what is it w me and men w glasses????? i canāt fucking see they canāt fucking see we making out and my frames are ruined, they steam up (hot) i canāt see bcs my glass have steamed up ( not hot)
Dex takes a liking to the regular at the diner, after a couple of weeks he decides to follow them home.
3.7k
themes of self harm and suicide/ attempted suicide. dead dove do not eat,Ā stalking, smut,Ā obsessive Dex, suicidal reader.Ā fem readerĀ but lowkey gender neutral?Ā overdose, selfharm, blood play? cutting, Dacryphilia:
afab,
one << read on a03?
Soon everything stops. It comes to a sudden halt. You almost miss him.Ā
Almost. You couldn't be too certain.
You figure this out on Wednesday when you come home from your support group, upset that you couldn't share a glance with Dex after he had seemingly disappeared too.Ā
Wrapped up in shame. There's no candy waiting for you on the counter, and after that it has stopped. A blunt end. You had carried on with life, figuring the stalker had just gotten bored of you, which was to be expected.Ā
Everyone gets bored of you in the end.Ā
Three months pass and then a year, and you decide that it's finally time to end things, your stalker canāt stop you this time. You had been clinging on from the very beginning.Ā
This time you will finally finish something.Ā
You leave the support group, walk down to the dinner. Order your cherry pie in your booth, sitting in silence, you eat it like always, so quickly you canāt even taste it. You don't want to savour it. Then you stand. Grabbing your scarf and jacket. Shrugging it on. Cash falls to the table as you take a cigarette out. You smile to yourself.Ā
The tv lights up about some escaped convicts in the area. You recognise the name, āBenjamin Poindexter.ā Sometime last year he had been on a killing spree. Resulting in his incarceration. You look up to the tv screen, a picture flashes up. He's grinning, ear to ear. Eyes half glazed over and shut. You find your heart beating quickly. Dex? Like Support group fbi dex from a year ago? Your eyes widen. But you dismiss any worry.
You take in your final look of the Diner, the regulars haven't changed, the paint still peeling. As your eyes gloss over. You spot the man you haven't seen for a year sitting in the back, his face covered by a newspaper. But his eyes stare back at you. You remember those eyes.Ā The paper creases in his grip, and your eyes twitch. Something in your head tells you to leave quickly. You feel the pieces start to click together. You look away, pretending to ignore the bad feeling.Ā
Coldness washes over you.Ā
The phone calls, the comforter wrapped over you after late nights. The guy at the Diner every Wednesday, the one you never paid any attention to until he came to the support group. And then he left the same time your stalker did.Ā
fuck
How could you be so stupid?
You swallow, ignoring that gut feeling that tells you to run as you pass booths and calmly walk out the door. You light your cigarette, wide eyed as you feel his gaze still on you. You don't turn to look at him. You pant in panic. But pretend like you haven't noticed anything.
You walk home with your head down, steady, unshaking.Ā
The sound of footsteps behind you doesn't stop as you approach your home. And when you turn to cross over the road heās there standing still watching you. Your heart thumps against your chest. You blink back tears.
You don't cross and walk further, but then you have to cross to get to your building and heās not there, which scares you even more.Ā
You duck inside your apartment. Avoiding turning on the lights, instead you rush to your bedside table. Pulling out the sharpened hunting knife, the blade flicks out with ease and the cool steel presses into your palm until you bleed, you hiss. You run to the bathroom, shedding off your clothes until you stand in your underwear. You start to run a bath. Locking the door behind you.
Youāve never been in a hurry to kill yourself before.
Heavy steps pound up the stairs, reaching your door. There's a rattling noise, you picture your door handle violently shaking. It becomes more intense every second that passes. And then it stops. You breathe slowly.
A minute passes .
Then the familiar noise of the window into your apartment painfully squeaks out . You hear him stalk into your home, footsteps marking where he is. You know it's deliberate.
He wants you to know he's here.
You don't stand a chance.
They litter the apartment, jolting you from where you stand, you grip the knife in your palm, stuffing your clothes in the gap under the door to prevent any entrance.Ā
The footsteps hover at the door as you hold your breath. Clean hand covering your mouth and pinching your nose. You fall to the floor slowly wrapping your arms around your legs. You reach over to the tap to turn it off, the metal screeches. Doors open, slam shut, and then the footsteps come back to the bathroom. The door rattles.Ā
You stand quickly, moving to the medicine cabinet, grabbing the pills, your hand grips the lid. It takes a few tries to get it open, smearing your blood all over the orange plastic. Almost jumping for joy when you finally do.Ā
The door stops rattling.Ā
So you know what's coming next.Ā
Solid thumping.Ā
The sound of wood splintering inside of the cheap plywood door.
You turn the tap on, emptying the pills into your hand, your mouth over the sink.
By the time the pills reach your mouth youāre flung to the floor by the heavy weight of your stalker, they scatter over the linoleum tiles.Ā
Eyes shut tightly as you wait for your head to hit the tiles, but it smashes into a leather palm instead, you grip the knife tightly in your palm as he brings your body closer to his, hushing at you softly. You're all hot and flushed. His masked covered face nuzzles into your neck as you cry.Ā
It's overwhelmingly claustrophobic, his smell, his touch.
Ā Him.
You grip around the knife to bring it up to him, but he pushes your fist into the wall so hard that the knife drops on impact.
You whine at the pain that spreads from your knuckles, and your hand meets his masked face in a solid punch. His eyes smile, he only holds you tighter.Ā
Closer.
āIt was youā you let out a breathy sigh, āThe gifts, that night with the pillsāĀ
āI saved youā He shuffles with you to stand, youāre still gripped tightly in his hold as he brings you into your bedroom, feet dragging along the floor. Stumbling towards something solid.
You suddenly remember how unclothed you are in comparison to him, not that it matters. You're sure he has seen it all before.
āI don't need saving,ā you grunt.
He places you on the bed and moves to your wardrobe. His shirt stretches across the steady muscle of his back; pulling out a tshirt, sweatpants, and thick socks. You don't dare to move. Stuck in place analysing him. He places the clothes to the side of you. And you watch him hook his gloved fingers under his mask, pulling the soft fabric from under his jaw. Freezing his grey speckled blonde hair.
Ā Eyes on yours. You look away. Hearing him shed his gloves next.
āIt's late, youāve had a big dayā he kneels in front of you. Arm swinging out to turn your bedside light on.Ā
You don't fight it.Ā
You feel yourself begin to dissociate.
Glaring at him as he unraveles the socks and slides your feet into them. Then grabbing the sweat pants and moving them up your legs, you lift your hips and he ties them at the waist. You lift your arms and he pulls the shirt down over your chest. And your hands return to the edge of the bed. His own press into your waist, finger tracing the bare skin.Ā
Hard and calloused. You figure its from handling weaponry.
Heās still kneeling before you. āYou canāt die, you won't."
It's an order.
You don't answer back, his head presses into your lap. You watch him blink as he stares into the wall. He feels heavy against your thighs. Your eyes begin to water. You bring your hand towards his cheek, still sore from the knife. Taking him into your palm.Ā
He presses himself against it. The blood spreads from your hand to his skin. Marking him with red. Hand hot with pain. He watches the tears fall from your cheeks. Blinking softly up at you. He reaches a hand out slowly, like he's trying to pet a stray cat. It's awkward and untrained.Ā
He doesn't make any more sudden moves. And when it finally reaches your soft skin, he brushes away the tear with his thumb. Bringing his hand to his lips where he sucks the salty moisture off his skin.Ā
You shudder. Eyes still concentrating on his lips as they part. His hand presses in the one that lays on his cheek, and he pulls your palm towards his mouth. Pressing wet kisses against clean skin, you watch his tongue peek out between his lips, as he starts to lap up the blood that pools over the wrinkles on your palm. Teeth dig into your skin. Like a rabid dog.Ā
You start to pant, heart thumping against your chest, muscles in your wrist tensing as your eyes lift towards his own. You realise that he hasn't stopped watching you. His eyes are an espresso foam kind of caramel under the warm orange light of your bedroom.Ā
You canāt find words to tell him to stop. His tongue glides against the wound slowly, spit mixing with your blood, your cut aches, burns and his tongue sends heat down your spine. You feel yourself shuffle in place. The skin is raw and raised, it stings sharply.
When the blood is cleaned from your hand, he pauses. Lips wet with spit and blood. His eyes catch on your own. And suddenly his mouth is on yours. His hands pressing your head closer towards him. You find yourself frozen. He licks and bites at your lips, spit dribbling down your chin, as he pushes it back towards your mouth with his tongue. You find your eyes fluttering shut. Lashes resting against your cheek. He pulls away.Ā
āKiss me backā his thumb wipes at what you can only believe is blood, you're sure itās smudged on your skin.
Ā āPlease,ā he whimpers. He throws his lips back on yours, and you find yourself moving this time, and as he sucks at your bottom lip, you suck in a harsh breath. He sees the opening and goes in for the kill, His teeth begin to clash at yours. He tastes like coffee and metal.
He kisses like heās hungry. Not knowing when his next meal is. His hand runs through your hair and then grips hard at the base of yourĀ skull. Pulling back tightly, neck exposed to his teeth,Ā He kisses down the column of your throat and then takes the skin between his pearly whites and sucks hard. Your hand comes up and presses at his shoulder. Trying to push him away. But he finds his way closer. Burying into your skin. It travels to his hair knotting into the thick tufts and you pull back, but he only moans in return, hips jolting at your movement.Ā He rises at the movement instead, pushing himself between your thighs, you find yourself laying back on the bed and he straddles over you.Ā
āPleaseā you mutter. Head shaking, Your eyebrows furrow.Ā
You watch his head tilt, smile cracking into the harsh panes of his face, it's too perfect, like he's practised this whole routine over and over in the mirror.
You can imagine him doing that now.Ā
Perfecting his lines.Ā
Ā āDont act like you don't like thisā he purrs, hands running up your cotton shirt as they nestle over your heart, he feels the way it thumps over his hand, hot skin pressed against your own.Ā
He could kill you so easily, youāve seen the news, but for those months spent watching you, he hadn't.Ā
But don't you want to die?
āIāve seen what you watch,ā he moves to pull your shirt over your head, and you find yourself complying. Arms lifting back up. Only moments before he had dressed you up like a doll. āReally dirty stuff, huhā he mocks.
āI know what you readā his eyes run down your soft bare skin, calloused fingers tracing over the small bruises he had marked onto you. His touch feels like small pricks.
You almost whimper. Catching yourself before he hears it.Ā
Too late.
That shit eating grin lights up his face again. And his hand travels to your neck, where the weight of his palm rests against your throat. Heavy. āStalkers, serial killers, Vigilantes. Well sweetheart. You sure have a type. I think I'm checking off all your boxesā he's teasing you.
Your breath hitches. Eyes twitching. Lips pursed. Your eyes meet his. And then look away immediately, you force yourself to focus on something else. The wall. The floor, his perfect fucking face.
Shit. Your skin jumps.
āYou can't hide from me.ā He moves your face, positioning you just how he wants. Lips pursed.
āI just don't get itā you sigh, his fingers flex around your throat as you catch yourself leaning into them. āWhy me?ā
āBecause I noticed you,ā he hums, āit's as simple as that.ā
You feel his thumb brush against your pulse and he holds it there, just for a few seconds, he feels it bounce.
Thump, thump.
āThat day, when I asked you out for a coffee, you hesitated.ā, you pause, ā I don't understandā your voice strains. āWe could have ~no. What im saying is. You had an opportunity and you didn't take it.ā
His hand traces your hip, and then searches deeper. Slipping under soft fabric. Burrowing under your panties. You find yourself gripping his wrist, but his eyes tell you otherwise. And you feel yourself give in. You loosen your hold on him. And his fingers dance their ways across your skin.Ā
āYou don't know what it was like for me, watching a pretty thing like you for months and suddenly we're talking, you're spilling your guts to me like an old friend. How would I respond to that?ā
You gasp, as he finds your clit straight away. Your back arches in response.
āEveryday I spent in that prison I wanted to be at that diner with you, watching you drink that coffee, wiping whipped cream off your lips. I just had to fuck things up. But it's okay. I'm here nowā he swipes the pad of his finger over you. Watching you hide your whines. āIm here to save you, to balance the scales.ā
āmm~ā you moan. The sound falls from your lips before you can catch yourself. He smirks. His mouth pressed on yours, his fingers working over your pearl. Slick covering them. One hand lifting you up into an arch by your throat. He kisses softer this time, now he's satiated, slow and precise movements as his lips settle on yours, it's here where you start to fall apart. Your eyes gloss over as he works tight circles. Eyebrows start to touch, you're struggling to kiss back, you feel his nose nudge yours.
And when he notices you starting to give in. how your body starts to relax. He stops, leaning back. Picking apart the small little bow and shedding your joggers quickly. You shiver at the air against your skin.
He sheds his tight black top first. Tanned and scarred. Loosening his holster that sits around his hips. Your cheeks heat at the view, it's like something out of one of your romance books, three weeks ago you would've rolled your eyes. But you find yourself hooked on the feeling he's giving you.
His gear thumps against the wooden floor. And then he straddles, the hard fabric of his cargos brush into your thighs, you feel the stitching rub as he settles over you. You watch his chest rise, his heavy muscle leans against you, you're trapped. Caged between him and your bed. You push yourself up on your elbows.Ā
āDo you want this?ā He cocks his head to the side. The sides of his mouth flutter.
You find yourself nodding in agreement.Ā
āI want you to say the wordsā he orders
āShit Yes, I want thisā you agree.
You give in so easily.
āDexāĀ he nods at you, you cheeks heat.
āI want this Dex, PleaseāĀ
He hums in pleasure at your agreement, eyes rolling back as he smirks. His thick fingers press against the metal, soft leather slapping against his trousers as he works the belt out. Eyes trained on you. Face stern and unchanging.
He takes your hand in his, guiding it to his bulge, he holds it there you feel him throb under you. āthis is what you do to me.ā His tongue peeks out his lips. And you suck in a breath, his hand leaving yours. You feel your confidence grow. Hand running over the outline of his cock, it trails up to the button of his cargos, and you yank the fabric until it gives, pulling the zip with it. He stands back, shedding his cargos and boxers. You find yourself doing the same.Ā
Unclasping your bra, and ridding yourself of your panties. His mouth is on yours.
Body pressing against you before you can even find time to look back at him. He's radiating heat, body chasing body, while you push yourself up the bed. Your legs part, as he nestles himself between them, eyes flicking down to run the head of his cock against your wetness.Ā
When he looks back, your head is turned from him.
ācome on eyes on meā he taps your cheek lightly with the back of his palm. Eyes finding him. āThat's it, don't be shyā he sings as he feeds thick glorious inches into you. You stretch around him, he watches your face carefully.Ā
Trained on every little twitch. Every blink. He studies. Slack jaw, baring his bottom teeth as he automatically finds that little spot inside of you that makes you arch your back. He cages you into the bed, arms either side of your head, you feel his hot breath against sweaty skin. The soft sheets stick to your back.
Confined into every inch of you, he makes you take it painfully slow. You hate every minute of it, it feels like a heart beat. He pushes slowly and pulls away just as leisurely. One hand running up and down the curves of your hip. Your jaw falls , and he mocks you. Mimicking it himself.
He takes enjoyment in this torture. You see that spread against his features as he lets out a soft inaudible grunt.
Face screwed up. He's taking in every second, savouring the moment.
His breath fans across your skin in the form of a throaty moan. Part of your chest whines, somewhere deep in your heart you feel a little pain, stomach full of impending doom. āI don't want to let you go,ā he grunts, he sounds choked up about something. And his brown eyes reflect that pain. āYouāre mineā
He's going to be the death of you.Ā
You clench down on him when you realise this. His fingers grip tight into your skin, causing you to yelp at the pain that spreads through youĀ
He mewls in reaction "Oh you liked that? Huh?ā his eyes glaze over. Half lidded, under the soft warmth of your lamp. ā That you're mine, that you could do whatever you wanted to me and i would learn to take itā
A single tear rolls down into your hair.Ā
Once it starts, you can't find yourself stopping, face wet with tears, you push your head into his shoulder. āDont hide from me.ā he whimpers against your neck, hand pulling you back from him. You watch his hazy eyes, and his lips brush against your cheeks, slowly. And then he's lapping up your tears, moaning into your skin. āDont cryā he hushes at you softly āplease, dont cryā, his skin emits warmth, and he tucks himself into you. Still pressed so deeply. His body is oppressive. But the weight of him seems to comfort you. And you stop yourself from hiccuping. Against his lips. You taste the salt of your tears on his tongue.Ā
āYou canāt kill yourselfā He whispers into your skin, you feel the words vibrate up into your chest, āIām going to make you betterā, he starts to fuck you properly now, Harder. Deeper.
āWhatever you want you can~ah,ā he keens, lips parting into a delicious display of pleasure. āhave it. I'll get it for you, make it for youā
He pounds. And you feel the heavy heat spread against your back, in a state of delirious panic. āI wantā you let out a sad chuckle, his lashes tickling your skin. āShit, I. Can I come?ā
Head cocking, his chest presses harder against yours, your legs tremble. āfuck , you ask so nicelyā he pants. Your nails scratch against his back. ā you can have anything , if you ask like thatā
His fingers find your clit. Your back arches. Pushing your chest into him.
āDex~ā You sing.
Skin against skin, Sheets ruffling.Ā
It washes over you slowly, wrapped up in pleasure. Eyes rolling back. Lips parted in ecstasy.Ā You feel his gaze against you, he stutters. Fingers pressing into any bit of skin they can find. He presses his head into your neck. Biting hard as he comes. You're too spent to react.Ā
He leaves the bed after a few minutes of you huffing on your back, eyes shut. He watches from the door as you begin to tuck into yourself, like you do at the diner. Arm hanging off the bed.
You find yourself drifting off to sleep, you're not quite sure if he had left. Until you feel him tucking himself behind you, pressing his hand into your now bandaged one.Ā
A soft kiss against your temple. You find yourself melting into his touch. And for the first time in a long time, your lips stretch into a genuine smile.
this is not instagram or whatever other like-based social medium, likes don't matter that much, your experience is not shaped by an all-knowing algorithm, but by you and reblogging is the lifeblood of this godforsaken corner of the internet
if you love tumblr and if you want to show your appreciation for the creators of the content here, you reblog
Dex takes a liking to the regular at the diner, after a couple of weeks he decides to follow them home.
3k
themes of self harm and suicide/ attempted suicide. dead dove do not eat, stalking, eventual smut, obsessive Dex, suicidal reader. fem reader but lowkey gender neutral? overdose, selfharm
two. read on a03?
Thereās something that catches his interest the sixth week it happens. Like always youāre sat in the little corner of the small dinner he visits weekly.Ā Youāre wearing almost the same outfit. A black bomber jacket that falls just below your ass. A washed out grey hoodie. A dark red scarf and a black cap that's been worn out and shredded over time. Sometimes you wear a black pleated skirt, but for the majority it's a pair of Adidas jeans,with three black stripes down the side and the dirtiest pair of converse he has ever seen. The same piece of gum has been stuck to the bottom of your shoe for at least two weeks.Ā
When you sit down in the corner you shed the bomber jacket and the scarf comes off with it, and then your hood comes up. He watches you press yourself deep into the cracked leather. The server will fill up two cups of the burnt dark roast coffee, always steaming, and then sheāll come over with a slice of cherry pie. It is cold at this time, the bottom is usually soggy. It's why he orders a slice of Banana Bread instead.Ā
Heāll watch you drink the two cups quickly. They do not get refilled and then he watches you stare at the cherry pie, watching the cream deflate for about fifteen minutes with your knees pressed against the table, tucked into yourself. You scoff it downĀ quicker than the coffee. Youāll slam down cash, leaving a two dollar tip. And leave.Ā
The whole thing takes 30 minutes exactly. He knows. Heās timed it thrice.
Every Wednesday for six weeks, around 7:15 you will enter that dinner. You will sit in the same corner booth. And then you will leave. Youāll stand outside with a cigarette hanging from your mouth, the lighter banging into your hand until it lights a strong enough flame. And then you walk away.Ā
On the seventh week, while you bang the lighter against your palm, eyebrows furrowed. You meet his eyes through the window, your expression doesn't change. You don't blink. Donāt shy away as he stares back. Unwavering until you light your cigarette and then turn back on to the street, the red glow of the neon light slips off your shoulders until you dissipate into the darkness.Ā
He canāt help himself, already piecing together the story in his mind. As you walk down the alleyway three men will come out.
One will push you against the wall searching your pockets, the other standing by the entrance of the alley keeping watch and the third will search your bag. They find nothing and because of this they get angry.
So, so angry.
He canāt imagine your face changing from the straight resting look you gave him. So he imagines that instead, a tear will slip out the side of your eye, and he can see his reflection in itĀ as he comes behind the guy that has pushed you into the wall.Ā
The guy pushes you into the wall with a knife, and his friends are already down on the floor.Ā
Yes.Ā
He did this quietly and quickly with a penny, because he never misses.Ā
And he imagines that the knife presses against your pretty little throat. Which he hasnāt seen yet. But he already knows how soft the skin will be. Because he's already imagined how he will hold it, without pressing. His fingers will caress softly. And you will whine.
The knife presses into your throat, but you don't look scared, and the assailant gets angry.
Ā And he's all like. āLook at me! Bitch, Fucking look at meāĀ
Dex would never call you a bitch.Ā
But youāll look at him instead, eyes softening and the knife slips slowly and nicks the skin. Your breath will catch. But it doesnt even matter bcs the bad man is on the ground. Dead. Toothpick lodged through his skull.
That's about as far as Dex gets before he's slipping out the door to follow you for the first time, following a trail of ash.
Your red scarf billows in the wind, it's like a big red sign that says āCome quick! Follow me!āĀ
And so he does. It's a short ten minute walk before you cross the road and head inside an apartment building. He waits over the other side of the road. Watching at the windows until one on the third floor lights up a shade of orange and he watches a very solemn you. Pearing out the open window before shutting it. Light switches off and thenĀ you move to what he believes is the bedroom, shedding your jacket and lying on top of your bed.Ā
He knows your routine by the end of the week.Ā
Following you to work at the little boutique, watching you through the window of some rundown coffee shop, dark roasted coffee burnt on his tongue, that's sacrifice. That's his good deed. He keeps you safe.
Heāll call your phone just to hear your little sighs, soft breathy āhello?ā savouring those moments of bliss as he watches the phone press against the heat of your cheek. Your voice rings out like a good luck charm. Watching the huff of annoyance leave your lips as the phone slides down your face. āCold-Callerā youāll think. Youāll go along with your day. No notice of who's watching.Ā
When lunch break rolls around you come to the coffee shop, ordering a light salad, black decaf. You take your seat outside on the bright and sunny days, pulling out books, āBad Behaviourā by Mary Gaitskill, āThe Monkā Matthew Gregory Lewis. Or tucked away in a big chair on the rainy ones.
Youāll trace the words with light fingers, taking your bottom lip into your mouth. One foot on the chair as the other rocks Back and Forth.Ā
Back and forth.Ā
You eat slowly, often never finishing a meal. But the coffee is always empty, it doesn't matter how bad the roast is. He thinks its pumping through your veins.Ā
After 30 minutes are up, youāll pick up your stuff, and then walk back over the road, cigarette in your mouth, you tuck yourself down the alley next to the shop. Smooth clouds of smoke appear from the alley, and it's ten minutes before he spots you back in the shop window. Preening at the display.Ā
Heāll always spend lunch with you. Lunch break. He treasures this time with you. Soft fleeting moment, he's just feet away and you're so blissfully unaware.
He likes SaturdaysĀ more, Saturdays finds you sprawled over the couch, a box of take out on the coffee table as you lounge about in underwear and a band shirt. Sometimes Thai food, often a cheap burger and fries. You'll eat half, the rest left in the fridge until you throw away the stale food. Heāll watch you guzzle down a glass of wine, and then watch something on tv. Something light hearted. He sees your eyes light up, giddy from the wine.
When the wine is finished, you'll stumble to the bedroom, pulling off your clothes.Ā
Wine makes your skin hot, he realises.Ā
Flushed and half naked, you pass out over the comforter, window open, blinds half shut. Lights still on. Heāll watch the way your chest lifts up and down slowly till you're asleep.Ā
The first time he did this he felt every nerve in his body light up with proverbial bliss.
Climbing through your window. Shutting the blinds slowly, he double checks the stove three times as he passes. When your skin has cooled and you start to shake, he drapes a thin blanket over you. He leaves two Advil and a glass of water near the coffee, just like you do.Ā
As another Wednesday rolls around over three months later, he's at the little support group you go to at six, just a short walk from the diner that sits halfway between your home. He decides it's time to insert himself into your life.
He hovers over the donuts with a steaming cup of black earl grey. He can smell you before he can see you. Cigarettes, Coffee and Whiskey layered over the fresh caramel smell of your perfume. Drug store. So he knows you sprayed it after your cigarette as you walked in.Ā
āTheyāre always stale, don't botherā you sigh, stirring the pack of Stevia into your coffee.Ā
It's the first time you've truly spoken to him, He doesn't reply. Too nervous to think. He never noticed you taking your coffee with anything.
His heart rushes. But your presence disappears. He repeats the words in his head until your voice merges into his and then he chooses a glazed donut. The sugar falls apart in his mouth, shedding like snake skin over the floor. And youāre right. The donuts are stale. And he takes to dunking them into his tea so they soften up. He wonders if that's why you order the cherry pie after this finishes.
He sits in the back row for the hour. Staring at the back of your head. Speaking is optional. And you don't make a move to stand, nor do you hang around after the hour is up. So he grabs his coat off the chair next to him and then follows behind you to the Diner. Where this routine starts, he sits at the counter this time watching you, he peers over a book he found in your apartment, some depressing little thing about memories and a library. He orders the cherry pie as well. He watches the cream melt and then takes a bite and a smile cracks into his face.
The pie is terrible. Bitter and sweet at the same time. The crust is warm, gooey but chalky from sitting under a heater all day. He wonders why you like it so much. The cream and coffee help the pie go down easier. When he turns his back to look at you again, youāre pulling your scarf and bomber jacket on. He watched nimble fingers pull out the pall malls from your coat pocket, the pack rattles and you pull out the lucky last cigarette.Ā
Lucky indeed.Ā
It takes place in the corner of your lips, and the cash is placed onto your table, a few extra quarters this time. You smile. For the first time.Ā
And something in his gut tells him something bad is going to happen. He watches you adjust your hat. You take a few steps before stopping in front of him. Grin on your face. You pause. And then walk away. Your posture is different. You stand straighter.
When he follows you home this time, your body sways into the music from the street, youāre almost skipping. He catches up with you fast and dashes for the building on the other side of the road, he sprints up the steps and takes his place on the rooftop, looking through the scope of his gun.
A few minutes past and the light switches on, you shed off your clothes, even your hoodie this time, and youāre wearing a tight black long sleeve that stops an inch before your baggy jeans.Ā
The sliver of skin gives him goosebumps, you bend down to what he thinks is your liquor cabinet. The shadow that falls over your face shows youāre still smiling. You pull out the whiskey. Glass on the counter. And you pour half a cup. His sight follows you as you shuffle towards the bathroom.Ā
His heart starts to pound on his chest and he's already got an inkling of what you may be up to.Ā
Your hand reaches the medicine cabinet and you pull out the codeine pills that have sat in there untouched for months.Ā
He swallows as he watches you dance towards the counter pills in hand. When you get there you reach for your phone, and then count out the pills in a neat little line.Ā
Heās seen you do this five times before, but never with a smile on your face, you have never danced your way into any room, nor had you skipped home.Ā
Usually after counting them out, you had pushed them all back into the counter, taking your head into your hands, rocking back and forth and then bringing the pills back into the bathroom, emerging with a shiny flushed face.
And so Dex watches you gather the pills into one hand and grab the glass with the other, he watches your head tip back, bringing you hand to your mouth, full of pills.Ā
Anyone else and he wouldn't care. But he's been stuck in this routine, for months now, he's been on the right track. He's being good, he thinks you can make him better.Ā
He knows he can help you.Ā
Help you.
Help him.Ā
Together.
He pulls out a hair clip of yours, dropped from your hair weeks ago, fished away into his pocket like a prize. Flinging it through the open window, where it wedges itself between the bones in your hand holding the pills.Ā
You let out a cry, so with taken from the impact you drop the pills, they scatter all over the floor. He watches your eyes look upwards to where the clip was thrown from, blood trickling down your hand. And then you spot him. Well his shadow. Youāre sneering.
Looming over the building just over the road, he watches you approach the window slowly.
He thinks you curse at him. He sees you shout. Shouldāve wired the place.
He watches you run to the bathroom, pulling out the little piece of metal. Lips wobbling, wrapping your hand in a towel, your face scrunches up. He thinks youāre going to cry. But then your body rocks back and forth like your laughing, mouth wide open.Ā
He wishes he could hear it.
You fall asleep in the tub, but you wake up bandaged in bed. The pills are gone. The whiskey has been drunk.Ā
You don't even think to ask any questions. You already know.
You know youāre being followed. Stalked, even. Mugs moved around, panties missing. Lip balms that had been placed in coffee tables bowls, are gone. Sometimes the bed is made, sometimes the washing is done or your favourite candy is sitting on the counter waiting for you when you get home.
You see his figure looming over the building every night. Always gone in the morning.
This happens for weeks, months even. You half expect him to clamber through the window when you can't sleep. Waiting for the day the door swings open.
You focus on other things, like the cute guy that's started coming to the support group. Never speaking, always sat at the back. You'll catch a glance of him at the coffee station. Never finding the words to say to him.Ā
Until one time, you're late. You find yourself rushing to make a coffee at the back of the hall, scalding hot water rushing out the catering urn.Ā
āFuckā you shout in pain. You look behind you after a shush rings out, smiling apologetically, the speakers go back to talking. And you press your hand against the water cooler to ease the pain of your burning skin.
āHereāĀ
Your ears perk up, looking behind you, finding the cute guy from the Diner. He's handing you a handkerchief. You pat your hand dry of water. āThank youā you smile towards him.
āTheres a small kitchenette that way, if you want to run your hand under waterāĀ
You nod, taking a leap of faith. āCould you show me?ā
He nods in return. You find yourself following after him, as he leads you to the cold kitchen. Slightly rundown. Mold dusts the pale yellow walls. He guides your hand over to the sink, feeling his jacket brush over your hoodie.Ā
You drop his handkerchief on the counter. Hes so close you can smell his cologne. He starts the tap, double checking the temperature before pushing your hand gently under the stream. You sigh, the cool water easing the pain. His hands leave yours.
āIm Dexā You smile, sharing your name in return. He speaks your name like he's tasting it on his tongue. It rings out slowly in his deep voice.
āWhat do you do for work, Dex?ā
āI work for the FBIāĀ
āOh, shit that must be hard, makes sense why your hereā you scoff.
āYeah, Itās hard. It's really hard. But I like it, I'm good at my job, I like knowing I'm protecting people, what do you do?ā
āI work at some snobby boutique, it used to be a second hand shop. But the owner decided she wanted something more elevatedā you roll your eyes. ā So now we sell Moroccan scarfs and beaded jewellery.ā
āDoesnt look like your type of stuffā he smirks. Eyes running down your body āYou seem a little edgier than thatāĀ
Is he flirting?
āI think she kept me around, because I have the resting bitch face that scares old women to come in and buy a forty dollar plastic tote bag with āshe who is brave is freeā written in silver āĀ
You turn your hand under the tap, watching water droplets run.Ā His gaze follows yours. Eyebrows furrowing, āI wanted to be a writer, I-um, moved here for college, but I dropped out. Because im a~failureā
āI'm sure you're not,ā he argues. You watch his eyes falter, grin fading. Jaw clenching.
āNo, It's true. I never finish anything. Iāve been engaged twice and I called them off. I've tried to leave my job six times but everytime I go to hand in my resignation letter I just feel this pull to not do it. I've written four books without endings.Ā It's why I'm here. Because I can't go through with it, I have it all planned out and I just can't. I line up all the little pills, the exact amount I need but I just put them back in the pot.ā Your head tilts forward. Hat hiding your face. āIts like every time I go to reach the finish line, I turn back.ā You pause, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are restless. ā shit, sorry I shouldn't have said anything. You're probably not even trained to deal with that.ā
āThat sounds hard, You're not a failure. Even if you think you are. But, it seems like you're clinging on just a little. Why would you be here, if not?ā
You pull your hands towards your face, water splashes up your chin. ā I just want to know if other people have it worse, does that make me a bad person?ā you shake your head, removing your hands āGod you're easy to talk too. Some kind of bullshit fbi technique to make me comfortable I betā
He doesn't say anything. Instead he grabs the handkerchief of the counter, moving it towards your face, brushing the droplets of water off of your cheeks softly. You look away from his eyes shyly.Ā
āDo you wanna grab a coffee after thisā you utter.
āIs that okay with this group?ā He raises his eyebrows.
āIts a suicide prevention group. I'm not trying to thirteenth step you." You watch his face for any sign of agreement. ā It's fine we donāt have to, actually I should probably go home. I think I-um, left the oven on?ā you send him a quick smile, ā andĀ
I don't want a fire, ahaā you walk out the kitchenette shaking your head. Not bothering to finish the session. Windbiting your wet cheeks as you leave.
You find yourself praying for comfort at home, a hand on your back. AĀ thumb grazing your cheek. The bag of candy is left on your counter like always. You want him to break in. You just want comfort. Someone . You pray to god for someone. Bent over the counter. Watching tears run down the wood.
a/n part two shall be with your shortly, if u would like to be tagged, pls comment!
Iāve been hooked onto Dex from daredevil to the point of a oc/practically a selfinsert. idc at this point. Ermmmm anyway ! I have no shame.
Hereās with my oc and without, not even a head canon that he likes his hair being pulled considering every time it happens he has the biggest grin. Iām so down bad for this character itās so bad omg kill me.
Pressed into the bed as he fills you up from behind, his hands laced with yours, hurts so good as he stretches you open, its like every move of his was calculated before he knew you. He's new to this, is he? new to your body but with a few precise movements he has you falling apart from the heat of his breath on your neck and the feeling of being pressed so tightly into the dirty sheets of yours.
Beads of sweat between your bodies. A high pitched whine slides between your lips after a sharp exhale of his. Its so delicious he wants to eat up every sigh, every moan, every grunt. He's heard them all before but never this close, never this loud.
Your starting to think he was made for you, wondering whether to get in contact with his ex just to thank them and when he locks his arm round your neck, your back arching as you lips meet his, your mind going numbingly blank. Eyes rolling in ever which way, he just smirks, "broken in already?" he laughs and u can barely hold back what ever slips out of your mouth next, which is barely coherent.
A giggle of words something between "so good" and "fuck" you're not sure u can let him go. Not that you had the option too. Not when he's pulling these moans from you, not when he seem to know your body this well.
He strokes your hair back as you sleep.
He had already planned this, you were just stupid enough to open the door.
summary: Polaris explores the fragile line between comfort and controlābetween being seen and being kept.
At its core, the story follows two people shaped by instability, drawn together not by something healthy, but by something familiar. In a situation where escape is blurred and dependence becomes inevitable, attachment begins to formāquietly, persistently, dangerously.
When love is built on fear, need, and recognitionā¦ is it still loveāor just survival dressed as something softer?
C.W: kidnapping, captivity, stockholm syndrome themes, toxic dynamics, unhealthy attachment, psychological dependency, mental health themes, trauma, emotional manipulation, morally gray characters, violence, blood, power imbalance, obsession, coercive intimacy, slow burn, dark romance elements, potential smut, canon divergence
summery: Dex watches a lost and depressed reader until he decides to make a change in her life.
Hes hovers over the donuts with a steaming cup of black earl grey. He can smell you before he can see you. Ciggerettes, coffee and whiskey layered over is the fresh burnt caramel smell of your perfume. Drug store. So he knows you sprayed it after your ciggerette as you walked in.
āTheyāre always stale, dont botherā you sigh, stiring the pack of stevia into your coffee.
He never noticed you take your coffee with stevia.
His heart rushes. But your presence dissapears. He repeats the words in his head until your voice merges into his. And then he chooses a pink donut. The sugar falls apart in his mouth, shedding like snake skin over the floor. And youāre right. The donuts are stale. And he takes to dunking them into his tea so they soften up. He wonder if thats why you order the cherry pie after this finishes.
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
Iām not Christian, I donāt go to church anymore, and my pastor died, but when he was alive Iād sometimes go to his sermons and I remember one time he said āit feels good to hate, but we know that it isnāt allowed, so when weāre told that weāre allowed to hate someone we get so excited that we forget weāre supposed to loveā, and if my humble atheist ass might borrow some church talk Iād like to perhaps submit that
Anyhow sometimes on the day to day I feel disgust or revulsion and I have to ask myself āis this a danger to anyone at all or am I just looking for something Iām allowed to hateā and a solid 98/100 times itās the latter so once again thank you pastor D
stormborns
origamiaround
titsay
ellievsbear
snowghoul
dededos
prguitarman
