HIIII my first request for a fanfic for dex but im really intrested in how this would go:
How would Dex react to someone stalking him?? What if reader changed themselves so much to be just like Dex and to be noticed. the “perfect pair” PLSPLS PLS I WANNA SEE THISSS
❝ Who's the prey? ❞
|Poindexter x stalker!gn!reader
angst / gn!reader / ofc unhealthy behaviors / freaky!reader / DDBA!dex / mention of : blood, death, murder, hunt
summary: Your target is different from the others, and you may not have seen the fangs covering the lamb’s mouth.
A/N: thanks for the request, sorry for the late answer and hope it suits how you imagined it! I honestly don’t know what to think about it, but at least it exists.
wc: 1.3k
english isn’t my first language, sorry for the mistakes ♡
It was a habit, a trait that had been drawn at birth with marker across the thinnest layers of your being. You liked following people, learning juicy tiny details about their lives.
As a child, you always watched the neighbors. As a teenager, you searched through your teachers’ bags. And now that you were an adult, you latched onto a few people from time to time. There was something terribly exciting about carrying fragments of strangers’ lives inside your mind—or inside a notebook. You could have grown tired of it, abandoned this obscene hobby, but even if you had wanted to, it was you. It was engraved into you, indelible.
There didn’t even need to be feelings involved, everything could simply be seen as a game. And in the end, you weren’t hurting anyone, since none of your targets had ever noticed your presence scribbled into their lives.
Well, that was the case until the day you set your sights on a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. And while you thought you were peacefully admiring his smooth features, he had already caught the scent of your gun barrel.
Benjamin Leonard Poindexter, nicknamed Dex, vigilante Bullseye, and hated being called Ben. That was the sweet lamb you had fixed your eyes on.
Your footsteps landed with that featherlight weight you had learned to control. Each foot slipping perfectly into the concrete squares lining the street you walked through.
Poindexter was out tonight. So were you.
He had gone to buy a large iced cappuccino, the same one slowly cooling your own hand—numbing your skin. The coffee wasn’t particularly good, far too bitter in your opinion, but you drank it anyway. The cold liquid slid down your throat, dried out by the excessive wind tearing through New York today. Your gaze, however, never left Dex’s bluish silhouette for a single second. You had noticed that—even if from afar his clothes looked black, they were actually almost always some shade of blue, no matter how dark it was meant to be.
He turned left, and a few seconds later, you turned left too.
The bluish jacket you wore protected your body from the occasional gusts of wind while you watched the blond man turn left again, disappearing into a space that looked far too narrow. Frowning, you quickened your pace slightly to catch up before he vanished completely. You reached the corner where he had disappeared—a narrow alley trapped between two residential buildings. Your shoes struck a shard of broken glass, making you grimace at the sharp sound. It was dark, and the clouds blanketing the sky did nothing to help visibility. It was a dead end leading to a staircase crawling up the side of one building, and that was it. No Dex.
Before you could even open your mouth, a hand grabbed the back of your neck without restraint. Your body was violently shoved against one of the walls, the metal stairs barely vibrating from the impact.
It was him.
The force in his grip did not lessen despite your pained grunt. You could feel the impact of his body behind yours, towering over you by only a few inches and yet somehow seeming capable of swallowing you whole. There was no intention of sparing you, you knew that—you had pages filled with notes about him, about his traits, actions, behaviors.
“You think it’s funny? To follow me?” he murmured in that naturally broken voice of his. “How reckless you are.”
Your barely touched coffee spilled across the ground, its warm-colored liquid spreading like blood at your feet—a premonition of a possible outcome awaiting you. His own drink rested comfortably on the staircase to your right, a sign of his presence you could have noticed if you had been paying attention.
Strangely, fear had not settled inside you. It had not dragged in its screeching chair, had not sat down. No, the tremors shaking your muscles were symptoms of excitement instead—squirming deeper beneath your skin with every breath, like a balloon inflating until it burst.
The sound of glass rang far too close to you. Reflexively, your eyes searched for the source, and found it to your left. Bullseye had just kicked the broken neck of a bottle up from the ground, catching it in his free hand. “So, you have something to tell me?” The fragile sound of glass sent a shiver through your eardrums.
Thoughts raced through your poor mind, torn between primal human fear and the unnatural euphoria that came from you. “I— I admire you,” were the only words capable of forming, using alchemy to turn the chaos in your brain into something concrete.
Dex’s brows furrowed while an annoyed smile spread across his lips. You admired him, no one had ever used that excuse to avoid death before.
His hand expertly spun the shard of glass before suddenly lunging toward your carotid artery. “No no wait!” you blurted out louder than intended. “I’m not kidding, I really do admire you Dex. That’s why I’ve been following you since—” The bottle neck shattered into pieces above your head, making you flinch. The hand that had not stopped gripping your neck until now finally released you completely. No force held you against the wall anymore, no imminent threat pressed against your throat.
A heavy sigh echoed behind you, and when you turned around, you saw Dex leaning against the opposite wall—arms crossed. “Go on, I’m listening.”
Your hand brushed over the top of your head, trying to shake loose the sharp fragments of glass that had settled there like birds. The situation was absurd, yet perfectly coherent with the notes you had taken about him. Unstable, impulsive, playful.
“Well I think your aim is fucking impressive, and you also make the right choice with AVTF agents and—”
Dex’s eyes examined you while you spoke. He was not really listening to your words, in fact, maybe he was simply curious—and who wasn’t? But something else bothered him. Your case carried a disturbance he needed to solve before finishing you off. Like sanding down a puzzle piece before completing the frame. His gaze lingered longer on your outfit, and the answer came to him as easily as the problem had appeared.
Your jacket, your pants, your shoes.
His eyes lowered to his own clothes—his jacket, his pants, his shoes.
And the more realization settled in, the deeper his frown became. Then he watched your gestures. He listened to your vocabulary. And something about it sounded familiar, the kind of familiarity you found in a stranger without asking for it—the kind an annoying cousin would point out with: “Oh look, we have matching clothes!”
You were copying him.
His back peeled away from the damp wall. Your eyes settled once more on his silhouette—your mouth finally stopping its useless stream of words. He approached you dangerously slowly, and you instinctively stepped backward until your spine met the opposite wall.
“You’re a copycat,” his voice stated calmly, as though that sentence alone could not become the reason for your death.
“I’d preferably say that we matched? Like— a pair?”
“A pair?” his voice smiled threateningly. “So you really are an idiot. With logic.”
“So are you?” you dared answer.
A faint silence drifted between you, the coffee at your feet beginning to dry against the warm concrete. Dex looked at you without you being able to understand what was happening behind his fixed stare.
Then he stepped back and retrieved the coffee he had left sheltered away.
“Stop following me,” was the last thing you heard before he resumed his walk, disappearing around the corner of the alley.
He left you alone, with a small cut on your forehead from the glass and a spilled coffee at your feet. The prey had bared its teeth, bitten the hunter as a warning, then walked away. Your blood had not tasted the way he expected, but blood was still blood, and a wolf that felt threatened would bite no matter the taste of the meat.
Once, not two.
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