Midnight Stranger
Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x F!Reader WC: 4k Summary: Normally you expect Daredevil this late at night…Bullseye comes in his place Pt. 2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Warnings: 18+, Dark!Dex, Jealous!Dex, Possessive and obsessive Dex....of course....., blood and wounds mentioned, also reader stitches dex up, i'm not a dr don't @ me, masturbation, masturbation in shower, uh, i think that's it, reader doesn't get to have fun in this, fun as in....smex..., srry lol, dex is literally insane i'm sorry he's not mentally well, i need him so bad, i might have to make a part two to this idk, No use of Y/N
A knock rings at your door. You turn from your book, glancing at the clock on the wall. It's late, too late for you to be up with work in the morning. Time lost on you. You want to ignore the knock, but from the time of night -or is it early day- you can imagine who it is.
New York's Devil.
The relationship you had with Daredevil was friendly and informative. He came when he needed things. Things that you had plenty of access to, information, tools, most importantly, your insider knowledge on Fisk. It was something that you didn't enjoy about yourself, that when he had taken over as Mayor, you'd stayed in your position. You remember meeting the tall and dark man, his deep voice raising fear out of you. He'd ask if anyone wanted to leave their position. You think most of the office was terrified to say otherwise to him. The majority of you stayed. You know you had. Despite the feelings of disgust and anger towards your new boss.
When Daredevil had caught you looking through Fisk's files, late at night in his office, that's when your relationship started. Fueled by the resentment against one man.
Your feet carry you to your front door, not even bothering looking through the peephole to see who it is. You swing open the door, expecting the friendly masked face of the Daredevil. Only for your face to fall in shock and fear.
Bullseye is on the other side, bloodied, bruised, smiling. He's unmasked, giving you a full painting of the handsome man in front of you, dangerous as they all come. Smirking like he's got the know of it all. He's bracing his arm against your door jam, the sight of it telling you that's the only thing really keeping him up right. You can't tell where he's bleeding from.
"Is that how you greet him?" Bullseye's eyes trail down your body, taking your attire in.
You don't know what to say, gripping the handle of your door. Slam it in his face and call the police, your brain screams. But fear has got you frozen in time, blood drained from your face, heart stuck in your throat.
"He sent me." Bullseye's voice betrays his pain, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his arm shaking with holding himself up.
Your lips start to part with a remark, with a question, with something, until the giant man in front of you is pitching forwards, falling. Your arms automatically shoot out to catch him, going under his armpits, catching most of his upper body against yours. The air rushes out of you from his weight, his boots squeaking against the floor as his legs fight to keep himself upright. He has the audacity to laugh before it turns into a pained and weak groan. You can feel the warmth and wetness of his blood on you, staining you in more ways than just physical. Your arms shake with his weight and you barely gasp out,
"I can't hold you up!"
Bullseye lets out another anguished sound, trying to help you help him, as you both stumble to the living room, where he pitches onto the floor, taking you with him. You let out a shrill, trying to catch him and yourself to no use. He takes the majority of gravity, hitting the floor with a hard thud and another amused yet tormented sound. His hands have your waist, keeping you pressed against him. You don't let him keep you there for long, untangling yourself from his weak grip, scrambling up off of him and the floor. His arms drop to either side of his body, sprawling out on your floor. He lets out a long sigh, like he's finally letting his guard down, eyelids dropping to a close. You look at the bleeding man on the floor under you, shocked with how much space he takes up. The blood seeping on the floor under him pushes you from your shock and fear into action.
You spin towards your door, shutting and locking it. Your stomach drops when you smear blood against your white paint and door handle. You look down at your pajamas, shorts and oversized band tee, both drenched in blood. You rush to the bathroom, grabbing towels, alcohol, and a tiny first aid kit you keep under your sink. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, eyes wide with terror, blood stained against the side of your cheek, where Bullseye had brushed his own face against yours. Not dwelling on the way you look, you burst back into the living, dumping all the contents of supplies on to the floor. You drop to your knees, assessing the man in front of you.
He tips his head towards you, shallow breaths quaking in his chest. He watches with curious and tired eyes.
"Where...where are you hurt?" You can't even tell where to start on him.
"Guess you'll have to strip me to find out." The corner of his mouth tips up in a similar smirk you saw on him at the door. Your face flattens in an unamused stare.
"This is no time for joking." You scold him, a breathless laugh from him rewards you. But he's right, you will have to strip him. You stand up, going into your kitchen to grab some scissors, praying to anything that will listen to strengthen your scissors enough to be able to cut through his obviously enforced suit.
You turn back to him, his gaze up at your ceiling, staring into space. Your heart pangs for a moment. You need to call someone. You'd never thought to grab the Daredevil's number. You doubted he'd give it to you anyways. Complicated things too much. But if he really was sent here by him...
You kneel at his side, slipping the scissors under the sleeve of his suit. It takes you far too long, but within a few hours, his shirt and pants are splayed and flayed off of him. You're dipping a warm rag in soapy water, washing the blood off of his muscled torso, face burning with the fact that you hate he's attractive. He's since passed out, his breathing unsteady. He has tears and gaping wounds on his sides, some too deep. You'd done a poor job at stitching, they hadn't taught you this level of care in school, but it was better than nothing. Just like sewing clothes right?
You drip the bloodied rag back in the warm water, ringing it out. You start on his face and hair, unbothered with how messed up your floor was about to be with all this water and blood seeping into it. At least what he was on top of was a rug. Under that, hard floor. You could clean later, granted he didn't die and bleed out in the night. You wished Daredevil would come soon and tell you what the hell happened, but a dark thought kept creeping into your mind before you'd push it out. You didn't want to think about what state he was in. Or why he'd sent Bullseye to you in the first place. You stand up with a grimace, body aching with how many hours you'd spent on the floor, kneeling over him, cleaning him, stitching him, pressing gauze and tape to his sides. Your back screams at you, though you're not finished, you continue on.
Gripping your phone, you call your work with shaky breaths and leave a message that you won't be able to come in in a couple hours. You glance at the balcony doors, the sunlight just beginning to peak. It'd been a long night. You look down at Bullseye, his eyes still shut, his breathing still steady. There wasn't any blood leaking out of him anymore, and you let yourself feel a little accomplished at your work. He wasn't dead. Yet.
You go into your bedroom, ignoring the dried blood caking your hands, and grab a pillow and blanket before turning back into the crime scene. You toss your blanket on the couch, that was for you. And once again kneel with protesting knees, to carefully lift the man's head and stuff the pillow underneath him. Exhausted, you drag yourself up off the floor for one last time and trudge to the shower. You would rather not shower with a stranger on your living room floor in the next room, but you hardly had a choice with how much blood of his you had on you. And you refused to go to sleep with it still caking your body. The shower is hot and relaxing, the red stain washing into the drain. You were too tired to dwell on the morbidity of the situation, exhaustion sapping out all emotion from you. You dress yourself in your bedroom and when it's all said and done, you peek back into the living room. Your guinea pig of a medical disaster unmoved from it's spot. You're not surprised, but a part of you had wondered if he was playing pretend. A deep breath shakes from his passed out state and you sigh too, moving back to the couch, curling up under the blanket you'd brought yourself. This way you could keep an eye on him. You watch his chest rise and fall, before your eyes are slipping shut, sleep pulling you in fast and hard.
---
It's a bird that wakes you, your eyes blinking open, head pounding with the telltale sign that you didn't get nearly enough sleep. Your body aches as you stretch, a frown pulls at your lips as you take in your surroundings. You're on the couch. You sit up, hair a mess from going to bed with it wet, blanket falling with your movement. You turn and look at the floor, the events of last night rushing into you. Bullseye's already looking up at you from his spot on the floor, hadn't moved a muscle except the turn of his head. You stare silently at each other while you gather your bearings.
He looks...relaxed. Sprawled out on your bloodied floor, blue fabric of his suit strewn underneath him. Boxers hugging his waist and thighs, the only piece of clothing on him that you didn't tear off of him. You avert your gaze from his crotch with a dry swallow, scolding yourself in your head. Refusing to ask yourself: what was wrong with you? Your gaze trails up his torso, his ribs littered with dark bruises, one side stitched haphazardly, still some crusted blood you missed on his skin. He watches you watch him, his gaze warm, yet calculated. Amused still. Like everything that is happening is some form of joke only he's in on.
"How-" your voice croaks and you have to clear your throat before speaking again, "how long have you been awake?" You have an eerie feeling he was laying awake and watching you for a long time.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
You sigh, "Okay...how are you feeling?" You stand from the couch, stepping over him to go into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. You drink while he stares from the floor.
"Like I got my ass kicked. And slept on the floor."
You make no remark, filling the glass back up with more water to bring to him. He licks his lips as you walk towards him, careful to not spill. With an aching body, you kneel once again, hand coming up underneath his head to help him sit up. He groans, but doesn't say anything as he takes a sip from the glass you put against his lips. You pull the glass back as you let him swallow before offering some more. He takes about three or four drinks before he's shaking his head no more. You set the glass down besides you, far enough that either of you won't tip it. You were careful like that, always thinking ahead just in case. He liked that. He almost wants to preen when your gaze trails his body, his muscles twitching like he can feel the weight of it on his skin. He watches you blush and look away, trying to seem unafflicted, but he saw. He knows. That knowing smirk shows up on his face and you can't meet his gaze while you talk.
"I...stitched two of your wounds. I don't know how well I did, but I really think you need to go to the doctor or something." You look towards your kitchen, trying to gather your thoughts and composure, doing a pretty bad job at it too.
"You're kicking me out?" he can't hide the bite in his tone. Did you kick out the Daredevil too? He can't help but feel aflame with jealousy as he watches you turn back to him a frown, obviously confused at the way he talked to you.
"No." You state, trying to gauge why he reacted that way. "Well," you bite your bottom lip while you think and you miss the way his pupils dilate at the sight, "I don't know. I have no idea who you are. Why you're here, what happened last night --" You start to get defensive, puffing up a bit as you rattle on before he cuts you off.
"Matt sent me. Said you were safe. We got into trouble last night."
You try not to react to his name. You'd never known it. "Matt..." you whisper, tasting his name on your breath. The masked vigilante Daredevil was named Matt. Such a normal and common name. You'd always wondered what his name was, after long nights going over stolen paperwork together. Questions ringing in your mind that you'd never had the courage to ask.
He watches you think of his...whatever Matt was to him. And hears the way you say his name. He grits his teeth, jealously tightening in his chest like a snake wrapping around him. He gave you his name and you were sitting there in La La Land thinking of him, while Dex was right here, bleeding and bruised on your living room floor like a stray you'd pitifully allowed in.
"I'm Dex." He grits out, your attention going back to him with another shocked look. Good, back on him. Push Matt out of your mind. Think of him, only him, put your soft hands back on him--
"Dex." You say his name with a small smile, giving him yours. You shudder when he says it back to you, something dark in his voice. Like he owns it now. You turn away from his burning gaze and almost catch yourself glancing back down at his boxers, your eyes shooting back up at the ceiling.
You clear your throat as you hear a shaky chuckle leave the man in front of you, "Okay, Dex." You sigh, gathering your own dark thoughts. You didn't know him, why were you thinking this way? Thinking about his large hands on you. His muscled torso pressing into you, his arms caging you in. You stand, trying to move these thoughts away, far away. "Can you stand?"
Dex stares up at you, burning arousal coursing through his veins, his dick hardening into a half mast as you stand above him. Curious. He never knew he'd enjoy that, a girl like you standing over him. He wants you to place both of your legs on either side of him, his fingers twitching as he thinks about pulling you over him. He watches a frown cast over your face, nose crinkling and brows furrowing.
"Are you okay? I feel like you hit your head." You reach a hand down, palm up, in an offer to help him stand.
He wets his lips and sees you follow the movement with your eyes, pink dusting across your cheeks. "Probably," he replies as he sits up slowly, his elbows coming up to support him. He groans as pain shoots through his body, doing nothing to drown how badly he wants you in this moment. He moves slowly, pulling oxygen through his lungs as he tries to keep himself under control and focus on moving with as little pain as he can. He refuses to grab your hand as he stands, suddenly towering over you. You swallow and step back a bit, taking in his large stature, refusing to let your eyes wander from his face.
His hands clench at his sides, suddenly itching to reach out and touch you as you look up at him with something a little bit more than fear. You take a breath to steady yourself, and his lips twitch with a smirk again. Your face flattens, not liking how amused he finds this situation.
"You really need to go to a doctor or hospital or something. I'm not a professional in what happened last night."
He looks down at his wounds, not seeing anything wrong with them, "Why? You did a good job. I'm not dead. Not bleeding out anymore."
You look down at his stitched side, hands reaching out to touch the bruising around it. You don't pay attention to the sharp inhale he takes, assuming he's flinching only from the pain. "Sorry," you mutter, pulling your touch back, but keeping your gaze on the stitching, not seeing the shudder that racks his shoulders as his pupils practically consume his eyes, "What if it gets infected?"
While you're worrying over his side, he closes his eyes with a clenched jaw, trying to remain unaffected. Did you touch Matt like this? The thought burns into him. He grabs your wrist when you go to touch it again, your attention shooting back to him.
"It won't. We'll keep it clean." His voice is husky, low, and you keep assuming his reactions are caused by his pain. Not by you.
"We?" You ask, suddenly incredulous.
"I..." Dex pauses, dark ideas coming to him. He shouldn't. But he will. "I don't have a place to stay. Matt said you were safe." Repeating what he'd said earlier.
You bite down on your lip again, the sight almost infuriating him. Fuck, didn't you know what you were doing to him? His grip tightens just briefly on your wrist, making you stop as you look up at him worriedly.
If the Daredevil...if Matt trust you this much, to send his injured friend, to tell him that you were a safe place...then how could you deny him? It could hurt Matt, whatever he was doing. You trusted the Daredevil. You trusted Matt. Therefore, you'd trust Dex. The decision in your mind comes to your expression and you nod, suddenly resolute. But firm.
"Okay. You can...stay here. I don't have a guest bedroom though, so-"
"We can have a sleepover in your room."
You laugh, the absurdity of the situation, the relief of knowing this stranger was okay, the lack of sleep, all of it, comes out in a release. Your laugh peals off into a giggle, hand waving him off as you turn into your kitchen. "You're silly, Dex." Not knowing he was dead serious, your back turned to him as you look through your fridge, "I'll make some breakfast. Go take a shower, okay? Then I need help with that rug when we're done."
Dex watches with dark eyes as you hum, guard down and back to him as you pull out eggs from the carton. Busying yourself with making him food. He rolls his shoulders and neck, trying to shake off the tension consuming him. He's lucky you don't turn around when he's palming his aching and throbbing cock through his boxers, your hips swaying with a song you're still humming. Sure, he'll take a shower. Use your shampoo. Think of you naked in there. Maybe he'll take his time. Release himself with you in the room next to him. Maybe he'll get caught. His hand grips around his cock, making the blood rush to the tip. He almost groans. Turn around. He begs you in his mind. You don't.
By the time you do, he's already disappeared into your bathroom, shower turned on. You have no idea the kind of person you'd just let in your space and house. Into your life. You're blissfully ignorant, beating the eggs into a scramble, happy to be of service to something greater than yourself. To be helping Matt. All the while the dark stranger is slicking his cock with your body wash in your shower, thinking about how he can't wait to get his hands on you. How he'd lied about what Matt said. He bites back a moan when his dick throbs in his soapy hand, balls pulling up tight. Not yet, he chides himself, slowly his rhythm as the blood from last night washes away, water cascading down his back.
Lied about Matt knowing he was here. Lied about him saying you were safe. In fact, the Devil himself told him to stay away from you. That you were too good. He knew then you were something Matt wanted to keep to himself. He didn't know where Daredevil was now, maybe worse off than he was last night. All he knew was he got to you first.
"Dex?" Your voice calls from outside the door.
Your voice and the shock of hearing you makes him gasp, his cock jumping in his hand at the thought of you walking in. His head falls forward as his hips twitch, unable to stop himself from fucking into his grip, his balls tightening up again.
"Y-yeah?" He moans out, needing you to talk to him more.
You have your head close to the bathroom door, not pressing your ear against it, but close enough so you can hear his reply. You frown, upset that he sounds in so much pain. You'd be sure to get out some ibuprofen or some other pain med out for him.
"You okay?"
It fills him with such need to hear how concerned you are. How cute. His dick leaks with precum, his fist dragging down the length, his thumb swiping his tip when it eases up before fucking back down the shaft. His movements getting jerkier and louder, not able to bring himself to care if you catch on to what he's doing in here.
"Fuck." he curses lowly, before he's replying a little bit louder for you to hear, "Yeah. Yeah. I'm good." A groan falls from his lips before he can catch it, his orgasm building at the base of his spine. He needs you to talk one more time, once more, he's right there--
"Well, breakfast is ready and I have some clothes set out for you-"
He doesn't hear what else you say, his orgasm seizing him up, cock throbbing in his grip, hips fucking into his grip like he wishes it was your hot and tight pussy wrapped around him. He bites down on his bottom lip so hard, hard enough to taste blood as he tries to keep the devastating moan in his mouth. His cum shoots out of him in ropes, spilling in your shower, balls tightened up so much he loses his breath. He shoots a hand out against the shower wall, keeping himself upright, panting as he comes back down.
"I'm coming, sweetheart." He calls out to you with a biting smile, one you can't see but can hear in his tone.
Your face is flushed, thighs pressed together, not really sure what you'd just heard but you could hear his insinuating tone. You say nothing as you turn back to your kitchen, trying to catch your breath. He wouldn't do that. Surely not, if he was a friend to Matt, he'd be nothing but a respectable man. You convince yourself it was nothing but the pain, and you sit down at your table, ready to eat breakfast, not knowing one bit of better. Not realizing you'd let something, someone, dark and dangerous in.
He comes out, dressed in loose sweats, missing a shirt still. A hungry expression on his face that finds you wondering just how starved he is. A smile that reminds you of a shark spreads across his lips as he asks,
"What's on the menu?"
