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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤷ Mitski , Laufey , Radiohead , Glass Animals , Arctic Monkeys , Nine Inch Nails , The Marias , Bella Kay , Lady Gaga , Blackbear , Portishead , ETC . . .
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// SYNOPSIS and etc . . .
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤷ Don't be afraid to request prompts! I love hearing other people's ideas, and I want to improve on my writing. I take a while to respond so be weary... I'm actually quite new to tumblr! So I hope we can get along well ♡
Oh, Bullseyelover, I was SO afraid they were going to kill off Bullseye. .
(That's it. that's the ask. I will now claw at the walls until next week.)
hello. this episode works as a really intense view of dex at a point where all of his internal “systems” finally collapse under pressure, and what we see is not simply a man injured and bleeding out, but a man actively trying to make sense of what his life even is when the structure he normally survives on stops functioning.
dex has always operated in a very literal, procedural way. he doesn’t move through life based on emotional continuity or long-term identity, but through assignment logic: someone gives him a task, or he identifies a “correct” target, and he commits fully. that framework is what keeps him stable. it gives him direction, containment, and most importantly, justification. even when his actions are violent, he is able to compartmentalize them into something like “this was required” or “this is what i am meant to do.” without that structure, he doesn’t really have a self that knows how to continue existing.
so in this episode, when he is shot and believes vanessa is dead, that structure collapses in a very specific way: he interprets it as completion.
to him, the situation becomes simple in the most dangerous sense. fisk’s world, the assignment he has been orbiting, the sequence of actions he has committed to, all of it feels like it reaches a logical endpoint. vanessa’s death is the final “equalizing event” in his mind, and that matters because dex is constantly trying to understand morality as a kind of balance sheet. not emotional justice, but arithmetic: harm in, harm out, equilibrium achieved. once he believes that balance is met, there is nothing left that requires him to continue participating.
that is why he doesn’t resist dying. it’s not just despair, it’s conclusion. he doesn’t experience it as “i want to die” in a purely emotional sense so much as “this is what follows next logically.” his passivity is rooted in the idea that continuation would actually be incorrect, because he has already “completed” what he thinks he was positioned to do.
this is also where his history with authority and direction becomes important. dex has repeatedly been shaped by external structures: trainers, systems, institutional roles, and people who define what “good” or “correct” action is. even his sense of identity is often externally anchored. when that anchor disappears, he doesn’t generate internal purpose to replace it. he collapses into stasis. so when he says things like it being “balanced,” or that he has “earned” what is happening to him, it isn’t only self-hatred; it’s him trying to reassert order. if there is suffering now, it must mean the equation has resolved.
that is also where the foggy admission becomes so important. when he says he didn’t think twice about killing foggy, he is not only confessing guilt. he is reinforcing his own belief that he is fundamentally someone who acts without moral hesitation. in his internal logic, that makes him irredeemable in a very fixed way. it’s not something he feels he can revise or grow out of; it becomes proof of identity. and if that is who he is, then he doesn’t logically deserve intervention or rescue. so when he tells matt to leave him, it is not just rejection, it is consistency with his own worldview: “this is what i am, so this is what should happen to me.”
the monologue in clinton church is where all of this becomes explicit. when he talks about nurses, lawyers, vigilantes, assassins, all of them being “the same” he is flattening moral categories because it is the only way he can stabilize what he is feeling. if everything is the same kind of behavior, then nothing has to be weighed emotionally anymore. it becomes a system of impulse and expression rather than ethics. and that ties directly into his line about trying to outrun something and then turning a corner and finding it again.
that “something” isn’t just violent impulse. it is also inevitability. it is the recurring pattern of his life where he tries to become something defined, disciplined, controlled, purposeful, and then finds that the underlying drives (violence, attachment, abandonment, fixation on structure) reassert themselves no matter what system he is placed in. so when he says it is “worse this time,” what he is identifying is not escalation of violence but escalation of awareness: he is no longer surprised by himself, which makes it harder for him to justify continuing to fight himself at all.
this is where the interpretation that he is talking about “violent urges” still fits, but it’s slightly broader in his own experience. it is not only “i enjoy killing and cannot escape it,” but also “whatever system i place myself in eventually produces the same outcome, so there is no alternative version of me that holds.” that is why the tear matters so much in that moment. it breaks the tone of his otherwise controlled analytical delivery and shows that the logic he is using is not actually comforting. it is just the only framework he has left that feels coherent.
the monologue lands the way it does because it’s the first time he fully says out loud what has always been underneath his behavior, and there’s a shift in how it’s delivered compared to earlier versions of him. before, dex would justify, deflect, or redirect. he would cling to structure, to rules, to roles. here, that scaffolding is gone, so what comes out is much closer to his raw internal logic. when he lists all those roles, nurses, doctors, lawyers, vigilantes, assassins, and collapses them into the same category, he’s not just being cynical. he’s trying to erase distinctions that no longer make sense to him. if everything reduces down to people acting out urges, then there’s no hierarchy, no moral ladder to climb, no version of himself he can “promote” into safety. it flattens the world into something predictable, even if that predictability is bleak.
and the way he physically moves through that speech matters just as much as the words. the little flourish of his hand, the way he leans in, the pacing of his voice. it’s controlled, almost performative at first, like he’s trying to present a clean argument. but then the cracks show. when he talks about thinking you’ve outrun it and then turning a corner and it’s there again, that’s where it becomes personal instead of theoretical. that’s where the tear comes in, and it’s not dramatic or exaggerated. it’s quiet, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it. and that’s what makes it hit so hard, because dex is someone who is usually very contained in how he expresses emotion. the tear isn’t for effect; it’s the physical evidence that what he’s saying is something he’s lived through over and over again.
what he’s describing in that moment is the cycle he’s trapped in: he attaches himself to something that gives him order, he believes that structure is finally going to stabilize him, and then eventually the same impulses, the same patterns, break through and undo it. every time that happens, it reinforces the idea that there is no version of him that exists outside of that cycle. so when he says it’s worse each time, it’s not purely about escalation, it’s about recognition. it’s about knowing exactly what’s happening and still not being able to stop it. that awareness is what makes him sound almost tired beneath the intensity, like he’s exhausted by the predictability of his own mind.
and that ties directly into why he isn’t fighting death. by the time we reach this point, he genuinely believes he has reached the end of the pattern for this particular “cycle.” he had a role, he carried it out, the consequences followed, and now the final step is happening. in his mind, resisting it would almost be like interrupting something that has already resolved correctly. when he says he’s ready for judgment, and he’s smiling, it doesn’t come off like relief in a healthy sense. it feels like completion. like he’s stepping into the last part of something that has been building for a long time, and he’s accepting it because it fits into the logic he’s constructed for himself.
but there’s something really complicated in that smile too. it’s not purely calm, and it’s not purely detached. there’s a kind of intensity in it, almost like he’s leaning into the idea of what comes next because it’s the only unknown left. everything else, his behavior, his patterns, his outcomes, has felt repetitive and inevitable. judgment, whatever that means to him, is the one thing he hasn’t directly experienced yet. so there’s this mix of acceptance, curiosity, and resignation all layered together, which makes it feel unsettling instead of peaceful.
matt’s presence disrupts that framework in a way dex does not immediately know how to process. matt is not functioning within the same moral math. matt tries to save him despite being his enemy, despite prior violence, despite the fact that dex himself is actively insisting he does not deserve it. that creates a contradiction that dex cannot resolve cleanly. so he responds in oscillation: pushing matt away, then engaging him intellectually, then leaning into confrontation, because those are the only modes he understands for relating to people. control, provocation, or dismissal.
when matt grabs him, it creates a kind of contradiction in dex’s understanding that he doesn’t immediately have language for. he is used to physical force meaning either control, punishment, or elimination. something decisive that confirms a moral outcome. but what matt is doing doesn’t cleanly fit any of those categories. matt is both resisting him and keeping him alive at the same time, which makes the interaction impossible for dex to file away under his usual internal rules. it is not justice, not retribution, and not abandonment. it is something unstable in his framework: force being used in service of continued existence rather than conclusion. that is part of why dex becomes so intensely focused in those moments. he is trying to resolve something that does not resolve into a familiar category.
this is also where what dr. mercer told him in their last meeting together becomes more important as an internal influence on how he processes death in this moment. her idea that “death always wins, but when it comes quietly and naturally, it can be a beautiful event” could not just sit in the background for him as philosophy, it could become a kind of interpretive lens. it reframes death not as failure or punishment, but as a final form of correctness, something inevitable that can still carry meaning if it arrives without distortion or resistance. so when dex is bleeding out, disoriented, and convinced that the “balance” of his actions has already resolved, he doesn’t experience the approach of death as something to fight against. instead, it aligns with that earlier framing: if it is happening naturally, then it can be accepted as the cleanest possible conclusion to everything that came before.
because of that, matt’s attempt to keep him alive doesn’t register as simple rescue. it disrupts the idea that there is a “correct” ending forming in real time. dex is caught between two incompatible interpretations: one where death is the final, balanced outcome of everything he has done, and another where someone is actively refusing to let that outcome complete. that tension is what makes him fluctuate between resistance, analysis, and strange calmness. he is trying to reconcile a moment that his internal logic treats as already decided with a force that insists it is not.
that combination is destabilizing for him in a very specific way: it suggests that existence is not actually governed by his internal moral ledger. matt does not behave according to dex’s idea that people are only meant to either condemn or abandon him once the “balance” is reached. instead, matt continues acting outside that logic entirely.
so by the time dex accepts matt’s help at the end, it reads less like sudden redemption and more like a temporary surrender of his internal system. he stops trying to enforce his conclusion that he should die, not because he suddenly believes he deserves life, but because another person is actively refusing to let his self-judgment be the final authority.
what makes the ending hit so hard emotionally is how it collides with that mindset. because from the outside, especially if you care about him, it’s painful to watch someone reach that level of acceptance when it’s rooted in such a distorted sense of worth and purpose. there’s something genuinely upsetting about seeing him so calm about it, especially after everything we’ve seen from him before. the moments where he’s trying to be “good,” the moments where he finds some kind of stability, even the moments where he seems almost happy in a controlled environment. it reminds you that all of that was real, but it was also fragile.
and that’s part of what makes this season feel so full in terms of his characterization. we’re not just getting one version of him, we’re getting all of them. the lighter moments, the moments where he seems engaged or even playful, the moments where he’s focused and precise, and then this version, where everything slows down and you can see exactly how he processes himself when there’s nothing left to hold onto. it connects back to who he was earlier without flattening him into just one state, which is why it feels so complete and, honestly, kind of overwhelming to watch.
at the same time, it leaves his future feeling completely open in a way that’s both exciting and unsettling. because if this is where his mindset is now, if he’s reached a point where he can accept death as a logical conclusion, where he sees himself as something fixed and inescapable, then where does he go from there does he double down on that identity? does something shift because of what happened with matt? there isn’t a clear path forward, and that uncertainty is part of what makes it so compelling. it could branch in so many different directions, and none of them feel guaranteed.
what makes the episode so significant is that it exposes the fragility of dex’s entire internal operating structure. when he has direction, he is precise, controlled, almost calm in his execution of violence. when that direction is removed, what emerges is not chaos in the sense of randomness, but chaos in the sense of unresolved logic loops: he keeps trying to solve what he is, what he has done, and what should happen next, and every answer he produces leads him back to the same endpoint. termination.
and the tragedy of the scene is that even when he is being saved, part of him still interprets survival as an unresolved equation rather than a reprieve. he is not yet able to conceptualize being kept alive as something that exists outside of merit, balance, or earned consequence. it is still something he is trying to justify.
that is why the final handhold matters so much. it is not resolution, but interruption. it interrupts the certainty that he has already reached the end of what he is “for,” and forces, however briefly, the possibility that his internal system is not the only one operating in the world.
so the episode ends in this really strange emotional space where you can feel both relief and unease at the same time. relief that he didn’t just fade out there, that there’s still more of his story to explore, but also this lingering tension because of where his head is at and how easily he was able to accept the idea of being done. it makes everything going forward feel unpredictable in a way that isn’t just about plot, but about who he is going to choose, or be able, to be next.
and there’s also that sense that he’s inching closer to something more fully realized in terms of the version of himself he’s becoming. the way he talks, the way he frames things, the almost philosophical edge to his violence and his self-perception. it feels like he’s aligning more and more with a version of himself that is less conflicted on the surface, even if the conflict is still very much there underneath. not calmer, exactly, but more settled into his own logic, which is in some ways even more dangerous.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤷ㅤㅤㅤ⌖ I Let it In, And it Took Everything. - Loathe.ㅤㅤㅤ⌖
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Neighbor!Dex 𖥔 Vigilante!Reader
Synopsis && CW: 2.1k words Any!POV. First meetings. AVTF Have been crawling the streets. You lay unaligned with any specific party, but that doesn't mean you're out of the woods just yet. Normal stalkerish behavior, unsettling Dex shenanigans, blood and profanity, bloody kisses.
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When it came to the current state of New York, you could only describe it as a shit show. You flew under the radar, head down and living on whims. No name, no ties, and no responsibility. Some may call it cowardice, but you simply called biding your time.
With a singular band of cash and a quiet apartment in some dingy apartment building you lived quietly, finding comfort in the church bells and of the morning mass not too far from the complex. There was a sweet old lady, a cat too on your floor, nothing special.
It was and IS the ideal place to lay low, nobody living there except said old lady and cat, place looks like it would fall apart to shit anyway. You thought you were smart for picking the perfect place to lay low.
Yeah well, you weren't the only smart one, so it seemed.
Approximately 2 months ago Bullseye escaped prison. 2 weeks ago, he went completely off grid. 2 days ago, a new person moved in. You never saw him, though.
You knew his name was Tony, Mrs. Smithers said that every morning he'd make an egg for her cat and either disappear for the rest of the day or retreat to his home for evening.
Oh well, wasn't exactly your business.
It was late, you were out way past your typical strict curfew when it came to going out. So what? It had been a while since you had a drink and a whiskey run was long overdue. With a bag heavy with two bottles of whiskey, you stumbled through the creaking halls of the complex, cursing quietly.
You admittedly hadn't really watched where you were going, amidst your self talking you bumped into a stern figure, almost like a solid wall-- it would have been impressive, if it wasn't annoying first. Keeping your eyes down you apologized snaking past him, but what you didn't expect was his reply.
"Don't worry about it."
That voice. It seemed familiar to you. From where? You were unsure, but what you did know was that it sent a chill coursing down your spine. His voice felt like a cold embrace that braided your nerve endings leaving your mind and stomach in knots.
Without saying anything, you hurried to your apartment down the hall, trying your best to slip in without slamming the door behind you the way your heart was slamming against your ribcage. You know him you swear you do, and as much as you want to plead with yourself that this may just be a misunderstanding there is a feeling in your gut, something almost like it's built into your internal hard drive to recognize that voice.
And god damn it you were too afraid to look back out that door to confirm it.
From that moment on you were paranoid. Paranoid you'd run into him again, so you tightened your curfew, maybe even drank a little less, but in this paranoia you started noticing things you hadn't before.
The creak in your windowsill was gone when you opened it for New York summer heat. The dripping of your pipes had suddenly gone quiet. Sometimes, you'd have two more eggs than you remembered having the night before. Hell, even scratch marks in the floor from moving your chair had been painted over and glossed to prevent the sound.
The more you noticed, the more it dawned on you. Someone was coming in when you weren't looking. You didn't even want to acknowledge the fact that this week, you hadn't even left the house, leaving the only blank period when you were asleep.
A chilling reality, really.
So you had a stalker. One you knew, one you didn't want to know further than that. You started setting little traps, you were choosing what to leave out and see what would appear and disappear.
Clothing? At least it was nice to know you weren't being targeted by a pervert? I guess? No, the person was smarter than that. You were all poor in that building, you'd know when laundry was missing. Sometimes trash, small pieces of plastic would end up in the trash when you came back from the house.
There was even a sick, quiet part of you that appreciated the gesture.
At some point, your stalker seemed to catch on. When the traps were found out, the gifts came. When you left your personal objects like chapstick out, sometimes they would be replaced by a flower in season. This game of cat and mouse, it was strangely endearing to the both of you. You'd call the police, but unfortunately it seemed that if you did you'd be exposing yourself to the exact people you were hiding from.
This went on for about a month and a half. You wondered if he would reveal himself to you, or the far more intimidating option; you seek him out. Good news is, you would not have to humor the second option. Bad news is, he's currently knocking on your window with a bloody toothed smile.
"Let me in?" He mouths through the window, as you stand there in absolute shock. The sight of him almost made you shit yourself. Bullseye was standing right outside your window--the place where you thought nobody would find you--grinning like you both were old friends and that you would willingly let him in.
You have watched this man butcher crowds of people whilst you were in the field and you felt what it was like to have one of his daggers lodged into your side. Nowhere fatal, but there nonetheless. There was absolutely no sane reason for you to be allowing him into this space you carved out for yourself.
So why were you actually considering it?
He knocks three times on your window, snapping you out of your daze.
"Hey neighbor. Could you lend me a cup of sugar?"
Your fingers twitched, instinctively, and his smile widened. He knew he had you. He knocks again twice, resting his forehead on the dirty glass.
"Jus' need one cup, and I'll be out of your hair." He coaxes a little more. Just another little push, and you'll open your arms to him. What was the saying, fool me once shame on you fool me twice...
"Oh fuck me." You curse under your breath, shakily moving towards the windowsill. He slides in with ease. Bullseye moved with a fluidity that seemed barely human despite the wounds he suffered. He wasn't armed. He wasn't holding anything, not even reaching for a pouch. He wanted to sell the idea that he had nothing he could do to you.
Dex didn't know much about you. Well, that was a lie, he made it a point to know people who piqued his interest just so he could have a full hand of cards. Control of a situation made a successful escape every time, and as long as he had a hand on those strings you had on him, then he would come out unscathed, per usual.
His boots thudded on your floors, blood dripping from where he was trying to contain it with black gloves. His shirt was tight against his body, compression, the sight of all the empty compartments where he held all of his projectiles made you wonder just what exactly happened tonight.
"So you gonna just stare or help me out?" Even his voice cut through your thoughts like butter, sharp as every knife you remember him throwing at you.
"Right-- sorry." You startle, moving to your kitchen whilst he closes your window, then collapses onto your couch. With hands gloved with latex you bring over your medical supplies, a bad day to be wearing gray sweats and a white tee.
Dex wheezes as he throws his head back, as your hands move to examine the wound.
"Didn't know where else to go." He offers halfheartedly, after a few beats of awkward silence. You didn't respond at first, not to him. You racked your brain for anything you could wittily retort with, but the words came out blunt, almost flat on your tone.
"So you came to me."
You weren't mad about it, although you probably should have been. Blood was hard to get rid of on couches, out of all places. Actually, what you should have been mad about was the fact that your almost murderer is laying on your couch, talking to you like you both were buddy buddy with each other.
"Yeah. I came to you." Your hands stop in place at the admission. He didn't meet your gaze, all you could see was his Adam's apple bobbing almost as if he was swallowing the confession. He could feel the warmth of your fingers despite the latex gloves that clogged his senses with a medical smell.
You resumed your work on his abdomen, he had gotten... way bigger than you had last encountered him. He was far more sculpted, far more defined. Hell, why the fuck did you remember that?
The quiet reminder that maybe yeah, deep down, maybe you were are as sick as him.
When you finished tending to the injuries on his stomach, he lolled his head forward, still avoiding your gaze. Despite his jaded appearance and clinically concerning mental state he seemed to be nervous around you. His hands remained on his lap where you could see them, a quiet instinct built into his head to seem less threatening, as a man whose weapons were his hands.
"Did you uh. Like the flower?" He asks, shyly, like a schoolgirl. You couldn't help but snicker, which was met with a almost hurt glare from him.
"What's so funny?" He scoffs, taking offense to your reaction, yet not raising his voice no not to you, never you.
"Nothing nothing it's just-- you're sitting here on my couch bleeding out, and the only thing you're thinking of is if I liked your flower?" You ask through giggles.
"It's a honest question-" He protests before you cut him off.
"Yes, I liked your flower. Happy?" You say, rendering him silent.
Silence from him. The only sound between you both being the sounds of New York police cars presumably looking for him, and the faint sounds of city life.
"Did you like my chapstick?" You tease, leave it to you to tease about your stalker and damn near killer all those years ago. But right now, you seemingly couldn't care all that much.
"Yeah." He responds, weaker than he would have liked, but through that smile. You couldn't help but look at that smile, charismatic, charming, almost distracted you from the reality of his horrid actions. You remembered all too well, far too well, the screams, the violence, the blood. But when he smiled you wondered briefly what it would feel like to have those lips on yours.
God forgive you, you might go to hell for this.
You lean in forward, straddling his lap, and you hear his breath hitch. You can feel his heart under your hand on his chest slamming against his ribcage the same way you had felt when you first bumped into him in this damned dingy apartment complex.
You watch his eyes, they flick down to your lips then back to your eyes, the first time he has made eye contact with you since you opened the window.
You feel your heartbeat start to quicken just as fast.
You lean down, and he leans forward to meet you in the middle. The taste of iron hits you immediately. In any other circumstance it would be vile. But here, it tastes like that sugar he was asking for when he knocked on that glass. It almost made you dizzy.
You pull away briefly, your forehead resting on his. You can feel your breath intermingle, before he smiles a boyish, lopsided smile. "Your chapstick works for both of us." He whispers.
"You've been using it? It's like you couldn't wait to kiss me." You ask, watching his face heat up.
"Yeah, well. The real thing is way better." He mutters a response, gloved thumb reaching up to your lip to wipe away his blood from the corner of your mouth. You remember your bible studies from when you were younger; Matthew 22:37-40: Jesus calls "Love your neighbor as yourself" the second most important commandment.
Maybe you won't go to hell for this.
In fact, as you lean forward to get another taste of him, of his lips, of your chapstick on his lips, this may be the closest to heaven you'll ever get.
A/N: I need that cookie so effing bad. Do not repost my work anywhere, do not feed it into AI, reblogs are very much welcome, Live Laugh Love bloody kisses and Benjamin Poindexter... I got another one stewing for tomorrow grins...
Thinking of writing a conintuation of this fic do you guys want angst or fluff or on some evil third option... If you comment ideas may write them heeheehoohoo
And When I Miss, You Come and Kiss Me With a Smile
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤷ㅤㅤㅤ⌖ Sex With a Ghost. - Teddy Hyde.ㅤㅤㅤ⌖
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Benjamin Poindexter 𖥔 Ghost!Reader
Synopsis &&. CW: 2.5k Words Any!Pov. Reader Insert is lowkey a little evil. They say nobody mourns the wicked, unless of course, it's you. Dex killed you a very very long time ago, back in his FBI days, egged on by you and your poorly placed taunts. But you were always stubborn, and you couldn't let him go that easily. You're a ghost that consumes other ghosts, following him through every crevice of New York since then. During his psychotic break, during prison, during Foggy, and even now as he awaits the devil to knock on his door. Dex gets some praise, Obsessive behavior, Semi-cannibalism motifs, Mentions of Murder, Toxic relationship, Suicidal Ideation, Manipulation (but he's not the one doing it alone.)
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Dex was not the type to miss. In fact, he banked everything on the fact that he couldn't-- no-- wouldn't miss. Yet here he was, ironically, missing you. He had been missing you for years, in his solitary, a fugitive on the run, he couldn't seem to stop missing you, even if he didn't when he pulled that trigger on you.
Poindexter killed you.
Your body fell dead cold in that alleyway nine years ago, a clean bullet to your head mid laugh after you taunted him, while he was in that Daredevil suit after he had attempted, and failed, to kill Daredevil himself. You had been sent for recon, and he told you to stay out of the way, to get out of his head, out of his crosshair, but you just had to kick him when he was down.
Working for Fisk, specialized working with Dex, you knew it was dangerous business, and you knew that you were bound to stare down the barrel of the gun at the end of the day. And honestly? You lived on that rush of never knowing when it would happen.
You knew that one way or another you would have ended up dead in Dex's arms, either after Fisk's henchman kill you and leave him to find the body, or if he did it himself. You just hadn't expected it so soon. Part of you was left in that alleyway that night. The physical part, at least. But the rest of you? You were far too stubborn to stay down, even if you wanted to be gone.
It was a surreal experience, one moment you felt a brief spike of pain in your head, you felt blood drip from the bullet hole down your nose.
You had heard something fall behind you, collapse to the ground. You wondered, did he miss this time? Shoot someone else? But when you looked behind you, you saw yourself.
You saw your body, crumpled over with lifeless eyes, blood spilling onto the cold alleyway floor at your feet.
"Dex?" You had called out in your state of shock, but as you turned back to him, he was already moving. He dropped the gun, the metal clattering to the ground, the sound muffled by the sounds of Dex's... plea's?
Before you could register the fact he was moving towards you, he stepped right through you, leaving you to finally breathe in after what had felt like forever.
"Nonono-- no no no why did you- why did you make me do this I- no no- I-" You heard him whisper through gritted teeth, regret riddling his entire body as he crouched down to hold you, hands gloved with fabric that wasn't his tried wiping the blood away from your face, only smearing it across your skin, making him visibly grimace.
You looked back at him whilst on this separate dimensional plane, watching him beg for you to come back, watching him apologize pathetically as he cradled the corpse, YOUR corpse in his arms with a gentleness that you hadn't seen before, it made you sick to your stomach. But it also made your heart swell with pride, with glee, with a sensation that smothered that sickness with euphoria.
Nobody mourns the wicked, except the wicked. Dex proved this as he wept, rocking back and forth, holding your dead body, murmuring apologies like a mad man until Fisk's men had found him.
He should have known that you weren't particularly keen on staying gone, though.
They say that death had a tendency to follow people like a shadow. In death, you were Dex's shadow. Your appearance was not so apparent at first. It actually took months before he seemed to still feel your presence around you, possibly when you lingered too close to him or when you purposefully bumped into him so he could feel the chill.
There seemed to be this misinterpretation of ghosts, you had found that being dead was actually far more amusing than being alive. You found the way you ate to be even more endearing that Tuesday night Pizza.
In fact, you consumed other souls. Souls which came in abundance, actually. Every time Dex killed someone, you would eat them. Now you were never a cannibal, in fact the first time you found out you could do this was out of pure survival; you were starving, weak, your presence on him was fading, but all you touch and reach for was the other wandering spirit of his recent victim. The rush was immediate, power flourished in your unbeating heart and you felt closer to Dex than ever.
You needed more. You needed more of what Dex could give you. Actually, you just needed more of Dex himself.
The first time you actually were able to converse with him, it was when he was in prison after the death of Foggy Nelson.
Poor Foggy... at least you got a bite before he scampered off into the heavenly gates above. The bastard gave you more than enough of his pure soul to boost your power.
You first purposefully and physically appeared to him whilst he was laying on the prison bed, his hands bound tight settled in his lap.
"Some shithole you got stuck in, huh?" You scoff, crossing your arms, looking him up and down. When you met his gaze, you watched that face you adored go pale with a twist of guilt and dread. There was a beat of silence, as if he was debating if he was going insane.
You had briefly interacted before, poltergeist activity, maybe he saw you but ignored you when he was under all those meds before Vanessa made him sign his life away. But now, his mind was clear as day, and you were standing there right in front of him, with that same hole in your head from the day he shot you.
"You're not real." He seemed to declare. You saw him Swallow hard, his eyes fighting to look anywhere except your ghostly figure, but he couldn't bring himself to tear away his gaze.
"Oh I'm very real, Dex." You smile, a spineless laugh escaping your lips as you slowly stalked forward, he could even hear your shoes on the concrete floor of his cell. He was already backed into the wall, yet his wide frame pressed against it as if trying to slip through the molecules, just to escape you, to escape the guilt you knew was churning in his stomach.
You could hear his breath quicken, his whispers to a god he didn't believe in begging for this to be nothing, all in his head, only for you to crawl onto the bed. He watches as your weight sinks into the mattress, proving just how real you were. Your hands reached up to hold his face, his breath hitching when your cold spectral thumb grazed over his cheek, over the scar that ran rigid against his handsome smile.
"What do you want from me." He whispers, watching the face he still saw in his nightmares, your face, lean closer to him. You think about what you want, why you even stick around. You had a many amount of years to ponder why you were so insistent on hanging around your murderer, but in the end you found it was something deeply wrong with you.
Since the moment you had met him, you had been devastatingly in love (more like infatuated and obsessed) with Benjamin Poindexter, just as he was with you.
He couldn't categorize you as his North Star. He didn't just attach to people like that. No, you were more like the wind, and he was a sailor who's ship caught your breeze; not a solid goal nor structured way to rely on to point in the right direction, but rather a suggestion that half worked most of the time. Much unlike the accuracy and straight line a North Star would be.
You were not a good person. Nor were you a good influence. Neither of you were good for each other and you knew it, you were planted by Fisk to keep him in check. You just hadn't expected to get so attached to him in return.
After all, the wind needed to catch a sail to be of use.
"I want to help you." You whisper, your voice barely above the buzzing that rested on the outskirts of his hearing. You weren't lying, you did want to help him, you do want to help him, just... not in the 'I can fix him' way. In fact, you wanted to make him worse.
"Help me?" Dex scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief "I killed you, and you want to help me?" Despite his disbelief he can't help but lean into your hand, the cold of your presence felt hollow but he pretended, just so maybe he could wring the brief warmth upon contact, to remember what your hands felt like before everything happened.
"This is some sick punishment." He comments. Of course, it isn't every day that your dead situationship returns as a ghost to declare their wishes to help you, he couldn't just sit there and believe that you did this upon your own volition after being a loyal lap dog to Fisk for years.
"This isn't punishment, it's reward. Admit it, you missed me, Dex." You whisper, leaning into his ear, and he swears it's the same feeling as it used to be. His body tenses, his hands ball into fists within his constraints despite the fact he can't grab you and pull you closer even if he wanted to.
"A reward?" He murmurs, almost trembling as you indulge in finally being able to be close to him again, a twisted intimacy he was lacking and sorely missed.
"For keeping me so well fed. For keeping me with you. You did such a good job." You praise quietly, watching as his eyes shut tight. You can almost hear his heart beating out of his chest, he always liked praise, even if his psychology could only shallowly appreciate it. Psychology be damned, it made his face flush, and the reaction you got out of him was nothing but endearing.
"Don't talk to me like that." He whimpers whispers, looking away from you, forcing his gaze away.
"... But yeah. I missed you." He continued, a weak mutter. Your smile widens. You couldn't be here for much longer, you knew that. Your power had its limits, and as long as he was in here, you knew you needed to conserve, you just couldn't help yourself.
"Gonna be a minute before we can chat again, yeah? So be a good boy for me and do what you were made for, and do it soon." You urge, you wouldn't explain it to him right now, even if your heart shattered at watching those eyes widen in shock and betrayal.
"You're leaving?" He whispers, panicked, urgently.
"I'll be back. You just gotta kill a few more. Can you do that for me?" You ask gently, calmly as he leans forward, trying to catch your lips one last time before you vanish into thin air. Well for him, he couldn't catch you. To you, his face phased right through yours before you could make contact, leaving both of you displeased and rather annoyed.
Whilst he remained in prison, he turned your words in his mind, it was the final push of motivation he needed to really want to get out of here. To tip those scales. His ticket? Matthew Fucking Murdock.
God bless his soul, after a brief conversation he smashed Dex's face on the table, which ultimately ended up with his freedom, and freedom meant you would be fed again. With every body dropped upon his escape, you followed and ate the spiritual remains with this gluttony like no other. Unfortunately, before you could get to the divine meal that was aforementioned Matt Murdock, he was quickly rushed to a hospital before he perished.
After the incident, Dex had scurried away somewhere, into a crevice of New York where he could lay low, take a shower, clear his mind for once. Only then did you show yourself again.
This time he stood by his small window, paranoid, listening, watching. The amount of souls you had eaten were far more than enough to maintain your spectral form for longer than before.
"Dex." Your voice calls out again, this time standing a few feet away from him. His posture straightens, searching for your voice before eventually his gaze settles on you.
"You're back." He says, again, in almost disbelief. You nod, with a smile.
"I said I would be." You reply. This time, you open your arms, allow him to come to you. As if a cat testing the waters, he approaches slowly, carefully, his heavy combat boots creaking against the old rickety wooden floors. When he realizes you aren't disappearing as he gets closer, he runs into your arms, nearly engulfing you in his sheer size. He had gotten bigger, thanks to prison, you obviously noticed but it was comfortable.
He held your cold figure, you even smelled as good as you did before he killed you. He buries his face into your neck, breathing in that svent deeply. His fingers dig into your eternal coat, your hands reach up to hold his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are shut as he leans into your touch again, faint but enough pressure to bring him comfort. Cold, but he could imagine the warmth, pretend it was there.
"You did so good for me." You praise again, a small smile, earnest. Really, you relied on his violence, on that sustenance gained from ripping spirit from viscera like meat off bones. You watch as his eyes widen again, they always did when he was flustered.
"I did what I uhm.. I did what I- What I had to." He fumbles over his words, trying to sound stoic. He was never the suave kind of man. Charming, yes, but when it came to you he fell to pieces he didn't even know were falling apart.
You had a way with the beast, Fisk saw it and you reveled in it, you took advantage of him before for business, and now for this newfound almost symbiotic relationship. It can't be parasitic if the man loved killing, could it?
You watch his eyes, there's a faint sparkle left in them despite all the medication, the psychosis, the breaks and cracks in the overflowing sink. It was adorable. You wanted to keep it all to yourself and truthfully you knew that Dex didn't want to be anyone elses.
You lean forward, even dead you have to tiptoe to reach in order to press your lips against his, a pressure there but not fully tangible. If anyone saw now, they'd see a blur of a figure, a blur of you. He doesn't retract, in fact he leans down to meet you, seeking the ghost of the memory of your lips on his for the very last time.
As you follow him, he chases you, an Ouroboros of sorts. Codependency is one thing, this game you have, this unspoken deal sealed with blank kisses and brief periods of physical touch, it absolutely cannot be healthy for him. You're dead, you do not care, but it certainly does nothing to better Dex at all.
But maybe that's okay.
You wouldn't have him any other way.
A/N: This was genuinely so fun to write I love this loser so so so so much... I may do a part 2 maybe with some extra dialogue so lmk if you guys want more of that!!! Also I don't believe in I can fix him dominant Dex here... Sometimes but DEFINITELY not now... Although this fic is based off of Sex With a Ghost, it should also be mentioned that this was written listening to In My Room - ICP , Haunted - Beyonce , and An Eater - Matt Martians
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ⤷ㅤㅤㅤ⌖ I Let it In, And it Took Everything. - Loathe.ㅤㅤㅤ⌖
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Neighbor!Dex 𖥔 Vigilante!Reader
Synopsis && CW: 2.1k words Any!POV. First meetings. AVTF Have been crawling the streets. You lay unaligned with any specific party, but that doesn't mean you're out of the woods just yet. Normal stalkerish behavior, unsettling Dex shenanigans, blood and profanity, bloody kisses.
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When it came to the current state of New York, you could only describe it as a shit show. You flew under the radar, head down and living on whims. No name, no ties, and no responsibility. Some may call it cowardice, but you simply called biding your time.
With a singular band of cash and a quiet apartment in some dingy apartment building you lived quietly, finding comfort in the church bells and of the morning mass not too far from the complex. There was a sweet old lady, a cat too on your floor, nothing special.
It was and IS the ideal place to lay low, nobody living there except said old lady and cat, place looks like it would fall apart to shit anyway. You thought you were smart for picking the perfect place to lay low.
Yeah well, you weren't the only smart one, so it seemed.
Approximately 2 months ago Bullseye escaped prison. 2 weeks ago, he went completely off grid. 2 days ago, a new person moved in. You never saw him, though.
You knew his name was Tony, Mrs. Smithers said that every morning he'd make an egg for her cat and either disappear for the rest of the day or retreat to his home for evening.
Oh well, wasn't exactly your business.
It was late, you were out way past your typical strict curfew when it came to going out. So what? It had been a while since you had a drink and a whiskey run was long overdue. With a bag heavy with two bottles of whiskey, you stumbled through the creaking halls of the complex, cursing quietly.
You admittedly hadn't really watched where you were going, amidst your self talking you bumped into a stern figure, almost like a solid wall-- it would have been impressive, if it wasn't annoying first. Keeping your eyes down you apologized snaking past him, but what you didn't expect was his reply.
"Don't worry about it."
That voice. It seemed familiar to you. From where? You were unsure, but what you did know was that it sent a chill coursing down your spine. His voice felt like a cold embrace that braided your nerve endings leaving your mind and stomach in knots.
Without saying anything, you hurried to your apartment down the hall, trying your best to slip in without slamming the door behind you the way your heart was slamming against your ribcage. You know him you swear you do, and as much as you want to plead with yourself that this may just be a misunderstanding there is a feeling in your gut, something almost like it's built into your internal hard drive to recognize that voice.
And god damn it you were too afraid to look back out that door to confirm it.
From that moment on you were paranoid. Paranoid you'd run into him again, so you tightened your curfew, maybe even drank a little less, but in this paranoia you started noticing things you hadn't before.
The creak in your windowsill was gone when you opened it for New York summer heat. The dripping of your pipes had suddenly gone quiet. Sometimes, you'd have two more eggs than you remembered having the night before. Hell, even scratch marks in the floor from moving your chair had been painted over and glossed to prevent the sound.
The more you noticed, the more it dawned on you. Someone was coming in when you weren't looking. You didn't even want to acknowledge the fact that this week, you hadn't even left the house, leaving the only blank period when you were asleep.
A chilling reality, really.
So you had a stalker. One you knew, one you didn't want to know further than that. You started setting little traps, you were choosing what to leave out and see what would appear and disappear.
Clothing? At least it was nice to know you weren't being targeted by a pervert? I guess? No, the person was smarter than that. You were all poor in that building, you'd know when laundry was missing. Sometimes trash, small pieces of plastic would end up in the trash when you came back from the house.
There was even a sick, quiet part of you that appreciated the gesture.
At some point, your stalker seemed to catch on. When the traps were found out, the gifts came. When you left your personal objects like chapstick out, sometimes they would be replaced by a flower in season. This game of cat and mouse, it was strangely endearing to the both of you. You'd call the police, but unfortunately it seemed that if you did you'd be exposing yourself to the exact people you were hiding from.
This went on for about a month and a half. You wondered if he would reveal himself to you, or the far more intimidating option; you seek him out. Good news is, you would not have to humor the second option. Bad news is, he's currently knocking on your window with a bloody toothed smile.
"Let me in?" He mouths through the window, as you stand there in absolute shock. The sight of him almost made you shit yourself. Bullseye was standing right outside your window--the place where you thought nobody would find you--grinning like you both were old friends and that you would willingly let him in.
You have watched this man butcher crowds of people whilst you were in the field and you felt what it was like to have one of his daggers lodged into your side. Nowhere fatal, but there nonetheless. There was absolutely no sane reason for you to be allowing him into this space you carved out for yourself.
So why were you actually considering it?
He knocks three times on your window, snapping you out of your daze.
"Hey neighbor. Could you lend me a cup of sugar?"
Your fingers twitched, instinctively, and his smile widened. He knew he had you. He knocks again twice, resting his forehead on the dirty glass.
"Jus' need one cup, and I'll be out of your hair." He coaxes a little more. Just another little push, and you'll open your arms to him. What was the saying, fool me once shame on you fool me twice...
"Oh fuck me." You curse under your breath, shakily moving towards the windowsill. He slides in with ease. Bullseye moved with a fluidity that seemed barely human despite the wounds he suffered. He wasn't armed. He wasn't holding anything, not even reaching for a pouch. He wanted to sell the idea that he had nothing he could do to you.
Dex didn't know much about you. Well, that was a lie, he made it a point to know people who piqued his interest just so he could have a full hand of cards. Control of a situation made a successful escape every time, and as long as he had a hand on those strings you had on him, then he would come out unscathed, per usual.
His boots thudded on your floors, blood dripping from where he was trying to contain it with black gloves. His shirt was tight against his body, compression, the sight of all the empty compartments where he held all of his projectiles made you wonder just what exactly happened tonight.
"So you gonna just stare or help me out?" Even his voice cut through your thoughts like butter, sharp as every knife you remember him throwing at you.
"Right-- sorry." You startle, moving to your kitchen whilst he closes your window, then collapses onto your couch. With hands gloved with latex you bring over your medical supplies, a bad day to be wearing gray sweats and a white tee.
Dex wheezes as he throws his head back, as your hands move to examine the wound.
"Didn't know where else to go." He offers halfheartedly, after a few beats of awkward silence. You didn't respond at first, not to him. You racked your brain for anything you could wittily retort with, but the words came out blunt, almost flat on your tone.
"So you came to me."
You weren't mad about it, although you probably should have been. Blood was hard to get rid of on couches, out of all places. Actually, what you should have been mad about was the fact that your almost murderer is laying on your couch, talking to you like you both were buddy buddy with each other.
"Yeah. I came to you." Your hands stop in place at the admission. He didn't meet your gaze, all you could see was his Adam's apple bobbing almost as if he was swallowing the confession. He could feel the warmth of your fingers despite the latex gloves that clogged his senses with a medical smell.
You resumed your work on his abdomen, he had gotten... way bigger than you had last encountered him. He was far more sculpted, far more defined. Hell, why the fuck did you remember that?
The quiet reminder that maybe yeah, deep down, maybe you were are as sick as him.
When you finished tending to the injuries on his stomach, he lolled his head forward, still avoiding your gaze. Despite his jaded appearance and clinically concerning mental state he seemed to be nervous around you. His hands remained on his lap where you could see them, a quiet instinct built into his head to seem less threatening, as a man whose weapons were his hands.
"Did you uh. Like the flower?" He asks, shyly, like a schoolgirl. You couldn't help but snicker, which was met with a almost hurt glare from him.
"What's so funny?" He scoffs, taking offense to your reaction, yet not raising his voice no not to you, never you.
"Nothing nothing it's just-- you're sitting here on my couch bleeding out, and the only thing you're thinking of is if I liked your flower?" You ask through giggles.
"It's a honest question-" He protests before you cut him off.
"Yes, I liked your flower. Happy?" You say, rendering him silent.
Silence from him. The only sound between you both being the sounds of New York police cars presumably looking for him, and the faint sounds of city life.
"Did you like my chapstick?" You tease, leave it to you to tease about your stalker and damn near killer all those years ago. But right now, you seemingly couldn't care all that much.
"Yeah." He responds, weaker than he would have liked, but through that smile. You couldn't help but look at that smile, charismatic, charming, almost distracted you from the reality of his horrid actions. You remembered all too well, far too well, the screams, the violence, the blood. But when he smiled you wondered briefly what it would feel like to have those lips on yours.
God forgive you, you might go to hell for this.
You lean in forward, straddling his lap, and you hear his breath hitch. You can feel his heart under your hand on his chest slamming against his ribcage the same way you had felt when you first bumped into him in this damned dingy apartment complex.
You watch his eyes, they flick down to your lips then back to your eyes, the first time he has made eye contact with you since you opened the window.
You feel your heartbeat start to quicken just as fast.
You lean down, and he leans forward to meet you in the middle. The taste of iron hits you immediately. In any other circumstance it would be vile. But here, it tastes like that sugar he was asking for when he knocked on that glass. It almost made you dizzy.
You pull away briefly, your forehead resting on his. You can feel your breath intermingle, before he smiles a boyish, lopsided smile. "Your chapstick works for both of us." He whispers.
"You've been using it? It's like you couldn't wait to kiss me." You ask, watching his face heat up.
"Yeah, well. The real thing is way better." He mutters a response, gloved thumb reaching up to your lip to wipe away his blood from the corner of your mouth. You remember your bible studies from when you were younger; Matthew 22:37-40: Jesus calls "Love your neighbor as yourself" the second most important commandment.
Maybe you won't go to hell for this.
In fact, as you lean forward to get another taste of him, of his lips, of your chapstick on his lips, this may be the closest to heaven you'll ever get.
A/N: I need that cookie so effing bad. Do not repost my work anywhere, do not feed it into AI, reblogs are very much welcome, Live Laugh Love bloody kisses and Benjamin Poindexter... I got another one stewing for tomorrow grins...
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