DawnofHeartz

18, she/her

[dawnofheartz]

i rarely like nsfw works, but yours was fire. please never stop writing

Aww tysm! I always prefer to write my nsfw stuff with lore😭 No hate I just think it makes it so much more juicy than the straight freaky stuff without plot!

[lights-on-the-ridge]

a little something for @deusexgirlfriend based on their wonderful Dex piece, Digital Bath🫶

[deusexgirlfriend]

DIGITAL BATH [EP] ☆ ~4k ben poindexter x gender neutral, journalist!reader

ao3 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3

summary: after publishing a passive-aggressive article about the avtf's aggression, you've been on the municipal government's (read: fisk's) shit list. your editor at the daily bugle tells you writing a series about the "unfortunate" task force killings will prove that you're unbiased and in support of the mayor. she thinks she’s doing you a solid with this assignment. you think it's her way of driving you insane. an avid reader of yours totally gets it.

warnings! written depictions of snuff films, stalker!dex

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home (No subject) 04/06/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-009.mp4             ▼]

Like the last eight messages, the subject line of this email is blank. The video attachment is labeled simply: you’ve guessed in your infinite wisdom that TF stood for Task Force, and the number corresponds to the day’s planned assassination in this ongoing series. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters you can’t find significance in. The domain is archaic, an actual @netscape.net address.

You didn’t bother continuing a trace on the address after your first attempt. The tech lady at The Bugle said that she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) sink her teeth into it before booting you out of her office. You then ran Scopum Impetum through a Latin to English translator and got something like “Hit Target” or “Hitting Target.”

Bullseye.

Rather on the nose with his intimidation. One of three things you’ve learned about him the past month, the other two being that he likes to pick off AVTF squads on their patrol routes or house calls. Massive, bloody, nightmarish killings that always made the news because it was impossible to mask them  as typical New York violence.

You also learned that while the patrol killings were random, the videos were special. All videoed victims were elite officers with significant power, or members who had amassed large red-pilled followings online.

All ironic kills. All final laughs in Fisk’s face. 

You open TF-009.mp4. There’s no thumbnail, but the video outline is vertical in cell phone dimensions. 

You hit play. The framing is steady. Bullseye either uses a tripod, or has very solid hands. 

You watch a man in AVTF tactical gear—you think his badge reads 4091, you’ll look him up later—crawl backward across a warehouse floor. His leg is bent at an angle that suggests his femur bone has been turned into several smaller bones. Pieces of it stick out, shards of white in crests that burst through skin. It reminds you of the Sydney Opera House.

He’s begging. You can’t really make out the words over the wet rasps of his uneven breathing, but it’s easy to guess what he’s saying. Please. Please.

The camera doesn’t move. There’s no voice here, and the video’s ambient noise doesn’t sound like it’s been scrubbed over by an A.I to remove speech. You make a mental note of that. Bullseye’s always been quiet with killing. No video reveals a voice.

Then a long, thin, yellow projectile sinks into the man’s left eye socket with a sound like a melon splitting.

The video ends.

Before you can think about it, you click the replay button. Bone shards, the wet choke-gasps. You skip over some of the tense anticipation until Bullseye throws. The projectile flies, and you see in this second viewing that it was a pencil that killed this officer. A pencil splintered in his skull and separated the soft flesh of his eyeball. You see the white orb deflate like a sad birthday balloon. It leaks red and small fleshy chunks over the officer’s face until he stops screaming. 

You close the player. You open Word.

task force victim no. 9 badge #4091? pencil through eye location tbd. warehouse district? low lighting. probably killed at night still no visual proof of attacker being bullseye

You don’t write: victim begged for his life

You don’t write: bullseye did us a favor.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home No new mail

Three weeks ago, Adriana called you into her office. The glass walls around her desk made you feel like you were entering a snake terrarium at the back of the Bugle’s newsroom, and you were the next mouse to be swallowed alive.

“Morning,” you’d said. You didn’t sit down because people never sat unless Adriana told them to. 

Adriana slid a folded letter across her desk. The paper had the mayor’s emblem stamped over it. “This came in for you. Give it a look-see.” 

You pick up the creamy paper. Officially, it was an acknowledgment of your “balanced coverage” of city affairs, and it urged you to cover things “closer to the heart of the administration.” Unofficially, it was a target drawn on stationery being pinned to your back.

“Mayor Fisk read your piece on the Task Force’s budget allocation,” Adriana said, folding her hands. “The one where you pointed out the civilian engagement metrics.”

You said nothing. You put the letter back on Adriana’s desk. 

“He hated it,” she continued. “And because he hates it, everyone who works for him hates it. And because everyone who works for him hates it, you’re going radioactive here.”

You said nothing.

“Because I like you, I’m giving you a lifeline.” Adriana tapped the letter. “Bullseye. The Task Force killer. You’re going to cover him, and you’re going to humanize the victims. Make everyone cry. No ifs, ands, or buts. Show the city that you care about justice.”

“The Task Force,” you began, “is a fascist death squad.”

“The Task Force is the law,” Adriana clears her throat. “And you’re going to write about the people dying to uphold it. Or, you can clean out your desk and see how long your freelance career lasts when every editor in town knows Wilson Fisk has a personal grudge against you. You know he doesn’t forgive easily.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. 

You took the assignment. 

At first, Bullseye performed for the masses. He posted six kills publicly. They were grainy the way a phone camera got when zoomed a little too far, then uploaded to fringe forums. Every video had a time stamp and was geo-tagged like he was building an archive. The Task Force would always arrive too late to the scenes, find the bodies, and hold press conferences where they promised to find the “cowardly terrorist.”

You attended one of those press conferences when you were writing about the third victim. The commissioner stood behind a podium and called Bullseye “a disturbed vigilante threat to civilized society.” You watched the officers lined up behind him—people who had, in the last six days alone, fractured an unarmed Latino protester’s skull and shoved his sister down a flight of stairs.

You felt nothing for the Task Force.

You wrote the introductory article your editor wanted. You listed the victims’ names, described their service records, quoted grieving families. The ache in the hollows of your ribs had nothing to do with sympathy for the dead.

Then Bullseye stopped posting.

You assumed he’d been caught and killed before trial. On the other end, maybe he’d finally grown bored of killing. You felt a brief, shameful flicker of relief—not because the killings had stopped, but because you wouldn’t have to watch the forum videos.

Then the first video came.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home (No subject) 03/29/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-001.mp4             ▼]

The subject line was blank. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters on an @netscape.net address.

You almost deleted it instinctively. Spam mail. A virus showing you a video of the hot babes in your area. But the sender’s name was something Latin, and that raised a flag of curiosity. After running the file through a virus scanner, you opened it.

You truly wish you hadn’t. 

On the forums, people usually tagged warnings. You went in with no idea that you were about to watch a woman in a Task Force windbreaker take a staple gun to the side of her neck. It clicked as it hit her, a staple injecting itself into a fold of skin. The camera didn’t shake. The video ended with a slow zoom on her face as her eyes grew unfocused. 

You slammed your laptop shut. 

Then, you opened it a crack. With the screen pointing down and the laptop’s volume cranked to the max, you tried to listen for any targeted messages. You found nothing. You checked the forums, the sphere of Twitter that had a dedicated group of followers reposting the kills, other news sites, and it seemed that this specific video was sent only to you.

You told yourself it was a coincidence. You told yourself the killer had simply chosen a journalist at random.

You didn’t believe it.

[TF-004.mp4            ▼]

A man in tactical gear. A rolled-up magazine. The carotid artery spurted out in pumps that arc like sticky, red fountain water. Same steady camera. A zoom on the dying eye.

You have a working theory: Bullseye isn’t sending you these videos because he wants you to stop him. Maybe it's because you were the only city journalist at an outlet who wrote the truth about the Task Force, and this was him sliding into alignment with you. A weird Snapchat streak he held on his own.

It's the nicest theory you could come up. The others lead you down a path where you're the next person he’d videotape, and the videos are the road signs on the way.

[TF-005.mp4             ▼]

You have a system. You scan the file before downloading it, as anyone should. You let the audio play first to listen for cues. You watch the video after to make notes for the articles. You log the victim’s badge number if you can see it, estimated the time of day, and the weapon used. You waited until an hour after your source at the NYPD would contact you before sending a draft to your editor. You transfer the videos to a USB you’re too paranoid to let go of, so it now lives under the insole of your left shoe.

[TF-006.mp4             ▼]

You stop pretending everything is normal. 

The videos are inside you. They live behind your eyes. You’ll be walking to the coffee shop and suddenly remember the way a man’s throat opens like a zipper, thyroid cartilage visible as he chokes on blood. You’ll have to sit down on the curb to breathe until the world stops spinning. You wake up gasping, your hand pressed flat against your heart as if checking for wounds. Every creak of the radiator makes you think of footsteps, every gust of wind moving the creaky fire escape sounds like a throaty voice outside. 

[TF-007.mp4             ▼]

You don’t mourn them. They weren’t good people. They signed up to wield violence against civilians with the explicit blessing of a man who, not long ago, was in the F.B.I’s custody. They had chosen power without accountability. They had chosen to become the fists of a fascist.

You do mourn the part of yourself that couldn’t watch a man die. Now you know many ways people die: a pencil through the eye, a staple gun to the throat, a domino splitting a skull and macerating the brain stem.

[TF-009.mp4             ▼]

Your phone buzzes with text from Adriana.

I need your draft on victim 8. We need the human angle. Make me cry!!!

You rub your face with your hands before opening a new Word document.

The eighth member of the Anti-Vigilante Task Force was found dead yesterday morning in an alleyway behind Josie’s Bar. His name was Marcus Webb. He leaves behind two children and a wife.           He leaves behind an impressive legacy of violence. His record in the NYPD included various excessive force complaints and two internal investigations. The AVTF had to pay a settlement to a family whose son that Webb had permanently disabled.

You wish you could publish this. Reluctantly, you hit the backspace button until you’re behind the word wife. You rub your face again, you save the document, close your laptop, and sit in the dark. You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

Your laptop flashes a notification at you.

(No subject) 04/07/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-010.mp4             ▼]

You wonder if Bullseye knows that you don’t need the videos anymore. The question you’re afraid to ask, the one that lives in the space between each wet tear of flesh in your dreams, is whether he knows what you are becoming. He must. He’s a serial killer sending out snuff films to a civilian. There’s no reasonable reaction he can guess on your behalf besides terror.

You close your eyes that night in bed, and you see a pencil falling.

[TF-010.mp4             ▼]

The tenth video sits in your inbox for six more hours before you open it.

You tell yourself it was the exhaustion that made you hesitate. You’re busy and tired. You tell yourself that your notes are now stagnant and boring. You need to think about other things to come back fresher.

But the truth’s simpler: you’re scared.

This isn’t a horror movie with jumpscares. You’re the victim of a cyber-stalker, but you don’t feel like one. You haven’t tried contacting him to tell him to stop, blocking him, or making someone else trace the address. You let it happen and you’re saving the videos on a fucking USB drive like that hides any involvement you have.

You open TF-010.mp4.

The frame is different this time. Not a warehouse or an alley. An office. Fluorescent lights. A desk with a nameplate: Lt. Patricia Voss, Internal Affairs.

You know her. You quoted her once, in a piece about police accountability. She called the Task Force “a necessary tool in a broken system.” She smiled when she said it.

Now the camera holds steady. No voice. No face. Just her, trembling, her hands bound behind her back with what looks like a zip tie.

You watch a single playing card—the ace of spades—slice through the air and bury itself in her throat.

She didn’t beg. She only stared at the camera with wide, confused eyes, as if she couldn't understand why this was happening to someone who had played by the rules.

The video ends.

You close the player. You open your notes. 

task force victim no. 10 lt. patricia voss, internal affairs weapon was playing card

Your phone buzzes. You flip it so the screen faces up, primed for annoyance with a test from Adriana.

Instead, it’s a text message from a number you don’t recognize.

You finally watched it.

Another one follows shortly:

I was wondering when you’d open it.

You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn't race. Your hands don’t shake. You feel a strange, almost clinical curiosity.

who is this?

The response comes in less than three seconds.

You know who. :)

Bullseye.

You can’t do anything but watch as three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Your stomach rolls slowly.

You’re the only one who sees them for what they are. I like to think that you think I'm doing something right. I've read everything you wrote before the editor started making you bootlick. You said the citizens deserve better than this.

You remember those pieces. They had been killed by Adriana, buried under a mountain of “libel concerns” and “advertiser pressure.” You thought no one read them.

You were right. They deserve better and the people who hurt them deserve punishment. They were bad people. *are bad people. They’re still everywhere.

You should stop. You should block Bullseye. You should go to the police—not that they would help you.

Instead, you type back. It’s not an active choice, you more so watch your fingers press the smooth glass of your phone screen.

why are you sending these to me?

You understand me. You always watch them so intently.

You set the phone down. A cold, slow thread unwinds in your stomach. He knows where you live. He’s read virtually everything you’ve put online, since he has your name. He can see you right now, and apparently he’s been seeing you since he sent the first TF video. 

Your breath catches as your fingers go numb. For the first time on this case, you feel it: panic. The real kind of prey animal fear, sharp and deep, like a knife sliding between your ribs.

You pick it up again.

i'm not doing anything i just watch what you send me and that’s for my job

That's enough. That's more than any civilian. Don't be scared, Cronkite. I'm not going to hurt you.

☆☆☆☆☆

The texts continue over the following days. Never many. Never at the same time. He sends a single message after each video—sometimes hours later, sometimes days.

Did you see the way he moved? He thought he could run.

She had a photo of her husband on her desk. A cop. Of course.

The commissioner is next. You'll want to read about him before tomorrow to prep your article.

You never ask him to stop. You never ask him to explain. You only respond with questions of your own—small, careful questions that he sometimes answers and sometimes ignores.

why the pencils It's funny. They're also widely available. People can buy them in packs of 100. :)

how do you choose them They choose themselves. Every time they put on that badge, they volunteer. The uniforms make it really easy to single them out.

do uou even feel anything

That question goes unanswered for two days. You assume he’s done with you. You assume you crossed the invisible line, not being polite and cowering slightly.

Then, at 3:17 AM, your phone lights up.

It's really hard. I'm not a mindless killer. I have emotions. I feel the same things everyone else feels, all at once.

You read the message seven times. You do not respond.

That night, you dream of the teenager who was put in a coma by the AVTF. Young and bruised, his eyelashes two small fans over his cheeks. And standing beside his bed is a shadow. No face. No voice. Just a shape that holds a pencil.

You wake up gasping.

Your phone is on the pillow beside you. A new message.

Bad dream?

You sit up. You look around your dark apartment. The windows are locked, and the blinds are drawn. The door is bolted shut and locked. But neither of those things feels like barriers.

They feel like inviting little challenges.

how thefuck do you know that I'm closer than you think, Cronkite.

The sun rises over the city. Your phone buzzes one last time.

Video 011 comes tonight. Be ready.

☆☆☆☆☆

You stare at the message through the day. You fuck up your bodega order and eat the wrong thing numbly. Your phone is a brick in your pocket.

You should ask what he means by ready. Ready to watch? Ready to take notes? Ready to feel nothing while another human being stops breathing?

whens it happening

The response is immediate.

Around 9:20. The commissioner’s speech ends at 9:15. He’ll be walking or in his car.  His license plate is custom. It’s ridiculous.

It's 7:43 PM. You have less than two hours to mentally prepare yourself for this.

how do you know that I pay attention. It's amazing what people post on social media.  His wife tagged him in a Father’s Day post with their new car.  And the event schedule is posted on Fisk’s campaign Instagram.

You open Instagram to find the accounts. The offending posts are pinned on both profiles—Fisk’s campaign account has a listing of the gala's entire timeline with the commissioner’s keynote speech slotted at 8:45-9:15 with some celebrity guest you don’t recognize to follow. The commissioner’s wife’s account has a Father's Day post pinned. A cute, crisp image of the whole family in front of a shiny black SUV. The license plate reads: N4SPEED. Probably the tackiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You close the app.

thats probably the easiest stalking i’ve ever seen See? I'm not that creepy.

The three dots appear. You wait.

Most people don't notice things. They walk through the world with their eyes half-closed.  But not you. You see the gaps, and where the story doesn't match the truth. and you’re pencilling in those gaps?

A longer pause this time. You wonder if you've offended him. If he'll stop texting, stop sending videos, leave you alone with nothing but the echoes of nine dead officers and the tenth on its way.

Something in you recoils from that possibility.

That made me laugh. Out loud. You’re always witty :) That’s why I like your work.

You don't feel witty. You feel hollow. But something in your chest loosens anyway.

do you ever miss Nope.  ever? No, lol. I have to go now. Be ready.

You read the message three times.

You lock your phone and set it face-down on the nightstand. The screen still glows through the glass, an accusing light that says you saw this. You aren’t stopping it. You won’t stop it anyway.

Then you think about Lt. Voss. The way she stared at the camera. The way the ace of spades sat in her throat like a second badge.

You don’t feel sick anymore. Just something heavy, like lead filling the hollow spots in your bones.

[TF-011.mp4             ▼]

Did you see his face? no he immediatly hit the pavement Exactly. They walk around like the badge makes them bulletproof. dont say something cheesy like but im a bomb or something No. I'm just better. :) You live close to that intersection.

You go cold. Not the dramatic cold of fear like earlier—the slow, sinking cold of confirmation. You knew that he knew, but reading him admit it so casually?

how the fuck do you know where i live I watch. You know I pay attention. You’re very careful. I respect that. thats not a fucking answet It’s the only one you're getting.

You set the phone down before walking to your front door. You check the locks. It's secure. You check the window. It's closed with your curtains drawn over it. You check the locks again.

Your phone buzzes.

Relax. I told you that I’m not going to hurt you. You’re the only one who understands me.

You pick up the phone. Your fingers are shaking now—just a little, just enough to notice.

and what the fuck do i understand Some people need to die. Not because I want to kill them. Because they've earned it. You can call it karmic debt finally being cashed in, if you believe in that. You have to crack eggs to make an omelet. You just don’t want to say it out loud.

You read the message seven times. You think about the Black teenagers who have been harassed by the AVTF. The woman who was taken off her street and reported missing by her friends. The protester and his sister. You think about the videos—the pencil, the staple gun, the spectacle, the show.

You think about the way you felt when Lieutenant Voss died. That small, ugly sense of satisfaction.

is that so bad you’re fucking killing people thats not exactlu a thing that normal people do That’s what I like about you. You’re still a moral person after all this. That's why people like me do the work for you.

You don’t say anything.

You’re still awake. I know you’re still reading these. what do you want from me I don't know yet. But I don't want to hurt you.

Another pause. Longer this time.

When I send you the videos, I'm not alone anymore. And neither are you.

You don't respond. You can't. Your throat is tight, and your eyes are dry, and you're not sure if you want to scream or sleep or laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Your phone buzzes two more times.

Goodnight, Cronkite. Sweet dreams.

a/n: thank you all for your love on this piece!! make sure to read the sequel and finale :D

[dawnofheartz]

Knuckle Velvet

Summary: Dex comes back from the murdering an office of bulletin workers for Fisk to find you in his home waiting for him.

DD Ssn 3!Benjamin Poindexter ‘Dex’ x FemReader

Tags: 18+ NSFW, smut, Dex is infatuated with reader, pretty vanilla tho just passionate, allusions to religion? He lowk just worshipping her. Unprotected sex(wrap it b4 u tap it guys), p in v, oral? Not rlly tho, fingers in mouth heh

Word count: 4.7k

Benjamin Poindexter had never really considered himself sentimental. Not in the ways that made a person love something. His version of love always seemed a bit closer to infatuation than anyone would deem normal. A grip so tight, held so close to his ever beating heart that it suffocated and shattered all he ever held close. So he didn't love. Didn't hold things close. Most things at least. He'd been quite proud of the progress he'd made to live a life with some sense of normalcy. Even if it meant minimizing his emotions. So when you came along, it destroyed him. Ripped at the edges of the carefully crafted life he had. Frayed at the restraint he'd put on those intense emotions. He was convinced you'd been sent into his life for the sole purpose of breaking him.

And he knelt at your feet, arms out, ready to be broken. It was hard to say what set him off worse tonight. Perhaps it was the ache in his chest after he slaughtered an entire office of people for Fisk. Thoughts buzzing like a hornets nest behind his eyes. Or maybe it was the fact that you were standing in his kitchen as he climbed back inside through the window, in the daredevil costume. Hands immediately shooting up to rip off the mask. Revealing that face you seemed to grow more and more familiar with.

Your words of confusion echoed off the empty walls. Ringing in his ears as he lifted his palms in a placating gesture. Each step towards you was slow and careful, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal. Though he couldn't tell which of you was more afraid. But he could smell the blood on himself with each ragged inhale. And he knew you could too.

He expected nothing short of your terrorized face and to watch you bolt for the door. He would've caught you, cradled your writhing body in his arms as he tried to explain himself. But you didn't, instead you remained still in his kitchen. You weren't concerned about who's blood it was or why he was dressed as a vigilante. You were only concerned at the busted cheek he had. Skin split against his cheekbone, weeping small rivulets of blood. Dark and half dried.

He didn't really know what to do in response as you stumbled towards him. He'd expected every kind of fear, every kind of struggle and fleeting urge to get the hell away from a man like him. He, however, had not expected you to invite yourself closer. To cradle his bloodied skin in your soft silken palms he swore must've been blessed with divinity. How could you look him in the eyes, and still be so scared for his sake.

“Dex…”

You'd whispered in that sweet tone. Looked at him like he was the one about to break to pieces. When he'd always assumed he'd have to hold himself together silently. You didn't even ask what, or how, or why. You simply pulled his gloved hands through the halls and into the silent bathroom. Careful fingers working him out of the suit. Only to inspect the bruised and battered skin beneath. You met his gaze and his eyes welled with tears he begged himself not to shed. Not in front of you. He couldn't break in front of a goddess like you.

But when your warm hands carefully wiped away the dried blood on his cheek with a cloth he couldn't help but let the tears go. Drip down his skin as he stared. Awestruck at your gentle care. It took everything in him not to sob when your other hand came to join the first. Cradling either side of his face with that sweet concerned look.

“I'm so sorry.”

Was all dex could bring himself to whisper. And he almost didn't register the immediate shake of your head.

“Shh…don't apologize. You're okay…”

Soft whispers echoing in his ears. Arms shooting out to hold you. Shaking in your grasp like a freezing animal as you both stood in the pristine bathroom. He pressed his face against your neck. And he assumed that this was what heaven felt like. In the way your chest expanded and relaxed with each breath. The way your pulse thumped against his nose. Right in the soft curve of your throat.

He hadn't thought he could break anymore. Til your soft lips pressed against his shoulder. Hands gentle and careful as you raked them up and down his bruised back. Dex’s heart had nearly stopped in his chest. And for a second he wondered if it was all a dream. If he'd wake up after this and be alone once more. Like it had always been. But instead you remained. Like some kind of pillar of hope. Hope that maybe at least one person would hold him while he was beaten and bloody. Hope that you wouldn't be afraid if you saw the real him.

His lips parted around a choked inhale. Head lifting to stare in awe as you kissed a gentle path over his shoulder. Slowly circling around his upper back, nape, and around to his other shoulder. He simply stared, blinking several times like that would clear his vision from what he was witnessing. But it didn't change a thing. And you were still there. In front of him with that beautiful look in your eyes and those soft hands snaking up his arms.

Dex simply stared for a moment, watching as his brain scrambled to keep up with the attention you were giving him. Careful and concerned. Both were the kind of reactions he'd never drawn out of anyone before. So he didn't really know how he went from standing there staring to crashing his lips against yours hard enough to bruise. Big, calloused, palms gripping at the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips.

You sighed into his kiss and he swore he almost saw god when you curled your fingers behind his nape and up into his hair. Bruises and cuts forgotten as he stepped over the bloodied suit at his feet. Left in the black boxers beneath. He'd spent the last several hours slaughtering and fighting. Battling with the chaos that rang in his ears. Thoughts so all consuming that it threatened to drown him. And it took his breath away when he realized it all went so perfectly quiet the second he touched your soft skin. An animalistic need to calm himself. To be reminded that you were here. That you saw him as the violent thing he felt he was, and chose to stay. Chose to pick up the pieces in your palms and put him back together.

Dex knew he couldn't let things consume him so deeply. He knew the consequences of being so incredibly infatuated. Something between losing himself and finding who he really was all at once. But he stopped caring about restraint when it came to you. Couldn't be bothered to care when your lips tasted so uniquely like you. He practically drank up your ragged breaths like a man deprived of water. Stumbling to push you up against the cold wall of the bathroom. Cool white plaster pressed against your back, sending goosebumps over your skin.

You'd never known a man to be so desperate as Dex was. The way he held you, tight enough to bruise. But shaky like he feared you'd wither away if he didn't hold you close. Skin hot to the touch as he panted against your mouth. He groaned, pained and broken, as you lifted a thigh to hook around his hip. He immediately gripped the soft warm flesh of your thigh. Holding in place as he broke the kiss. Hazel eyes peeling open as his chest rose and fell with each quick breath. He held your gaze, eyes wide and snapping back and forth between your own. He was a live wire, blown away at the sight of your puffy lips and flushed skin.

He'd let out a soft whisper of your name. Something between a plead and a warning. Though he didn't know what he was begging for, didn't know what he could be warning you about. He knew he'd rather put a bullet to his head than harm you.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

He managed to speak through a shaky breath. His body shook with restraint. Nerves set alight with fear of messing this up. Of breaking something so dear to him in such a way. But when you shook your head and whispered so sweetly he felt his head spin.

“You won't hurt me Dex. I promise.”

Your gentle reassurance soothed the worry in his mind. Though the thought was still there in the back of his mind. Gnawing at the corners of his brain. You saw it, the hesitation in his gaze. You slid your hands to cradle his face.

“I want it. You don't have to worry about me.”

You spoke so softly against his lips. Whispering temptations of the sweetest kind of sin. And he was a goner. Couldn't help the desire to be so close to you. To silence the buzzing behind his eyes. To forget all about how many lives he'd taken just a few hours prior. So he let himself have this. Let himself believe that you needed it as bad as he did. He simply nodded in response. Lifting a hand to told your chin up. Eyes slowly flitting over your features. Cataloging them away in the safe corner of his brain he always seemed to return to when things got too noisy.

He kissed you once more. Slow and tentative as he savored the taste of you on his tongue. It was like a drug. How wrapped up he could get in your warmth, how quickly his mind zeroed in on this feeling. It only took a moment for him to get back to his prior desperation. Dropping your thigh back down and gripping your hips. Walking you out of the bathroom and down the darkened hallway without ever detaching himself from your mouth. When he reached his bedroom he shoved open the door. Precise and quick to slam it shut behind you both as he walked you backwards into his room. Darkened, save for the city lights filtering in through his blinds.

He broke the kiss only to trail them down your throat. Shaky hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt. He nearly lost his breath when you helped him discard it. He watched the way your skin moved and rippled as you lifted your arms to tug the clothing up and off your body. Dex let himself stare, found his hazel eyes nearly blown out as they swept over the soft skin of your breasts peeking out your bra. The curve of your waist and the supple flesh of your hips that disappeared into the waistband of your pants. His mouth nearly watered and you felt your skin heat up and pebble with goosebumps as he stared so intensely.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he was at a loss for words. He decided he'd rather let his body to the talking for him. He didn't trust his words to convey it right anyhow. Big warm palms slid down your torso. Admiring the way your breath hitched as his fingers reached the waistband of your pants. He looked back to you for permission, and when you nodded he slowly tugged them down. You stared in awe as the dragged the fabric down your thighs. But he didn't stop there, he brought his body down to kneel at your feet. Carefully slipping each of your feet out of the pants and tossing it aside.

The sight of him knelt infront of you, soft moonlight glittering over his skin in the darkness of his room, was something from your wildest fantasy. Wet dreams that woke you in a cold sweat on the middle of the night. Fantasies that played in your mind when he'd first introduced himself. And now here he was, praying at your feet like you were the reason his heart was still beating. You'd welcomed his heart, tainted with sin, into your domain, into your body. And he awaited with longing for his punishment. For a divine woman like you to make him atone for his sins. To tut your lips and chide him softly in that sexy way you always did.

But his punishment never came. Like always. You gathered your palms to cup his cheeks in your hands and stared down at him in awe. Like you couldn't tell who was worshipping who. And he sat up on his knees. Trailing his lips, feather light, over your thighs and up to the waistband of your panties. Looking up at you with those darkened eyes. But he made no move to remove the article of clothing. He kissed over the fabric. Watching the way your breath caught in anticipation. The way one hand came to comb through his hair. Slowly, he lowered his mouth. Chin tucked between your plush thighs as he mouthed at your clothed cunt.

He relished in the soft gasp that left your lips. The way you nearly stumbled back, til his hands came to cup the back of your thighs. He repeated the action with a bit more fervor this time. Tongue darting out to lap at the damp fabric of your underwear. Groaning at the taste of your arousal on his tongue. Eyes fluttering shut as he savored the taste, the warmth, the scent. He'd keep this memory on a loop for the rest of time. He felt the tent in his pants throb at the soft moan that left your lips. The way your fingers tightened at this scalp. Dex groaned against you. Grip tightening on your thighs.

“Dex please.”

You gasped so softly, the plea making his head spin. He panted against you as he pulled back just enough to look up at you.

“What is it baby?”

He murmured in a low timbre. Something between chiding and needy. You couldn't tell which turned you on more. Chest rising and falling with each shaky breath that left your lips.

“Please. I can't wait anymore.”

Your words sent his blood rushing south. With the way your face contorted into a soft pout, like you wouldn't survive without his touch. He felt himself relating more and more to that thought. He let himself stand up, rising to his full height just long enough to unclasp your bra with ease. Fingertips hooking under the straps and slowly pulling them down your shoulders. Tossing the garment aside to reveal the supple flesh beneath. The cool air against your skin making your breath hitch. His eyes drilled holes into your skin. Drinking in the sight with a ragged exhale. Eyes flitting back up to you, like he needed to gain your permission as if you weren't begging him mere seconds ago.

Dex took one look at your face, flushed, eyebrows knitted together in a pretty pout. And there he realized you were just as desperate as he was. Experiencing the same burning ache in your core as him. He brought one rough calloused hand up to gently squeeze the warm flesh of your breast. Feeling the weight in his palm. The other arm snaked around your waist. Caging you against his broad chest as he lowered his head. Suckling softly at the other nipple. Eliciting a shuddering moan from you. Fingers curling into his hair and tugging ever so slightly. His mouth was warm, skin hot to the touch.

He laved and sucked at your breasts like he'd never seen a woman in his life. You didn't dwell on the thought. Part of you hoped you'd be the only one to have him like this. Dex dropped the arm around your waist. Slipping between your warm bodies to slip his fingers beneath the fabric of your underwear. Mouth still sealed around one of your tits as he peeled open his eyes to catch the look on your face. Your lips parted in a gasp. And his eyes nearly rolled back as he slid one finger through your slit, feeling how wet you were. Warm slick center coating the rough pads of his fingers. He groaned, low in the back of his throat. His dextrous fingers quickly found your clit. Gentle as he slowly circled the bud. Relishing in the way your eyes squeezed shut. How your knees buckled at the stimulation. He only broke his mouth away from your chest to stare at you.

“Does that feel good?”

You couldn't tell if he was mocking you or genuinely curious. But it felt too good to care. Enveloped in his warmth, in his voice, in his fingers breaking you apart piece by piece. Your response was only a shaky nod and a half choked out, ‘mhm’. Dex hadn't ever realized the ego boost he'd get from seeing you so undone by something as simple as his fingertips. But he'd be lying if he said it didn't stroke his ego a bit. He continued with an agonizingly slow pace. Til he could feel your thighs shaking beneath you.

Then, like he knew the immediate whine that would follow, he removed his fingers. Slipping them out of your panties and watching the way your eyes peeled open. He stared, memorizing the soft quiver of your bottom lip when you got desperate like this. Before you could mutter any confused whines he lifted his fingers. Slow, trailing them over your skin feather light. Over your stomach, the underside of your breast, up to your throat. Watching your lips part for him. And carefully, methodically like he was offering something precious, he slid the two digits past your lips. Past the second knuckle, fingertips heavy on your tongue. Mixed with the heady taste of your own arousal. It made your head spin, and he groaned at the feeling of you softly sucking on his fingers. His pupils blown out, lips slightly parted as he stared intently.

He slowly removed his fingers. Tracing the edge of your lips for a moment as he simply stared. Letting you snake your arms around his shoulders and walk backwards towards the bed.

“Tell me if it's too much.”

He murmured haphazardly, gently laying you atop the bedsheets. Cataloging away the sight of you sprawled atop the bed, wanton and waiting all for him. His hands still shook at his sides. He didn't know where to place all his desire, all this need. But he knew you were right here in front of him. Offering the deepest parts of yourself up to a man like him. Even when he stood in front of you beaten and bruised, still smelling of blood. Dex raked his fingertips up your thighs til he reached your underwear. Hooking them beneath the waistband and slowly pulling them down the plush skin of your legs. Relishing in the way you seemed to press your knees together bashfully once he tossed the garment aside.

“You don't have to be shy. I think you're beautiful.”

He spoke softly. Standing at the foot of the bed. Quickly tugging off his boxers and kicking them aside with the rest of your clothes. He was already achingly hard. But his focus was on the way your gaze raked over him. He climbed atop you. Carefully opening your thighs to rest on either side of his hips. Forearms pressed to the bed on either side of your head. Veins like electrical currents beneath the skin.

“Can I?”

He whispered. He may have been wrapped up in the pleasure of you. But it was still you, still so perfect and divine. And he felt like it was an act of blasphemy to taint your body with his own bloodied one. But when your hands snaked around his shoulders. Tugging his head down to kiss him hungrily his worries of doing anything but worshipping you melted away.

“Please.”

The words you whispered softly against his lips. It sent a rush of heat through his body. Setting each nerve ending alight. You'd begged so sweetly. Offering yourself up to him like it shouldn't have been the other way around. Who was he to deny you anything at all? He slid a hand between the two of you to guide himself. Palm wrapped around his length as he carefully shifted his hips. Sliding the tip up and down your cunt. Watching the way your lips parted. The way your hips bucked slightly when he caught on the nub of your clit. Sweat beaded at his brows. Blood pumping so fast through him it was a wonder he hadn't passed out. He carefully sank into you. Just a couple inches. Pausing to let you adjust to the intrusion. And you took it beautifully. Face contorted in a beautiful expression beneath him. Hair fanned atop the pillows.

“You okay?”

He huffed through a ragged breath. A soft sigh of relief leaving him at your nod. He continued, slowly sinking inch by inch til he bottomed out with a groan.

“Fuck-”

He cursed, head dipping to rest against your shoulder. Broad chest moving with each shuddering breath. Dex had to think of some awful things just to stop himself from cumming right then and there. Gathering his bearings to lift his head enough to peer down at you. You looked gorgeous. Skin flushed, lips puffy. Eyes wide and pupils blown out just like his.

“You can move. I'm okay. Promise.”

You murmured through a soft breath and Dex nodded in response. Slowly rocking his hips back and forth. Shallow thrusts, testing the waters. Terrified of hurting you but wanting to feel you completely. He watched the way you sighed. Eyes half lidded and one hand coming to grip at his forearm planted beside your head.

“Still okay?”

He huffed out. Keeping the light pace. Watching as you bit your lip and nodded. Your other hand tangled so perfectly in his hair. Watching his jaw tick with restraint. It fascinated you how he could restrain himself so much. Even while buried inside of you. Your wrapped your legs around his waist. Heels dug into the taut skin of his lower back. Encouraging him to continue.

“Mhm…you can go faster. You won't break me Dex.”

You murmured against his lips. You watched the internal struggle play over his features. But your pleading face was so tempting. He nodded in response. Picking up his pace with harsher snaps of his hips. Seeing the immediate change in your face. The soft gasp that left your lips. The way your eyes fluttered shut and your jaw slackened. Head lolling back against the pillows as those beautiful moans left your lips. He realized he really wasn't going to break you. Infact you were flourishing in the rough smack of his hips. Blooming so beautifully in a visage of pleasure. He was left in awe at the sight. Low groans reverberating against your ears as he lost himself to the haze of pleasure.

He believed he could die happy right here. Wrapped in your arms. Buried so close to you. He could feel your heart beating against his chest. It left him in awe. You were real and you were his. You'd seen him as a monster and still gathered him into your heart despite that. He rested his forehead against yours. Ragged breaths fanning over your skin as he snapped his hips relentlessly against you. Sinking in and out so beautifully. A shaky whimper left his lips as he watched your eyes flit open. Half lidded and glossed over with pleasure as you kissed him.

“Oh fuck, I love you. God I love you.”

He stammered through a shaky groan. Mirroring your state of awe at his words. Spoken so sincerely. Like he'd ripped open his chest and invited you to take a piece of his heart right out of him. And that you did. Soft fingers gliding to cup either side of his face.

“I love you too Dex. So much.”

Your words were so sweet. So sure of yourself like you hadn't seen him come home covered in the blood of countless other people. His eyebrows knitted together and he swore he felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. But you just kissed them away. Licked up his salty tears like they were just another beautiful part of him. He never wanted to let you go. He wouldn't.

His hand drifted between your bodies to circle your clit. Relishing in the sharp gasp that left your lips. The way your body bucked beneath him. But his weight kept you pressed to the mattress. Held you tight against him as he continued his deep thrusts. You felt like he was going to break you. And you wanted him to. Wanted to fall apart at his hands and let him put you back together again. And so you let him. You clawed your nails down his back. Moaning his name like a prayer while he huffed out yours in response. Throwing you head back as the coil in your belly tightened more and more. Gasps coming out sharper.

“Dex- oh fuck-”

Your words, broken and desperate, like you were teetering on the edge had him struggling to breathe. And you couldn't imagine how you'd went this long without him this close. Couldn't imagine the times he'd walked out the door and you wondered if he'd ever make it back. It tugged at your heart. Made you desperate to keep him close to your heart for forever. You didn't know just how well Dex understood that thought process. He'd gotten a taste of you and now he never wanted to let you go.

It wasn't much longer before your nails were digging into his shoulder blades. Stringing out broken moans as you tugged him impossibly close. Burying your face against his shoulder. Surrounded by his warmth, his scent as you came hard around him. And the way you squeezed and fluttered around him had him cursing against your ear. Groaning your name like a prayer over and over again til he choked on his words. Spilling his seed inside of you with a snap of his hips. Chest heaving against yours.

He let himself catch his breath for a moment before pulling back to look at your face.

“Are you okay? I didn't hurt you did I?”

He stammered through a shaky breath. And you laughed. Lips curling into a dazed giggle at his precious concern. He found himself wanting to draw that sound from your lips more often. His lips tugging into a smile at the sound.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm okay. Are you?”

You responded through soft breaths. Skin flushed and lips puffy. So beautiful beneath him like this he almost wanted to photograph it. But he liked knowing this was only for him. Something he'd keep dear to his heart late at night when he was losing himself. He nodded in response. Mirroring your soft laugh with one of his own. He slipped out of you carefully. Pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead and disappearing into the bathroom. Only to return a minute later with a washcloth. Sitting beside your warm body sprawled atop the sheets.

“Here, let me.”

He murmured. Always the methodical type. He wiped your skin gently. It was something akin to worship. The way he stared at you, the carefulness in which his hands trailed over your skin. Like you were something to be preserved. To be protected and cared for in a way he hadn't realized he could feel for anyone before.

Benjamin Poindexter had never been one for sentiment. He never imagined he had the capacity within himself to cherish something so deeply. But when he whispered he'd loved you, tangled up in each other, he knew he'd meant it. The way he cleaned you up and slipped beneath the covers beside your half asleep body. Soft and careful. He knew this was something to hold close. He'd keep you deep in his heart for eternity. Worship the ground you walked on simply because you were so perfect. You saw the good in a man like him. Cleaned him up and licked his wounds when he thought he couldn't get any worse. He wasn't sure if this is what it meant to have someone break you, but he welcomed it anyhow. As long as he got to continue to hold you close like this.

A/N: HI IM BACK! Thankyou so so much for all the love on my first post I was so nervous to post here. I promise I’m working on the rest of Enjoy The Silence, I just wanted to get this out there in the meantime! Once again I’m open to thoughts about this work or my other series so lmk what you guys thought! Ty for reading you guys are seriously great!

[dawnofheartz]

Enjoy The Silence Pt. 1

Summary: Dex finds his new North Star in a sweet waitress at a bar he visits after work.

DD Ssn 3!Benjamin Poindexter ‘Dex’ x FemReader

Tags: Subtle mentions of stalking, pretty tame chapter, close call with a creep but nothing other than that. Just Dex being a little strange. 18+ for very vague mentions of nsfw!

Word count: 2.6k

It wasn't every day Dex crossed paths with someone like you. Society had a way of churning out heartless idiots time and time again. But to see a lady as sweet as you, smiling like there wasn't a thing wrong with the world. It knocked him off kilter, scrambling to put together the pieces of whatever excuse he'd given himself as to why he continued his violence. And he almost found himself wondering if he really could have a North Star.

The first time you saw him was like any other day for a waitress like you. The same rehearsed lines, scrambling for food, weaving through the crowd of drunken guys at the bar. He was just another customer, another face to flash a smile to and hope he tipped well for the sake of your car insurance payment that was due this week.

You were oblivious to the fact that he'd actually been here a couple times before. Even more unaware of the navy blue Toyota that sat in the parking lot across from the restaurant every night when you clocked out. You hadn't even noticed how it creeped down the street across from your house when you fumbled with your keys. Dex would've been concerned at your lack of awareness had it been any other man watching you like this. But it wasn't, it was just him. And he would never hurt you, he just wanted to watch. Who else would protect you if not him?

Unsurprisingly enough Dex became a regular at your job. A cozy restaurant nestled at the edge of town, most of its business coming from the cheap bar inside. You'd started noticing him popping up late at night. Coming in for a drink, but refusing to sit at the bar. Seating himself at a small table in your section. He'd greet you with the same charming smile and politely order. He hadn't said much else, not unless you asked first.

It was on this particularly slow night where you found yourself bored enough to spark up a chat with him. Bringing his drink to the table with a kind smile. He murmured a thanks in return, hazel eyes snapping over to you the second you spoke up.

“I’m glad our cheap beer is good enough to bring you back here so often.”

You spoke with an awkward laugh. Just a lighthearted joke, trying to break the ice with the man who'd been more recurrent in your day to day schedule. Surprisingly enough he reciprocated your laughter. Echoing with a light one of his own. That same disarming smile pulling at his lips as he gave the glass of foaming beer a once over.

“It's not that bad. Nowhere else is open this late anyways.”

He said as he lifted the glass to his lips. Taking a slow sip before setting it on the tabletop. You grinned in response, feeling a swelling in your chest at the simple conversation. Peering over your shoulder to find the rest of the tables empty and your coworkers gone, likely hiding in the kitchen. Feeling a surge of confidence, excited at the simple pleasure of chatting up your polite regular, you slid yourself into the seat across from him.

“You can probably get that stuff from the gas station for cheaper. The owner just likes to overprice our stuff.”

You said with a soft grin, one he couldn't help but memorize. In the way the apples of your cheeks curved around it. The way it crinkled at the corners of your eyes. He shrugged simply, like he couldn't care less about the cost. He seemed stiff, just a little awkward around his words, like he wasn’t used to being put on the spot like this. Like he wasn’t used to the one on one casual small talk.

“I don’t mind the price.”

Was all he could bring himself to speak. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander. Really taking in the sight of the man in front of you beneath the warm glow of the lights. Some overplayed rock song lulling in the background. You saw the way his eyes wouldn’t stay on you for too long, opting to stare off out the window beside you that overlooked the quiet night scene. His hands, rough, undoubtedly that of a man who worked for a living. Dirty blonde hair dusted with grey, like he’d been here longer than he appeared. But something drew you in. You couldn’t help but speak up once more.

“So, why do you come by so often anyways? And this late too?”

His eyes raked over your features for just a moment too long. And you told yourself it was just a trick of the light, but you couldn’t help but notice something darker in those hazel eyes of his. Like he was dissecting you with his gaze, filing away every nook and cranny of your face into a little locked box in the back corners of his mind. He blinked, giving a half smile, or at least a weak attempt at one. Then lifting the glass to his lips and taking a slow sip. Your eyes couldn’t help but follow the column of his throat. The slow bob of his adam’s apple as he swallowed the cool beer.

“I just like a drink after work.”

He placed the glass atop the table. Absentmindedly tapping his fingers atop the old wood. You snapped your gaze back up to his face. Nodding casually at his curt words.

“Like I said, it’s one of the only places open this late.”

He tried to curl a meek laugh around his words at the end of his sentence. And it made you wonder if he was nervous, or he was just like that with everyone. You gave a soft smile in return and nodded.

“Well no complaints here. You’re one of my nice regulars.”

You murmured with a smile. You found yourself enjoying the polite, and slightly awkward company.

“What’s your name Mr. Nice guy?”

You propped your elbows atop the table, resting your chin in your palm. And Dex was left to wonder why the simple question had his heart speeding up in his chest. Why the look of you, waiting curiously for his response with your head in your hand, was making his skin heat up. He faltered, hands curling tight for a second like he had to reel himself in.

“Benjamin Poindexter, you can just call me Dex.”

He spoke with a bit more certainty. Relaxing a bit when he saw your smile widen.

“Nice to meet you Dex.”

Dex liked the way you said his name. The soft tone of your voice in the low light of the cheap bar, the giggle that your breath trailed into. A sound he’d file away for later. For when he was spiraling, or trying to fall asleep, or tucked beneath pearly white sheets with a tight fist around himself.

“Nice to meet you.”

He brought himself to mutter through a slightly strained breath. He should’ve asked for your name in return, that would’ve been the polite thing to do. But he didn’t think he needed to. He already knew. Not from the way the other servers called your name from across the room, or the name on his receipt. More from your old socials, from the way your friends called for you in the background of some grainy video posted to facebook years ago. From the documents he’d pulled up on you during a late night stay at work.

He found himself simply staring as you stood up. Sliding out of the seat with a soft sigh.

“Well, I gotta clean before I get fired.”

You awkwardly laughed, and he watched. Something between helplessness and utter thrill at the prospect of having interacted with you so directly.

“Yeah- yeah of course.”

He spoke in response with a curt nod of his head. Fingers curling around the cool glass as he watched you smile back at him once more before walking off to finish whatever work your shitty boss had deemed necessary for you.

It had been roughly a half hour before Dex paid and left. He always left a twenty dollar tip, far too much for some shitty beer. But you appreciated it dearly. Waving a polite goodbye as you watched him step out the door. Not too long after that and you were finishing up your shift and leaving. Soft shoes tapping against the concrete as you made your way to your car parked out back. Tossing your bag in the passenger and letting the radio station play as you drove through the streets of town. Encased in fluorescent orange hues of light that bounced off the raindrops on your windows.

It wasn’t long before you were parking on the street in front of your house. It was small, but it got the job done for you. Plus it wasn’t exactly cheap to live in the city so you couldn’t complain. You cut the ignition and grabbed your things. Stepping out of your car and tapping the lock button on the key fob. The soft beep of your car must’ve caught the attention of whatever guy lived across the street because you heard him wolf whistle at you. Making you pause in your tracks. Seeing the darkened silhouette of a man.

You ignored it, quickly turning on your heel to start walking to your front door. But when you heard his boots hitting the concrete behind you, your heart stopped. Head snapping over your shoulders to see his figure approaching you.

“Cmon, I just wanna talk. A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be out so late honey.”

Your hands immediately curled tight around the keys in your hand. Whirling around to face the man and stumble backwards onto your lawn as he moved to approach you.

“I don’t have any money. I was just heading home.”

You tried to steel your voice, to sound firm. Hoping the man would get the hint. Maybe your friends were right about carrying some kind of weapon with you. You sorely regretted putting it off until now. The man went to step closer, before another voice called out from across the street. Both of your heads snapped in the direction of the sound. The silhouette quickly walking over to where you and creep stood on your front lawn.

“I don’t think she’s looking to talk right now.”

You almost feared it was another desperate guy like the one in front of you right now, almost. Until you saw Dex walk up towards you both. The guy from before taking a step back as you registered his voice. Relief flooding you at the familiar sight of the nicer customer from your job.

“Hey man I’m sorry I didn’t know she was your-”

The man stammered out, you almost missed the way Dex’s hand rested near the waistband of his jeans. You hadn’t noticed he carried a gun. Not that it was surprising in this city. He simply shook his head.

“Just get out of here.”

He spoke firmly, and only when he watched the man run off across the street did he lower his hand from the gun at his side. Turning to face you, hands out in a placating gesture as he took a slow step towards you.

“Hey, are you alright? He didn’t touch you did he?”

You didn’t think much about how he was here right now on your front lawn, or why he’d been there at the perfect time. You really only thought about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there. Shaking your head with a shuddering sigh.

“Is this your place? Let’s get you inside.”

He instantly took on a softer tone, soothing your nerves as he walked with you to your porch. Standing under the dim light as you fumbled with your keys. Shaky hands dropping them with a curse.

“Shit-”

You immediately kneeled to grab them but he was faster. Snatching the key ring in his hand as he stood up in front of you.

“Here, let me.”

All you could do was nod in response, watching absentmindedly as he gently slid the key in the lock and twisted it with a click. Pushing the door open and stepping aside to let you in. You remained where you stood on the porch. Turning your attention to him.

“Why were you here?”

You managed to mutter and he held your gaze. Not missing a beat to reply with something simple.

“I lived nearby, I was on the way home when I saw that guy run across the street. Figured it wasn’t for any good reason.”

His explanation soothed your nerves and you felt yourself relax a bit. His gaze flickered over your lawn, the darkened street, the empty road.

“You should probably carry something to defend yourself.”

Dex stated simply, head slightly angled to meet your stare. You could only let out a weakened laugh at his words. Nodding as you raked a hand through your hair. Trying to calm your nerves from what had just happened.

“Yeah I’ve been meaning to do that.”

He mirrored your meek smile with one of his own. Something more careful, more tenacious in his gaze. It was different from when you saw him at the bar. You swallowed thickly, unsure of how to voice your gratitude.

“Thank you…Dex. It was Dex right?”

You stammered out, hands still shaking a bit around the strap of your purse. He smiled and nodded at your words. That’s when you noticed the dimples on his cheeks, the crinkle of his eyes, and the sharpness of his jaw.

“Yeah it’s Dex. You don’t need to thank me though.”

He spoke softly, head tilted enough to hold your stare. It was strangely intimate, a gentle safe haven to have his company, like you were safe with him right in front of you. And with the gun on his hip, that probably wasn’t too far from the truth. You simply stared for a moment, unsure of where to place these nerves in your gut. You opted to step forwards, just enough to gently wrap your arms around his shoulders. It was a polite hug, but you probably needed it after the scare you had.

Dex hadn’t really expected anything in return for scaring off that creep. If anything he was doing it for himself, the thought of you in danger making his stomach turn in his gut. But having you here, shaking and clinging to him for comfort, was something out of a fantasy. A fleeting thought he’d have as he laid his head down at night and lulled himself to sleep thinking of how you felt in his arms. The warmth of you, the scent of your perfume, the softness of your hair against his chin. It all had his heart thumping wildly against his rib cage. He let out a shaky breath, trying to collect himself as you pulled back.

You flashed him a meek smile and stepped into your doorway.

“I’ll treat you to a drink next time you drop by my job okay?”

It was a silly offer, but you felt like you shouldn’t leave things here after what had occurred. After a gentleman like him had saved you from some creep, and let you shudder in his arms on your front porch. He smiled under the warm glow of the porch light and nodded.

“I’ll hold you to that. Have a good night.”

He spoke as he took a step back on the porch. Hands shoved in his jean pockets. You mirrored his gentle smile with one of your own.

“Good night Dex.”

A/N: First time posting on here who’s excited. I’ve got more planned for this story but no definite timeline of when I’ll release it. I’m open to any thoughts about this plot/work in general so feel free to lmk what you thought! Ty!