while everyone else mistakes your quietness for disinterest, dex catches the tiny things - the way you lower your eyes when someone compliments you, how you linger just outside conversations before slipping away, how your voice gets softer when you’re nervous.
he secretly loves being the only person who gets to hear your real laugh. around other people it’s quiet, always hidden behind your hand, but when you’re alone with him it slips out freely. every single time it happens, he pauses for just a second, watching you with the smallest, barely noticeable smile.
“…there it is,” he murmurs.
your shyness makes you hesitant to ask for affection, which means dex learns to read you instead. he’ll notice you hovering nearby while pretending to look at something else, the tiny glances you keep stealing at him, the way your fingers fidget with your sleeves. without a word, he’ll open one arm. you shuffle over almost immediately, resting against his side. “…better?” he asks. you nod into his shoulder. “mhm.”
he finds your tendency to hide behind him endearing. crowded streets, loud environments, unfamiliar people - you’ll unconsciously drift until you’re standing just behind his shoulder. after a while, he starts shifting slightly to make room without even thinking about it.
because you’re so reserved, every little sign of affection from you means everything to him. if you reach for his hand first, if you lean your head on his shoulder without being prompted, if you quietly mumble, “I missed you,” when he comes home - it stays with him for days. he doesn’t react in the moment, but later that night he’ll pull you just a little closer while the two of you lie in bed, silently replaying those moments in his mind.
your shyness means you’re constantly apologizing for taking up space. dex hates it. every time you murmur, “sorry,” for something insignificant, he gently interrupts. “don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.” eventually he starts placing a finger beneath your chin whenever you apologize unnecessarily, making you look at him until you smile instead.
dex has spent most of his life hiding every genuine emotion he has. you wear yours all over your face without realizing it. he knows exactly when you’re excited because your eyes brighten before you even smile. he knows when you’re anxious because you start twisting your rings. he knows when you’re trying not to cry because your lips press together just a little tighter.
“I can hear you thinking.” he says.
“…how do you know?”
“because I know you.”
one of the first things dex notices is that you instinctively make yourself smaller. when a waiter accidentally gets your order wrong, you smile and say it’s fine. when someone interrupts you, you simply stop talking. it bothers him more than he’d ever admit. after watching it happen one too many times, he starts speaking before you can. “she ordered the tea, not coffee.” his voice is calm, almost detached.
you glance up at him, surprised. afterward, you mumble, "dex, you didn’t have to.”
he looks at you for a second. “I wanted to.”
he loves when you hide your face in his chest after he compliments you. at first he thinks you’re embarrassed. then he realizes you’re smiling too much to look at him. from then on, he starts whispering compliments just to feel you curl into him. “you’re beautiful.” you let out the tiniest groan, face disappearing into his jacket. he rests his chin on your head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
there are times when your quiet nature worries him. after everything he’s experienced, silence can make his thoughts spiral. if you spend too long lost in your own head, he’ll glance over more often than he’d like to admit. “you okay?” he’ll ask. every single time you smile softly and answer, “just thinking.” only then does the tension leave his shoulders.
he never tries to change your personality. if anything, he protects it. he knows the world constantly expects louder, bolder people, but he likes that you’re soft. likes that your words are carefully chosen instead of rushed. likes that your kindness isn’t performative. one night, when you apologize for “being too quiet,” he looks at you for a long moment before gently taking your hand. his fingers intertwine with yours. “it’s one of my favorite things about you.”
you’re soft in every way he isn’t. where his voice is blunt, yours is hesitant. where his gaze is intense, yours is quick to drop. when strangers make eye contact, you smile politely. dex studies them until they look away first. the funny part is that you balance each other perfectly. people approach you because you seem approachable. they leave you alone because they eventually notice who’s standing beside you.
i can imagine fbi dex being so gentle and loving and delicate towards you in bed, like: he would ask you to be more clingy, a skin-to-skin kinda love and not that "turn me around and fuck me in a headlock" that you ask him to do sometimes, right?
"baby... can we do it just laying in bed? i want to look at your eyes"
knowing that he was a virgin when he met you, you keep worrying a little that he'll get bored of you. ugh, you poor thing, don't know well enough how much he loves to cum while moaning into your mouth that he loves you, as if he can somehow transmit his love to you
you let him hit raw? he will die smiling.
you want to try something new beyond missionary-cowgirl? he would swallow his shame for you and discover that he LOVES something called the lotus pose to hold you even closer.
and if you don't want to explore beyond your comfort zone? dex won't get bored, trust me. that man adores routine and making love to you is the only part of his private life he can tolerate. and if he can predict in advance what you're going to want and how, you'll solve all his problems.
//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.
"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.
matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.
matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.
matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.
matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.
matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.
matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.
matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)
matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.
matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.
matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.
matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.
matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.
and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.
get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.
Warnings: 18!+ mentally ill and unstable Dex, FBI agent Dex, pre-Fisk, mentions of physical harm, choking, crying, kissing, mentions of consensual sex
Masterlist
Notes: trying out a different pov, let me know how you enjoy this writing style. Coincidentally, immediately after finishing this i got asked out to go clubbing and now im writing this late in the night (or early morning) after the club :P Any feedback is appreciated. Don’t be afraid to inform me about any mistakes or inaccuracies. Inbox is open for requests or to chat!
—————————————————————
It was a cozy evening—teacups on the living room table, empty plates, both of your bodies covered with a blanket.
Dex pressed against your side, a protective arm thrown over the back of the sofa. You were encapsulated by him—Dex’s warmth, musk, his energy.
At the beginning of the movie he seemed relaxed, now as the credits were about to start rolling he felt tense against your side.
He had many issues, you knew of course. He told you, very reluctantly, after he blew up in your face.
Accused you of cheating, lying, stealing from his wallet.
You forgot to text him after a girls night out. And woke up earlier than you wanted to with him at your door. Hysterically talking to you, saying things he did not really mean.
Feeling this physical shift within him caused a nervous feeling to grow in the pit of your stomach. He was thinking about something and it made him physically stiffen. He did not like the move and probably thinks that you made him waste precious hours of his life—was the only conclusion.
The credits rolled.
“What do you think?” your head lolled to the side, the back of it resting between his shoulder and neck.
Dex scratched his nose—his wrinkled nose.
He definitely did not like it, you think. Of course. Most of the movies you suggested he did not like.
Dex liked historically accurate movies, documentaries, educational content, and sometimes—he was really picky with them—science fiction movies.
Tonight you watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
“It was–was nice,” he mumbled and looked down at you.
“Nice?” you were unconvinced, your own nose scrunching up. Hand petting his thigh under the blanket.
“I mean… it was a movie,” he tried again. Gaze set on you, brown eyes observing intently.
“It can be too much at times—” you began to speak but Dex interrupted.
“Like all of the fucking movie,” he sighed under his nose.
Your brows furrowed, body shifting away from him; back straight and fidgeting palms in your lap.
The blanket shifted too.
“If you didn’t like it, we could have watched something else. All you had to do is say so.”
You had to admit, you were not aiming for it but your tone had a tinge of accusatory contempt in it.
“I just don’t understand why anything that happened in the movie happened at all. Nothing made sense,” his tone also rose.
“Because it’s based on a musical,” you snapped.
“Who gives a shit!”
That took you aback. Physically and mentally.
You stood up from the couch and began to collect the empty plates.
“Don’t do this, c’mon,” he gathered the blanket in his arms and threw it away from himself.
Standing up he followed you to the kitchen; which was literally three steps away from the living room. You never could imagine being able to live in such a compact space.
But Dex did; he managed well. He lived and breathed the FBI, basically living in that building. The flat was barely necessary.
“You are being mean,” you placed the dishes in the sink and rolled up your sleeves.
He didn’t like that, he didn’t like this. He was particular about the things he liked and disliked. And the things he disliked—Dex stayed away from.
And most things you enjoyed, Dex did not.
Dancing. No.
Can you go out with your friends to dance around in some club or bar? Of course not, because other men would eye you, and he could not let that happen.
You offered a solution: let’s go dancing together. It could be romantic and sexy. No.
Because why would he engage in an activity he did not like?
Science fiction. At the beginning of your relationship, you thought it could be a good bonding tool.
No.
The science had to make sense. What kind of sci-fi movie makes fucking sense?
You grunted, frustrated by your own thoughts, and began to scrub at the plates. The homemade sauce of the vegetarian dish the two of you made really sticking to it.
“I’m being mean?” he asked offended, huffing behind you.
“Yeah, because everything I enjoy, you shit on, Ben.”
“Can I not dislike things now?” his tone rose; he shifted to be in your line of sight. Hip resting against the counter, hands crossed over his chest. “Mhm?”
“Do you hate them hate them or do you hate them just because I like them?” you shot back. Hand vigorously squeezing the sponge and scrubbing the fucking plate.
“You are allowed to like this I don’t, sweetheart,” Dex spoke again, this time the tone was softer—concerned.
The plate slips from your hands and you turn your head to him.
“So how come I cannot go out clubbing, hmh?”
Silence.
“Because there are dangerous men—“
“There were dangerous men before I started dating you and I was fine.”
“Well then you were single,” he gritted out, jaw clenched. His palms formed into fists, knuckles whitening.
“And yet I was safe,” you responded in a mocking melodic tone.
“I don’t want anyone else staring at your ass.”
You laugh in his face and continue on with the dishes. The laugh was full of mirth, a sarcastic and cruel kind of laugh.
“Yet again, you could join me, but Benjamin Poindexter can never do the things he dislikes because god forbid—” your tone was mocking him outwardly now, until he interjected.
“Keep that mouth shut,” his hands dropped to his sides. He was getting angrier now. Petty fights never ended up well. Either you cried, he cried or the both of you cried. Sometimes there were smashed mugs and sometimes even shattered frames. Yet, he never laid a hand on you. Never did he do so with malicious intent. He promised so. What happened in the bedroom was different.
“—that you do anything out of your comfort zone—”
It happened very quickly, one moment you were speaking and the next your neck was enveloped by two strong palms. The plate clattered against the hard surface of the sink—yet it did not break.
You gasped for air, wet and foamy hands shooting to his forearms. There was no pressure, it was the shock that scared you the most.
“Please,” you managed to choke out. The inertia from his actions depleting your lungs of air. Your eyes began to sting and mouth dried up. He was going to choke you—your mind rushed to the dreadful conclusion.
But Dex’s face told a different story; no malice or hate or anger. It was empty of emotions.
Your back hit the fridge and your fingernails began to dig into his skin.
“Please, stop resisting,” he mumbled. Nostrils flaring.
You knew Dex. He was your Dex. Strange and weird, and sick, and fucked up. You liked such things; you loved broken things. How can one not want to take care of such ratchet things? There was so much love in your heart, how could you hold it away from things that need it the most?
And now, the man you loved—the broken man you dreamed to have a future with—was strangling you…
Well… there was no force or pressure, so could it really be called that?
Dex was caressing you; calloused thumbs running over your cheeks, fingers softly wrapped around the sides of your neck.
“Stop.” He spoke again, it was gentle and in a way soothing.
You choked out a cry and began to furiously nod. Fingers seizing their assault on his flesh.
“Please,” you spoke again, eyesight blurry.
“Come here,” Dex whispered, one hand lowering to your hip the other inching into your hair.
Dex held on to you tightly. Pressing himself into you, like his place was somewhere between your ribs.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His cheek pressed into the side of your head, lips brushing against your ear. “I didn’t mean to.”
Shock and relief coursed through your body.
He has never done such a thing, never before has he laid a hand on you. Only, and only, in a sexual way—which was explicitly consented to.
But you were okay—nothing ached or bleed—only erratic breaths escaping past your parted lips.
You did not dare to hug him: hands hanging in the air, avoiding him.
“It’s okay,” you heard yourself mumble. You didn’t really mean to say that, you did not intend to speak at all.
But he was heaving into your hair now, clinging to your body—hand carefully tugging your hair, the other wrapped around your waist.
He was spiralling. Dex scared you and he scared himself.
How on this forsaken fucking rock was he allowed to carry a gun?
“I’m fine, Dex.” Your hands slowly—carefully—find their place atop his sides.
“I’m sorry–I’m sorry,” he kept chanting into your skin.
You could feel his wet lips kissing your neck, with each apology he placed another kiss.
It felt like he was whispering it into your flesh and trying to seal it with a kiss.
“Dex, you didn’t hurt me,” you try to reassure him again.
He shook his head, nuzzling his face into your neck and chest.
He began to kiss your clothed chest; he always resorted to this when things became too much.
Fucking his frustration out; using you to make himself feel better.
“Baby,” you say breathlessly, one of your hands rising to his hair and petting his head, “Ben, let’s not—not today,” you whispered reassuringly.
“Okay.”
He sounded so small and broken. Like a feral animal in the night.
What brought this out, you did not know. Mostly, such petty fights ended up being resolved peacefully. You two would dig into each other, throwing hurtful remarks at one another, until the cause of the friction was revealed.
Was it a healthy way of dealing with things? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
Neither of you were the functional adult in this relationship. But you managed as best as you could.
You hugged him tighter.
“What happened, Ben?” The whisper echoed through his apartment, the credit music playing in the background.
“You scared me,” a broken cry left his lips.
“Me? Dex, you wrapped your hands around my throat. You scared me.”
This was not an attack on your part. Just an observation—the truth. How could you possibly have scared him? He was eighty kilos of pure muscle, one hundred and eighty centimetres tall—he was, in every possible way, more lethal and domineering than you.
“You were gonna leave—just like the rest of them.”
“I never said such a thing, baby, c’mon now,” you cooed gently, caressing his hair.
You manoeuvre the two of you away from the fridge, slowly swaying from side to side making circles in the kitchen.
“You hate me–you hate that I’m not involved.”
“Involved in what, baby? Mhm?”
“The fucking dancing,” a broken sob escapes his lips and bounces into your neck. His hot breath makes perspiration collect atop your skin.
“The dancing,” you gently repeat, as if consoling a child, “Benjamin, I’m not gonna leave you because of some fucking ass shaking, yeah?”
“You said—“
“Benjamin, stop.” And just like a child you had to reprimand.
“Just because I want to go out dancing, doesn’t mean that I will—let alone without you, Ben” you whisper in his ear. The swaying not ceasing; his grip onto you still tight.
“I still have hope for you and your two left feet,” you tried to uplift the mood.
He huffed into your neck and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“What for, mhm? You’re dancing now.”
And he was.
Feet moving—following—yours. Hips slightly rotating and swaying on their own. In any other situation, this would be romantic. But now, it was what it was.
“Not the dancing you like,” he whispered a response. Desperation laced his tone.
“I’ll take whatever you give me, baby.”
“I don’t give you enough.”
“You’re more than enough, Benjamin.”
It felt nice. Swaying in the kitchen with the love of her life. Clinging to one another. Romantic.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah?” you inquire gently. You do not want to push, but the tension behind your eyes was growing. An uncomfortable ache spreading through your head.
“Will you—” Dex began to speak, body leaning backwards to look at her face.
“Of course,” you confirmed, “of course, i’ll go with you.”
Releasing your hold of him, one of your hands takes his hand—the one still stuck in your hair—and lowers it.
Eyes never drifting from his, you shift the two of you. Your body leading him out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.
Three fucking steps. Small fucking apartment for such a big man.
You led him past the bed into the tiny room he called a bathroom.
Silently the two of you washed your teeth. Routine was important to him; Dex always brushed his teeth before bed.
You were finished first and with that slowly began to undress yourself—untying the sweatpants and lowering them.
His hungry bloodshot eyes did not stray from your body.
Next was the sweater—unzipping it you threw it on the ground.
The shirt you did not discard.
Slowly approaching him you undid his sweatpants. Kneeling before him, you helped Dex out of them.
Then you took off his socks. You liked to sleep with them on—if the feet were warm, the whole body stayed warm. You often found yourself shivering.
Dex liked to feel the blanket. The socks came off.
Standing up you rested your hip against the sink and caressed his back.
His routine was detailed—toothbrush, single toothbrush, interdental brushes, and finally dental floss. His eyes did not stray from you.
Most nights, you followed the same routine. Tonight was tiring enough, you decided.
“Your teeth better be pearly white,” you joked.
He was leaning over the sink rinsing his mouth. He laughed and it sprung everywhere.
With a gentle pat on his back and a kiss on his neck, you left the bathroom.
Settling into the bed, you thought much about what just happened.
A musical about transgender aliens lead to his hands wrapped gently around your neck.
You ran a finger down your neck.
We are never watching that fucking movie together again.
The flush of the toilet and the running water brought you back.
He moved slowly around the apartment. Shutting off the television and the lights. Checking the windows and the door.
The bed dipped and Dex laid parallel to you.
“It was fucked up,” you whisper into the dark.
“I know.”
Silence. Only breathing and the sirens of the city.
“No breath play for a month,” you said seriously.
Dex’s head snapped to you, brow furrowed. He opened his mouth then closed. Then opened it again.
“Understandable.”
“Mhm.”
A few moments passed. The silence was comforting. You could hear him think. You always did. He was loud while he thought. Dex’s breathing would change when he actively began to think. A graspable shift in the room’s energy.
“Can–can I touch you?” he spoke gently, still head turned towards you. Like a child begging for candy or attention.
Your eyes were set upon the ceiling.
“Mhm,” you nodded.
Quickly he moved closer to you, laying on his side facing you. Face pressed into your shoulder and into your breast. Hand wrapped around yours. In every sense of the word, he looked like a child.
You will scold him tomorrow. Maybe make him buy you a forgive me present.
Or maybe you won’t fuck him for a month. You haven’t decided yet.
