tonight because some part of you wanted to see if I was going to be scared of you, and the fact that I'm not is doing something to your head that Vanessa's approval never did."
His expression flickers, something raw and unguarded slipping through the careful blankness he wears like armor, and for a second you think you've cut too close, that he's going to close the distance between you with a knife instead of words. Instead he laughs, low and a little startled, like the sound surprised even him, and it's the first genuinely human noise you've heard him make since the rooftop.
"You talk a lot for someone who almost died four days ago," he says.
"And you break into a lot of apartments for someone whose job was supposedly done in one night," you say. "We're both a little pathetic, really, if you think about it."
"I'm not pathetic," he says, and there's an edge to it now, something wounded and defensive that tells you you've found a nerve worth pressing, the kind of nerve that says nobody has ever spoken to him like this and lived long enough to see his reaction.
"You're sitting in a stranger's apartment because you can't stop thinking about the one person who ever hit back," you say, softer now, watching him carefully. "That's not exactly a portrait of stability, Ben."
The way his name lands in your mouth does something to the air in the room, some shift you can feel more than see, his shoulders tightening and his grip flexing around the knife he's still absently spinning between his fingers. He takes a step closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough that you have to tip your head back slightly to keep looking him in the eye, and there's a dangerous, electric quality to the space between your bodies that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the same reckless current that ran through you on the rooftop when you laughed at a bolt buried in your shoulder.
"How do you know that name," he says, low, and it isn't quite a threat, it's closer to something raw and exposed.
"Vanessa's got a big mouth when she thinks nobody's listening," you say, holding perfectly still even as your heart pounds hard enough that you're sure he can probably hear it, given whatever strange senses a man like him has honed over a lifetime of aiming for soft, vulnerable places. "You're not the only one who does his homework before a fight."
"Careful," he says, and the knife stops spinning, held loosely now between two fingers like a promise he hasn't decided whether to keep. "I could still finish this."
"You could've finished it four days ago," you say, "and you didn't. So I don't really think that's what tonight's about."
He doesn't answer right away, and the silence between you stretches out taut and charged, full of everything neither of you seems willing to say out loud, until finally he reaches out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to, and traces two fingers along the fading pink line at your side where his knife had gone in four nights ago, the last visible evidence of a wound that would have ended anyone else. His touch is careful in a way that feels entirely at odds with the violence of how that scar was made, and you don't pull away, you just watch him, watch the strange, hungry fascination playing across his face as he feels the place where he genuinely believed he'd killed you.
"It's already healed," he says, quiet, almost reverent, and there's something in his voice that isn't quite awe and isn't quite obsession but sits somewhere dangerously close to both.
"Mostly," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intend, because his hand hasn't moved and neither has yours. "It still aches when it rains. Healing factor doesn't mean painless, it just means persistent."
"I want to know what that feels like," he says, and it isn't a threat this time, it's something closer to genuine, unguarded want, the kind of confession that a man like him probably doesn't make twice in a lifetime. "Getting hurt and just... not staying broken. Getting to come back from it."
"It's not a gift," you say. "Every single time, it hurts exactly as much as the wound did the first time, and then it hurts again while it closes. People think it means I don't feel pain. I feel all of it. I just don't get to keep the excuse of dying to make it stop."
"That should scare me off you," he says, and there's a rough honesty in the admission that catches you off guard, "the idea that I could carve into you as many times as I wanted and you'd just keep coming back for more. Instead I've been sitting in that chair for four days thinking about it."
"That's deeply unwell of you," you say, though your voice has lost most of its bite, gone low and a little unsteady instead, "and also, if I'm being honest, extremely on brand for a man who throws playing cards at people's throats for a living."
"You're not scared of me," he says, and it isn't a question anymore.
"I'm a little scared of you," you admit, because pretending otherwise would be a lie and you've never seen the point of lying to a man who's already had his hand pressed to your ribs where he stabbed you. "But it's not the kind of scared that makes me want to run. It's the kind that makes me want to see what happens if I don't."
Something shifts in his face at that, some final piece falling into place behind his eyes, and the knife in his hand disappears into his jacket with a small practiced motion, tucked away like a decision he's just made and isn't planning to revisit. He's still close enough that you can feel every breath he takes, and the tension between you has curdled into something that isn't quite a fight and isn't quite anything either of you has a name for yet, charged and unresolved and humming under your skin like the moment right before a storm actually breaks.
"Vanessa's going to ask if it's done," he says, and there's a flicker of something almost like fear in it, the first time all night he's sounded uncertain of anything.
"So lie to her," you say. "You're apparently very good at getting close to people without them noticing. I bet you can manage one convincing story."
"And if she finds out I didn't finish it?"
"Then I guess you'll have a very interesting conversation with your boss," you say, "and I'll have a very interesting rematch with you, and honestly, at this point, I'm not sure which one of those I'm looking forward to more."
He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable and strangely tender moving beneath the sharp planes of his face, the kind of look that belongs to a man who has spent his whole life being pointed at targets and has just discovered, apparently for the first time, that he might actually want to miss one on purpose.
"You're the only thing that's ever hit back and made me want to keep fighting instead of just finishing it," he says, quiet, like the admission costs him something.
"Careful, Poindexter," you say, stepping back just far enough to put a sliver of air between your bodies again, though neither of you looks particularly interested in that distance staying permanent, "keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me."
"Maybe I do," he says, and it sounds like it surprises him as much as it does you, raw and unpolished in a way nothing about him has been all night, "and I have absolutely no idea what to do with that."
"Well," you say, and you can't quite keep the smile off your face even though every rational part of you knows this is an objectively terrible idea, "for someone whose entire job is aiming for the exact right spot, you could try aiming for something other than my throat next time."
He almost smiles at that, something small and crooked that looks unpracticed on his face, like a muscle he hasn't used in a long time. "No promises," he says.
"Good," you say. "I'd hate for either of us to get predictable."
The silence that follows your challenge isn't empty; it's heavy, thick with the kind of static electricity that makes the hair on your arms stand up. Dex doesn't move away. Instead, he shifts his weight slightly, his massive frame casting a shadow that seems to swallow the space between you. The cocky retort you threw at him hangs in the air, but the usual sharp edge of his bravado has dulled into something far more dangerous: genuine curiosity.
His gaze drops. It isn't a casual glance. His eyes track downward, lingering on your mouth with an intensity that feels almost physical, like his stare has heat. He watches the way your lips part as you breathe, the way they move when you swallow, as if he's trying to memorize the exact shape of them. God, he's staring, you think, feeling a flush creep up your neck that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the fight and everything to do with the way his pupils have blown wide.
Dex clears his throat, a rough, uncertain sound that betrays how badly he's off balance. He's a man who can calculate wind speed and trajectory in a heartbeat, yet here he is, looking like he's forgotten how to stand straight.
"Predictable is overrated anyway," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave, rougher than before. He takes half a step closer, closing that sliver of air you fought so hard to create. "But you... you're a problem. A real fucking problem."
The proximity is overwhelming. Up close, Dex smells like leather and something sharp like gunpowder, mixed with the clean, warm musk of his skin. You can feel the heat rolling off his massive body in waves, a furnace that makes the cool air of the room feel suddenly thin. His breathing has gone shallow, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the frantic pounding in your own ribs.
"What's the matter, Dex?" you murmur, tilting your head back to meet that hungry, unreadable stare. You let a slow, challenging smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, leaning in just enough to make the contact inevitable. "For someone who never misses his mark, you're looking pretty lost right now. Afraid you might actually enjoy something you can't control?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. His composure cracks completely the controlled assassin vanishes, replaced by a man who looks utterly undone by your proximity. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, his hands twitching at his sides as if he's fighting the urge to either push you away or crush you against him.
"Fuck you," he breathes, but there's no venom in it, only a raw, desperate need.
Before he can finish the thought, you close the distance. When your lips finally crash against his, it isn't gentle. It's a collision all teeth and tongue and pent up frustration. Dex makes a sound somewhere deep in his throat, something halfway between a growl and a whimper, as his arms finally wind around your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest.
His hands are unsteady as they find purchase on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a desperate strength that suggests he's afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip even slightly. The kiss tastes of adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerously vulnerable. Dex isn't kissing you like a predator claiming prey; he's kissing you like a drowning man who has finally found air, his mouth moving against yours with an awkward, clumsy hunger that makes your heart ache.
A low, broken whimper escapes him when your tongue brushes against his, a sound so uncharacteristic of the lethal man you've known that it sends a shiver down your spine. He's massive, built of solid muscle and hardened sinew, but in this moment, he feels terrifyingly fragile beneath your touch. His forehead drops against yours when you briefly break for air, both of you panting, the space between your lips still charged with enough heat to burn.
"I can't " he starts, his voice cracking, rough and strained. He sounds completely out of his depth, his usual confidence shattered into a thousand pieces. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."
You can feel the tremor running through him, a fine vibration that travels from his hands up through his arms where they encircle your waist. It's almost surreal this mountain of a man, someone who could snap bone with a casual grip, is visibly shaking because you dared to touch him.
"A grown man scared of me?" you tease, your voice dropping to a playful, silken purr. You reach up, your fingertips grazing the stubble along his jawline, feeling the way his skin jumps at your touch.
His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes for a second, leaning into your palm as if he's trying to ground himself. "You don't understand," he manages to rasp out, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't... I don't do this. I don't do any of this."
"Relax," you whisper, stepping closer until there's no space left between your bodies, your chest pressing against the solid wall of his. You let out a soft, melodic laugh that carries no malice, only amusement. "I don't bite. Unless you want me to."
The implication makes him flinch, but not away from you. Instead, he makes a sound that's almost a sob a choked, needy noise that vibrates against your lips. His grip on your hips tightens, his large thumbs dragging across the fabric of your clothes. He looks down at you with such naked, unguarded desperation that it makes your own breath catch.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word broken and helpless. "You're going to be the death of me."
The momentum carries you both backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch. With a grunt of surprise that sounds more like surrender than protest, Dex lets you guide him down onto the cushions. He's still dressed in his tactical gear the dark, reinforced fabric of his bullseye outfit creaking as he settles, the leather straps and holsters creating a rugged barrier between you.
You don't waste time with buttons or complicated laces. Instead, you work with practiced urgency, shoving his shirt up to expose the hard ridges of his abdomen and tugging your own clothes aside just enough to expose your skin. When you straddle him, your thighs parting to accommodate his massive frame, you feel the heat of him through the thin barrier of his trousers. You lower yourself slowly, guiding him inside with a soft gasp, feeling the stretch and the fullness as you begin to ride him in slow, deliberate circles.
Dex's head thunks back against the couch cushions, his eyes rolling shut as his entire body goes rigid. "Fuck, oh god, " he whimpers, the sound raw and unpracticed. His hands hover uncertainly near your hips before finally settling, his fingers splaying wide across your skin. He's hyper aware of everything: the way your hips roll, the friction, and the way your breathing has gone ragged.
"Wait hold on," he rasps suddenly, his eyes snapping open, dark with panic. His hands move from your hips to your ribs, his touch surprisingly gentle as he scans your torso.
"Your side. You're still you're still healing. I can't I don't want to hurt you." His voice cracks, the fear of causing you pain overriding his own desperate need. He looks genuinely terrified that his size and strength might undo the fragile progress your body has made.
"I'm fine, Dex," you whisper, leaning forward to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, trying to soothe the tension coiling in his shoulders. "I'm not going to break."
But the gentleness only seems to fuel his desperation. The sight of your skin against his dark tactical gear, moving on him with such confidence despite your injuries snaps something inside him. The awkwardness doesn't vanish, but it transforms into something more commanding. His hands slide from your ribs down to your ass, his fingers digging in with a possessive grip that makes you cry out.
"You're not fine, you're stubborn," he growls, his voice dropping into something darker, more primal. "And if you won't take it easy, then I'm taking over."
He shifts beneath you, his hips bucking upward to meet your descent with newfound purpose. He's not asking permission anymore; he's guiding the rhythm, his movements becoming more forceful as he chases the friction that's making him whimper and groan in equal measure.
"Look at me," he demands, his breath hot against your ear as he drives upward, his massive frame straining against the confines of his gear. "Don't you dare close your eyes. I want to see you when I lose it."
His hips roll beneath you with a sudden, devastating precision, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. The tactical fabric of his trousers scrapes against your inner thighs, the rough texture adding a sharp sting to the overwhelming fullness of him. Dex isn't smooth he's all raw nerve and uncoordinated power but there is something achingly honest about the way he moves, as if he's trying to memorize every inch of you through sheer physical contact.
"Fuck... you're so fucking tight," he gasps, his head thrashing against the cushion. A broken whimper escapes him when you arch your back, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
"I'm gonna I can't " His voice dissolves into incoherent sounds as his pace quickens, his movements becoming more desperate, more urgent. The controlled assassin has been completely replaced by a man undone by sensation, his breathing coming in ragged, wet pants that echo in the quiet room.
Every time he bucks upward, you feel the strain in his thighs, the sheer mass of him threatening to overwhelm you. His hands shift from your ass to your waist, his grip bruising as he anchors you to him, demanding more, demanding everything. "Please," he chokes out, the word foreign and terrified on his tongue. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
The friction builds to an unbearable crescendo, the rough tactical fabric of his gear grinding against your sensitive skin as he drives upward with increasing ferocity. Dex's entire body is coiled like a spring, his muscles jumping beneath your palms as he fights for control, yet every time you arch against him, he loses another piece of himself.
His voice breaks into a high, needy whimper that vibrates through your own bones. His hips buck one last time, hard and desperate, and you feel the sudden, hot rush of him filling you as he shudders violently beneath you.
His eyes fly open, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises, fixed on yours with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. He holds you there, pinned against his chest, his breathing coming in wet, ragged gasps that sound like he's just run miles. For several long seconds, the only sound in the room is the frantic rhythm of your shared breath and the creak of the leather beneath you.
Slowly, the rigid tension begins to drain from his massive frame. His grip on your waist loosens from a bruising hold to something almost reverent, his fingers tracing idle, unsteady patterns against your hips. He sags back into the cushions, looking utterly spent, his face flushed and damp with sweat. "I'm sorry," he mumbles against your neck, his voice thick and uncharacteristically small, the assassin completely gone. "I didn't I didn't mean to be so rough. Did I hurt you? Tell me if I hurt you." Even in the afterglow, his first instinct is to check, to make sure he hasn't broken the one thing he finally decided he wanted to keep.
You let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck. "This is definitely not what Mrs. Fisk assigned you to do," you murmur, your voice still rough from the exertion.
Dex stiffens for half a second before he melts back into you, a sound that's halfway between a groan and a self deprecating chuckle vibrating through his ribcage. He buries his face deeper into the space between your shoulder and neck, breathing you in as if he's trying to memorize your scent to stave off the inevitable return to reality.
"Mrs. Fisk can die in a ditch," he rasps, his voice wrecked and gravelly. "Besides... she never said anything about what to do when the target starts hitting back."
He shifts slightly, trying to adjust his position without dislodging you, but his movements are still clumsy, still unpracticed in the art of post coital tenderness. His large hand moves from your waist to your back, his palm warm and heavy as he traces the line of your spine with surprising delicacy. "Besides," he adds, quieter now, almost as if he's afraid the words might escape if he says them too loud, "I think I've made my own decisions tonight. For once."
There's no cockiness in that admission, no assassin's bravado. Just a raw honesty that makes your heart flutter more than the climax did. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours with that same terrifying vulnerability. "You okay?" he asks, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. "Really okay? I know you're still healing, and I " He cuts himself off, biting his lip as if frustrated by his own inability to articulate how badly he wants to make sure you're safe. "I don't want to be another thing that leaves a mark you can't get rid of."
His fingers linger at your jaw, his touch impossibly light for someone who just held you with such bruising intensity. The vulnerability in his expression is almost painful to witness; it's as if he's waiting for you to recoil, to realize that the monster who came to kill you is now the man who's terrified of accidentally breaking you.
"You're not going to break me, Dex," you reassure him again, reaching up to cover his hand with yours, pressing his palm more firmly against your cheek. "And you're not another wound. You're..." You pause, searching for a word that doesn't feel like a lie, but the truth is complicated. "You're a complication."
A ghost of that crooked smile returns to his lips, though it's softer now, tired. "Yeah," he agrees breathlessly, leaning down to press a chaste, lingering kiss to your forehead. "A complication I'm not sure I'm ready to solve yet."
dying again in this heat and all I can think about is having some much needed popsicles with fbi!dex. he just innocently opens his while you suck on yours. he catches your eye, freezing mid air when you playfully shove the popsicle in and out of your mouth. “Don’t…” is the only word he can say, swallowing hard while you only keep going. lips wrapped around the frozen treat as you slowly twist it in your mouth. it drips down your chin and fingers and his mouth goes dry. he is already sweating in this heat but you want to kill him slowly and painfully.
he watches a single sweet drop slowly roll from the corner of your mouth and the only right thing for him to do is to lean forward and lick it off but he stays still. his own popsicle melts on the stick while he watches you suck on yours and his cock throbs in his pants when you push it a little deeper down your throat. his mind is already replaying all the images of your lips wrapped around him instead of this ice pop.
he shakes his head in disbelief when you hollow your cheeks around the dessert but his eyes never leave your mouth. you can only smile when you notice his nostrils flare and chest rise as his breathing gets a little heavier.
you got him exactly where you want him as you pull the popsicle from your mouth, licking the melted part from the bottom going all the way up to the top, swirling your tongue around it like it was the tip of his cock. he watches mesmerised as you bring it to his lips. “Open” you say as he obediently opens his mouth and you push it inside while your own lips close around his already almost melted popsicle.
Can you write more about Shane? I love him and the stoner reader's dymanic
content tags are: reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader, somnophilia, drug use
Shane found it so endearing when you were sleepy. If confronted, he would of course deny it, saying it was nice when you had finally shut up and given him some peace and quiet. But he honestly thought you looked adorable blinking your tired eyes, moving slow, and leaning into his touch so compliantly.
When he stopped at your apartment early in the morning, and you open the front door to him still in your pajamas. Your hair is a mess, and you rub your eyes, gravitating into his side for warmth. You accept the paper to-go cup of coffee he brings you, and the little trinket he presses into your hand after pulling you onto his lap. A coyote tooth, an interesting rock, and most recently an eagle feather. You suck down the coffee (bitter, from a gas station) as he rubs the back of your neck, tucking you under his arm. “I’m gonna charge this with my crystals under the moon” you mumble, twirling the feather in your fingers. “It’s gonna be full tonight.” You shuffle across the room to place the gift on the windowsill.
Laying in bed after splitting an edible. The tv drones quietly in the background, long forgotten after your high invited you sink into the cool sheets. Shane lays behind you, cocooning your body with his. He pulls your pelvis even closer into his, the curve of your ass giving him some much needed relief against his erection. Shamelessly he rolls his hips up into your ass, palming your breasts and soft stomach underneath your tshirt. You stir after one particular nudge of his harness into your back. “Shane?” You whisper.
He shushes you, turning his voice into a human white noise machine. And even though the scratchiness of his face against yours should wake you up, the familiarity comforts you instead. “Shhh it’s just me. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” A soft pat to your mound, and he lifts your knee slightly. “Just let me in baby, then you can go back to sleep.” A kiss to the side of your temple. His warm chest pressed into your back. The world is fuzzy at the edges and he cannot help but speak so softly to you, handle you with utmost care when you trust him enough to let your guard down as you sleep next to him.
Falling asleep in the passenger seat of his truck. The roads are long, and gently curved. The low hum of the engine lulls you into serene sleep. He takes the long way so you have extra time to sleep; and he has extra time to glance over at you slumped against the window. You had a big day, you deserve the nap, and he deserves to hold onto your knee a little longer.
on those nights where dex is fairly rough with you he'll often disappear for a while after pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, leaving you fucked-out and splayed naked on the bed. within a few seconds of his departure, though, you can hear the water running in the bathroom – the rich scent of lavender filling the master bedroom.
too tired to open your eyes, you can hear him pad out of the room quietly. cabinets open and close gently, the sink runs for a few seconds before he's padding back into the room and the bed dips. his hand reaches for you, smoothing the damp hair off your forehead and smiling sheepishly at you. slowly your eyes flutter open and meet his, he's holding out a painkiller and glass of water muttering "take this for me, yeah?"
when he's satisfied you've had enough to drink he'll scoop you into his arms, carrying you into the warm bathroom. the tub is almost full, bubbles sticking to the sides, steam rising.
the water is always too hot when he goes to dip your body in making you whine in protest, quietly cursing him for attempting to burn your skin clean off. "'s good for you, baby. gotta relax," he's climbing in right behind you, settling you against his chest. "don't wan' you to be sore.." he's so quiet, lest he disturb the peace he's attempting to bring you after treating you so crudely.
when you wince or whine, dex'll mutter apologies into your skin and massage your tense muscles. "was too rough, tonight, darling - 'm sorry,"
and he revels your contented moans and hums as he works your body, cleans off all the filth from your time in bed with him.
then, he just can't help but start getting worked up again – you're just so pretty, so pliable and soft in his arms. he'll snake a hand to your abused cunt, the other coming to cup your breast, trailing soft kisses down your neck and onto your shoulder. your soft whimpers only spur him on, rubbing delicate circles on your clit and pinching your nipple.
you can feel his hard on beneath you and despite how badly you want to help you're just so, so sleepy.. but dex doesn't mind, bringing you over the edge one more time before massaging your thighs.
by now the waters cooled down; dex climbs out and brings you with him, wrapping a towel around your body and drying you before setting you on the closed toilet seat lid. he pulls on his own boxers and turns towards the clothes he set out for you on the counter, coming over to pull one of his shirts he knows you love over your body. he brushes your hair tenderly and leaves soft kisses all over your face while your heavy eyes close, instinctively leaning into his touch.
when he's happy with his work he pulls you to him again, your legs wrapping around his waist before he's dipping down to set you on the soft sheets of your shared bed. your eyes open slowly again, glancing at dex once more and seeing his smile - his eyes so full of love for you - before you smile and cuddle further into the bed.
dex climbs into bed next to you, body turned towards yours and bringing a big hand to rest on your shoulder as he admires you. when your breathing deepens and your face softens dex can't help but pull you into him, pressing your bodies together and kissing your forehead before he finally lets his eyes drift shut.
i love perverted stalker obsessed panty sniffing dex like yes be so enamored by reader that you shamelessly steal her favorite pair of panties, yes wrap her lacey underwear around your erection and jerk off, yes breathe in her scent and roll your eyes to the back of your head!!!
so um, virgin!dex who moans in sync and just as loud as you when he's using his fingers inside you for the first time, trembling because he can't even believe he gets to touch you like this, eyes zeroed in on your face as it turns in almost horrified awe at his dexterity (🤭) like. literally. once his digits are moving in and out your hips instinctively buck up at their relentless precision, you make a startled and heated "oh god?- baby!" and dex responds in turn with an equally wrecked "f-fuck!", the fact that you're moaning at his touch overwhelms him too much, he's gasping into your mouth and echoing every obscene sound he rips out of you, the cacophony of it all is probably enough for the neighbors to complain about too
making fbi!dex fuck ur thighs while he has a collar on and you pull his leash.
hes panting like a puppy as his cock slides in and out of between ur thighs, grabbing them for support as he paws at the flesh. "f..feel's s'good.." he whines quietly, a sharper sound leaving him as you tug on his leash, pulling his face closer. :( "you can do better than that, dexie.." you coo, squeezing ur thighs together, his breathing growing quicker as he quickens his pace. gulping nervously as he glanced away from ur gaze… unable to make eye contact as his face flushes a light red.
"that’s it.. good boy." one of your hands running through his hair while the other kept its hold on the leash, tugging on it once more as he licked a stripe up ur chest. suckling on ur chest as he whimpered.. "i wanna be inside you…" his words a meek whisper as he continued to fuck ur thighs :( already being denied his orgasm :( "i know baby, i know,"
Head Of Delusion Dept. @acescutejeans-1247 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
