"things i find extremely attractive" trend with dex
"c'mere" and pulls you towards him and tucks his face into your neck
it doesn't matter if you're in public or not for dex to do this. when he wants you near, when he needs to be close to you, he'll whisper "c'mere," sweetly to you as he's already yarding you towards him. dex'll tuck his face into you neck and inhale, softly kissing your hair/neck and hum.
fixing/playing with your hair
it started with dex tucking your hair out of your face to see more of you. over time he got more bold, running his fingers through your hair before gently tucking it behind your ear. when he noticed you shiver as he ran both hands through your hair as he made a makeshift ponytail is what decided dex to experiment. he loves listening to your little 'mm's as he played with the hair at the nape of your neck, and just simply adores how soft your hair is.
leaning down and the little "hm?" to talk to you
he is so tall, it's like second nature to dex to lean down a bit when he wants to focus his attention on you. when you mutter something, especially in public, he'll lean down into your space and hum softly, pretty head tilted to the side.
long eye contact in crowded rooms
he doesn't want to lose sight of you across the room. he'll look at you whether you're looking back or not. when you catch his eye the corner of his mouth might twitch for just a second, and he feeds on the way you stare just as intently back at him, ignoring the people or things around you/him.
messy makeouts
dex lives for messy makeouts with you. kissing you softly and with intention and it derailing into you pinned against something, both hands cupping his jaw as his hands roam. he doesn't even care if it leads to anything more or not, and doesn't make a move unless you do, but he's always painfully hard.
popcorn kisses
he loves your face. sometimes, when you're talking, he'll become so overwhelmed by the sight and sound of you he'll grab your face and kiss your face all over. his heart swells when you giggle and he'll kiss your face a few more times before giving you a rough kiss to your mouth.
carefully observing you when you're doing something
yeah okay we all know dex, do i even need to elaborate? it's one of his favorite things to do. he could watch you for hours, he could watch you watch paint dry. he loves to witness all the little way your face contorts when you focus, when you're frustrated.. the way you fidget, your favorite ways to fidget. he stores it all away in his mind for safekeeping.
rubbing their thumb on your hand while holding hands
dex likes to move his hands, he likes to fidget. when holding hands with you, it translates to rubbing soft circles on your skin. it comforts him, being able to gently squeeze your hand and feel your warm skin on his.
smiling as you do small things for them (tying their shoes, picking off lint, etc)
he loves when you pick a small piece of lint of his shirt mindlessly, as if you were almost unaware you did so until you see him smiling down at you. when you gently fix his hair and are slow to look back at him, making sure his hair looks just right.
standing close behind you
it's important to dex that everyone around you acknowledges that you are his, and his alone. he is so big and broad and warm it's impossible to not notice him standing so close behind you.
when they correct someone's perception of you or what you prefer "no she's allergic to that" / "her favorite color is green, not pink"
it irks dex when someone who claims to know you says something totally wrong. he keeps his anger in check, monotonal as he supplies the person with your actual favorite color, your proper pronouns. he also can't stand when someone is just so blatantly wrong about you. "what did you call her? hard to speak to? they're an introvert, and anyway i've always found them easy to speak with. you just don't know how to, i'd guess you're the harder one to converse with."
knees touching but not moving away
grrr ruff ruff.. he has to be touching you. it doesn't matter how. he will deliberately manspread to touch his large knee to your quaint one. it calms him.
scolding you but not stopping you
it's no secret dex is a brat tamer. he could easily get off on scolding you, making you pay, restraining you to stop you... but sometimes he likes to let you play, just a bit. you want to test your luck with him? okay, he'll scold and warn you but wants to see how far you'll really go.
lying for you
lies roll of his tongue for you easily. he doesn't even need an inkling of idea of why he needs to, he just simply does it. late for something and a friend is upset? 'they lost track of time studying for an important exam.' bruise(s) on your knee and embarrassed about it? 'slammed into the bedframe pretty hard, heard it from the living room.'
replying to you when you call their name with your name
his mouth curls upwards when you call for him. he'll call back to you with the same infliction and your own name on his lips while he makes his way towards where your sweet voice came from.
when they acknowledge it's wrong but they're too far in to stop
"baby, sweetheart..." he's breathing hard, fingers digging into your waist. "fuck, hun, we really shouldn't be doing this," but he can't help himself. "tell me to stop, baby." he can't stop, even if your soft voice begged him to.
Summary : Dex is convinced that he‘s bad for you, but maybe you were made for each other.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak!!!! Hurt/comfort(?) Major sex themes, dark romance, codependent relationship, obsessive attachment, Sex is very much described (explicit, but no anatomical detail), hostage backstory, handcuffs/restraint mention, Stockholm syndrome discussion, guilt, panic/anxiety, morally questionable romance, vomiting mentioned (not as a sex act), drug mentioned but no drug use, chase kink mentioned, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 2.9k
Notes : This was supposed to be an impromptu 500-word blurb I wrote while listening to “Free” by Florence and The Machine but I went overboard. This is probably my most explicit fic yet. Enjoy!
The first time you told Dex you loved him, he had thrown up.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
You had said it in his kitchen, half-asleep in one of his old FBI shirts, barefoot with love bites on your neck, reaching for the coffee like you had any right to look that adorable in a place he lived. Like his apartment was not a place where he planned to kill people. Like his hands had never done anything worse than skim under the hem of your shirt and pull you close.
“I love you,” you had said, casual as breathing.
Dex had gone white.
Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.
Because yes, he loved you too.
He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.
Because there was no way you loved him back.
Not really.
Not if you were whole.
Not if he had not done something to you first.
Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.
Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.
“What the fuck—”
His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”
You bit his palm.
He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.
He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”
You glared up at him.
That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.
Instead, you had talked for six straight hours.
You. Fucking. Yapped.
Like a pomeranian on cocaine.
You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.
Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.
So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…
He had done this.
He had broken something in you.
Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.
“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.
You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”
He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”
You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.
“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”
You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”
His whole body jerked at the sound.
“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.
His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”
You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”
“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”
Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”
Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.
His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”
“Yes.”
“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”
“I know exactly what this is.”
“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”
You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.
Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”
Dex looked like he might be sick again.
Every time.
Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.
“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”
You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.
He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”
“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”
“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”
His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“It does, actually.”
“You’re sick.”
“So are you.”
He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”
“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.
“You’re not listening.”
“You’re not thinking.”
“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”
“You already want too much.”
His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.
Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.
“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”
“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”
He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.
“You don’t,” he whispered.
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You’re perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”
Your chest tightened.
He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.
“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”
Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.
It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”
“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”
His breathing turned ragged.
“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”
Dex’s face soured. “No.”
“You gonna leave me?”
“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate.
Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.
“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”
“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”
Dex’s eyes locked on yours.
Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”
His breath hitched.
He didn't stop.
You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.
“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”
Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.
“No,” he rasped.
“No?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.
It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.
“You should run,” he rasped.
“You’d follow.”
His eyes burned.
You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”
Dex looked ruined.
His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.
Then you were on top of him.
Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.
“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.
You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”
His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”
Your chest tightened. “Dex.”
“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”
You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.
“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”
His breath collapsed.
Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”
Dex broke under you.
His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him.
“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.
That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.
That.
The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.
Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.
“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”
You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”
And then Dex broke completely.
He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.
Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.
His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.
You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.
He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”
You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”
Dex went quiet.
He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.
His arms tightened around you.
You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.
You giggled softly.
“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”
His breath stopped.
You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.
Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.
Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.
You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself.
Pathetic. So utterly gone for you.
“I love you,” he said.
It came out hoarse.
You shrugged like you knew all along.
“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”
And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.
There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.
But Dex didn’t care.
If that was what had happened to him, then fine.
He didn’t want it cured.
—end.
Extra note : I’ll start the Dex taglist in the next post, comment if you want to be added!
insisting on patching up dex and he’s strangely calm the entire time, not even flinching when you stitch him up, completely focused on you and intensely watching you and admiring you the entire time until the second you’re done and he pulls you onto his lap… sigh
GOD okay!!! i got a bit carried away and i got a little filthy with it too OOP 🤭 i couldn’t help myself. ended up mixing two asks together for this one, hope you still enjoy babe! xoxo
the push and pull
benjamin poindexter x reader, bullseye x reader
cw: dex and his very obvious masochistic tendencies, a bit of dry humping (again, dont ask me why), he's completely covered in blood but you dont care of course. content is 18+, MINORS DNI
he already knows better than to fight you on it, you’re always so adamant on helping him, every time he arrives at your place all bloodied and beaten up you order him to “take the shirt off, sit down” so you can stitch him up
and he does, like an obedient dog, theres only a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watches you closely, meticulously every time, as if he were entertained and fascinated by your concern for him
his breathing does falter though, when you tell him "this is gonna sting" moments before pouring antiseptic over his open wounds
instead of flinching at the sharp sting, the only visible reaction from him is a slight tic above his mouth, an almost pleased but still quiet “mmph” sound emanating from his tight lipped smile
dex is in a state of elation as you stitch him up, his stomach progressively pooling up with heat at your proximity, his infatuation for you nearly bursts out from the constraints of his chest as he stares, and on top of it all you continue to rub or pierce at his tender and bruised flesh like you don’t even know what its doing to him
you being the one to inflict pain on him (even if its on accident) never fails to make dex’s mind reel with adrenaline and well… devastating want
the moment your teeth finally rips the thread you were using to stitch his last wound up dex sits up so alarmingly fast, his mouth aiming and landing directly on yours, his filthy hands reaching to lift and sit you between his crassly, almost disrespectfully wide opened legs
he kisses like he's starved for it, grunting against your lips when you squeal at the metallic taste of blood clinging to his mouth, his lips still gnashed open because of the hard blows that were inflicted on his damn pretty face
"dex, your wounds-" you mumble in between wet, messy kisses, feeling kinda angry at him for being so adamant on undoing your hard work "they're gonna split open again if you keep moving like that"
good, dex thinks
i want them too, he laughs outwardly at the continuing thoughts inside his head, the airy and mocking sound exhaled straight into your mouth
he thinks he could keep bleeding if it means he gets to watch you patch him up all over again, maybe he'll slice open new wounds just so it takes you longer to finish, to make the rawness and pain on his skin all the more worse for himself, the thought makes his cock twitch inside his pants
"dex im serious-" you say, but theres a shaky, heated quality to you voice, like the mere taste of him, his mind bending intensity and the feeling of his blood stained chest against your bare palms is easing you slowly into forgetting and dismissing his ‘delicate’ predicament
"i know you are” he says simply, separating from your mouth so he can lift a teasing brow at you, but right away his hands are moving your hips to place you on top of him, aching to feel your heat sitting right over the rough black fabric of his clothed (now painfully hardened) groin, guiding you to wrap your thighs completely around him
when you start to keenly whine in response to the rough, hardened friction dex smiles against your mouth, his teeth clanking into yours, he loves that you’re the one who’s always on the losing side when it comes to this part, that you always fall victim to his dizzying and aggressive pace
he still relishes on you putting up a fight though, he loves the push and pull before you inevitably give in to him like he always does with you
you grab the hair at the back of his head in frustration and pull, making his neck crane backwards until he can no longer access your lips, you do it so abruptly and forcefully its evident that you failed to consider the soreness and tenderness of his muscles
so of course dex hisses at the pain, his mouth still wet with your saliva and his blood, he spits out an aggresive “uungh, f- uck!”
“oh shit! baby- i- im so sorry i didn’t think it would-” you’re quick to mumble out the worried apologies, searching his face frantically, looking for any sign that could indicate you hurt him far beyond what he could tolerate, what he can stand
the truth is, so so far from that actually
dex’s face goes from a pained scowl to a dazed smile in a matter of fucking seconds, his near black eyes slowly blink up at you beneath his half closed eyelids, with a soft encouraging nod and a deceptively sweet tone he requests “harder”
dex’s face goes from a pained scowl to a dazed smile in a matter of fucking seconds, his near black eyes slowly blink up at you beneath his half closed eyelids, with a soft encouraging nod and a deceptively sweet tone he requests “harder”
Summary: You continue to bake for Dex as a way to show your appreciation for him, yet he still seems closed off, however you are surprised when Dex takes up your offer to patch him up.
Tags: Bullseye’s identity is hidden/No one knows he is Dex (slight AU), Reader doesn’t understand social cues, Reader is empathic, Blood/Violence/Murder, Age gap (mid/late 20s reader), Stalking/Obsessive Dex, Jealous Dex, No use of y/n
Notes: I meant to post this sooner, but I have been picking up a lot at work and procrastinated going through and editing. Also thank you for the likes on the first part, I didn’t think it would get much reads. :D I am going to try to have part 3 up a little sooner hopefully 😖
Part 1
Two days later, you open your apartment door to leave for work and nearly step on the plastic container sitting on the floor outside. It’s cleaned and taped to the lid is a small yellow sticky note.
thanks
You stare down before crouching and picking container up.
I guess he liked them enough to finish them that fast.. you think to yourself
-
Over the next few days, you try to make more of an effort to say hi whenever you see Dex. Not that you see him often.. well… actually, you barely see him at all.
Sometimes you hear footsteps late at night down the hallway or the distant sound of a door opening, but most days it’s just silence and it makes you wonder if maybe he works strange hours.
…or maybe he’s avoiding people.
You hoped to actually speak to him though. At least try to. He saved your life and all you did in return was bake him… cookies.
No one had ever done something that important for you before. Even if he used to be FBI and it was second nature to him… or if maybe he didn’t think it was a big deal. It was a big deal to you. You owe him your life.
The next week you find yourself back in the kitchen again with the thought that maybe you should do something more.. The cookies disappeared quickly, after all.
So this time you bake him a cake. A red velvet one with enough frosting to almost equal the amount of cake used.
You spend longer on it and it doesn’t look super professional, but it’s as nice as you can get it.
When you knock on Dex’s door this time, you almost feel less nervous and a strange comfort sits with you. There’s a minute of silence before the lock clicks open and the door swings inward.
Dex looks mildly confused to see you standing there again, but you smile immediately when you see him.
“Hi.” The word comes out brighter than the first time you spoke to him. You’re relieved he actually answered the door again.
His confused expression shifts to a forced unsure smile.
“I baked you a cake.” You hold the container out toward him.
Dex glances down at it, then back up at you. “I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve it this time” he says sarcastically.
You shake your head. “Oh- no, it’s not that.” You adjust your grip on the container, pulling it towards you. “I still owe you from the other night. I just..” you sigh, “wish there were more I could do.”
Dex watches you silently, then nods.
“I see… well, that’s not really necessary.”
“To me it is.. the least I can do is bring desserts.” You hold container back out quickly.
Dex notices the way you wait there expectantly like before. He finally reaches forward and takes the cake from your hands.
“Well, I guess I can’t really argue with having my own personal bakery, can I?”
You smile again in satisfaction that he accepted the cake. “How were the cookies?”
Dex leans slightly against the doorframe, one hand resting loosely on the container while a small smirk forms at the corner of his mouth. “Delicious.”
You feel warm at the answer. At least he liked your baking. You still don’t think desserts properly equate to someone saving your life, but if it made him happy that could work for now.
You remain standing there, looking up at him and Dex shifts.
“Well,” he says, straightening from the doorframe, “I should probably get ready for.. work.. soon. But thanks again for this.”
Your smile falters for a second, Dex notices this, but you force one back on before stepping back. “Oh. Okay. See you later.”
“Bye.”
The moment his door shuts, his smile drops.
He sets the cake container down on the kitchen counter before going into his bedroom to his closet where a large safe is kept.
Inside the safe was a collection of knives, firearms, ammo, and bullseye suit.
He begins preparing and attaching the weapons one by one. He suits up and lastly a knife spins between his fingers before attaching to his holster.
He opens the window in his living room, but stops to look at the cake container once more.
It wasn’t really a problem. You weren’t interfering with anything, but still… he wasn’t used to these interactions. Nor was he used to being given something.. especially if it becomes a frequent thing.
The AVTF was still circling too close and becoming a problem that needed to be handled before it escalated further. Having someone constantly knocking at his door could become inconvenient.
Depsire this thought, Dex opens the cake container anyway. Red velvet. At least it’s something he likes, he thinks to himself. He cuts himself a piece and finishes it. and before exiting out the window he cuts one more to take with him.
-
The whole cake is gone within a few days and he leaves the cleaned container outside your apartment door early in the morning with no sticky note this time.
As Dex comes and goes, you don’t cross his mind much and he rarely crosses your path like always.
The few times you do see him you try to smile and wave, brightening a little the second you recognize him. It’s painfully obvious to Dex how your expression falls when all he gives back is a short nod before continuing past you without stopping. You clearly want to make a conversation, but he doesn’t think much of it. He has other things to focus on.
At work, you try not to dwell on it. It makes sense that Dex is busy. Plus you barely know him. He has his own life and honestly, you’re probably lucky he tolerated random desserts showing up at his door at all, but it’s difficult not wanting to know the person who saved your life. It’s hard not to feel attached to someone after that and even harder not to feel safer knowing he’s nearby.. it’s like your brain automatically associates him with safety now, even if the thought itself feels strange considering what you saw him do.
..But you also don’t want to bother him. The thought makes your stomach uneasy as you distract yourself with organizing another stack of paperwork.
“Hey.”
You glance up to see your coworker Katie leaning against the edge of your cubicle while Rhett stands nearby holding two coffees.
“We’re going out tonight,” Katie says casually. “You should come.”
Rhett smiles. “Yeah, come on. You always disappear straight home after for… especially this past month..”
“That’s not true.” You say in defense, even though it was.
After what happened that night, you have been more closed off than you normally were. You guys have gone out a couple of times in the past so it wasn’t uncommon for them to ask again, despite how many times you turned the offer down. They were probably the only two friends you actually had even though the only thing they usually spoke to you about was office gossip.
Maybe staying inside your apartment every night and obsessing over a stranger you hardly know is only making it harder to move on from that night.
“You don’t have to stay long,” Rhett adds quickly. “Just one drink.”
Katie smirks. “Or two.”
You look between them for a moment before sighing. “Ok fine.”
Both of them brighten.
“Perfect, see you guys after work then.” Katie says while heading off to her desk.
Rhett lingers before walking back. “Nice. I was starting to think you secretly hated us.”
-
The bar you guys head to is the one you’ve all gone to on other nights and luckily for you it isn’t too far from where you live. Tonight it looks different though, silver tinsel hangs above the shelves behind the alcohol and Christmas lights hang along the ceilings. You hadn’t even realized it was the first week of December after isolating yourself from fear.
Katie is complaining about someone at work, while Rhett keeps leaning closer when he speaks. “You clean up nice outside of work.”
You furrow your eyebrow and smile. “I’m wearing the exact same thing from earlier..”
Katie snorts into her drink.
“Oh. Right.. I just that meant seeing you out of the-..”
His voice fades out as something on one of the televisions mounted above the bar catches your attention and a red banner flashes across the screen.
BREAKING NEWS.
The volume is low, but one of the bartenders turn it up as someone requests, then everyone at the bar top is focusing up at it.
Onscreen, footage flashes of police vehicles surrounding a damaged diner downtown and officers pushing back protesters and reporters behind barricades.
The reporter speaks rapid, “Earlier today, the vigilante known as Bullseye carried out what authorities are calling a coordinated attack targeting members of the anti-vigilante task force. At this time, at least eight officers are confirmed dead.”
Bullseye.
It was the same name from the lobby… the same name the officer demanded before putting a gun to your head.
Rhett lets out a whistle beside you. “Jesus,” he mutters. “They need to get these vigilantes off the streets.”
“That’s like six blocks from here.” Katie says, anxiously taking another drink.
Your fingers tremble around your glass as the footage continues playing. You don’t make any comment or respond.
“I’m sure they’ll catch him eventually,” she says quickly. “People like that always slip up eventually.”
Rhett leans back a little. “Well.. the AVTF has my support now.”
Katie gives him a subtle look, enough to remind him about the officer from that night in your apartment, but Rhett seems to realize it a second late.
“Oh,” he says awkwardly. “I just mean- not every officer specifically.. just the ones that know what they are doing-..”
The atmosphere shifts quieter around the bar and people start heading home. You don’t really want to be there anymore.
By the time the three of you leave the bar, it’s colder and wind has picked up. The Christmas lights continue to glow from the storefront windows as you tuck your hands into your sleeves.
“I can walk you home,” Rhett offers once you reach the corner.
“You don’t have to. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s not trouble.”
Katie jumps in. “Rhett’s already going that direction anyway..”
They give each other a knowing look that you don’t seem to catch.
“My uber is pulling up now.” Katie responds, waving you both off as she steps into it.
Katie lived further from the two of you so she always took an uber, but this was the first time Rhett offered to walk you home. You shrug and accept the offer.
About halfway back, Rhett speaks. “You know, I’m glad you came out tonight.”
You glance over at him. “Oh, okay.”
He laughs softly. “That sounded less enthusiastic than I hoped.”
“No, I didn’t mean-”
“I’m kidding.” He says quickly.
Rhett stays close beside you, occasionally brushing shoulders with you as he talks. The cold breeze hits you and you shiver, pulling your sleeves further over your hands.
“You cold?”
“A little.”
“I guess I should’ve worn a bigger coat.” You glance down at your jacket.
Rhett laughs under his breath at your pouting.
You finally reach your apartment building and Rhett walks you inside. The lobby glows warmly with white lights wrapped around the front desk and a Christmas tree near the corner.
You’re halfway listening to whatever he’s saying when the front entrance opens behind him and Dex steps inside the lobby.
The sight of him brightens your expression. “Oh- hi, Dex!”
You lift your hand in a wave and Rhett pauses mid sentence to look over toward him. There’s an excitement in your voice that catches even you off guard.
Dex slows slightly at the sound of your voice and you barely notice Rhett anymore.
“How did you like the cake?” you ask causing Dex to pause next to the two of you.
Excitement fills you because it’s the first time he actually stopped to talk instead of rushing past you.
Dex’s gaze flicks between you and the man standing beside you. Dex instantly notices the way the other man’s expression subtly dropped the second your attention shifted away from him.
Whoever he is, he likes you. He notes to himself.
He can’t help but feel satisfaction growing because of it. Dex’s attention stays on you, forcing a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Just as delicious as the cookies.. I’ll be waiting to see what you bake next.”
You can’t even play it cool, you visibly brighten at his comment and heat starts to rush to your face.
He wanted you to bake for him again.
Beside you, Rhett shifts. He is trying not to look too bothered and failing just enough for Dex to notice.
“Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Rhett.” His tone was casual, “what was your name again- Dex, right?”
It was like a subtle reminder that he knew you well enough to know who you did and didn’t talk about, but to Dex it only landed insecure.
Before he could answer, you interrupted. “Dex is my neighbor, he moved in not too long ago.”
Dex barely spared him a glance. He didn’t particularly care who Rhett was or about introducing himself properly. The only thing remotely interesting about him was how embarrassingly transparent he was about you.
Rhett then began to brag, or bore, about you guys working together, but your eyes caught on a dark red spot slowly spreading through the fabric near Dex’s upper arm. It looked like blood and it began pooling more by the second.
“Oh no-” Without thinking, your hand lifted and hovered near his arm. “Dex.. you’re bleeding?”
Dex glanced down as though only just noticing it. The diner hit had gone cleanly enough, but one of the officers must have managed to nick him at some point.
He shrugged like it was insignificant. “I scratched it on a branch on the way back.”
You stared at him confused.. judging by the way blood continued soaking downward into his sleeve, it didn’t seem like a small scratch.
“You should at least bandage it,” you said with uncertainty. “You don’t want it to get infected. Actually… I have supplies in my bathroom. I- um could do it really quick.”
You didn’t know what had come over you, but it was the least you could do for him after that night.
“I’m sure he can manage,” Rhett said turning to you, “Besides, I hoped to walk you up.”
Normally, Dex would’ve declined without hesitation. He wasn’t interested in interacting.. but then he looked at Rhett. He was clearly uneasy, and Dex no longer wanted to decline your offer.
Dex’s glanced back toward you. “Actually,” he said sarcastically, “if you’re offering such exceptional medical care.. who am I to say no?”
Honestly you didn’t expect him to agree, you smiled. “Well.. don’t get your hopes up..” you turned to Rhett, “Dex actually lives on my floor so I will go up with him.”
Your attention was now mostly on Dex, but you turned back toward Rhett with a small wave.
“Goodnight.”
Rhett opened his mouth to say more, but you had already started walking. “…yeah. Goodnight.”
Rhett remained standing near the lobby tree beneath the Christmas lights, watching the two of you disappear.
The only sound up to the fourth floor was hum of the light above you. The elevator felt much smaller than you remember because of how close Dex was standing beside you.
You kept your eyes fixed mostly on the glowing floor numbers, occasionally glancing toward him before looking away.
Why was this making you this nervous?
He was just your neighbor.. who happened to save your life… and who also happened to be very good looking.
You tried to think of something to say. Anything to start a conversation.. but you didn’t know what to say. Dex stood quietly as well, but with ease, silently observing you.
The elevator finally chimed and you stepped out first, trying to ignore the strange warmth growing on your face.
He followed behind you and then embarrassingly your fingers fumbled with your keys and you hated that he probably noticed it..
You step aside awkwardly after opening the apartment door wider for him.
Dex walked inside without hesitation, his eyes scanning the apartment as the door shuts behind him. The area is fitting for what he would expect for you, he thinks. There is a pile of blankets folded around the couch and headphones resting on the table next to it. The lighting is warm and inviting, not bright or headache inducing.
You suddenly wish you had more warning. It wasn’t necessarily messy, but you felt oddly exposed about someone seeing your space unexpectedly.
“The bathroom is this way.” You mumble quickly.
You lead him toward your side of the apartment and into the bathroom. You move toward the cabinet beneath the sink, kneeling as you search around for the first aid kit somewhere in the back. Beside you, Dex leans casually against the bathroom counter and watches you. You can feel his stare without looking, but you try not to think about it.
The cold from outside still lingered on you and a small shiver runs down your body as you finally find the box.
“Your boyfriend didn’t give you his jacket. The temperature is starting to drop low these nights.” He said it casually as if it was just a blunt observation, but the comment catches you off guard and you blink up at him in confusion.
“The guy from downstairs.”
You let out a awkward laugh. “Oh. Rhett’s not my boyfriend.” Then you pull the first aid kit onto the counter while speaking openly. “We are coworkers.”
You clearly hadn’t picked up on the guy’s interest at all, he thought.
Your attention shifts back toward his arm as you pull out disinfectant wipes and bandages. The blood stain has spread further now causing your stomach to turn.
“Um…” You hover your hand awkwardly near his sleeve, unsure whether to touch it or not. Thankfully, Dex spares you the decision and rolls the sleeve up himself.
The cut is deeper than you thought. It probably doesn’t need stitches though, at least you think it doesn’t but then again you had no real medical experience. One thing you were skeptical about was that it was worse than a scrape from some random branch.
Then your eyes wander up, noticing the rest of his bicep below his rolled sleeve. You immediately force your attention back to the injury before your face can get warm.
“This… might sting a little.” You warn quietly, but Dex barely reacts as you wipe some of the blood away.
You try focusing on conversation instead of how aware you suddenly are of his proximity.
“So… are you gonna do anything fun for the holidays? Like ice skating.. thats my favorite or.. visiting family?” You try to sound casual, but your excitement shows through.
The holidays were important to you so it was easy to talk about. You always had plans like decorating, baking, ice skating and other things. You haven’t had the time to decorate your apartment yet, but you made a note to do it soon.
Dex hesitates before answering. “I don’t really celebrate.”
“Wait really?” You pause for a second before you pull a bandage from the box. “Why not?”
“Never really did growing up.” His voice stays calm and detached. “Besides, I don’t have family to visit.”
Now you felt guilty for asking. No wonder he didn’t celebrate Christmas. The sadness on your face must be obvious because Dex sees the way you soften. Before you can say anything else, Dex’s eyes drift toward the bandaid in your hands.
“I had a feeling you were the one who left one of those under my door.”
You glance down at the snoopy bandage in your hand and you feel embarrassed, but you try to play it off anyway.
“What?” You defend weakly. “Snoopy is cool.”
A small smirk curls at the corner of Dex’s mouth.
You carefully place the bandaid over the cleaned wound. “There.”
Dex rolls his sleeve back down afterward and straightens from the counter.
“Thanks.”
You nod quickly.
He moves toward the bathroom doorway before lingering and looking back at you. “That’s probably the first time a Snoopy bandage has been used to treat a life threatening wound, huh.”
The sarcasm in his voice catches you off guard. At least he was trying to joke with you, that’s a good sign, right..?
You smile awkwardly and nod, then he turns and heads toward the front door.
“Goodnight.” You say softly.
“Goodnight.”
That night you struggle to sleep. You can’t stop imagining Dex alone on Christmas. Even if you don’t really know him that well… You start wondering what you can do to change it.
Summary: After your new neighbor saves you from AVTF, you bake him cookies to thank him. Dex isn’t used to getting gifts and it’s not long before you become important to him.
Tags: Bullseye’s identity is hidden/No one knows he is Dex (slight AU), Reader doesn’t understand social cues, Reader is empathic, Blood/Violence/Murder, Age gap (mid/late 20s reader), Stalking/Obsessive Dex, Jealous Dex, No use of y/n
Notes: I think is my first time writing an x reader fic (or maybe first time in a very long time??). I think this will only be a few chapters, but idk yet.
You made it back to your apartment building with grocery bags in both your hands, already wondering if this would be your last trip for a while. Hell’s Kitchen had been getting worse lately, especially with mayor Fisk’s anti vigilante task force roaming the streets.
You almost didn’t notice the man walking down the hallway leading to your apartment. The noise canceling headphones you wore felt necessary with the city noises, but maybe not the safest choice anymore.
You remembered what your roommate had mentioned a few nights ago while through scrolling on her phone.
“By the way, there’s a new guy down the hall. I think. I saw him talking to the landlord. He’s kinda.. weird.”
You had nodded, even though you weren’t sure what she meant by it.
You hadn’t even saw the new neighbor until now as you fumbled your key out of your pocket while balancing most bags in your other hand.
The man was moving swiftly down the hall faster than most people you see go in and out, like he was locked onto wherever he was going.
You glanced up curiously, not sure what to expect, but his size caught you off guard. Not just tall, but muscular too. Around here, people usually only looked like that if they worked in something rough enough to require it.
As he neared you down the hallway, you realized maybe you should be polite and greet him.. Or maybe it was safer to keep to yourself… but people usually introduce themselves.. or at least say hi.
You paused then glanced at him once more before stiffly turning and lifting your hand to a small wave.
As he brushed past you, his eyes shifted down at you for maybe half a second before looking forward again, not slowing even slightly. No response.
You lowered your hand. “..okay” you murmured under your breath.
You then entered your apartment and for a second, you stood there in the entryway while thinking it over.
Maybe you should’ve said something out loud.. or smiled with the wave… or not even bothered at all.
It’s not a big deal, probably. He looked busy anyways.
-
Your work routine is just fine. At least, that’s the easiest way to put it. You have a semi-manageable job schedule and it pays your bills, sometimes just barely, but at least it is only a 20 minute walk from where you live.
The office you work in is pretty basic and usually doesn’t become too overwhelming.
At your desk you sort through paperwork and organize them properly, sometimes running errands for your boss.
During lunch break a couple of the co-workers that hang closer to you invite you. You agree because, although you wanted the time alone today, they would make an excuse for you to join them anyways.
By the time the day is finished and you are walking back down the hallway to your apartment door, you feel exhaustion and can’t wait to lie down.
You walk toward your door while reaching for the key out of your bag, but your movements slow when you look across to the new neighbor’s door.
The man is there again, standing outside the door as if he is just about to go in, but he is lingering.
You haven’t seen him in about a week since your first sight of him. You wondered if maybe he had already moved out, but there he was again.
He didn’t notice you at first. He leaned against his doorframe oddly, as if he was propping himself up while searching for the key.
You notice red dripping down from his eyebrow. A cut maybe? Did he get into a fight? You wonder.
You try not to stare, but you probably only make it more obvious by the way you turned your head to glance over, then look back at your door, then glance over again in a repeated motion.
Maybe you should say something, you think, like ask him if he’s okay? You could offer a bandaid or-
Your thoughts went quiet the moment he looked over at you. He only stared for a few seconds, but something about the intensity of it sent a chill down your spine. You try to turn your attention back to your door through slowed movements.
Down the hall, you heard the click of a lock turning. Glancing back over your shoulder, you caught him looking at you one last time before he disappeared inside his apartment.
You sighed and stepped into your apartment. You really sucked at socializing in the right ways.
An hour later, after finishing your bedtime routine, you stood in your bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. You look at your bandaids, but the only ones remaining were a couple of snoopy themed bandaids.
How stupid. You sighed. But it was better than nothing, wasn’t it?
Before settling into bed, you very hesitantly walked back into the hall with a bandaid in your hand. When you stopped at your new neighbor’s door you lifted your arm and contemplated knocking, but you stopped.
This is ridiculous. You thought to yourself.
You almost turned and left, but at the last second you quickly bent down and slid the bandaid underneath the crack of the door before rushing back to your own.
-
A week passes without you seeing him again and work fills most of your time, yet the blood and the look he gave you still occasionally lingers in the back of your mind. What was that about?
At some point, you overhear a front desk worker mention to another resident that he used to be FBI. That makes more sense now. Does it?
People in those kinds of jobs probably get hurt often and it’s probably for the best that you haven’t crossed paths with him. Especially after leaving that bandaid under his door.
-
You get home late after work one night.
The lobby lights are on, but you notice something is immediately wrong. There are people gathered near the front desk, their hands either slightly raised or covering their faces.
Then you see an officer holding up a gun in their direction. AVTF.
Your steps slow to a stop as you observe the officer appears agitated in a way that feels unpredictable. Everything in you tenses like your body is bracing for something you don’t know how to respond to.
“Are you hiding him?” the man snaps, “don’t play stupid with me. I know he’s been here.”
The workers behind the desk look panicked.
“We- we don’t know who you’re talking about-”
“Bullseye,” he interrupts, “you expect me to believe no one’s seen him?” The officer then slams a knife into the desk, carved with some type of symbol. “This is his. I found it outside the building after tracking him the other night.”
To you, the name sounds almost familiar. Like you’ve heard it before on the news, possibly. Something about a vigilante, but you’re not entirely sure.
…But if a vigilante was living here, it would be hard not to notice. There must be some type of mistake.
No one is answering him the way he wants and he seems to be getting impatient, so you try to be reasonable with him.
“Officer,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected, “I- I’ve never seen him, so it’s unlikely he lives here. There must be a misunderstanding-”
The man turns toward you like you’ve done something wrong. “I didn’t ask if he lived here. I asked if he was being hidden.”
You blink, thrown off by whatever accusation he was trying to throw.
“Are you trying to trick me with your words?” His voice rising. “Why don’t you come here.”
He motions to floor beside him with the gun, but your body doesn’t move.
Your mind catches on the phrasing trick me? Trying to understand what part of what you said could be taken that way.
Ridiculous.
The officer steps forward, closing the distance quickly by grabbing your arm. Your breath catches sharply as you instinctively pull back, your body reacting before you can think through it.
“I-I’m not!” Your voice trembles.
“Maybe it takes someone dying to get some answers around here.”
The gun lifts and you can feel the presence of it near your head.
Everything inside you goes still, but somehow your mind races at the same time. You were probably about to die and you couldn’t even process what you should do in this last moment.
Someone behind the desk starts pleading, telling him to stop, but you can’t really make anything out from the fear you feel.
Your eyes squeeze shut and your hands curl in on themselves as your whole body locks up. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say.. or do…
You whisper a prayer underneath your breath, but before you finish a gunshot rings out, but it didn’t echo from where you expect.
Something warm flecked faintly against your check, followed by the feeling of pressure disappearing near your head. There’s a shift behind you and then a heavy thud. The officer isn’t holding you anymore. You don’t move at first and your eyes stay closed for a second longer before you slowly open them.
You turn and the officer is on the ground, gurgling in a pool of his own blood. The sight of it makes you look away immediately, snapping your head back forward to the ground.
Your breathing is still uneven as your eyes flick upward instead, searching for where the shot came from.
Across the lobby, your new neighbor stands near the entrance, like he had just walked in. A gun hangs loosely in his hand, lowered now. Strangely, his grip is relaxed and doesn’t match with what happened. Almost like it required no effort at all.
His expression is also nothing.. maybe slightly irritated, like something inconvenient just occurred, but not enough to matter.
Behind the desk, the tension breaks and the voices rise in relief and gratitude, but your ears are still ringing and you’re still too shaken up to focus on anything anyone is saying.
You’re still standing where the officer left you, but now blood is pooling at your shoes. It causes your stomach to lurch. A faint tremor still ran through your hands as you tried to block out the warm feeling of blood specks on your face.
-
The next few days, the whole apartment was still in a paranoid frenzy after the events of that night. There were so many witnesses to what had happened that your neighbor wasn’t arrested or charged. In fact, the news stirred up citizens of Hell’s Kitchen and raised even more suspicions against the AVTF. The whole incident was passed off as an unstable officer who must have been working against the major’s orders, though many people didn’t believe it.
You called out of work that week, keeping yourself confined in your bed where it was safe. Your phone buzzed occasionally somewhere across the room, but you ignored it. You avoided all news or social media, not that you normally looked at those things often anyways.
Even your roommate knocked on your door a few times to check on you, but you never answered it.
Your hands hadn’t stopped trembling from that night and although you had scrubbed every inch of your body, you could still feel the slight warmth of the blood that hit your cheek.
You couldn’t properly sleep for days because of the memory. The officer’s hand grabbing you, the gun pressed to your head, the gunshot and then seeing him choking on his on blood. It all stayed with you. Hell’s Kitchen had plenty of crime, but you had never experienced, nor seen something horrific like that. It’s something you will never really forget.
Your mind lingers to your neighbor. You think about him more than you mean to. About the way he stood there with cold eyes.. just empty.
The memory sends a shiver crawling down your spine.
Maybe he’d killed people before.. maybe that was normal for someone who used to be in the FBI. Maybe whatever assignments he worked made him used to things like that.
You don’t know, but you try not to think too hard about it. Either way, he saved your life. The realization keeps circling back no matter how uncomfortable it makes you.
If he hadn’t been there, it would’ve been you on the floor instead of the officer. He saved you and you don’t even know his name. You never thanked him.
Eventually you push yourself upright for the first time all day and stare at the wall for a long moment.
The apartment is quiet when you step into the kitchen. Your roommate is at work, which helps because you don’t have to hear questions or get strange looks.
Baking always helped you take your mind off things and this way you would be putting it to good use.
Soon the counter is cluttered with ingredients, measuring cups, bowls and other baking tools. You put your headphones on and start mixing the ingredients together.
By the time you pull the cookies out of the oven, you feel a little more eased. You arrange them carefully inside one of the nicer plastic containers you keep for special occasions.
Chocolate chip should be fine, you think. Everyone likes chocolate chip cookies.. at least you think everyone should.
You stand there holding the container for a while after that. Your eyes drift toward the apartment door and your stomach tightens again.
It’s okay now, you remind yourself.. the officer is dead. The thought brings relief so quickly that the feeling is replaced with guilt. Relief shouldn’t feel good when someone died. …Even if he almost killed you, right? Even if you still wake up with the feeling of a gun pressed to your head..
Before you can overthink it too much, you leave your apartment.
You stop outside your neighbor’s door and stare at it before shifting the container nervously in your grip. You raise your hand and knock lightly against the door then wait for a minute, but no one answers.
Maybe he isn’t home.. or maybe he’s sleeping... Or maybe people don’t usually knock on his door and this is strange and you should’ve thought about that before coming here. But you knock again anyways, a little harder this time.
Still no one answers. You considered leaving the container outside the door instead when the lock finally clicks and the door opens.
Up close, he somehow seems taller than he did before.. broader too. He’s also much handsome then you remember, though you never got a clear look at him until now. You notice the deep healed scar on his right cheek, yet it only seems to enhance his appearance.. you snap out of the thought.
Admiring your, much older, neighbor right in front of his face was definitely an interesting way to start off.
His expression is unreadable as he looks down at you.
You suddenly realize you didn’t think about what you were actually going to say and there’s a long pause while he waits. You just stand there holding the container awkwardly while your mind struggles to fill the silence.
“Oh.” You quickly hold the container out toward him. “I made these for you- I mean to thank you,” you correct yourself. “I know it doesn’t compare to you saving my life or anything, I just.. I was going to thank you sooner, I’ve just been.. uh..”
You don’t really want to explain the last week, but your hands were shaking enough to give it away.
There’s another pause before you speak again abruptly, pushing the container slightly closer toward him like that somehow fixes the conversation.
“It’s chocolate chip.”
Dex glanced down at the container. No expression crosses his face at first, but when his eyes lift back to yours he looks more attentive like he’s studying you.
You keep talking before the silence can settle again. “What you did was..” You swallowed. “Well, if you hadn’t been there.. I would be dead, so… thank you for saving me.”
Saving me.
Dex watches you carefully. The way your gaze keeps slipping away from his before cautiously returning.
Then he thinks about the word saving.
That hadn’t really been the intention. The officer was a problem. The AVTF had been getting too close already and if they tracked him to the building, that couldn’t continue. The man needed to die.
You surviving had simply been convenient and lucky for you.. and yet hearing you say it like that makes something pause in the back of his mind.
Saving you.
He finally reaches out and takes the container from your hands. “Well,” he says smoothly, almost dry, “you can’t really go wrong bringing cookies to someone’s door.”
You blinked once as another thought hits you. “Oh- I should’ve introduced myself.”
You tell him your name then you look up at him expectantly and Dex notices immediately. The long pause and stare he gives doesn’t bother you the way it should. You just stand there patiently, eyes resting on him with silent curiosity, waiting for him to tell you his bame.
He also noticed how close you’re standing and he almost takes a step back out of habit, but he doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head slightly and forces something close to a smile or a smirk onto his face. It’s not unfriendly, but practiced, it’s not like you notice that though.
“I’m Dex.”
You nodded. “I haven’t seen you around much,” you say honestly. “I was going to say hi last week, but you seemed kind of busy.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you regret it.
What were you even saying?
You sound ridiculous.
You’re trying to have normal conversation with the man who literally saved your life and somehow you’re talking about hallway timing.
Dex’s expression shifts subtly. He knew exactly which moment you’re talking about.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “I’m usually busy with work.”
You nod, relieved he didn’t mention the bandaid left under his door. There was no proof it was from you, but you were probably the only one to see him.
There’s another awkward pause.
“But thanks for this,” he adds, lifting the container.
You stare at him for a few seconds and Dex waits staring back. You don’t move until you blink as realization catches up.
Right. That was probably the end of the conversation.
A small smile finally spreads across your face. “I hope you like them.”
You lift your hand in a small wave before turning and heading back down the hallway toward your apartment. Dex watches you the entire way until the door shuts quietly behind you.
Maybe that could have went better, you thought to yourself while you begin to clean up the kitchen.
Dex remains standing there for a moment longer with the container still in his hands and he looks down at it once more before stepping back into his apartment.
Idk how I feel about this fic but thanks for reading :D
So, Bethel mentioned how mimicking the motion of throwing objects without actually throwing them can mess up your shoulder. So I thought I'd write something about that with Dex 👀
Sore muscles
Summary: Your boyfriend needs a good massage, that's it
Tags: domestic fluff (and a slightly innuendo/suggestive if you squint)
896 word
Dex has recently been experiencing some pain in his shoulders and arms, especially the area where the shoulder connects to the neck just above the shoulder blade.
And despite the fact that he has been training and doing his usual morning stretches (you yourself have seen him do them), apparently it has not been enough.
Your theory is that the constant movement he has to make with his arms to throw objects (it's practically his only way of fighting) has caused that annoying pain he now feels in his shoulders, especially the right one.
Your boyfriend stood there frowning, a slight grimace of displeasure creeping across his face as he reached down to the hollow of his neck and massaged it, digging his fingers deep into the flesh.
You lowered the book you were holding and looked up at him. His lips were pressed tightly together, and every now and then he let out a soft, low growl without parting his lips, a sound that echoed in his throat.
"You good?" You asked
"Yeah, don't worry," he replied dismissively, while moving his shoulders up and down and back and forth with the same grimace.
Nope, he wasn't okay.
You sighed and set the book aside. You got up from the couch and walked over to Dex, standing in front of him. You tilted your head slightly to look at him and gently patted his broad waist with your hands.
"Come on, tell me what's wrong." You encouraged him
He snorted, his brow still furrowed. "Fine. It's my shoulders, they feel tense."
"Let me see them," you say firmly.
Dex turns around and you place your hands on his shoulders, pursing your lips appraisingly. When you tighten your fingers, he lets out a low growl.
"Yes, you might have knots," you tell him. "You feel them like a burning pain, right?"
He nods silently several times. You sigh and give him a gentle, affectionate slap on the bottom, at which point he turns around to look at you.
"Alright, lie down on the couch then."
Dex looks at you with a raised eyebrow, somewhere between curious and confused. "It's to give you a massage, come on," you urge him.
Before he could do it, you raise a finger, stopping him. "Ah! But you took off your shirt first."
He offers her a mocking smirk and asks, "Will you help me take it out?"
You knew that no matter how sore Dex was, he was perfectly capable of taking off his shirt himself; he just wanted to tease you. You rolled your eyes with a soft smile and, grabbing the hem of the fabric, slipped it over his arms and head. Now shirtless, your boyfriend lay down heavily with a groan onto the pillows. You moved closer and straddled his rear. Feeling your weight on his lower back, he smiled into the pillow.
You noticed. With a mischievous smile, you brought your index finger to his cheek and poked it a few times. "Hey, don't get your hopes up, it's just a massage."
Dex chuckled with a grin, resting his cheek on the cushion and turning his face away to avoid suffocating. You got to work and placed your hands on his broad back. But first, you traced the scar of his spine from top to bottom. You felt his body tremble slightly with a shiver as a low grunt echoed in his throat.
"Are you going to massage me or teasing me?" he murmured hoarsely.
You giggled softly, "Why not both?"
Many sarcastic, witty, and suggestive replies raced through Dex's mind, but he refrained from saying them. He simply sighed patiently and let you work. You planted your palms firmly on his shoulder blades and applied a little pressure, sliding them upward toward his shoulders. You began to knead his muscles like a cat. He let out a shaky sigh of relief and satisfaction. Your fingers dug in as well, as if you were digging them into sourdough.
"Mmh yesss~ right there" he groaned, slurring his words
You could feel Dex melting like ice cream beneath your palms. His tense, aching muscles seemed to loosen like knots. You traced circles all over his back as if you were molding a figure from clay. Beneath you, he seemed to have transformed into a manilla. He babbled about how good your hands felt on him and sighed, moaned, or even whined.
But while he relaxed, your arms and hands cramped from massaging me so much. The result was that when you finished and got off Dex, your hands felt fatigued. He sat down on the couch with a more relaxed, even happy, expression. His eyelids were slightly half-closed, as if he'd just come from a spa. In contrast, you were huffing and puffing, moving your hands and arms with a grunt and a frown.
He noticed it and, getting up, asked you, "What's wrong now?"
"Ugh, my hands hurt now, you had so many knots." You respond with a grimace
Without wasting any time, and with a crooked smile, he takes both your hands and brings them to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
"Do you want me to return the favor?" he asks.
Yes. Now you're the one who needs a massage. You nod with a pout and he lets out a soft and amusement chuckle.
physical touch comes to benjamin poindexter as easy and as natural as breathing. whether it's a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or a pinky hooked 'round yours mid conversation. fingers intertwined with yours as you walk outside, of course, is normal for him. and at home, when he's navigating around you, even though he has ample space, his hand falls to the small of your back as he moves you gently to get around. there's a lazy arm slung over your shoulder, a finger drawing distracted patterns across your skin, his head heavy on your chest at night when he's asleep. and that's just the things he's not really aware he's doing.
sometimes, when he's in a particularly good mood, he'll kiss your lips until you're dizzy and laughing and breathless, then move onto the rest of your face while you catch up on oxygen and your surroundings.
"doin' too much, poindexter," you'll laugh, and he'll lean back in to lick a broad stripe up your cheek, because he's nothing if not unconventional, and if you even try to wipe it away, he'll just lick your hand too. or maybe you're not giving him enough attention, maybe you're busy working—most times, you don't even notice him, because of his training. not until he's sinking his teeth into your limb of his choice anyway. on luckier occasions when your camera's off in a meeting, you stifle your surprise until you're able to mute yourself and complain; on important calls, though, he's sitting on the floor by your legs, and you don't even feel his hand wrapping around your ankle, or his breath ghosting over your skin before pain shoots up your leg. on more than one occasion, you've been asked if everything's alright, and when you glare down at him later, all he does is grin back up at you. the worst part is you can't even stay mad at him when he's so beautiful and you're so in love.
the biting also continues… elsewhere, like he's determined to mark you as his territory. even if he's careful to make sure that all of them—okay, most of them—are hidden, he revels in the thought that your knowledge of them will remind you of him, regardless of where you are. oh, and the dull ache of the bruises left in his wake that are totally by accident because he definitely doesn't know his own strength is nice to think about too—even though you both know better than that.
and then there are the bad days. he'll walk in, silent, and you don't say anything, either. you know him too well for that—if he doesn't want to speak, he won't, and if you keep asking you'll just make it worse. so you wait, and he pulls you onto his lap and buries his face in your neck, and your hands are in his hair, and he just stays like that until he feels better—your weight on top of him is more comforting than he'd ever admit. rarer events are when you lose track of time, pass out without realising, and wake up hours into the night, a cramped tangle of limbs. but your shared warmth is more comfort in one sitting than he's felt in his life before you, so who is he to complain?
he wakes up before you almost every morning, but even then, you're conscious enough most of the time to feel his fingers trace over your face, like he's trying to memorise you, like he hasn't a million times over already. and when you pad into the kitchen, still half-asleep, he lets you drape yourself all over him and catch a few more minutes while he cooks breakfast.
you've changed his routine; he's always hated change, but he'll be lying if he says he's not grateful for it this time.
you nudge him with a toe, he lifts you up effortlessly into his arms and doesn't put you down, your feet are in his lap as you watch a movie while he traces those same idle patterns across them—you ask him, "what's that supposed to be?"
he pauses, smiles in the way he does when he knows something you don't.
"i'm sure you'll figure it out," he says unhelpfully. and it's simple—too simple, maybe, 'cause you feel stupid when you figure it out. i mean, you should've known what it was, because obviously—
it's a bullseye.
hi guess who. 0.7k words i think i died and went to hell except hell is being obsessed with this man. i actually hated him so much the first time i watched daredevil (~6 years ago) lol guess this is karma. pls reblog to support ur authors !!
Summary : Dex finds a getaway bag under your side of the bed and assumes the worst.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, abandonment issues, obsessive attachment, codependency, established relationship, obsessive devotion, implied suicidal ideation, protective!reader, clingy!Dex, anxious attachment, happy ending. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 3.3k
Requested By : Anon
Notes : First Dex fic with a taglist! Please let me know if you would like to be added, but remember, the taglist only applies to fics over 2k words! My 1000-something word short stories won't have the taglist on them. This fic title is inspired by a Hozier song of the same title. Enjoy!
Dex accidentally found your getaway bag hidden under your side of the bed on a random Tuesday.
He wasn’t snooping. He was looking for the knife he knew had slipped under there this morning when you clumsily knocked it out of the dresser in your hurry to go to work. He was reaching blindly beneath the bedframe with one hand, already annoyed because it was out of place, because he hated when things were out of place, because every missing thing became a hook in his brain until he found it and put it back where it belonged.
And then his fingers brushed canvas.
Huh. What’s that?
Because Dex didn’t believe in minding his business if his business was you, he dragged out the duffel bag from under the bed.
The second he unzipped it, he was frozen in horror.
There was cash inside, and not a cute little emergency envelope. Not “oh, I have some spare money in case someone hacks into my bank account.” It was some serious running money in bundled notes, probably half your life savings if he remembered correctly. It was enough to disappear for a while if you needed to.
And because Dex’s brain was not a calm place, because Dex’s brain was basically a locked room full of alarms and broken glass and every person who had ever left him whispering see? see? see?, he did not think: oh, that’s a lot of cash. I'm gonna ask her later what it’s for.
He thought: She has an exit plan. She’s going to leave me.
He tried to shake the thought off his head, because it could be anything, right?
Nope, didn’t work.
Of course. Of course. Of course she was going to leave. Look at you. Look at what you are. Did you really think she would stay?
Fuck.
He stood up and left the duffel bag there. He didn’t tear it apart. In fact, it stayed mostly intact, sitting open on the floor like a confession. He was careful with it, because some awful part of him needed the evidence preserved. Needed to look at it and hate himself.
But he destroyed the room though.
He didn’t do it violently, but instead he did it frantically. Drawers were yanked open. Your nightstand emptied. His hands were under the mattress before flipping it, shoved them into the insides pillowcases, behind books, between folded clothes. He was looking for more proof. Looking for the backup bag, a hidden note, a passport he knew had to exist, something to confirm that he wasn’t going insane and you were actually going to leave him.
But the more he searched, the worse it got.
Every drawer he opened made another mess. Every shirt he threw aside landed in a place clothes shouldn’t be. The lamp was crooked. The blanket was hung by the door. The floor was covered. His breathing got too loud. The room started closing in around him, cluttered and wrong and bad, bad, bad!
And then that became his next spiral.
Great.
Fucking great, he thought as he looked around.
Now the outside matched the inside of his head.
A ruined room for a ruined man. A mess for a mess.
Dex stood in the middle of it, shaking, staring at all of it like he had done it from outside his own body.
This!!!! This is why she’s going to leave you!!!!!
He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eye, breathing through his teeth, but it was too late. The mess was everywhere. The thought of you leaving was everywhere. He couldn’t put it back from wherever the hell it came from. He couldn’t make the bed right. He couldn’t get the image of you walking out of his life with that stupid fucking bag to stop replaying behind his eyes.
By the time you came home, he was a shell of himself.
Your keys were still in your hand when you stepped in and stopped cold.
The room was destroyed, but not smashed walls and broken glass and violence for the sake of violence. It was searched, gutted, turned inside out.
And in the middle of it was Dex, on the floor, his back against the bed.
The duffel was halfway open near his knee, untouched compared to the rest of the room… and he had a gun.
He had a gun in his hand, pointed at himself, on the underside of his head.
And he hated that too. He hated the neediness. He hated that even now, even like this, some starving part of him hoped you would come home and stop him. Which was pathetic. Which was manipulative. Which was exactly the kind of thing someone should leave him for.
Your blood went cold.
“Dex,” you said, trying to sound harmless; it almost sounded like a coo.
His eyes snapped to you, and it was red and wet with tears.
It was difficult to imagine him as Bullseye like this, because Dex had always been frightening to most people who knew. You had seen him after bad nights, after adrenaline.
But you had never seen this before. That was different.
Dex didn’t wreck rooms. Dex didn’t leave chaos behind him like some sloppy, careless animal. Even at his worst, he was controlled. So seeing your bedroom torn apart was not just frightening.
It just meant something was very, very wrong.
“You’re home,” he said, and his voice sounded scraped raw, like he had been arguing with invisible people for hours.
You didn’t move too fast even though you wanted to. Your heart was throwing itself against your ribs so hard it hurt. But you looked at him, at the arguably most dangerous man in New York sitting in the wreckage of your bedroom with a weapon turned inward, and all you could think was:
Sweetheart
Your sweetheart of a murderous boyfriend, terrified out of his mind.
“I’m home,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to the duffel, then back to you, and whatever fragile little thread had been holding him together snapped. “You were going to leave.”
The words came out so broken they barely sounded like an accusation.
Your gaze dropped to the bag and saw the cash peeking out.
Oh.
Oh, Benjamin.
“Dex—”
“You were going to leave me,” he said again, louder this time, but it cracked halfway through. “You had money. You had a bag. You had—” He sucked in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You had a life under there.”
You took one slow step forward. He flinched.
“You weren’t supposed to find it like this,” you said softly.
His face fell. “So it’s true.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“No, baby.” Your voice shook, but you kept it gentle. “No. Not like that.”
He gave this horrible little laugh.
“Don’t. Please don’t.” His hand tightened around the gun, not threatening you, but himself. “You can’t make it sound sweet. Please don’t stand there and make it sound sweet when you’re planning to run.”
“I wasn’t planning to run from you.”
“You had a plan.”
“Yes.”
His eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” you said again, stepping closer, careful, so fucking careful. “I had a plan. But not that one.”
He shook his head hard, like your words had reached a convinced resistance in his brain.
You looked around the room again, really looked this time, and understood.
He hadn’t destroyed it because he was angry. He had looked for evidence until the room became evidence of him.
It was a ruin made wrong by his own hands. An excuse to hate himself because the alternative was hating you. And Dex could never stomach that.
Dex followed your gaze and his face collapsed into shame.
“I fucked it up,” he said, barely audible. “I fucked everything up. It’s everywhere. It’s all wrong. I can’t—” His breathing hitched. “I can’t fix it. I made it worse. I always make it worse.”
“Oh, Dex.”
“Don’t,” he snapped, then immediately looked wrecked by his own voice. “You were going to leave me.”
The gun shook.
“I wasn’t.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You had a plan.”
“Yes,” you said, frustrated now because he didn’t leave you space to get your point across. “I had a plan. So for once in your life, sweetheart, please listen to me!”
And that shut him up.
Horrible choice of words? Maybe. But you needed him to listen.
You lowered yourself slowly to the floor, not too close yet, keeping your hands visible.
“Dex,” you said. “Have you even looked in the bag?”
“I did.”
“No,” you whispered. “Really.”
He didn’t move.
So you reached for the duffel yourself and pulled out the first burner phone.
“One,” you said. Then the second. “Two.”
What?
You pulled out your fake passport. “Mine.” Then… a second one. “Yours.”
Dex’s face changed in stages.
Confusion first. Then disbelief.
Then a feeling of devastation made him want to crawl across the floor and cover you with his whole body.
You kept going, because he needed facts. He needed as much proof as you can give.
“Two sets of clothes. Two toothbrushes. Cash for both of us. Medical kit.” Your voice went small, almost sheepish. “I… fuck, Dex, forgot to tell you. You know how I am when I get distracted.”
He blinked. He knew— he knew more than more people what you were like when one too many things were in your mind. Sometimes the details just slipped, and he would never use it against you.
“I made it a week ago when you were out,” you explained. “I made it because one day you might come home and say you have to run. And I know myself, Dex. I wouldn't ask questions while you bleed on the carpet. I’m grabbing the bag and going wherever you need to go.”
He stared at the ID that you opened. It had his face on it.
You looked up at him from the floor, surrounded by all the proof he had misunderstood.
“I wasn’t planning to run from you, Dex.” You reassured. “I was planning to run with you.”
Dex stared at you. And his whole body just… gave up, like whatever rage had been keeping him upright finally dissolved and left nothing underneath but panic and shame and love so whole it made him sick.
The gun dipped, his wrist going slack like all the strength had drained out of him at once.
You put your open palm gently on his lap. “Let me have it, baby.”
Dex stared at your hand. You were asking for his gun as if it wasn’t a weapon turned inward, as if it wasn’t the shape every horrible thought currently chewing through his skull made real.
His fingers tightened once, and not because he wanted to keep it. It was because letting go meant trusting you with the part of him that was still trying to punish himself.
You kept your voice soft.
“Please, baby,” you whispered. “I’m going to put it on the table. That’s all.”
His eyes flicked to yours then, wet and ruined.“ You shouldn’t come closer.”
“I know.”
“I’m not—” His lips trembled. “I’m not right.”
“I know.”
Fuck.
You weren’t arguing. You weren’t denying that this behaviour wasn’t normal. You knew he was dangerous. And still, your hand stayed open.
“Give it to me, Dex.”
His breath hitched.
The room was still a mess around you. Dex’s eyes kept catching on it, dragging over every displaced object like each one was proof of his failure to be a good boyfriend.
You saw the thought move through him and softened your voice even more.
“Don’t look at the room right now,” you murmured. “Look at me.”
He tried. Eventually, his gaze dragged back to you like it physically hurt.
“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good. That’s good.”
Dex made a sound so small it almost disappeared in his throat.
You put your hand closer, not snatching, not treating him like a threat, even though your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
“Let me put it down,” you said. “Then we can sit. Okay?”
He stared at you for another breath. Then, finally, his fingers loosened.
You took the gun from his hand with the gentlest touch you had ever used on anything in your life. You turned and placed it on the table behind you.
It was far enough away now
Then you came straight back to him.
The second your hands were empty again, Dex collapsed forward like the weapon had been the last thing holding his body upright.
You caught his face in both hands. “Oh, baby.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were leaving.”
“I know.”
“I thought so little of you.”
His voice barely sounded like his own anymore. It was scraped thin and torn open.
“Baby,” you whispered. “Breathe.”
“But I did.” His hands caught you frantically, gripping your waist, your hips, the fabric of your shirt like if he let go, you would disappear right there in front of him. “I did. I saw it and I thought… I thought you were like everyone else. I thought you were going to get tired of me. I thought you finally realised.”
Your throat tightened. “Realised what?”
His eyes “What’s wrong with me.”
Oh, fuck.
You took his face in your hands, like you could hold the thought inside him still enough to kill it. “Nothing is wrong with you that makes me want to leave.”
Dex flinched.
His eyes squeezed shut, and the first real sob shook out of him, helpless and so human it made your heart ache. Because Dex could handle cruelty. Dex could handle being hated. Dex could handle people looking at him like he was a monster.
But this, he never knew how to handle.
“I love you,” he said, breathless now, panicked by his own need. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Shut up,” you whispered, and it came out a little mean because you were crying too now. Because how dare he? How dare he look at you like leaving him was something you could physically do? “Please don’t say things like that.”
You kissed his forehead first.
“I’d never leave you.”
Then his temple.
“Never.”
His cheek, still wet with tears.
“Never, Dex.”
You gave more fluttery kisses to the bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. His other cheek, peppering small kisses one after another, until his breathing caught and his face tipped helplessly into your hands. Even now, even wrecked and ashamed and shaking, some part of him still wanted more.
He needed more.
So when you kissed the damp track beneath his eye, he grabbed you.
His hands caught your waist and dragged you closer, desperate and clumsy with it, and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was too broken. Dex kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside you. Like your mouth was the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the horrible void his mind had made for him. His breath stuttered against your lips, his hands gripping your shirt, your side, your hip, anything he could touch.
And you let him.
You kissed him back with both hands in his hair, holding him there while he made that ruined little sound into your mouth.
His hand tightened at your waist.
“Ow, Dex,” you breathed, but it came out with a tiny chuckle against his mouth. Of course this man was having one of the worst breakdowns of his life and still holding you like a claw machine.
He froze for half a second, lips still parted against yours.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, voice rough.
But he did not pull away. He just loosened his grip, palm spreading wide and careful over the spot instead, like he could smooth the hurt away.
“Too hard?” he asked.
“A little.”
His forehead dropped against yours. He breathed out shakily, almost laughing, still crying.
“There,” you murmured, kissing him again. “Gentler.”
He tried. Fuck, he tried so hard it almost broke your heart. His palm opened against your side, broad and shaking, still possessive and needy, still Dex, but careful now.
Then he folded into you.
He put his face against your chest like he was trying to disappear there. As if he pressed close enough, he wouldn’t have to see the room behind you. Wouldn’t have to see the drawers, the clothes, the crooked bed, the evidence of everything he had done while his head was eating itself alive.
Fuck.
This man could kill half the city if you asked him sweetly enough. He could put a fork through a random person on the street if you only pointed. He could turn anything into a weapon.
But with you, he was on the floor, hiding his face in your chest because he couldn’t look at the mess he made.
Because you were so, so special to him, that the idea of losing you had gutted him thoroughly.
“I’ll fix it,” he whispered into your shirt.
You stroked his hair. “Baby.”
“I’ll fix it.” His voice caught. “I’ll put it back. I’ll clean it. I’ll do it right. I’ll fix it.”
“I know you will.” You kissed the top of his head. “But not tonight.”
He went tense immediately, panic sparking under your hands.
“I can. I can do it.”
You shook your head gently before he could spiral again.
“Listen to me. We’re going to get a hotel tonight, yeah?”
Dex blinked at you, breath hitching like the idea of stepping out of the ruined room had not occurred to him.
“And tomorrow,” you continued, keeping your hands on his face, “I’ll get a cleaner in here.”
His eyes flicked past you to the room, panic flashing. “No—”
“Baby,” you said softly. “Listen. I’ll get a cleaner in here tomorrow. They’ll do the big stuff.”
His throat worked.
“And then,” you said, kissing his cheek again, “after they’re gone, you can make a second pass at everything.”
Dex went still.
You saw the compromise land in his brain.
“You can put things back how you like them,” you whispered. “You can check the drawers. You can fix the bed. You can make it feel right again. But tonight, we have to leave the room alone.”
That… was a good idea.
“Okay,” Dex said finally.
It came out muffled against your chest, hoarse and exhausted. He nodded once, like he was trying to make his body accept it too.
You stroked his hair back from his damp forehead.
“There he is,” you whispered.
His eyes fluttered shut.
His arms tightened around your waist, but only for half a second before he remembered himself and loosened his grip. He looked up at you, eyes red, cheeks wet, mouth swollen from kissing you. Still wrecked. Still ashamed. But quieter now. Softer around the panic.
“You’ll be with me in the hotel?” he asked.
You cupped his cheek. “Of course.”
His breath left him shakily. “Okay.”
You kissed his forehead one more time. “Come on.”
You helped him stand, reaching out. The room was still messy around you, but he didn’t look at it this time. He kept his eyes on you at the door, his hand hovered near yours.
“Is this okay?” he asked, poking at your fingers while the duffel bag sat on his shoulder. Tonight was gonna barely make a dent on your stash, so there’s no reason to worry about anything, really.
You smiled and opened your hand. “Of course.”
He slid his fingers through yours carefully, like he was afraid of holding too tight again. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.
warnings: this man is a warning in himself let’s be so fr, severely unhealthy relationship dynamics obsessive/toxic behavior, do not romanticize this shit guys but on the other hand i’ve been a victim of the bullseye agenda and the things i’d let this man do to me are unspeakable soo… yeah anyway—
word count: 1.1k pls bare with me i wrote this in thirty minutes, it’s not proofread and i’ve never watched daredevil but i had the insatiable urge to write something for him and this idea popped into my head today 🚬
if you thought your boyfriend, benjamin poindexter was possessive… just wait until the summer season kicks in. because that man reaches a completely new level of feral.
we all know your relationship with bullseye is not exactly a traditional one, it’s definitely nowhere near healthy and it’s definitely not built on mutual respect or understanding. it’s more like the exact opposite of that. it’s built on mutual obsession and borderline insanity.
but it’s exactly why you and dex work so well ! as some would put it you just match each other’s freak.
except when summer begins and the streets of new york are suddenly plagued with overwhelming heatwaves and temperatures rising so rapidly you suddenly feel like you’re burning in the seventh ring of hell (dating a wanted murderer, yeah you might as well be soon enough) he cannot expect you to just keep wearing long sleeved clothes and jeans!! you’re going to boil alive for heaven’s sake.
and at first he doesn’t really mind, hell— he enjoys it! seeing you walking around your secluded apartment in your flimsy little tops and even flimsier shorts which barely cover anything — your skin on full display, so soft, so easy to access— it does something primal to his brain. it rewires the already possessive and obsessive parts of his mind, sending him full on spiraling.
he’s always going to have a hand around your waist, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, your belly— any part of your body he can manage to get a hold of really. you think it’s sweet, how attentive he is, how openly he shows his affection.
but oh just how wrong you were.
of course you have always known your dex had a darker side to him, ugly parts that were not so pleasant to look at, or at least parts he didn’t like showing around you. and you knew how hard he tried to keep himself in check! how much effort and self-control went into being as normal a boyfriend as a man like him could be.
nevertheless, those parts sometimes slipped through, involuntarily or not. cracks in the carefully constructed façade he put up for you.
you’re just about to leave your apartment, hand already on the doorknob when his voice stops you dead in your tracks. “and where the hell do you think you are going?” you were pretty sure he was in the other room just a moment ago, sharpening his knives or whatever it was that dex was up to at three in the afternoon.
he must have been listening to you shuffling around the apartment, following your footsteps.
“just going down to the corner-store, we ran out of eggs. i need them to make dinner.” you pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing on planet earth.
dex suddenly appears in the tiny hall of your apartment, sporting a look of half-amusement half-bewilderment on his face, as if what you had just said was the most entertaining thing he had ever heard.
“do you need something?” you cock an eyebrow, still not understanding this sudden strange behavior, maybe he just needed you to grab something for him.
he chuckles, his face morphing into a mildly offended expression.
“you just thought you were going to walk out on the street, wearing that?” he completely ignores your question, instead trailing over your frame like a hawk.
“what—” you begin, looking down at your outfit. it was just a casual pair of cotton shorts and a cute little crop-top. it was forty degrees outside for god’s sake, was he expecting you to go out in a snow-suit? “what’s wrong with my outfit?”
he takes a step closer, the wood underfoot creaking beneath the weight of his tall frame.
“do you think it’s ugly?” you ask, genuinely convinced he was referring to your choice of styling. not that bullseye was really into fashion.
“no.” he replies, sighing as if annoyed at your genuine lack of understanding. “there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“then what’s the problem—”
before you can get another word out he is already removing your hand from the doorknob, his hand locking onto your wrist as he drags you through the hallway and back to the couch.
you are too stunned to speak, as dex has never done something so uncalled for.
you land on the couch with a quiet *thud*, squinting your eyebrows up at him.
“what the fuck benjamin—”
“did you seriously think i would just let you walk out onto the street like that, hm? with half of your body visible for anyone to just look at?” he chides, speaking like the idea genuinely offended him. which it probably did.
you scoff, crossing your arms around your torso. “jesus christ, it’s the middle of july for fuck’s sake! everyone’s dressed in shorts and revealing clothing—”
“i don’t care.” he snaps, leaning down his head slightly to look at you, he is standing right in front of you, physically trapping you from even trying to stand up. “i don’t care if people are walking naked on the street, you are not leaving this apartment wearing anything that’s inappropriate.”
and by inappropriate he just means whatever he deems too revealing, too provocative, too attention-grabbing. and suddenly you realize it’s not about you, it was never about you in the first place. it’s about him. him and his personal ego. his personal conscience that your body— which he views as his— is shielded from the undeserving gaze of others.
because how could something so precious to him ever be worthy of other people’s eyes?
if he could have his way, you would exist just for him and only him. him and no one else. if people on the street couldn’t see you— couldn’t pester you with the vanity of their existence he’d be the happiest man on earth.
except, that was obviously impossible, so he would just have to settle for acting like your personal guard-dog.
before you can even start an argument he’s already grabbing the keys of the apartment (the spare keys mind you, because his keys are already in his pocket, making sure you have no way of getting out— save for the fifth story window) tugging on his shoes.
“you just stay there and look pretty, i’ll get the eggs. and don’t even think about going out on the terrace. i’ll know.”
you stare at his retreating form from the couch, slightly horrified but also slightly turned on by his unhingedness.
“got it?” he gives you one last pointed look before swinging open the door of your apartment. if you were smarter you would have made a run for it a ages ago. but after not even trying to put up a fight, maybe you deserved to be with this insane guy.
yeah. it’s going to be one hell of a long summer with benjamin poindexter.
Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.
Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.
"What happened here?"
Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.
"What?"
You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.
"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"
A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.
"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."
You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.
"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."
"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.
The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.
And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"
He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.
"What?"
A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.
"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"
Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.
"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"
"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"
"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"
It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.
Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.
"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."
"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.
"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."
He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.
"You've got a lot over here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch your back more often."
"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.
"What happened here?"
"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."
"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."
"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."
Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.
"Do any of them still hurt?"
He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.
"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."
"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.
Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."
No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.
Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.
"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."
The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.
It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.
One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.
"What's this one from?"
Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.
"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.
"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.
You're a hopeless romantic, a little let down after your past lovers not giving the same energy back at you.
But with Roy? It feels like you have found your one true love.
The moment he discovers how romantic and sappy you can be, he's matching your energy.
When you text him good morning and goodnight, he's answering your messages like they're his alarm clocks.
He also changed your ringtone so when you call him, he knows it's you.
He always picks up.
And your minimum time to be talking is two hours.
You compliment him a lot; when he's brushing his hair back and letting some strands falling in his forehead, when he's trying new clothes, when he's just laying in bed scrolling. You always call him pretty because that makes him giggle.
He has been feeling less insecure since you started dating, knowing that you love him and cherish him not in spite of his insecurities but because of them. The first time you complimented his rather soft tummy, he couldn't understand it AND made you explain why did you like it that much.
He compliments you as much as you, mostly when it's just the two of you, hugging you from the back and kissing your shoulders, whispering in your ear how you are the most gorgeous girl he's ever laid his eyes on and how obsessed he is with you.
When he's out for a few days for work, he sends you pictures of the scenery on the road, pictures of himself, sometimes pictures of his friend Dick (you always answer that you want to see him, not his friends).
He hasn't tell you that he's a vigilante/superhero yet because he know that you don't belong to that world and telling you that might put you in danger.
But it isn't the first time that you've clocked some bruises or fresh cuts, gently taking care of them and kissing the scars when they're healed.
ꪮꫀ boyfie! jason todd who comes home from patrol absolutely wrecked. shoulders heavy, knuckles split, body screaming for rest. but the second he steps through the door all that weight starts slipping off him because he knows you’re waiting in his bed.
he leaves the red hood behind in pieces. jacket slumped over the couch like a dead thing, holsters clattering onto the counter, boots kicked halfway down the hall. he doesn’t care about the mess. he just needs you.
the bedroom is dark and warm when he finally crawls in. the mattress sinks deep under his huge frame as he slides behind you, careful even when he’s this exhausted. one thick arm curls around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest until every inch of him is wrapped around you. he’s sooo big, broad shoulders curving over you, scarred thighs tucked behind yours, but the way he holds you is nothing but gentle.
jason buries his face into the crook of your neck, nose pressed right against your warm skin, and breathes you in like you’re the only oxygen he’s had all night. slow, greedy inhales. you smell like sleep and his shirt and that soft vanilla lotion and home. he lets out this low, broken hum against your throat, lips brushing lazy kisses along the side of your neck, slow and sleepy.
“missed you, baby…” he whispers, voice all gravel and exhaustion, barely above a breath. “fuckin’ needed this.”
his massive hand slips under your (his) shirt, palm splayed wide over your belly, thumb rubbing the softest little circles while he nuzzles closer. he tangles your legs together, curls around you tighter like he’s trying to disappear into you. every tense muscle in his body slowly melts the longer he holds you, chest rising and falling against your back, warm breath tickling your collarbone, lips still pressed to your neck like he can’t bear to pull away even an inch.
ꪮꫀ boyfie! jason todd who’s six foot something of pure muscle and danger, but turns into the clingiest, sweetest giant the second he’s home with you. tucking his face into your neck, hugging you from behind like you’re his whole world, finally letting himself rest because you’re right here in his arms.
he presses one last soft kiss right under your ear, sighs deep, and falls asleep like that. wrapped around you completely safe, warm, and so inlove it hurts.
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