melodramaticmosaic

accompanying blog to my ao3 account of the same name :3 pfp from picrew

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Intro

Hi! This is my first "official" tumblr blog. I write mostly Stranger Things and Marvel fics. I am just starting to publish stuff for the first time since my wattpad days during covid ;^;

I'm hoping to build a small community so please send in any asks, I am open to writing requests!! Please no incest or weird shit like that. This will be an 18+ blog so minors please dni

Thank you :]

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unspoiled supergirl thoughts.

wow that was incredible and a great start to the rest of the superhero movies this year. it was a great mix of making me feel different emotions while also feeling pride for liking superhero movies. it was honestly one of the best origin stories that i’ve had the pleasure of watching. don’t listen to the reviews or people saying it’s a poor attempt at replicating james gunn. it’s a great standalone film while also acknowledging supergirl in future dcu film. it was really good.

also, first movie that i’ve ever gone to see in theaters alone and while i wont be able to do that for brand new day, it’s definitely something that im not going to shy away from doing in the future. other than my pet peeves with theater audiences, it was really great to not have a man ruin my experience.

go see a movie. go see supergirl

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DAREDEVIL BORN AGAIN S3 SPOILERS

ok so the new bts photos of elektra. i will admit it. i fucking hate her relationship with matt. and im all for kastle if they’re finally going to have that in s3, but if they’re doing that to bring back matt and elektra. i will have unkind words for the showrunners.

in daredevil netflix s2 they are so fucking toxic. elektra literally manipulates him and causes him to take on the mask and become daredevil. and yes i know im a dexmatt fan but in the sense of matt is dex’s north star and wants to be a better person because of him but is like psychologically damaged and whatnot.

if they continue the canon from defenders (unlikely but we’ll see) elektra is dead. AGAIN. it is seriously getting old just how many times they revive her. let her rest!! or let her be her own person without needing to be in love with matt and vice versa. matt is in prison in contemplation and who knows what’s going to happen if he shows up in brand new day—which i’m so certain at least one of the defenders is going to be in.

tldr: i’m tired of elektra and her toxic manipulative relationship with matt

thank you for coming to my ted talk

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like kane parsons…i am now 21

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one of my friends is live tweeting their reactions to watching daredevil (netflix) and they’re on s3. “im scared he's gonna do illegal stuff for fisk bc he's in financial trouble or someones gonna use that trouble against him” i can’t say anything i can’t say anything i can’t say anything

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update: they have reached the dex psych scenes. i have expressed my profound love for dex and i think they think im insane (i am). their response to dex killing his coach, “y i k e s”

i am thrilled.

stay tuned for more updates

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Dog Years

Cross posted on Ao3

Summary: Bucky Barnes has escaped Hydra after a grueling 70 years of torture. He's lost who he is and is trying to regain what it means to be a human. One walk in the park and he meets a boy who will change his perspective on life.

NOT A SHIP THIS IS WINTER!DAD PROPAGANDA

Word Count: 1.7k

The days since DC had been fixed in a loose schedule, as much of a schedule as Bucky could stick to. It started once he had found a place. The two months were spent hopping from one motel to the other. He took refuge in any place he could to lay low and feel safe enough to get in a few hours of sleep before waking up and feeling like someone was watching him. Like they were waiting until his guard had lowered enough to get the jump on him and drag him back to Hydra or the remnants of Shield, somewhere he could be locked up or have his memory wiped or even just plain kill him. The unfortunate part of being a soldier of Hydra for 70-something years–other than the obvious torture and brainwashing–was that Bucky was well aware of the amount of Hydra operative active all across the globe. New York, being a major city, was full of them. He was grateful, to a degree, that many of the Shield-Hydra operatives had been taken into custody following Captain America, the Black Widow, and the Falcon’s fight in DC and the Widow in particular for leaking as many files as she did. Sure, he was going to be on the run until his inevitable capture or death, but he had the piece of mind of knowing that a few less Hydra members were free to continue wrecking havoc against innocent people. 

It was that piece of mind mixed with all his fear and anxiety that kept him going long enough to put together a fake identity and set himself up with a matching fake license that got him a shitty apartment on the outskirts of Queens. It was close to Brooklyn, where he’d supposedly grown up. Bucky was technically free, but he had no idea what that freedom meant. He didn’t know who he was. Sure, the Smithsonian had revered him as “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes” the late soldier who had dutifully served in the 108th and with the Howling Commandos, but was that really him? Once he’d arrived in Queens and been handed the keys to his new apartment, he’d gone to the nearest library, searching for any information he could find about himself, his past, his life. He read up on Captain America, or Steve Rogers. The man was so familiar, like he was a faded memory from a past life. There were videos of him with Steve, smiling. Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled. He would believe it if someone told him the images and videos he was looking at were the last moments in which he had smiled.

The first month in his apartment, he rarely left. He used up the last of the cash that he’d scrounged up from the wallets of Hydra soldiers when they’d been unconscious, before they were locked up. He stared at the empty apartment, knowing he needed a job. Thankfully, the ground floor of his building held a bulletin board. People looking for dog walkers, neighboring communities looking for someone to mow lawns or shovel driveways, others looking for a handyman. It almost surprised him, when he’d first discovered it. He wasn’t too familiar with technology more than using one of the desktops at the library, opting for a burner that he could dispose of in a pinch, but he knew that most people asked for help like this online. 

The downside of living life the way he had adapted to it, was that he couldn’t just get a credit card or open a savings account. Too many documents needed and too much attention he’d have to draw to himself. He’d used nearly half of the cash he’d stolen as a downpayment and to convince the landlord to let him rent an apartment with cash payments. He couldn’t afford to have a paper trail.

It very nearly pained him as he punched in the number of the lady looking for a dog walker.

“Hello?” An older woman’s voice crackled through the speaker.

Bucky cleared his throat, trying to put on as much false charm as he could, attempting to recall what one of the news clippings had referred to as his “unbridled charisma” from his old life. “Hello ma’am, I saw your post about needing someone to walk your dogs. I was wondering if you were still looking for someone?” He bit his tongue as soon as he had finished speaking. He barely recognized his own voice most days.

The woman was practically ecstatic as she accepted his help, completely ignoring any anxiety that may have seeped through his voice. She lived alone on the first floor of the complex. She would pay Bucky–or Mike as he was currently going by–twenty bucks for taking her dogs out in the morning, then another twenty for taking them out in the evening. All in all, it was nearly three-hundred a week that Bucky could use to pay his rent and if he was lucky, buy groceries. 

The first couple of weeks, Bucky had grown accustomed to this routine. He would wake up at 6 am, often with the sun rising through the cheap blinds he had pulled tight as possible. By 7, he would be jogging down the stairs of the complex to Ms. Rodriguez’s apartment. He would knock on the door and wait a few moments as he listened to the quiet shuffling of the elderly woman. Knowing he was decades older than her had given him a lot to think about. It should have made him laugh, but all it did was make him mourn the life he could’ve had if he’d never been drafted or never been captured by Hydra. The life he could’ve lived if he had been allowed to live.

Ms. Rodriguez opened the door with a kind smile on her face. Her two dogs, Louis and Bella, were both pitbulls she had fostered and subsequently failed. Bucky couldn’t lie, the two dogs had become the better parts of his days. Bella had warmed up to him first, Louis being quick to follow after. Bella was brown with white spots and Louis was white with brown spots. 

Ms. Rodriguez let him into her apartment. The dogs immediately ran up to him, licking his non-gloved hand as he bent down to pet them. He didn’t consider himself a dog person, finding taking care of animals to be a non-essential hobby that he couldn’t afford. But he could do this.

He got the dogs into their harnesses and clipped their respective leashes. Ms. Rodriguez waved them goodbye as she sipped her tea from her recliner.

The dogs were well-behaved, something he hadn’t fully expected once the old woman had filled him in on their background. They had both been strays, abandoned on the side of a highway. She’d told him they’d been starved to the bone when she first took them in from the shelter they had been brought to. Now, nearly 6 years later, they were both happy and healthy. 

A year ago, she’d broken her hip and found taking them on walks to be increasingly difficult. Now, the dogs went with Bucky on his morning run. He took them to the nearest park, lightly jogging at a pace the dogs were comfortable with.

For adult dogs who likely hadn’t run in years, these dogs were thrilled. Tongues lapping, ears flapping in the wind. He slowed to a stop, unscrewing a water bottle and pouring it into the bowl he often brought with him on these runs. They’d been going for a solid hour at this point and the dogs had earned a well-deserved break. So Bucky let them rest while he sat on a bench and people-watched. He decided that was easier to describe it as rather than the reality which was that he was scanning for threats, trying to decide if someone was following him, or if Hydra was watching him.

“Excuse me?” Bucky glanced at the voice. It was a young boy, bright face, brown curly hair, practically bouncing up and down as he eyed the two dogs panting next to the bench. “Can I pet your dogs?” He asked excitedly.

Bucky gave him a nod. This kid clearly had no idea who he was, too focused on the dogs. It was a risk, but one that he didn’t determine to be a big enough risk.

The dogs loved the attention, immediately jumping on the boy and licking his face when he crouched down to their level. He was full of laughter, giggling as they licked him.

He poked his head up, staring at Bucky again. “What are their names?”

Bucky cleared his throat, “Louis and Bella.” He pointed to the respective dog as he spoke.

The boy grinned. “Hi Louis! Hi Bella!” He gave them pats as he then introduced himself to them. “My name is Peter!” He looked at Bucky for a third time, aggravating the older man who just wanted to be left alone. “How old are they?”

“They’re 7.” He answered. 

“Oh my goodness! They look so young. You must keep them in good shape, huh?” The boy smiled happily, still petting the dogs as he tried to make conversation with Bucky.

Bucky sighed, knowing the boy wasn’t leaving any time soon. “They’re not mine. Lady who lives in my building can’t walk them anymore so I’ve been taking them out with me.”

“That’s very nice of you.” The boy’s smile was infectious and Bucky wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe that was just his age showing or his newfound fear of people in general.

Bucky hummed in response and returned to “people watching” as the boy continued to entertain the dogs. It took another five minutes before the boy had gotten his fill and bid the dogs and Bucky goodbye. As soon as he was out of sight, Bucky let out a deep breath, thankful that the kid was gone. The dogs had finished drinking their water and were ready to finish their run and head back to the apartment building successfully tired out and ready for a nice long nap.

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This is hopefully going to be the fic I actually update. I read Astronomy in Reverse on Ao3 for the first time, and it brought back a lot of my desire to write recreationally again. I also watched homecoming and far from home last night so. Anyway I hope you enjoyed and I will hopefully have another chapter out soon that will probably just get posted on Ao3, we'll see.

[melodramaticmosaic]

The Farmhouse

okay so this is super not what i said i was gonna post yesterday but i got distracted :)

Cross posted on Ao3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x gn!Reader

Summary: Stardew Valley/Marvel AU featuring gender-neutral farmer and Bucky Barnes OR Bucky Barnes shows up on the Farmer's property seeking shelter post-CAWS.

CW: none? some light cursing? teen and up audiences? idk let me know if i should add cws.

The farmhouse wasn’t too big, but it wasn’t absurdly small either. One room, a bed shoved in the corner, tv and breakfast nook in another. Since moving away from the city, it was welcoming enough to feel like home. You’d never been particularly fond of the loud city or its cramped polluted nature. You’d lived in New York City, the Bronx to be exact, for most of your life right up until you turned 30. It had been a few months after your birthday that your grandfather had died, your last living relative that you knew of. Your parents had died when you were little and you had gone to live with your grandfather until you were stable enough to move out as an adult. The attorney who had read you his will had informed you that he had left you a property upstate. It was a few acres of land on the edge of a quaint town. It didn’t take much convincing for you to quit your job and move out there.

Now, barely a month in the farmhouse, you were overwhelmed by the loneliness of it all. The center of town was a 10-minute walk away. It never seemed like a far enough distance to take your truck into town, so it sat idly behind the farmhouse, collecting dust or more accurately, pollen.

The few people you considered to be friends back in the city had kept in touch for the first week, some of them urging you to rethink your decision and go back. You’d remained firm on your decision, and they backed off. You hadn’t heard much from them other than the odd Instagram post.

You were wandering through the fields, still trying to figure out which crops to plant and how to best maintain the large property, when you saw him. 

He was a small dark figure at the tree line on the edge of the property. He was just staring, watching you. Your eyes squinted, trying to figure out if one of the kids from the valley was trying to scare you. The man looked vaguely like he could be Sebastian, one of your neighbor’s kids, but the emo punk would never be outside when it was this bright or early.

You took a few steps towards him, stopping when he started to slink further into the woods. You raised a hand to wave, your other coming to guard your eyes from the harshness of the sun. “Hey!” You shouted out, your voice echoing in the clearing. “Are you from the valley? Are you lost?”

You started walking closer, but he didn’t seem to move this time around. Surprising you, he even took a step out into the clearing. You stopped when you were a good ten feet away from the tree line, not close enough to fully get a look at him, but enough to see that he had a small bag slung over his shoulder and a rough exterior. His face was pale and he had some stubble, a scruffiness to him that would’ve been exemplified if you got close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes from countless nights on the run.

You gave him a light smile, “Hi, are you lost?” You asked again.

He was so still that if you hadn’t seen him move moments ago, you’d think he was a statue. Finally, his gruff voice crackled into the clearing. “Kind of.” His voice was quiet, not echoing like yours had been earlier, but just loud enough for you to hear him. 

You nodded, pointing past your farmhouse on the other end of the clearing where a small trail poked through the trees. “The town is that way. Are you looking for someone’s house in particular?” You patted your pockets, pulling out a crumpled map that Lewis–the mayor and close ‘friend’ of your grandfather–had given you when you’d first moved in. You unraveled it and held it out to him, “I don’t know everyone that well yet, but if you give me a name I can help direct you to them.”

He glanced at the map for a moment, not taking a step closer or reaching to take the map from your hand. “I’m not looking for anyone. I just need a place to stay.”

Your mouth ticked down in a frown, “Hm, well we don’t exactly have a hotel or anything here. I don’t have anyone’s number unfortunately but I could put up a post on the bulletin in town or ask around to see if anyone has a spare room?”

His face was almost weary as you spoke. “It would be better if as few people as possible knew I was here.” He said after a few moments of quiet contemplation. It seemed almost painful for him to ask his question, “Do you have a spare room or a shed or something? I promise I won’t be here for long.”

You absentmindedly folded the map back up in your hands before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans. You thought about it for a moment. It would be nice to have company and even more if he would be willing to help you out on the farm. But, the thought prodded your mind, he was a stranger after all. You didn’t know him. For all you knew, he was a crazy axe murderer who would kill you in your sleep! You stared at him, his blue eyes glinting as the limbs of the tree he was standing under shifted and sunlight lit them up. No one this handsome was a murder, right? 

“Well, I don’t have a spare room, but Robin has been pestering me about helping fix up the place so I don’t see why I couldn’t put an addition or two on.” You paused, a grin spreading across your face. “Are you any good with animals? I wanna get some chickens.”

He raised a brow. “Chickens?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. If you help out on the farm, you can stay as long as you want. I could use the help. I'm way in over my head here.” He seemed to consider before nodding. “Great! I’ll show you around.”

The tour wasn’t much. You hadn’t done much with the land other than planting some seed packets you’d picked up in the general store. There was a small pond, a dilapidated greenhouse, and the farmhouse. You still had a lot of clearing to do despite almost being here for a month, so the area you had cleared was pretty small. The two of you climbed the steps to enter the farmhouse. You held the door open for him as you both entered the room.

“So, uh yeah, this is it. It’s not much. My grandpa stopped taking care of it when I was young so it needs some serious TLC.” You chuckled lightly, shutting the door gently behind the man. You stood beside him, scanning over the small room. “So, what brings you out here?”

A look of fear flickered across his face. “I needed a change of scenery.” He settled on the easier excuse.

You hummed. “Same. After I cleared out my granddad’s apartment, I couldn’t bear to be in the city.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He murmured softly.

You shrugged. “It’s okay. He, uh, left this place to me. I guess he knew city-life wasn’t for me.” Your eyes settled on the framed photo sitting on your bedside table. It was of you and him. You were young in the photo, only 2 years after your parents died if you remembered correctly. You were smiling ear to ear. You’d just won your first soccer tournament. Granted, it was a bunch of 5 and 6 year olds, so it wasn’t exactly the most professional or athletic thing in the world, but you were so damn excited and your grandfather was so proud of you.

You cleared your throat, wiping at your face before your misty eyes could turn into full blown waterworks. “So, I don’t think I got your name earlier.” 

He took a deep breath. “Uh, call me Bucky.”

You grinned, telling him your name in return. You looked around the room, you only had one bed and there was no way Robin could get an addition done within a day. “I’m gonna go get a bed from Robin’s. You’re welcome to stay or come with.” 

Bucky could swear the smile on your face was magnetic. “I’ll join you.”

You somehow beamed even brighter. “Great! We should take my truck. I don’t think either of us can carry both the bed frame and mattress.”

Bucky bit back the thought in his head that he was more than capable of carrying both alone. That thought was quickly dissolved when he saw the route they were taking. Completely dirt roads winding up a mountain. Whoever this ‘Robin’ was, she lived even more secluded than you did. Bucky had briefly scouted around the center of town before circling around through ‘Cindersap forest’ and lurking through the edges of a path that led to your farm. The other houses were just too close together. He didn’t want the whole town to know he was hiding out here, but he supposed they were also very seclusive considering Bucky could barely find the place on a map despite a few records that claimed this place had existed for a couple hundred years.

The truck rolled to a stop in front of a large log cabin. A boy was in the garage working on a motorcycle that Bucky was very intrigued by. He rolled out from under the bike and slowly sat up. A large stripe of grime was streaked across his cheek that you sniggered at once he was sitting up.

“Hey, Seb. Is your mom home?” You asked, getting out of your truck. You shot a look at Bucky, “You can stay here if you want to, I’ll try to make sure we’re not here long.” You seemed to sense his unease, tugging his ball cap down lower on his face. He gave you a curt nod. 

You turned back to Sebastian who was wiping his hands on his jeans as he walked towards you. “Yeah, she should be inside at her desk.” He walked towards the front door and held it open for you as you walked inside to Robin’s desk that sat just in from the entryway. 

“Hey, farmer! How’s it going?” Robin looked up cheerfully from whatever book she had been reading. She slipped a bookmark in between the pages and neatly closed the book, placing it down on the table. 

“So I found someone to help me actually get started on the farm, but I kinda need a place to house him.” You figured the reasoning wasn’t the worst, better than saying some creepily quiet but handsome man just showed up in the forest just watching you. 

Robin perked up, a smile spreading across her face. “Oh?”

“He’s hot!” Sebastian shouted from the kitchen and Robin gave you a knowing look.

“Oh?” She said suggestively, wiggling her brows at you.

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping we could talk about those additions you mentioned when I moved in, and I was also looking to start raising chickens.”

“Straight to business.” She giggled, grabbing a notebook to write down your requests. “What would you like hon?”

“I was hoping to do two rooms, a bedroom for myself and then a guest room. Oh and a chicken coop, enough room for 2 chickens, I’m not sure how much room they need.” Your hands were shoved in your pockets, hoping this interaction would be over with as soon as possible. “Oh, I also need a bed.”

“Mattress and frame?” Robin hummed, not looking up as she scribbled down what you had ordered.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

“Okay, that’s gonna be like 30k, sweetheart, altogether. Do you wanna make a deposit and then pay off the rest later?” She gave you a sympathetic look, worsened by your next words.

“It’s okay, my grandfather left me a bunch of money, I can pay it all now.” Your face was calm despite the context of your statement.

You handed her your card. “He was a good man. My dad really liked him. Used to help him out. He helped your grandfather build that greenhouse.”

You sighed. “Yeah, that’s gonna be one of my next projects. That place is completely destroyed.”

“My dad was definitely more of a painter than a builder. I can fix it up for you after I get all this done.” Robin smiled gently.

“Thanks, Robin.” You returned her smile. “So, do you have a bed I can get now or?”

Robin nodded, calling to her son, “Sebby! Come help me load the farmer’s truck!”

“You don’t need to yell, mom.” Sebastian muttered, following his mom outside.

Luckily it didn’t take too long to load up the truck, especially when Bucky got out of the truck and practically loaded everything himself to Sebastian’s amazement. Robin seemed equally impressed, shooting you a look that not-so-subtly suggested, marry this man. You were glad you kept the creepy parts out of the story otherwise Robin would likely have tried to murder this man with her own axe.

When you arrived back at the farm, you insisted Bucky let you carry one end of the box holding the bed frame. It was made completely of hardwood, with instructions on how to assemble and a small baggy of screws. It had seemed simple enough when the two of you had opened the box, clearing the space to put Bucky’s temporary bed space on the opposite wall as yours. It was clear this bed was a lot newer than your bed, but you liked how lived-in yours felt. The mattress wasn’t super lumpy but also not hard as a brick. 

You stared at the instructions for at least 10 minutes, trying to figure out which step came first and which set of screws went where. Turns out, Robin’s instructions were overly detailed yet completely disorganized. You had half a mind to call her and ask her to come build the frame herself. Bucky even gave the sheet a glance before mumbling something about frames being easier to build in his time, whatever that meant.

By nightfall, you were both sweaty and had only assembled half of the frame. Somehow, Yoba be damned, you were missing four screws.

“How the hell did we misplace four whole screws?” You sighed, flopping backwards on the floor. Bucky was sitting beside you, giving you a short shrug. “I mean, there’s no way Robin just forgot to add them, right?” Another shrug. “Ugh, I’m gonna call her and tell her she needs to be here with extra screws in the morning.” You wormed your cell out of your pocket and clicked on Robin’s contact.

“Hey, hon. How’s the new bed?” Robin sang sweetly through the speaker, you could hear the faint noise of something sizzling on the stove. Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food.

“Somehow we’re missing screws.” You mumbled, feeling defeated. 

Robin hummed. “Well, I can be over around 6 or 7 am tomorrow with some extra supplies. I was going to start framing the addition anyways.”

You sighed with relief. “Thank you, Robin.” 

“I’ll see you in the morning, hon.” She bid you goodnight before you ended the call.

You tilted your head to stare at Bucky. “I’m sorry. You can take my bed tonight, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Bucky shook his head. “No need, I can take the floor.”

You furrowed your brows at him. “Absolutely not, you're my guest.” You were sitting up again now, frowning at him. “You sleep on the bed. I would feel shitty if you didn’t.”

It was growing harder to read Bucky’s face the sleepier you got. “I’m used to sleeping on the floor.”

You blinked at him. “My answer isn’t changing, but I am hungry so I’m making dinner.” You steadied yourself as you stood up, Bucky following suit. You led the way, a whole five steps to the kitchen. You checked the fridge, suddenly thankful to have spent a small fortune on groceries and at the saloon, begging the owner for his recipe after nearly orgasming upon tasting his pizza recipe. He had simply chuckled at the expression on your face and told you that you needed to try his famous omelet one day. You glanced at Bucky who was hovering over your shoulder. “How does pizza sound?” You asked, receiving a nod in return. You were getting fed up over his unnerving silence. You brushed it off for the time being, gathering the ingredients you needed; fresh dough from Gus, tomatoes and cheese from Pierre, and some herbs that the sweet older lady, Evelyn had given you.

The pizza didn’t take too long to put together, especially since your fire was already going, quelling the cool air of the spring and keeping the farmhouse at a warm and cozy temperature. 

The pizza, thanks to Gus, was one of the best things you’d ever tasted, and you’ve had pizza from the city. Your recreation wasn’t nearly as good, but it was still comparable. Bucky seemed to agree, he ate nearly half the pizza if not more.

After dinner, you set the mattress up where the half finished bed frame lay, moving it out of the way for the night. Thankfully you had a spare set of sheets and a cozy flannel blanket to top the mattress off. As a last touch, you swiped one of the pillows off of your bed. 

It was quaint, but it was home, just with one very interesting guest.

[melodramaticmosaic]

let me know if you guys want more of this!! i will keep writing for this if you guys want me to :)

[melodramaticmosaic]

The Farmhouse

okay so this is super not what i said i was gonna post yesterday but i got distracted :)

Cross posted on Ao3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x gn!Reader

Summary: Stardew Valley/Marvel AU featuring gender-neutral farmer and Bucky Barnes OR Bucky Barnes shows up on the Farmer's property seeking shelter post-CAWS.

CW: none? some light cursing? teen and up audiences? idk let me know if i should add cws.

Word Count: 3k~

The farmhouse wasn’t too big, but it wasn’t absurdly small either. One room, a bed shoved in the corner, tv and breakfast nook in another. Since moving away from the city, it was welcoming enough to feel like home. You’d never been particularly fond of the loud city or its cramped polluted nature. You’d lived in New York City, the Bronx to be exact, for most of your life right up until you turned 30. It had been a few months after your birthday that your grandfather had died, your last living relative that you knew of. Your parents had died when you were little and you had gone to live with your grandfather until you were stable enough to move out as an adult. The attorney who had read you his will had informed you that he had left you a property upstate. It was a few acres of land on the edge of a quaint town. It didn’t take much convincing for you to quit your job and move out there.

Now, barely a month in the farmhouse, you were overwhelmed by the loneliness of it all. The center of town was a 10-minute walk away. It never seemed like a far enough distance to take your truck into town, so it sat idly behind the farmhouse, collecting dust or more accurately, pollen.

The few people you considered to be friends back in the city had kept in touch for the first week, some of them urging you to rethink your decision and go back. You’d remained firm on your decision, and they backed off. You hadn’t heard much from them other than the odd Instagram post.

You were wandering through the fields, still trying to figure out which crops to plant and how to best maintain the large property, when you saw him. 

He was a small dark figure at the tree line on the edge of the property. He was just staring, watching you. Your eyes squinted, trying to figure out if one of the kids from the valley was trying to scare you. The man looked vaguely like he could be Sebastian, one of your neighbor’s kids, but the emo punk would never be outside when it was this bright or early.

You took a few steps towards him, stopping when he started to slink further into the woods. You raised a hand to wave, your other coming to guard your eyes from the harshness of the sun. “Hey!” You shouted out, your voice echoing in the clearing. “Are you from the valley? Are you lost?”

You started walking closer, but he didn’t seem to move this time around. Surprising you, he even took a step out into the clearing. You stopped when you were a good ten feet away from the tree line, not close enough to fully get a look at him, but enough to see that he had a small bag slung over his shoulder and a rough exterior. His face was pale and he had some stubble, a scruffiness to him that would’ve been exemplified if you got close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes from countless nights on the run.

You gave him a light smile, “Hi, are you lost?” You asked again.

He was so still that if you hadn’t seen him move moments ago, you’d think he was a statue. Finally, his gruff voice crackled into the clearing. “Kind of.” His voice was quiet, not echoing like yours had been earlier, but just loud enough for you to hear him. 

You nodded, pointing past your farmhouse on the other end of the clearing where a small trail poked through the trees. “The town is that way. Are you looking for someone’s house in particular?” You patted your pockets, pulling out a crumpled map that Lewis–the mayor and close ‘friend’ of your grandfather–had given you when you’d first moved in. You unraveled it and held it out to him, “I don’t know everyone that well yet, but if you give me a name I can help direct you to them.”

He glanced at the map for a moment, not taking a step closer or reaching to take the map from your hand. “I’m not looking for anyone. I just need a place to stay.”

Your mouth ticked down in a frown, “Hm, well we don’t exactly have a hotel or anything here. I don’t have anyone’s number unfortunately but I could put up a post on the bulletin in town or ask around to see if anyone has a spare room?”

His face was almost weary as you spoke. “It would be better if as few people as possible knew I was here.” He said after a few moments of quiet contemplation. It seemed almost painful for him to ask his question, “Do you have a spare room or a shed or something? I promise I won’t be here for long.”

You absentmindedly folded the map back up in your hands before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans. You thought about it for a moment. It would be nice to have company and even more if he would be willing to help you out on the farm. But, the thought prodded your mind, he was a stranger after all. You didn’t know him. For all you knew, he was a crazy axe murderer who would kill you in your sleep! You stared at him, his blue eyes glinting as the limbs of the tree he was standing under shifted and sunlight lit them up. No one this handsome was a murder, right? 

“Well, I don’t have a spare room, but Robin has been pestering me about helping fix up the place so I don’t see why I couldn’t put an addition or two on.” You paused, a grin spreading across your face. “Are you any good with animals? I wanna get some chickens.”

He raised a brow. “Chickens?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. If you help out on the farm, you can stay as long as you want. I could use the help. I'm way in over my head here.” He seemed to consider before nodding. “Great! I’ll show you around.”

The tour wasn’t much. You hadn’t done much with the land other than planting some seed packets you’d picked up in the general store. There was a small pond, a dilapidated greenhouse, and the farmhouse. You still had a lot of clearing to do despite almost being here for a month, so the area you had cleared was pretty small. The two of you climbed the steps to enter the farmhouse. You held the door open for him as you both entered the room.

“So, uh yeah, this is it. It’s not much. My grandpa stopped taking care of it when I was young so it needs some serious TLC.” You chuckled lightly, shutting the door gently behind the man. You stood beside him, scanning over the small room. “So, what brings you out here?”

A look of fear flickered across his face. “I needed a change of scenery.” He settled on the easier excuse.

You hummed. “Same. After I cleared out my granddad’s apartment, I couldn’t bear to be in the city.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He murmured softly.

You shrugged. “It’s okay. He, uh, left this place to me. I guess he knew city-life wasn’t for me.” Your eyes settled on the framed photo sitting on your bedside table. It was of you and him. You were young in the photo, only 2 years after your parents died if you remembered correctly. You were smiling ear to ear. You’d just won your first soccer tournament. Granted, it was a bunch of 5 and 6 year olds, so it wasn’t exactly the most professional or athletic thing in the world, but you were so damn excited and your grandfather was so proud of you.

You cleared your throat, wiping at your face before your misty eyes could turn into full blown waterworks. “So, I don’t think I got your name earlier.” 

He took a deep breath. “Uh, call me Bucky.”

You grinned, telling him your name in return. You looked around the room, you only had one bed and there was no way Robin could get an addition done within a day. “I’m gonna go get a bed from Robin’s. You’re welcome to stay or come with.” 

Bucky could swear the smile on your face was magnetic. “I’ll join you.”

You somehow beamed even brighter. “Great! We should take my truck. I don’t think either of us can carry both the bed frame and mattress.”

Bucky bit back the thought in his head that he was more than capable of carrying both alone. That thought was quickly dissolved when he saw the route they were taking. Completely dirt roads winding up a mountain. Whoever this ‘Robin’ was, she lived even more secluded than you did. Bucky had briefly scouted around the center of town before circling around through ‘Cindersap forest’ and lurking through the edges of a path that led to your farm. The other houses were just too close together. He didn’t want the whole town to know he was hiding out here, but he supposed they were also very seclusive considering Bucky could barely find the place on a map despite a few records that claimed this place had existed for a couple hundred years.

The truck rolled to a stop in front of a large log cabin. A boy was in the garage working on a motorcycle that Bucky was very intrigued by. He rolled out from under the bike and slowly sat up. A large stripe of grime was streaked across his cheek that you sniggered at once he was sitting up.

“Hey, Seb. Is your mom home?” You asked, getting out of your truck. You shot a look at Bucky, “You can stay here if you want to, I’ll try to make sure we’re not here long.” You seemed to sense his unease, tugging his ball cap down lower on his face. He gave you a curt nod. 

You turned back to Sebastian who was wiping his hands on his jeans as he walked towards you. “Yeah, she should be inside at her desk.” He walked towards the front door and held it open for you as you walked inside to Robin’s desk that sat just in from the entryway. 

“Hey, farmer! How’s it going?” Robin looked up cheerfully from whatever book she had been reading. She slipped a bookmark in between the pages and neatly closed the book, placing it down on the table. 

“So I found someone to help me actually get started on the farm, but I kinda need a place to house him.” You figured the reasoning wasn’t the worst, better than saying some creepily quiet but handsome man just showed up in the forest just watching you. 

Robin perked up, a smile spreading across her face. “Oh?”

“He’s hot!” Sebastian shouted from the kitchen and Robin gave you a knowing look.

“Oh?” She said suggestively, wiggling her brows at you.

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping we could talk about those additions you mentioned when I moved in, and I was also looking to start raising chickens.”

“Straight to business.” She giggled, grabbing a notebook to write down your requests. “What would you like hon?”

“I was hoping to do two rooms, a bedroom for myself and then a guest room. Oh and a chicken coop, enough room for 2 chickens, I’m not sure how much room they need.” Your hands were shoved in your pockets, hoping this interaction would be over with as soon as possible. “Oh, I also need a bed.”

“Mattress and frame?” Robin hummed, not looking up as she scribbled down what you had ordered.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

“Okay, that’s gonna be like 30k, sweetheart, altogether. Do you wanna make a deposit and then pay off the rest later?” She gave you a sympathetic look, worsened by your next words.

“It’s okay, my grandfather left me a bunch of money, I can pay it all now.” Your face was calm despite the context of your statement.

You handed her your card. “He was a good man. My dad really liked him. Used to help him out. He helped your grandfather build that greenhouse.”

You sighed. “Yeah, that’s gonna be one of my next projects. That place is completely destroyed.”

“My dad was definitely more of a painter than a builder. I can fix it up for you after I get all this done.” Robin smiled gently.

“Thanks, Robin.” You returned her smile. “So, do you have a bed I can get now or?”

Robin nodded, calling to her son, “Sebby! Come help me load the farmer’s truck!”

“You don’t need to yell, mom.” Sebastian muttered, following his mom outside.

Luckily it didn’t take too long to load up the truck, especially when Bucky got out of the truck and practically loaded everything himself to Sebastian’s amazement. Robin seemed equally impressed, shooting you a look that not-so-subtly suggested, marry this man. You were glad you kept the creepy parts out of the story otherwise Robin would likely have tried to murder this man with her own axe.

When you arrived back at the farm, you insisted Bucky let you carry one end of the box holding the bed frame. It was made completely of hardwood, with instructions on how to assemble and a small baggy of screws. It had seemed simple enough when the two of you had opened the box, clearing the space to put Bucky’s temporary bed space on the opposite wall as yours. It was clear this bed was a lot newer than your bed, but you liked how lived-in yours felt. The mattress wasn’t super lumpy but also not hard as a brick. 

You stared at the instructions for at least 10 minutes, trying to figure out which step came first and which set of screws went where. Turns out, Robin’s instructions were overly detailed yet completely disorganized. You had half a mind to call her and ask her to come build the frame herself. Bucky even gave the sheet a glance before mumbling something about frames being easier to build in his time, whatever that meant.

By nightfall, you were both sweaty and had only assembled half of the frame. Somehow, Yoba be damned, you were missing four screws.

“How the hell did we misplace four whole screws?” You sighed, flopping backwards on the floor. Bucky was sitting beside you, giving you a short shrug. “I mean, there’s no way Robin just forgot to add them, right?” Another shrug. “Ugh, I’m gonna call her and tell her she needs to be here with extra screws in the morning.” You wormed your cell out of your pocket and clicked on Robin’s contact.

“Hey, hon. How’s the new bed?” Robin sang sweetly through the speaker, you could hear the faint noise of something sizzling on the stove. Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food.

“Somehow we’re missing screws.” You mumbled, feeling defeated. 

Robin hummed. “Well, I can be over around 6 or 7 am tomorrow with some extra supplies. I was going to start framing the addition anyways.”

You sighed with relief. “Thank you, Robin.” 

“I’ll see you in the morning, hon.” She bid you goodnight before you ended the call.

You tilted your head to stare at Bucky. “I’m sorry. You can take my bed tonight, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Bucky shook his head. “No need, I can take the floor.”

You furrowed your brows at him. “Absolutely not, you're my guest.” You were sitting up again now, frowning at him. “You sleep on the bed. I would feel shitty if you didn’t.”

It was growing harder to read Bucky’s face the sleepier you got. “I’m used to sleeping on the floor.”

You blinked at him. “My answer isn’t changing, but I am hungry so I’m making dinner.” You steadied yourself as you stood up, Bucky following suit. You led the way, a whole five steps to the kitchen. You checked the fridge, suddenly thankful to have spent a small fortune on groceries and at the saloon, begging the owner for his recipe after nearly orgasming upon tasting his pizza recipe. He had simply chuckled at the expression on your face and told you that you needed to try his famous omelet one day. You glanced at Bucky who was hovering over your shoulder. “How does pizza sound?” You asked, receiving a nod in return. You were getting fed up over his unnerving silence. You brushed it off for the time being, gathering the ingredients you needed; fresh dough from Gus, tomatoes and cheese from Pierre, and some herbs that the sweet older lady, Evelyn had given you.

The pizza didn’t take too long to put together, especially since your fire was already going, quelling the cool air of the spring and keeping the farmhouse at a warm and cozy temperature. 

The pizza, thanks to Gus, was one of the best things you’d ever tasted, and you’ve had pizza from the city. Your recreation wasn’t nearly as good, but it was still comparable. Bucky seemed to agree, he ate nearly half the pizza if not more.

After dinner, you set the mattress up where the half finished bed frame lay, moving it out of the way for the night. Thankfully you had a spare set of sheets and a cozy flannel blanket to top the mattress off. As a last touch, you swiped one of the pillows off of your bed. 

It was quaint, but it was home, just with one very interesting guest.

[melodramaticmosaic]

i saw an edit this morning that propelled me into spending a solid 5 hours reading a fanfic that has brought back motivation to write again. will i return to my in-progress fics? whose to say. i'm gonna put out a chapter in a little bit an see if there's any interest. i will say, i've had major writing block because i signed up with summer courses so i can graduate on time and i have writing assignments due nearly every day so all my motivation to do any recreational writing has been shot dead. so this might suck or it might rekindle my motivation to write again. stay tuned to find out!

[melodramaticmosaic]

one of my friends is live tweeting their reactions to watching daredevil (netflix) and they’re on s3. “im scared he's gonna do illegal stuff for fisk bc he's in financial trouble or someones gonna use that trouble against him” i can’t say anything i can’t say anything i can’t say anything

[nucl3arxxiv]

🎯

[melodramaticmosaic]

doing summer courses sucks because it has sucked all motivation to write completely out of my body. it’s also a big birthday month for my family so i feel completely sucked dry. hoping to fix it soon 🤷‍♂️

[melodramaticmosaic]

haven’t drawn in a bit but trying to get back into it ;-;

[eyesxxyou]

Greatest Game - 2.6k

⌖. pairing: benjamin poindexter x ftm!reader

synopsis: moving to a nowhere town in Oregon wasn't your first choice but with how rocky your marriage has been, you just want to keep the peace. but the man who lives in the forest does anything but bring peace to your life

content warnings: multi-part fic, hunter!dex, married!reader, dark fic, homewrecking, infidelity, obsessive behaviors, threats of death, animal death, primal play, dubcon, forcemasc, transphobia, blood

authors note: this was beta read with my pussy so there's probably gonna be some mistakes, pls ignore!

“We couldn’t have moved to Portland or something?” You tried not to sound so terrified sitting in the passenger seat of your car, staring endlessly into the forest that flanked the road on both sides. You tried to see in the space between them, thick wilderness stretching miles into oblivion, a heavy fog making it near impossible to do so. Finally, you had enough of working yourself up and turned to the driver’s seat where your husband, Daniel, leaned in close to squint through the fog.

“I know you have a thing about the woods, but I promise it's not that bad, babe.” He offered you a smile that would have once made your heart swoon but now only made you sulk. It wasn’t quite the same anymore. A little strained, a little tight. It had been this way ever since you told him. Together since high school and married right after graduating, you had thought that your relationship with your husband was nothing short of perfect. He was kind, loving, your biggest cheerleader. Why wouldn’t you believe that he would support you when you told him you didn’t want to be a woman, he supported you in everything else?

But the way his smile faded was anything but supportive. His face, the face that you had loved for years, turned into that of a stranger’s. Maybe because that’s what you became to him. A stranger. You still remembered his voice, the incredulous little anxious laugh he gave like what you had told him in such confidence was a joke. “Babe, you can’t be serious.” You remembered the look on his face when you told him you were, in fact, very serious. He shook his head and ran his hands down his face. “Women can’t be men, babe, and besides, I’m not gay. You’re just confused is all.” So your husband coaxed you, like he always did, into that quiet complicity you always found yourself taking on. There was no reason to break up a marriage over this.

Daniel took one of his hands off the wheel and wrapped his fingers around yours, squeezing gently. “Hey,” You looked at him, into the gleaming eyes of the man you had given up so much of yourself for. “This will be good for us, okay? Some fresh air out of the city, my new job at this station. Everything will be alright.”

You found yourself nodding, slipping into the idea that maybe you could ignore this thing inside of you. Slowly, some semblance of civilization began to appear before you. A small market, a diner, a bar. It all put you at ease. At least you weren’t out alone in the middle of the forest. Your new home was a modest two story house, clearly old and in need of some repairs but all in all decent enough for you to find comfort in. Being homeowners at all at your age was nothing short of a miracle so you certainly wouldn’t complain.

The place smelled slightly like mildew when you stepped inside, something old and a little moldy. You caught sight of the forest behind your house through the window, a pre-paved path disappearing behind the trees. “The old owners must have liked hiking.” Daniel murmured as he set down one of the boxes beside you and slid his hand around your waist to draw you close to him. He didn’t seem to notice the way you shifted with discomfort, so painfully aware of the way your body fit into his the way a woman’s does. He planted a kiss to the top of your head, stroking the hair he had so desperately convinced you not to cut off. “I’ll bring the boxes in and you can start unpacking, yeah?” He didn’t wait for your answer before squeezing the round of your ass and walking off back to the car.

You sat there, staring out into the misty forest through the window as you anxiously twisted the symbol of your commitment around your finger. It sat on your nightstand later that night, gleaming under the solitary lamp that illuminated the body lunging forward above you. Daniel held his hands planted on either side of your head, panting as he thrusted into you. His eyes were all twisted shut, hands gripping at the sheets as he focused on his impending climax. And all you could focus on was how your breast jumped with each of his movements. You loathed the way they looked, the sagging mounds of flesh on a body that didn’t feel like your own. Daniel moved his hand to grip one. You hated that too but still pretended to moan so that maybe this would be over. Of course, you being you, felt endless guilt over thinking something like that. He was your partner, the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with, you should be enjoying this. Why aren’t you?

You closed your eyes to stop yourself from crying as you listened to his labored moans. Daniel sounded like a mammoth when he came. Loud and deep as his entire body shuddered on top of you. It was better this way, to just go to sleep as he collapsed beside you and drew you close and kissed your back while muttering a name that felt so foreign to you.

Maybe if you just went to sleep this would all go away.

-

Daniel left early in the morning for his first day as an officer at the local police station, his departure marked with a kiss on your cheek before watching him adjust his uniform and wink at you. The door clicked shut behind him and you released a breath that you had not been aware you were holding. Your shoulders lowered from their spot beside your ears. A quiet morning was a good morning; a morning where you could just make yourself a cup of coffee with too much sugar and admire the way the sunlight streaked through the gaps in the trees. The forest didn’t seem so scary now, birds singing their overlapping symphonies out of sight, calling you to confront your fear of the unknown. Maybe a morning hike wouldn’t hurt. Just as long as you stayed on the path.

You got dressed slowly, shrugging on a jacket to keep yourself warm. It was cold in the early mornings when dew drops clung to the grass blades and a low fog settled close to the ground. Standing at the foot of the path, feet sinking into the soft soil, you swallowed back whatever fear brewed deep within the pit of your stomach and began on your hike into the forest generations older than you. The trees were as wide as the length of your arm and towered like old gods looking down on your feeble mortal existence. How silly it would be to worry about such trivial things in their presence. Marriage, moving, identity. None of that mattered here. In the wilderness, you were like everything else. Inconsequential and ever important.

Walking the path felt like walking into another time and space. Your eyes kept going up, admiring squirrels jumping from branch to branch, birds swooping down and fluttering between trees, the way the leaves rushed with the early morning breeze. Peace could be found here, you thought. Peace in solitude.

A branch snapped behind you and you jumped like some quivering prey animal, eyes darting to the sound like some feral instinct awoke within you. Just behind you, maybe ten feet away, a large deer stood with great big antlers extending up and out like an extension of the trees. Its big, black eyes stared at you, glisteningly wet and empty as it licked its lips. So entirely still you didn’t even want to breathe, you stared at the majestic animal and watched as it turned it head and began to walk off the path into the depth of the forest.

You thought very little of what you had told yourself earlier. Staying on the path was a minor blip on the great map of your mind as you followed the deer from a safe distance.

You stopped when it stopped, walked when it did, your step matching it’s with precision. You could have been one with it, the way nature finds a way to come back in sync with itself. It stopped in a small opening where the light was golden and its fur shone. Mesmerized, your feet pressed forward as it stared at you. For the first time, you attempted to draw closer, lowering yourself to seem less threatening. Its tail flicked, eyes bright and so beautiful. You saw yourself in its eyes, a version of yourself that you actually recognized.

A loud bang rang out into the air, echoing off of the trees to make it impossible to know where it came from. The deer flinched and trembled then collapsed to the ground.

You were frozen, gaze clinging to the hole in it's side where blood poured out. Any logical person would have ran after so nearly being shot. Had you been a foot closer you would have taken that bullet. But you stayed, you knelt to the ground and stroked it's head as it stared up at you with it's now empty eyes. The one thing that ever saw you as you were. You hardly even noticed the footsteps approaching behind you, rustling through the tall grass.

“That's my buck.”

You flinched at the voice, low, a little rough around the edges. Turning, you came face to face with a pair of worn boots, layered in dried mud up to the ankles. You followed them up the cargo pants that were tucked into them, and your eyes latched on to the rifle hanging off the man’s shoulder. He was tall, too tall in your opinion. You craned your neck all the way back to get a good look at his face. His jaw was sharp, glistening little blonde hairs he hadn't shaved in a bit. There was something written on his lips, something like amusement at the frustration etched into your face. He was pretty though, dressed in camo, messy hair, a thick jacket that did absolutely nothing but make him look bigger.

You stood up. “Why did you kill it?” Maybe you were too emotional about the deer. Maybe you weren't upset about the deer at all.

The man readjusted his rifle over his shoulder, crossing the strap over his head so it hugged his chest. He passed you by and grabbed the deer by its ankles to tie its legs together. “It's a deer. I’m a hunter. That's kind of the whole point, Buck.” You watched him take the rope looped up at his side and wrap it around the deer’s legs. “You’re the one in a hunting zone.” He hoisted it up over his shoulders, not minding the way the blood began to trickle over his chest.

You ignored the name he had assigned to you and looked around to find that you had strayed so far from the path that it was no longer within sight. You were lost and the man was already beginning to walk away with his prize. “Wait!” You began to run after him. “Look, could you just point me to the right direction? I just moved here yesterday and I don't really know where I am.” The man continued to walk, readjusting his grip on the deer. “Clearly. I’d remember a handsome face like yours.” He glanced over his shoulder with a lopsided grin that revealed half a row of straight, white teeth.

You stopped for a moment, stunned by the use of such a compliment. Never once had you heard the word “handsome” be applied to you. You were always “pretty”, “cute”, and “beautiful”, but never handsome. It felt right, like slipping on a suit made just for you, tailored like a second skin. It struck you in a way that left warmth creeping all throughout your body. “I–”

“Should pass the path on the way back to my cabin.” The man spoke offhandedly, a slight grunt to his voice from the weight of his game. “I’m guessing you moved into the old house at the end of it.” Blood was starting to gather on his hands, smeared other the thick veins and tendons that lined them. “It’s not good to stray from the path. Easy to get lost out here if you don't pay attention.” You watched him walk, the broadness of his shoulders, the way his muscles bulged against the fabric of his jacket. Envy clung to your entire being like some slimy thing you couldn't wash off.

“You want help carrying it?”

The man looked back at you, his smile growing wider now. You liked the way the wrinkles around his mouth popped, the thickness of his neck, how much older he looked, how masculine. “You look big and strong enough but I think I got it.” Your chest puffed involuntarily, your head growing dizzy with the euphoria. You could have fainted there, passed out from the sheer weight of your joy.

You followed him closely, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as if that would make your frame look less feminine. “Have you lived here long?” His hair looked so golden in the early morning sun, the angles of his face becoming ever more defined. You wondered what it was like to be born right, born perfect like he was. You felt something stir in you when he looked at you with those grey-ish blue eyes that looked stormy and interested, like he hadn't been invested in something in ages.

“Too long. But it’s nice here. Small town, everyone knows everyone, everyone leaves everyone alone. Got some great hunting grounds. Wouldn't have caught such a nice buck if it didn't.” There was something knowing in his eyes. He shot you a wink like he was in on your little secret and he would take it to the grave with him. “What brings you here?”

“My husband.” You cleared your throat. “He’s starting at the sheriff's office today. New deputy.” There was something embarrassing about that, of having to remember your husband existed, that you were married, that you packed up your entire life — said goodbye to your family and friends — and moved out here with him for some measly job. That you were some housewife who cooked and cleaned and did everything a woman was expected to do. Humiliation was the word.

The man hummed, something slight and unidentifiable twitched at the corners of his lips. “New deputy.” He echoed.

Soon enough, you found yourself back on the dirt path you had once been following, a clear line straight back to your new home. This is where you would part ways with the stranger you already knew you wanted to see again. He readjusted the stay on his shoulders once more. “Try not to go off path next time, Buck. These woods have a whole lot lurking in them just waiting to eat you up.” The stranger turned and began down the path in the opposite direction you were going.

“Wait!” The word fell out of your mouth before you could think better of it. He stopped and turned back to you like he had expected you to do exactly this. You shied away from his gaze that seemed to claw their way through your skull with such intensity. “What's your name?”

He smiled wide and never before had you found a smile so visually appealing.

“Dex. I’m sure you’ll hear a lot about me, Buck.”

tags: @nymphet-quenn @wetpussyju1ce @deathhppunch @sthirsty-hans @greyishbach @v4gmpire @firehart9 @gothbby333 @thefoxesmend @j-serp @douazz @lostfallenangelsblog @melodramaticmosaic @mcflurrylover123 @closestthingtocoffee

[metal-armed-muse]

SAFEST PLACE TO BLEED

BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X DOCTOR! F!READER

SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdock’s arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.

WORD COUNT. 8.4K WARNINGS. canon adjacent, wounded dex, mentions of blood, minor injury details and treatment, doctor/patient setup, emotional dependency, jealousy (dex is a jealous bitch), possessiveness, morally messy dynamics, matt murdock cameo, platonic matt, set after the events of episode 5 of DDBA S2, references to foggy’s and vanessa’s death, suicidal ideation/passive death wish from dex (canon😭), MDNI, explicit sexual content, praise, possessive language, riding, groping, tit play, unprotected pnv, creampie, soft aftercare, needy!dex, dex being a feral wounded dog of a man, no use of y/n. KIE’S NOTES. I’ve been writing this on and off since episode 5 aired, and this is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Dex is such a complex character to write for holy fuck 😭 there are so many analogies to stray dog, like he just wants to be a good boy, you’ll see 🫩

READ ON AO3

A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites. 

You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.

Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.

Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.

That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.

Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.

You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.

For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.

Dex.

His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.

Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."

You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.

With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"

Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."

Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."

"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."

"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.

He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."

You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."

Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."

No. Nope.

"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.

Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.

"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."

His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."

Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed. 

You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.

You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."

"Flexible," Dex breathes.

"Try alive."

"That's less flexible."

When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.

You hate how much that means to you.

The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."

His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."

"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."

Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."

"I can take care of myself."

The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.

You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."

Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."

Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."

"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.

You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."

He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.

When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.

The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.

"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."

He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it. 

You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."

Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"

You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."

His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.

Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.

Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.

You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."

Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."

"Maybe try believing them once in a while."

Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"

You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."

"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room. 

Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."

You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.

"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.

Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"

"Please lie down and stop talking."

Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."

Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."

You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."

"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."

Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."

Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.

"He listens to you," Matt says.

"He has limited hobbies."

Dex murmurs, "You."

The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.

Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."

"I went to med school, Matt."

His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight. 

You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.

Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."

"I do."

"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."

His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."

You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."

"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."

You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."

Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."

Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."

The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.

You lock the door.

Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."

You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."

"Answer."

Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."

Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."

"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.

You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."

Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"

The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.

Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.

"Dex."

His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth. 

"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."

A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."

"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."

The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp. 

Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.

"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.

You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."

"Matt ever get the chain?"

Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to. 

Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."

You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."

"Can't."

"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."

His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.

You let him.

Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."

You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"

"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."

A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?" 

Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."

You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.

"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."

He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"

You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"

Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.

By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.

Dex is awake.

He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.

"You stayed," he says.

Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."

His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."

"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one. 

His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."

"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter. 

That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight. 

"Headache?" you ask.

"Not really."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Vision changes?"

"Ugly curtains."

"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."

Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"

"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."

Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."

The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."

"I was waiting."

"That must have been hard for you."

His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."

You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."

"So I can leave if I want."

"Wrong answer."

The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."

That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.

The chain falls with a dull clink.

Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.

"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.

"You promise?"

"Dex."

With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.

You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs. 

When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?" 

He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."

Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"

"You get the chain."

He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.

"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."

His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands. 

Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.

"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.

You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."

"He touches you like he has rights."

"He touches me like he trusts me."

Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.

"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."

His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed. 

"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway. 

"Your bedside manner was better last night."

"Last night you were closer to death."

His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."

The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic. 

But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more. 

You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.

You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?" 

His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."

"From the kiss?"

"No." 

"Dex."

"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."

The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.

"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."

His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."

That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.

You place his hand over your hip.

A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Mm?"

"You're shaking."

"So are you."

"I have an excuse."

A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."

You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback. 

His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.

His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?" 

When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.

"Tell me," he says.

"Half-dead, but still you demand."

He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."

The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."

"He ever hear you sound like that?"

You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh. 

The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.

Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.

For once, Bullseye looks struck.

You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch. 

A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.

"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.

Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."

"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."

A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."

Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him. 

When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."

You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.

Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."

"That bad?"

His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."

You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.

"Let me come to you," you offer.

He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."

"You hate being cared for."

"I hate having hands and not able to use them."

That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."

Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now. 

One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.

"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."

He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.

He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."

"Demanding, are we?"

His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."

That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.

You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"

"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.

His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.

"I barely moved."

"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock. 

"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."

You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."

"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"

"Please." There's just desperation. 

You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.

He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.

The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.

Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."

"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."

The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses. 

Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.

The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time. 

Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.

Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."

His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."

"You are actively proving the opposite."

"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."

Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again. 

He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.

His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."

"I want to make you cum."

"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."

His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."

When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls. 

Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.

He says something too low for you to catch.

"What?"

His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."

Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."

"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.

Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock. 

Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot. 

Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.

"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs. 

"You like telling me what to do."

"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."

When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."

"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."

His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"

"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying. 

Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.

Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.

"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.

Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."

Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.

Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.

"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.

The phone buzzes again.

Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."

You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response. 

Still here. Stable. 

Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"

"You want a performance review?"

His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."

You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."

He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved." 

Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."

Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.

Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.

EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…

[murkymurdock]

No one talking about how Charlie Cox has the brat tamer voice down pat...his condescending and intimidating voice for Matt is so 🤤

[melodramaticmosaic]

Anything & Everything

Crossposted on Ao3

Benjamin Poindexter x gn!reader

No pronouns used for reader (let me know if I missed any)

CW: minor blood/injury, BPD, Dex has unhealthy obsessions

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Dex is losing his North Star. His pushy neighbor keeps trying to nudge into his life and he isn't quite sure whether he should let this perfect angel into his life or let himself stay in his solitude.

=================================================================

The apartment was clean, everything was pristine from the few glances you got whenever he entered and exited. It was white, almost blinding. Like if the sun shone too bright through the windows, it would hurt your eyes to look at it. 

Your apartment was different. It had the same white walls—your landlord was against painting them—but they were covered in photos and memorabilia. Some of your family, others of your college friends. Your diplomas hung by the door, encouraged by your mother. Why she had suggested that, you weren’t quite sure. But she’d helped you through university and grad school, co-signed on the apartment and helped you move in, so you didn’t object. 

He had moved in a year after you did. He was quiet, kept to himself. From what you could tell about him and from those sparing glances at his lack of decor, you concluded he didn’t really have friends or anyone close for that matter. 

You made a point to say hello whenever the two of you passed in the hallway. You even tried to make conversation when you rode the elevator together. His cold exterior made it seem like he was almost trying to push others away without even saying a word. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that he could kill you with just a glance. 

After 6 months, you pried his name from his pretty lips—he was attractive, that was a given. His name was Ben, but everyone called him Dex. 

“Your friends call you that?”

“Some.”

“Didn’t realize you had any of those.”

He’d looked away after that and you left him alone. Murmuring a goodbye as you parted ways, stepping off the elevator and parting to your respective doors. 

It took you a couple months afterwards to get him to tell you that he worked as an FBI agent. 

“So what’s that like?”

“It’s…tough.”

“I bet. What’s the craziest case you’ve worked on?”

He had looked at you like you were crazy, grinning at him. He thought you might be just as fucked in the head as he was. 

“Well, right now I’m guarding Wilson Fisk.”

“That bald prick?”

He’d laughed at that and you’d never felt prouder of yourself. 

“Yeah, that one.”

“That’s gotta be a rough job. Just hearing about some of the things he’s done makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Yeah…”

You weren’t one to give up. You were determined to keep making this man smile and laugh because you believe he deserves it. You were going to be his friend. 

When you’d told some of your coworkers about him, you were met with people telling you he didn’t seem worth it. 

“He seems like a dick.”

Over and over again, what you perceived as loneliness and a longing for connection, your coworkers deemed to be some sort of sociopathic solitude. 

You were walking to work one morning when the newspaper stand you always walked past had a front page that stuck out to you through the messy chaos of New York City. A picture of Dex. “FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN”. Your heart dropped. The thin paper crinkled in your grasp. 

“You gonna buy that sweetheart?” The man in the cart muttered with a cigarette pressed between his lips. 

You frowned, fishing your wallet out and handing the man a few crumpled bills. You read the story as you walked, mind racing as you struggled to comprehend why they were investigating Dex. He’d only been protecting the other agents, and well, Wilson Fisk. 

Your whole shift you sat puzzled. Your coworkers poking questions at you that you couldn’t be bothered to answer. All you wanted was to go home and check on him. 

When you did get home, you heard crashing, the sounds of glass breaking and things being thrown about. Before you even fished your apartment key out of your pocket, your fist was pounding against his door. 

“Dex!” You shouted. “Dex! Can you hear me? Open up!”

The door cracked open. Dex peered at you, both of you breathing unsteadily. His hand on the door frame was bloody. 

You chewed on your bottom lip, flicking your eyes over his disheveled appearance. “Are you okay?” Your words were just above a whisper, dripping with worry and concern. 

Dex looked on the verge of tears. “Yeah, um, I’m fine.”

You frowned, unsatisfied with his answer. “Dex, you’re bleeding. Can I come in?” His eyes shot to the interior of his apartment which you assumed to be in disarray. “I can help, Dex. I won’t judge. I just want to help.”

His eyes met yours and you could see the desperation beneath them. Reaching out for something you couldn’t quite understand. Without saying another word, he closed the door. Your breath paused for a second as you contemplated whether or not he was blocking you out. Then, you heard the soft, bare perceptible sound of the chain lock moving and the door opening once again. Dex opened the door just enough for you to walk in before closing it gently behind you. 

You scanned over the apartment. A hole in the wall and a knife through a picture frame that was hanging right beside the door. The knife cutting straight through a woman, an ex maybe?

You didn’t let your gaze linger. You snapped your attention back to Dex. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

He nodded, slipping past you to move through his apartment. When he handed it to you, you directed him to sit down at the table so you could clean him up. You noted the damp white shirt that sat limply on the edge of the kitchen sink. You tried not to look at his bare chest as you inspected his knuckles. They were slightly torn, but mostly superficial. You cleaned them and gently wrapped some gauze around his hand, tying it securely once you were finished. 

You raised your head to look at his face. His hazel eyes pierced through you. He had a conflicted look on his face. His injured hand was held loosely by yours, resting in your lap. You offered him a small smile, rubbing a few tight circles against his wrist. 

Dex wasn’t sure what to think of you. Were you an angel? Or maybe just another false gift meant to pull him away from his routine. Fisk had taken Julie from him. If you were offering him such kindness, he didn’t want to lose this as well. 

“Dex,” You murmured gently, a hand raising to cup his jaw. “Go take a shower, put on some fresh clothes. Try not to get this wet.” You squeezed his hand, giving him another smile. He nodded carefully, deciding then that he would follow any instruction you gave him without question. If Julie couldn’t guide him, maybe you could. 

Once he got up and you could hear the shower running, you started cleaning up. First the medical supplies, sticking them back in the medicine cabinet you’d watched him pull the container from. Then you searched for cleaning supplies, finding a dust pan among other supplies tucked away beneath the sink. 

You carefully took the shattered picture frame off of the wall, dislodging the knife that had further embedded itself into the wall, which you pried out of the frame and left in the sink to be dealt with afterwards. You cleaned up the broken glass, swiping into the dustpan and discarding it in the trash. You couldn’t easily fix the holes in the wall, that would have to be fixed on a different day—you had the next day off so you could pick up supplies then, giving you some time to look up youtube tutorials. 

Cleaning what you could wasn’t too hard of a task. Gathering the thrown items into piles that you could ask Dex to direct you to their homes once he was cleaned up. 

When he exited what you presumed to be his bedroom, he was dressed in a fresh pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair was damp, you could smell the freshness of the shampoo permeating the air. What struck you, more than the faint outline of his chest from where his shirt clung to wet skin, was the heaving, laboured breaths coming from his lips. His fingers clenched around nothing. 

You stood instantly, nearly sprinting to him. You held your hands out and he took them, palms landing on your forearms, holding onto you for what seemed like a lifeline. 

“Dex,” you murmured gently, “I want you to copy my breathing. We’re going to breathe in and out together, real slow, okay?” He nodded quickly and you squeezed his arms. “Okay, in….and out.” You repeated it a few times, taking deep breaths until you were sure his breathing had evened out. You smiled, “Good job, Dex.” You led him to the couch, sitting down beside him. His hands landed on his thighs, raking up and down. You gently touched his bicep. “Dex, is there anything I can get you?” You asked slowly. 

His eyes squeezed shut for half a moment before staring at you again. They were watering and he seemed to be on the verge of bursting into tears. He cleared his throat, “uh, in the back of my closet there’s a safe. It has my tapes.”

“Okay, what’s the code? And is there a specific one you’d like?” You offered him another smile, gently squeezing his arm. 

He shook his head, telling you the code. “Any of them will work.”

You got up and walked into his bedroom. You glanced over the room, just as empty as the rest of the apartment and just as pristine as you assumed it was when Dex was having a normal day. The bed was perfectly made as if it had been done by a professional. 

You didn’t linger long, making your way to the closet, pushing aside the suits you often saw him wearing. Behind them was the safe, perfectly aligned. You worked the locking mechanism quickly, only screwing up the dial once before twisting it open. 

When you opened the safe, the arsenal of weapons shocked you. You knew it shouldn’t surprise you, he was FBI after all, not to mention serving in the army. Shaking the tinge of fear off, you grabbed one of the tapes and the headphones. 

When you returned to the living space, Dex was shaking hard enough that he was practically vibrating. 

You quickly crossed the room, “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

You popped the tape into the player and slipped the headphones over his ears. He took the device from your hand and hit play. You were crouched in front of him. With his other hand, he grabbed yours. His eyes were closed. As the seconds, minutes passed, his face grew calmer and more relaxed. His steady grip on your hand relaxed and eventually, his eyes opened again. The fearsome storm that was once held behind those glassy eyes, dissipated faster than you’d expected. 

The calm smile that graced your lips slowly echoed on his face. With your free hand, you cradled his face, wiping a stray tear that had fallen. “Are you feeling better?” 

It was a quiet question, one that he should’ve expected. He knew the car was waiting downstairs for him. The man that had been at his door while you were in his room, he was terrified. You’d taken this much time to take care of him, to talk him down from the ledge and for what? Was he really going to throw that away to do the bidding of the very man he had sworn to keep locked up. 

And you- you were so kind to him. He’d tried Julie and she’d rejected him. He wasn’t that sure what to think of you. This perfect soul who seemed to do no wrong. You had to be some sort of angel. He was almost certain of it now. 

And you just had to be perched so perfectly at his feet. So beautiful. He could feel the obsession growing. He wanted to claim you as his—protect you at any cost. He would do whatever it took to keep you safe. 

Anything, everything.