Summary: Following the events of Daredevil S3, Dex avoids a prison sentence and lands himself in a psychiatric institution. He feels broken. A shell of the man he used to be, and he wants to get better. His search for guidance feels hopeless until he meets you: a young volunteer with a peculiar interest in him.
Series Tags/Warnings: MDNI, AFAB reader, age gap (reader is in her 20s and Dex is in his 30s), grad student!reader, eventual smut, plot/timeline deviates from MCU canon (DDBA specifically), timeskips do occur throughout the chapters, angsty, Dex has body dysmorphia, detailed scenes of violence and murder, stalking, mommy/daddy issues all around, dubcon, gaslighting and other forms of manipulation
Series Taglist
A/N: if you want to be put on the tag list, feel free to message me or comment on this series page!!
summary : dex can’t let you go after you broke up with him. spiraling into obsessive stalking, one night he breaks into your apartment while still you’re asleep.
cw : [reader is hinted as black] (mention of brown nipples / POC friendly) somnophilia/ dubcon / stalking / mild-choking / masked sex / fully clothed penetration / emotional vulnerability / self-worth issues / possessive dirty talk / creampie / messy feelings (typical delulu dex) not proofread mb yall
he can’t stop replaying your last words, your coldness cutting deeper than any punch. the way you said you needed space, freedom from him. freedom from the chaos he carries like a second skin. but the truth is, he’s not ready to let go. not yet.
tonight, something inside him snaps. a decision he knows is reckless, dangerous, but inevitable. he can’t stand another night without touching you, without reminding you, and himself, that you’re still his.
he’s dressed for the night like a shadow of himself. black tactical pants, worn but functional. a fitted black hoodie with the hood pulled low, the fabric soft but concealing. on his feet, silent black military boots that grip the metal of the fire escape like a second skin. his mask the old black one with the angular lines covers his face, hiding the desperation in his eyes but not the raw need twisting in his gut.
he moves with practiced precision, scaling the fire escape like a ghost, every metal step cold beneath his fingertips. the city hums quietly around him, the distant sirens and buzz of late night cars fading behind the wall of silence he wraps himself in.
the window to your apartment looms ahead, half open, just like you always left it when you went to sleep. he slides the glass up with barely a sound, muscles coiled and tense as he slips inside.
dex stands just inside your apartment, the faint glow of the city bleeding through the cracked window you left open, a tiny flicker of hope that maybe this is some sign. that you’re still waiting for him in your own way, even if the silence says otherwise.
his heart pounds, heavy and erratic, like it’s fighting against the weight of what he’s about to do. every instinct screams at him to stop, to turn back and respect the space you’re trying to carve out for yourself without him, but some desperate part of him clings to the fact that the window was open, maybe you wanted him here. maybe.
inside, the air smells like you, your shampoo mixing with the faint hint of the lotion you always keep on your nightstand. his pulse pounds as he takes in the quiet sanctity of your bedroom, the soft rise and fall of your sleeping form beneath the blankets.
this is his moment. the place he’s been craving, stalking, aching for. and now, finally, he’s here.
you’re lying in your bed, skin warm beneath the thin cotton sheets, the soft curve of your tummy just visible, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with your breath. your brown nipples, dark against the smoothness of your skin, catch the faint moonlight slipping through the blinds. your thighs spread lightly beneath the covers, familiar and soft, everything dex always loved.
you don’t hear the door open, don’t feel the weight cross your threshold — but dex is here. masked and fully clothed, the smell of his cologne and sweat lingering around him, he moves carefully, reverent almost, like you’re some fragile treasure he’s terrified to break.
he kneels beside the bed, watching you sleep, voice low, a rasping whisper. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”
he then climbs on the bed, over you. his hands twitch, uncertain, hovering just inches from your skin before he finally lets his fingertips ghost over your bare shoulder, trembling like a prayer. he’s terrified that the smallest wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, your breath, your sleep, the thread of trust left between you. the warmth of your skin under his touch pulls him in, raw and tender and achingly familiar, and he leans closer, letting his face bury in the crook of your neck, drinking you in. your scent is everything he’s missed. honeyed, soft, the way it clings to the curve of your collarbone and wraps around him like a lifeline.
his hands move up, trembling but reverent, to cup your full breasts, his thumbs brushing over your clothed nipples, aching under his touch. he wants to worship you like a temple, slow and soft and careful, but the hunger beneath that tenderness claws at him, pulling him deeper into desperation. his lips find the skin below your ear, sucking lightly, murmuring your name like a prayer, a plea.
his hands reach out first, trembling as they brush your thick thighs, tracing the soft curve of your tummy, the part he always loved. his fingers curl around your waist, pulling you closer to him in the dark.
he pulls back, sliding his hands beneath your shirt.
then his lips find your chest, full tits rising and falling with your steady breath, brown nipples hardening beneath his mouth. he sucks one gently, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, reverent and needy.
his voice cracks when he whispers, “i missed you,” barely loud enough for you to hear, but it’s everything he feels, an ache that’s been gnawing at his ribs for too long. he’s torn between worship and want, between fear of breaking you and the primal need to claim you again. he hesitates, his hands trembling on your skin, caught in the storm of his own conflicted desire, draw a quiet moan even from your sleep.
they wander, worshiping your curves, the way your body fits like a goddamn prayer beneath his fingertips. his voice starts to ramble, desperate and tender, a broken confession whispered against your skin.
“you were waiting for me,” he murmurs, lips barely grazing your skin. “i know you were waiting, baby. i’m here now.”
he knows this isn’t like before. you’re not waiting, not really, not now. but he’s desperate to believe that maybe this touch, this breath, this moment is still yours. and slowly, trembling, he moves lower, trailing kisses and soft sucks along your neck, your collarbone, until he’s pressing his forehead against your skin, silent except for the frantic beating of his own heart.
you shift slightly but don’t wake, his worship continued — his mouth finding your other nipple, sucking harder, rougher now, his desperation bleeding through every touch.
his cock presses hard against your thigh, strained in his belt.
dex’s hands slide lower, over your belly, soft, just a little round where he always loved to rest his palm, before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers tracing the slick heat between your thighs.
he pushes your shorts down slowly, loving the way your skin reacts even without waking. thick thighs spread, exposed and soft, waiting. breathing shallow, fingers trembling where they ghost the curve of your hip beneath the blanket.
slowly, reverently, dex slips his fingers beneath the edge of your panties and shifts them aside, his breath catching when he sees the warmth glistening between your dusky thighs.
he slides a hand beneath your body, lifting your hips gently and after unbuckling his pants, he presses the tip of his cock through your slick folds. you’re still asleep, he lines himself up, hand stroking gently down your thigh, grounding himself. and then, with a low, shaky sound, he pushes in, slow and deep, his whole body trembling as your warmth welcomes him like home.
his voice breaks in a low, trembling whisper. “i love you. please ever don’t leave me again.”
he fucks you slow at first, savoring the feel of you so warm and tight, the way your body yields beneath his. then faster, desperate, nearly choking on his own need.
his hands cup your cheeks, thumb stroking tenderly as he buries himself deeper, moaning your name like a prayer.
you stir, eyes fluttering open.
“dex? what the… what are you doing?” you ask, voice raw, half-dreaming.
dex’s mask hides his face, but his voice is soft, trembling, pleading. “you were waiting for me… you always used to. you said i could always find you in your sleep. remember?”
he rocks into you again, deeper, harder this time, like the rhythm itself is an anchor.
“i know you still wanted me. i know you were waiting.” his voice is rough, torn at the edges. “i watched you fall asleep. no one else is here. it’s still me. it’s always me.”
his hand moves up to your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just holding, thumb stroking along your jaw like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
you’re wet, so fucking wet for him, even half-asleep, and he takes it like proof. like permission. like you were aching for this too.
his hips grind in deeper, a soft whimper catching in his throat when he feels your walls tighten.
“god, i missed this pussy,” he groans. “so fucking soft, always take me like you were made for it.”
your breath catches again, half from his words, half from the way his cock keeps hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. he’s still fully clothed, the texture of his hoodie rubbing against your exposed stomach, the weight of him holding you down in the way you used to love.
“why did you leave me?” his voice cracks as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, his mask damp against your skin. “why the fuck did you walk away?”
you blink up at him, breath hitching, the stretch of him inside you grounding and unbearable all at once. you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know but because saying it out loud might shatter something permanent.
“don’t… don’t do that.” you plead.
“don’t shut me out. you said i could come to you. you said i could have you like this.” he begs, almost choking on it.
your hands come up, fingers brushing his jaw beneath the mask, the heat of his skin trembling under your touch. “i didn’t leave because i stopped loving you,” you whisper. “i left because you looked at me like i was… pure. like i was something holy…i couldn’t take it anymore.”
his rhythm falters.
“and i’m not, dex,” you breathe, lips parting around the truth. “i’m not that. i’m fucked up. selfish. angry. i’ve done things, thought things i didn’t want you to see.”
he lets out a ragged sound, like a sob and a moan tangled together. “don’t say that. you’re mine. you’re everything.”
you shake your head against the pillow, tears catching in your lashes. “i couldn’t keep letting you love me like i was some perfect thing. it felt like lying.”
he thrusts deeper, desperate, his gloved hand coming up to wrap around your throat with a gentleness that shouldn’t make sense. “then don’t be perfect,” he growls, forehead pressing to yours. “be broken. be angry. be fucking cruel. just don’t leave me again.”
your eyes lock and there’s nothing left to hide.
you reach up without thinking, fingers brushing the side of his mask. “take it off…”
he stills, just for a second. then he presses deeper, choking on a breath. “you sure?”
you nod, eyes meeting the black fabric. “i want to see you. all of you.”
his hand lets go of your throat just long enough to pull the mask up and off. his face is flushed, eyes glassy with emotion, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something dangerous.
you cup his cheek, and he leans into it like a starving man.
“you came back,” you whisper, and there’s no anger in your voice. just heat. just heartbreak and admiration.
“i never left,” he says, voice shaking. “you tried to lock me out, but you’re still mine. i know you are.”
his hand returns to your throat, squeezing just enough now to make your breath hitch, his other palm sliding down to your stomach, pressing gently where he’s filling you so deep.
you whimper, thighs tensing as he starts fucking you harder now, no less loving, just desperate, rougher, his control slipping.
“say it,” he pants. “tell me you’re still mine.”
you can barely breathe, barely think with how full you are, how he’s choking you and touching you and claiming you like you’re his goddamn oxygen.
“baby,” you whimper, softly, like it’s sacred. “i’m yours. i’m so fucking yours.”
“i’m not going anywhere ben…not now. not ever again.” you promise, body clenching around him.
a strangled moan tears from his throat.
and you don’t say anything, not with words. just a gasp, a moan, the way your legs wrap tighter around him. the way your body arches into his like your skin still knows the shape of him even after all that distance.
you squeeze around him again, and that’s all it takes for him to break.
his body convulses as he spills into you, hard, messy, overwhelmed. his head drops to your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, clinging to you, his breath hitching like he can’t get enough air.
and even after, he doesn’t pull away. just breathes you in, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other around your waist like he’s never letting go again.
a few moments pass. after catching his breath, he tears away from the crook of your neck, for a moment, he just stares—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face, to convince himself this is real.
you smile — tired, aching, you still look at him like he hung the stars. your palm presses to his cheek.
“hi,” you whisper, like it’s the first time. like you’re seeing him all over again.
he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a slow, shaky smile curling at the edge of his lips. “hi.”
you lean up, kissing him so slow and sweet it makes his chest cave. no lust. no desperation. just the kind of softness that says stay. he kisses you again, slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world now. and when he finally pulls back, you whisper against his mouth :
Summary: Dex comes home with a new injury but doesn’t tell you…again.
Pairing: DDBA!S1 Ben Poindexter x gf!reader
WC/Tags: 1248 / reader doesn’t know what Dex does, blood, argument, tender touches, established relationship
A/N: for 5/2 Maylancholy @may-lancholy ‘hidden injury’ I thinkkkk I might like writing Dex oml
He doesn’t say it, but the moment Dex walks in you know he’s hurt.
He gives you a limp smile before shuffling to the bathroom not more than thirty seconds after he comes into the apartment, and you watch his retreating figure before you stand up.
“Babe?” You call after him, brows pinched. You glance down at the wooden flooring, your heart rate picking up as you spy speckled dots of red trailing behind him. “Dex?”
He closes the bathroom door and you run up to it, banging your fists. “Baby let me in, are you okay?”
You press your ear to the door, and hear the faint sound of shuffling and you grit your teeth. Knowing it’s locked, you yank at the door knob anyway.
“Dex,” you call, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. “I know you’re bleeding. Please let me see. Please.”
There's a brief silence before the door clicks open, just enough for you to slip inside. Dex is leaning against the sink, face pale but still managing that stupidly charming half-smirk.
“M’fine. Just got a little too into practice.”
He nods toward his thigh, where blood seeps through a makeshift bandage, probably torn from his own shirt, before he winces and finally exhales hard.
“Okay. Maybe more than 'a little.' But hey, accuracy’s still on point.”
“Benjamin. Poindexter,” you hiss, your jaw tight. “Sit the hell down, now.”
He sighs, staggering to the edge of the tub and sitting with a heavy sigh. You rummage under the sink, grabbing the hefty first aid kit and popping it open. Fishing around inside, you grab the scissors, antiseptic and gauze before standing in front of him.
“Strip.” You demand, nodding at dirty clothes before turning on the bath.
Dex rolls his eyes but starts shrugging out of his shirt, wincing and gritting his teeth as the fabric sticks to the wound.
His chest is marked with a series of bruises he's acquired during training, but he doesn't seem to mind the pain. It's his own fault, anyway. He pushes off the rest of his clothes and sits back down, eyeing you with a lopsided grin even in this position.
“Stop it,” you snap, avoiding looking below his waist. “In the water.”
He slides below the lip of the tub without argument, settling in the water and you both watch as the bubbles become brown and pink. You shove down the worry, deciding to focus on the task at hand. Dropping to your knees, you lean over the edge and wash him mechanically, your hands moving with purpose. Dex watches you in silence, and when you finish and hand him a towel, he wordlessly takes it.
You dry him off with rough, purposeful movements, barely glancing at his body as you wrap the towel around his waist. The silence stretches—tense, charged—until Dex finally catches your wrist as you turn away.
His grip is firm but careful. When you look back, his smirk is gone.
“...Sorry.”
It’s quiet. Sincere. And for some reason that almost pisses you off more than the blood on your floor.
“Are you?” You snap, wiping your hands off. “Because you don’t seem it. You never seem it.” He says your name but you ignore him, stalking to your bedroom for a change of clothes. When you come back you shove them at his chest. “You get hurt, and then you hide them from me, and expect me to just- just not care. Is that what you want? For me to not care?”
“Of course not.” His face falls and he shrugs the shirt over his head.
“Then why not just tell me!” You snap and you feel the tears pricking at your eyes. “I don’t ask you to tell me what you do, because that’s your business, but this? The hurt? You should tell me.”
A myriad of different emotions flicker across his face. Embarrassment. Guilt. Anger.
He exhales hard and runs his uninjured hand through his hair, jaw clenching. When he speaks, however, there's a hint of irritation in his voice.
“You act like I want to get hurt. Like I enjoy coming home looking like this,” he motions to a darkening bruise at his ribcage. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself. You don't need to baby me.”
You frown, picking up the gauze and glaring at it before your eyes move to his then. “Fine. You want to take care of yourself? Then do it.”
You drop the gauze, and stalk from the bathroom, leaving Dex in a pile of bloody clothes and first aid supplies, staring after you. He doesn't follow you. Not that you expected anything different. Even if he wanted to, his stupid injury made it difficult to move quickly. You huff as you settle on the couch, hoping that he’s able to bandage the wounds enough on his own.
-
He doesn’t go to bed when you do. You flick of the light, tugging the covers up to your chin and flipping to your side. You’re so irritated with him that your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, but you know under the angry layer, there’s something worse; worry.
You don’t hear him come into the bedroom, only registering his presence when he slips under the covers beside you, his hand resting on your hip.
“I’m sorry.” he says into the dark, and you close your eyes because you hate crying, hate being weak, but Dex seems to bring that side out of you.
“It’s fine.” You keep your tone quiet, clipped, but then his hand is snaking around your middle, pulling you back into his chest.
“I know you worry ‘cuz you care,” he says into your hair. “I’m not…used to that.”
You stay quiet, blinking in the door and below the covers, his thumb traces soothing lines on the cotton over your stomach.
“You worry me,” you admit quietly. “What if one day you come back really hurt. Like, a hurt I can’t fix?”
The motion of his hand against your skin stills, and you hear him inhale, his grip on you tightening. After a few moments, he speaks, voice so soft you wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't right next to you.
“If I ever ended up seriously injured, the fact it'd worry you-“ He stops and sighs, his hand resuming its gentle motions. “But you shouldn't let it worry you. I've been doing this since I was eighteen. I know what I'm doing.”
“I am going to worry, okay? That’s just- part of it.” You sigh, and you turn so that you’re facing him, your nose brushing his he’s laying so close. “If you’re with me, I’m going to worry about you. Point blank period.”
His lips twitch, and you can register amusement flickering in his eyes in the dark.
“Guess I'll have to live with that then.” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw before leaning in to press a slow kiss against your forehead. A rare, quiet surrender.
When he pulls back his nose brushes yours, and you exhale before leaning forward and kissing him on the mouth. His lips mold to yours, his hand soft on your face as you taste him.
“Just be careful, okay?” You ask when you pull back, your cheeks warm.
He nods, kissing you again quickly before he pulls back. “Alright.”
“Promise?”
When he doesn’t answer immediately, you flick his arm. He smiles, a slow, spreading action. “I promise.”
i am absolutely living for your dex x weirdo gf fics... they pair so well together n i love the age gap its just like the cherry on top
how do you think dex would react if one day he came home and she was just threatening him, showing him a more violent side of her
like maybe she found out about julie by going through his things and finding old non discarded items of hers, maybe polaroids from afar or a hair tie or scarf and she just freaked out like if you cheat on me ill kill u.. or maybe she locks herself in the bathroom for an extra long time while dex paws at the door from the other side just reassuring her shes the only one
p.s.... could i perhaps be 🦄 anon
i hope you saw i added you to the emoji anons!!! for anyone reading, pls consider checking out my masterlist with the rest of my dex x weirdo!reader posts :3
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i think dex would lowkey like it because he takes it as a sign that she values his presence in her life (he's the king of delusions).
reader was going through his stuff to feel closer to him whilst he's away—genuinely with no ill-intent. she stumbles upon a box with the picture of the team at the suicide helpline centre, cute enough. underneath it, though? a few of pictures of julie—some look like they were taken without her knowledge, some seem to be pictures printed out from social media posts—and a shit ton of pages, all dex's ramblings about his 'north star'. reader's blood immediately boils.
she waits all day for dex to come home and greets him with a backhand across his jaw. he can't even process it over her yelling—incoherently, mind you.
the apartment is a goddamn mess. practically every article of furniture has been overturned and the floor is hardly visible. everything in his apartment has been laid bare for her to scrutinise and for dex to wish he had gotten rid of a long time ago.
reader is making her way to the door by the time dex shakes himself out of his regretful stupor and he just barely manages to catch her wrist in his hand.
"c'mon, sweetheart, it's old stuff. none of it matters." he tries to keep his voice calm and level; he knows from experience that matching your level of agitation is quite a dangerous course of action.
it doesn't work, though. reader just thrashes away from him before practically running to the bathroom and locking herself in, her magnum opus.
dex spends the next however many hours sat on the outside of the door trying to explain away the anger.
"i barely look in that closet anymore. that was my life before i met you, baby. you know you're my everything, don't you?"
hours and hours of words of affirmation and dex re-establishing his love for her, before she finally opens the door.
she's now a stark contrast to her earlier blind rage. all that comes out of her is a meek little "sorry, dex...", but dex doesn't need words. he just stands up and hugs reader until it's time to go to bed.
