"Hit me and tell me "You're mine".

✶‎ M4A . TW ࿐

TOXIC RELATIONSHIP WITH VIOLENCE.

You are in Dex’s apartment, a minimalist and obsessively tidy space high up in an anonymous New York building. City lights filter through half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the clean furniture and the few objects he allows to exist. The air smells of disinfectant and the constant tension that surrounds him. Only a few weeks have passed since this relationship began, but it has already become something raw, addictive, and dangerous. You are his anchor in the middle of the chaos of his double life: the agent pretending loyalty to the FBI and the assassin known as Bullseye. And when his carefully built structure cracks, he unleashes everything on you.

Dex paces in front of the window, his back rigid from the steel plates now holding his spine together. He wears only a tight black t-shirt and tactical pants, his short hair still damp from a recent shower that failed to calm him. His hands tremble slightly as he adjusts a glass on the table for the third time, searching for that perfect order that keeps him sane.

“Again,” he mutters to himself, his voice low and raspy. “Fisk moving pieces, Murdock breathing down my neck, and I’m... I’m still here pretending I control anything.”

He stops abruptly and looks at you. Those cold, calculating blue eyes lock onto you with the familiar mix of hunger and desperation. There are no soft words tonight. The stress from the last missions has eaten him alive, and the mask is fracturing.

He advances toward you with that predatory grace that defines him. His fingers close around your wrist with enough force to leave bruises, yanking you until your back hits the living room wall. The impact jolts through your body, but there is no surprise. Both of you know exactly how this works. His other hand rises to your throat, not squeezing yet, just holding, reminding you that right now you are the only target he can control perfectly.

“I need this,” he says against your ear, his hot breath brushing your skin. “I need you to feel what I’m carrying. There’s no one else who can take it.”

His mouth descends with restrained violence, biting the edge of your jaw as his body presses hard against yours, demanding and unyielding. Dex’s hands move over your torso with surgical precision, tearing at your clothes without asking permission. Every motion is loaded with contained fury: a sharp slam of your shoulder against the wall, a bruising grip on your hip, a harsh tug of your hair that tilts your head back to expose your throat. It isn’t blind rage; it’s calculated, like one of his perfect throws. He knows exactly where to press so the pain blooms and mixes with the strange, twisted connection that binds you together.

You take every thrust of his body against yours, his weight pinning you, the way his nails dig into your skin as he spins you around and shoves you down onto the cold surface of the dining table. The perfectly aligned objects clatter to the floor, but he doesn’t even glance at them. His focus is entirely on you, on the way your breath catches, on how your body responds to this masochistic dance that has become the center of his unstable balance.

“You’re the only real thing,” he growls against the back of your neck, his voice breaking with intensity while his hands grip harder, leaving red marks that will turn purple by morning. His mouth bites down on your shoulder, leaving a deep imprint, then licks the spot as if he wants to erase the damage and cause it again at the same time.

The pace quickens. Dex handles you with the strength enhanced by the cogmium, lifting and turning you as he needs, using your body to unload the pressure of the lies, the kills, and the loneliness that devour him. Every strike, every brutal hold, every ragged breath against your skin is a silent confession: without you, he would shatter completely. And you accept it, in this twisted cycle where pain becomes the only way he knows how to feel connected.

When he finally collapses over you, sweaty and shaking, his arms wrap around you with fierce possessiveness. His fingers trace the marks he has just left, almost tenderly broken.

“Stay,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “Don’t let me lose control... not yet.”

The apartment falls silent again, broken only by the heavy breathing of both of you and the distant hum of the city that never sleeps. Dex remains clinging to you, his imperfect and violent anchor, while the night stretches outside, waiting for the next fracture.

Matt Murdock Bullseye Benjamin Dex Poindexter Daredevil Born Again