âď¸Falling Starsâď¸4
Bullseye/Poindexter x Insecure!Vigilante!reader
summary: you've been a burden your entire life. your parents said so. many, many times.
it's been a stone in your heart since you were little. you're too much. people always walk away once they get to know the real you. how clingy you are, how needy...
you're trying to make up for it now by serving your community and holding tightly to the friends you have now with a death grip that you can only describe to your therapist without sounding crazy.
it was going great until... until him.
Warnings/tags: AGE GAP, jealousy, fluff, angst, mental illness, attachment issues, canon typical violence, language, mentions of gore (tell me to add more and ill add them because I don't know what else SLOWBURN.
EVENTUAL SMUT. NO USE OF Y/N
âď¸Previous chapterâď¸
â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨
Everything is looking up since you started hanging out with Dex.
Youâve opened your eyes in his place a few times now, always to a change of clothes and always to a big meal and coffee. Itâs different than your other acquaintanceships in that you arenât simply being invited to someone elseâs event out of courtesyâ breakfast in Dexâs apartment is for you.
Heâs patient, attentive, and never asks you to leave, which you take full advantage of, stretching out your visits with him to their limits, until you start to feel like youâre taking up too much of his time before making your way to the tower or home.
there are chairs now, a new bed that doesnât creak when you roll out of it, a bath mat, the walls have been painted, and he asks you for decor tips every time you say you need to leave without fail, and you soak it up, saying more words than absolutely necessary to draw that out too.
truth be told, you feel guilty for it.
Guilty the way you were as a child when your mother complained about all the dishes you used or how your father griped about how much money you were costing in food.
But Dex pays out of his own pocket. Always cleans up after your meals. Always smiles when you do and never complains about what an imposition you are.
You apologize for it. Say youâre deeply, truly sorry.
You cry about it with your therapist.
The only time he ever shows up to a fight is when the task force is already pummeling you and whoever youâre protecting into the ground, but heâs starting to cover youâ aggressivelyâ when things get too iffy. People have started turning into clouds of red mist beside you or falling flat on their lifeless faces feet away.
Youâre grateful for the advantage but you tell him he doesnât need to waste the energy on you, because you feel bad that he keeps going out of his way to make sure nothing hits you. If you get hurt, youâll just bounce back anyway.
He chuckles at that but says nothing.
And you spend three days wondering if he was making fun of you. Of course heâd laugh. Youâre new to combat (getting better every day, according to Yelena) and heâs taking pity on the fact that you fuck up so often.
You cry about that too, but tell no one and continue to cling to any morsel of attention heâs willing to give you.
When you deviate from the morning routine, put more sugar in your coffee than usual, skip coffee altogether, spend too much time in the bathroom, or reply to a text in the middle of breakfast, he gets⌠uncomfortable. A robot resisting variables beyond its basic programming.
And you give him the same patience he gives you. Ask him if heâs okay. He somehow always isâŚ
Except when you start talking about dating.
You notice he gets snippy. A bit harsh.
You wonder if itâs because he isnât doing so well in his own pursuit of a partner, if thatâs something heâs interested in at all.
He never asks you to stop but you do anyway, because you donât want to disrupt the delicate ecosystem youâve created with him.
After doing absolutely nothing but talk his ear off for almost two months, you realize you need to spread out your energy to sidestep the unhealthy obsession youâre developing. One man canât possibly handle all the thoughts in your head alone, and you donât want him to eventually grow tired of you. so you start making more of the connections you were lacking in the underground and you pivot your behavior hard to distract yourself from him.
Your new favorite vigilantes are Heartsong and Shapeslip. a mutant couple that lives in a little townhouse on the edge of Hellâs Kitchen, so close to your place that you could walk there. You get their numbers, offer to petsit their cat, volunteer at the local shelters with them, and even take them out to eat a few times.
you keep busy by tending your plants, bugging Bob and getting a second snake named Tangerine between neurotically asking Dex if he can see the Little Dipper from where he is and trying not to let his age stop you from being yourself around him.
He isnât the oldest person you know, that gauntlet belongs to Bucky, but Dex has to be at least a decade older than you. The idea that he might see you simply as a fledgeling beneath his larger and far more experienced wing makes you want to throw up.
heâs a sturdy, solid presence in your life now. Every day heâs involved in is a good dayâ one where you get to turn your brain off and just exist. Being around him is easy as breathing.
you know the texture of his hands and the shape of his nose better than your own. The curl of his lashes, the way he walks like an apex predator, the smell of his aftershave, all things you avoid thinking about while youâre with him, because if you did it would be obvious how desperately you want him. You start to wonder if heâd let you drag your tongue up the length of his throat in the middle of a restaurant. If heâd push you away for laying a wet kiss on his scarred cheek. You want to know what heâs like in bed and after. If he turns soft and cuddly or cold and distantâŚ
You like him. You do. And you do everything you can not to let him noticeâ not to let your feelings run wild; a plan which consists exclusively of ramping up on dates as if some random guy off the street could fill the gaping Bullseye shaped hole beginning to carve itself into your chest.
Theyâve become more frequent and increasingly disappointing as the days go on;
One fell asleep at the movie theater,
Another said all the right things over text but not a single word in person.
One was on the phone for the entire dinner and joked that you were going to get fat if you kept eating like that.
One only talked about himself.
One spat directly onto your vagina and was asked to leave immediately.
The one you really like keeps popping into your inbox for a few hours and then disappearing.
And, of course, the most recent showed up to your apartment door with a dildo in his hand.
Youâre talking to Yelena on the phone about it when you recieve a notification that something is moving by the window that opens to your fire escapeâŚ
â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨
The past few months have been a series of trust building events that leave Dex in both distress and awe.
You tell him the reason you never joined the Avengers is because theyâre like an arrow. Someone points them in a direction and they fly straight ahead.
In your own words, youâre more like a rabid dog. You asked too many questions, had too many objections. You deviated from the plan one too many times and Valentina let you go from your trial period with a smile and an allowance to keep you on retainer.
youâre useful because your body can be collected from incident sites to recover intel that might be lost to a paper file or hard drive.
he hates that youâre reckless and that you volunteer yourself in ways he never would.
Thatâs what he is now. The same as you, except wilder. More fluid.
he wants you to be that way. to see your value beyond being used by other people and he clings to that. Grips it tight with both hands and refuses to let go.
You tell him itâs okay.
but he keeps that to himself and grinds his teeth while devising ways to convince you itâs no way to live.
âI thought you were joking about the tracking chip thing.â Dex frowns, thumb pressing into the hard lump beneath the skin of your wrist.
You pull the sleeve of his shirt to its full length again, picking up where you left your meal off. âIâm the only one that has itâ you know, just in case my body gets lost.â
He doesnât argue. Just sits there imagining Valentina de Fontaine with steak knives in her eyes as you finish your burger.
itâs a work in progress.
But the two of you move forward in other ways.
Heâs loading his gun and spare cartridges at his kitchen counter when you call.
Itâs a surprise, since you only ever text him, and he lets it ring once, twice, three times, staring at your name before deciding to answer.
âHey,â he greets you, not knowing what else to say.
âHi.â Your tone is timid. Clipped. He can tell something is wrong. âCan I come over?â
He looks down at the metal pieces spread over his countertop. At his dingy apartment that youâve already spent so much time in, that heâs changed in dozens of ways to make a more suitable habitat for you. ââŚEverything alright?â
âi got into some troubleâ I handled itâ but...â
His palm spreads over tile, resting the weight of his tense shoulders on one arm. âWhere are you?â
âThe tower is closer than I am.â
âI know, I just⌠I feel safe at your place.â
Youâve chosen him over earthâs mightiest heroes.
Heat creeps through himâ from his heart to his stomach, up the column of his throat; burning him from the inside out. Turning him pliant and biddable so quickly it makes him sick. âIâll come get you.â
âItâs fine, I called a cab. The driverâs gonna wonder why my guts are falling out but oh well.â
âWhat kind of food should I order?â He asks, completely abandoning the gun, the bullets, the tile. Youâll be here in less than twenty minutes. He wants a head start.
He wants to help you in any way he can.
âThai, if anywhereâs open.â
He nods at the wall. âIâll see you soon.â
He spends the time it takes you to arrive breathing deeply and gripping the fabric over his heart.
This is what heâd wanted, isnât it? For you to trust him. To choose him. For one euphoric moment, he isnât competing with anyone, he isnât vying for favor, he doesnât have to convince you of his character.
This is what friends do, isnât it?
Heâs overcome with sorrow, anger, the need to tell you everything thatâs been weighing him down these past few years. About Fisk and agent Nadeem andâ and Foggy NelsonâŚ
If you need someone safe, he can be that for you. But, as a friend, wouldnât you want to be that for him too?
He wouldnât know. He hasnât had one in a while. Doesnât remember what the rules are, not that the ones he used to go by ever worked for him the way they were supposed to. And you havenât said it yet. He hasnât received any title from you.
He realizes how far ahead of himself heâs getting.
And after his thoughts slow, and his heart stills, he waits by the door, staring at the handle impatiently until he hears your tentative knock.
He opens it so fast and so hard the frame splinters around the doorjamb and before he can get a word out, your arms are around his ribs, the side of your face pressed flat to his chest.
Dex stands there stiffly, cupping your waist with one palm until you let go.
You tell him he smells like gunsmoke and mint toothpaste.
He excuses himself to stare into the mirror, trying desperately to ignore the wet from your blood making his shirt stick to his torso.
the shower he takes is too long and freezing cold.
Of course, the surprises donât end thereâŚ
Dex watches you pat the backs of the two masked teenagers you were protecting before sending them off and kneeling to pull his knives from the chests and heads and necks of task force agents.
You collect them with reverence, touching cheeks and foreheads as the blades slip from their bodies.
You clearly donât hate the task force.
You donât cry over them either.
And you hand him back his knives without looking at him. Without playfully mocking a punch to his chest or a bullet to his head.
The silence between you makes him itch. Itâs the first time heâs felt any kind of judgement from you and he reaches for something to say to bring you back to the present from wherever it is your thoughts have gone.
itâs none of his business what kind of day youâre having, and the most heâd be able to say if you told him whatâs bothering you isâ thatâs hard. Thatâs really hard. But he wants you to tell him anyway. Youâre the nearest thing he has to a friend. There is nothing you need to keep from him. Heâs a safe place, you said so yourself.
âIâm sorry you had to see that.â He says to your back as you glance out an open window. And he is. Heâs sorry that you had to see him as anything other than what heâs molded himself into to keep you in his life. In his defense, he wouldnât need to keep putting them down if they werenât constantly replaced by new morons looking for notoriety and a fat paycheck. But now that he knows you, heâs sorry for all of it.
Your shoulders droop, and a jagged piece of wood falls out of your abdomen through a hole in your suit. Your fingers graze the spot, coming back into view slicked with blood, but you donât bother wiping it off. âThey shouldnât have signed up to kill us if they didnât want us killing them back.â
he isnât sure how many beats his heart skips.
It doesnât directly absolve him of anything, but itâs enough. It gives him the confidence to lay a hand on your shoulder and watch the traffic pass by with you.
You lean into him, and he tries not to let his fingers curl any tighter.
Things work out well for a while. But he watches you closely enough to notice the instant you begin to withdraw.
It happens in stages; Youâre suddenly too busy to stay for breakfast after a night of healing in his bed, you have to meet a friend after a fight, you stop leaving your suit in his apartment so thereâs no reason to stop by later to pick it up.
You hardly text him, and when you do itâs inconsequential. The type of bullshit one would come up with to pass the time by a water cooler in an office.
Heâs spent his life wondering what social barriers heâs slammed up against every time someone walks away and the fact that you havenât told him why youâve all but disappeared is corroding his insides like acid.
you arenât perfect, he knows that. Not something morally pure or psychologically dominant to aspire to, or worship or any of the things he felt about Julie and Fisk, but it still grates him that you freely give others what he himself has been trying to earn for weeks.
There isnât a name yet for whatever is going on between you, and he knows he wants there to be.
In the beginning you talked about giving gifts and running errands with the people in your life just because you liked being around them, which doesnât seem fair, not when heâs done all he can to make himself appealing enough for screensaver photos and mundane errands.
Dex wants to be needed by someoneâ accepted fully and given some kind of purpose in society, in a communityâ heâs just sorry that you happen to be the only available body to fill that need.
sorry that he needs more than what he can reasonably ask you for, worried that he may have done something to make you decide he isnât worth the effort anymore, and angry that once he could see actual connection on the horizon, you had the audacity to yank it out from under him.
as if it had all been just a game to you. Like he meant nothing.
youâre giving his attention to someone new nowâ your friends, your neighbors, some random, unworthy man from a dating site; and he canât stand the idea of someone else having what he wants.
Dex thinks on that, and thinks and thinks, until the dishes and furniture seem like theyâd look better in shards and splinters all over the ground. The only thing keeping him from destroying the safe haven heâs built for you is the idea that seeing his hands bloody from rage as opposed to necessity might scare you. Might give you a more valid and concrete reason to never come back if you were to catch him in the act.
He waits, arms folded against the table he bought for you.
And after checking his phone for the millionth time tonight, he canât fucking take it anymore.
If you wonât come to him, heâll go to you.
â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨
I feel like I want to note that Iâm making this as slow as it is because people always portray Dex as hypersexual or dominant in a relationship OR like a slightly less moral(if that word even applies) version of Joe Goldberg.(Iâve read both those versions of him by other people and I like those too but I wanted to tell a different story)
But heâs an awkward weirdo, he doesnât know wtf heâs doing when it comes to people and aside from him being HOT, thatâs why we like him.
I wanted to capitalize on the fact that heâs incredibly insecure in his interactions and THATS what kicks off this romance, not some instantaneous obsession he has with you for no reason. That feels hollow sometimes. It doesnât feel earned to me.
We will definitely eventually have that murderous jealousy but itâs going to take time for him to build the confidence he needs to see you as HIS.
Anyway, hope youâre enjoying things so far!
ellievsbear
blakekathryn
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
2087
snowghoul
