Redraw (o algo parecido jaja) de este dibujo que hice en 2019 para la review de la ruta de Ayato, qué recuerdos!
Justo cuando tuve mi primera tableta gráfica, que ahora está gastadísima y en su caja pero funciona todavía xD, y empezaba a dibujar en digital~
Me encanta el outfit casual antiguo de Ayato en el que lleva esa especie de bufanda, que de hecho también es el que usan en el anime! Es cierto que por su personalidad le pega llevar algo más deportivo pero oye, la bufanda le da otro toque jeje
warnings: this man is a warning in himself let’s be so fr, severely unhealthy relationship dynamics obsessive/toxic behavior, do not romanticize this shit guys but on the other hand i’ve been a victim of the bullseye agenda and the things i’d let this man do to me are unspeakable soo… yeah anyway—
word count: 1.1k pls bare with me i wrote this in thirty minutes, it’s not proofread and i’ve never watched daredevil but i had the insatiable urge to write something for him and this idea popped into my head today 🚬
if you thought your boyfriend, benjamin poindexter was possessive… just wait until the summer season kicks in. because that man reaches a completely new level of feral.
we all know your relationship with bullseye is not exactly a traditional one, it’s definitely nowhere near healthy and it’s definitely not built on mutual respect or understanding. it’s more like the exact opposite of that. it’s built on mutual obsession and borderline insanity.
but it’s exactly why you and dex work so well ! as some would put it you just match each other’s freak.
except when summer begins and the streets of new york are suddenly plagued with overwhelming heatwaves and temperatures rising so rapidly you suddenly feel like you’re burning in the seventh ring of hell (dating a wanted murderer, yeah you might as well be soon enough) he cannot expect you to just keep wearing long sleeved clothes and jeans!! you’re going to boil alive for heaven’s sake.
and at first he doesn’t really mind, hell— he enjoys it! seeing you walking around your secluded apartment in your flimsy little tops and even flimsier shorts which barely cover anything — your skin on full display, so soft, so easy to access— it does something primal to his brain. it rewires the already possessive and obsessive parts of his mind, sending him full on spiraling.
he’s always going to have a hand around your waist, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, your belly— any part of your body he can manage to get a hold of really. you think it’s sweet, how attentive he is, how openly he shows his affection.
but oh just how wrong you were.
of course you have always known your dex had a darker side to him, ugly parts that were not so pleasant to look at, or at least parts he didn’t like showing around you. and you knew how hard he tried to keep himself in check! how much effort and self-control went into being as normal a boyfriend as a man like him could be.
nevertheless, those parts sometimes slipped through, involuntarily or not. cracks in the carefully constructed façade he put up for you.
you’re just about to leave your apartment, hand already on the doorknob when his voice stops you dead in your tracks. “and where the hell do you think you are going?” you were pretty sure he was in the other room just a moment ago, sharpening his knives or whatever it was that dex was up to at three in the afternoon.
he must have been listening to you shuffling around the apartment, following your footsteps.
“just going down to the corner-store, we ran out of eggs. i need them to make dinner.” you pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing on planet earth.
dex suddenly appears in the tiny hall of your apartment, sporting a look of half-amusement half-bewilderment on his face, as if what you had just said was the most entertaining thing he had ever heard.
“do you need something?” you cock an eyebrow, still not understanding this sudden strange behavior, maybe he just needed you to grab something for him.
he chuckles, his face morphing into a mildly offended expression.
“you just thought you were going to walk out on the street, wearing that?” he completely ignores your question, instead trailing over your frame like a hawk.
“what—” you begin, looking down at your outfit. it was just a casual pair of cotton shorts and a cute little crop-top. it was forty degrees outside for god’s sake, was he expecting you to go out in a snow-suit? “what’s wrong with my outfit?”
he takes a step closer, the wood under his feet creaking under his tall frame.
“do you think it’s ugly?” you ask, genuinely thinking he was commenting on your styling choice.
“no.” he replies, sighing as if annoyed at your genuine lack of understanding. “there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“then what’s the problem—”
before you can get another word out he is already removing your hand from the doorknob, his hand locking onto your wrist as he drags you through the hallway and back to the couch.
you are too stunned to speak, as dex has never done something so uncalled for.
you land on the couch with a quiet *thud*, squinting your eyebrows up at him.
“what the fuck benjamin—”
“did you seriously think i would just let you walk out onto the street like that, hm? with half of your body visible for anyone to just look at?” he chides, speaking like the idea genuinely offended him. which it probably did.
you scoff, crossing your arms around your torso. “jesus christ, it’s the middle of july for fuck’s sake! everyone’s dressed in shorts and revealing clothing—”
“i don’t care.” he snaps, leaning down his head slightly to look at you, he is standing right in front of you, physically trapping you from even trying to stand up. “i don’t care if people are walking naked on the street, you are not leaving this apartment wearing anything that’s inappropriate.”
and by inappropriate he just means whatever he deems too revealing, too provocative, too attention-grabbing. and suddenly you realize it’s not about you, it was never about you in the first place. it’s about him. him and his personal ego. his personal conscience that your body— which he views as his— is shielded from the undeserving gaze of others.
because how could something so precious to him ever be worthy of other people’s eyes?
if he could have his way, you would exist just for him. him and only him. him and no one else. if people on the street couldn’t see you— couldn’t pester you with the vanity of their existence he’d be the happiest man on earth.
except, that was obviously impossible, so he would just have to settle for acting like your personal guard-dog.
before you can even start an argument he’s already grabbing the keys of the apartment (the spare keys mind you, because his keys are already in his pocket, making sure you have no way of getting out— save for the fifth story window) tugging on his shoes.
“you just stay there and look pretty, i’ll get the eggs. and don’t even think about going out on the terrace. i’ll know.”
you stare at his retreating form from the couch, slightly horrified but also slightly turned on by his unhingedness.
“got it?” he gives you one last pointed look before swinging open the door of your apartment. if you were smarter you would have made a run for it a ages ago. but after not even trying to put up a fight, maybe you deserved to be with this insane guy.
yeah. it’s going to be one hell of a long summer with benjamin poindexter.
fbi!ben poindexter has this bad habit of referring to you as his. it comes off weird to outsiders, occasionally, because you obviously aren't an object to be owned; you know, though, he doesn't mean it like that. in his mind, it's an equivalent exchange—he's as much yours as you are his.
my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.
and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you to acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.
or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.
after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?
your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?
and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.
and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—
and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.
hi im back. sorry. i hate myself too. this man will be the death of me. 0.6k words
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
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