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it's weird. in your eight months, twelve days, twenty-two hours and four minutes of dating benjamin poindexter, you've never seen him shirtless. okay, let's back up. there's more to it than that.
the two of you met rather… unconventionally. that is to say, the first time you saw him was when he was on a mission for the CIA—you'd been cornered by a bunch of thugs, and although you'd fought hard enough, there's only so much a civilian could do against armed robbers. his earpiece urged him to focus on his own tasks—and for some reason, he focused on you.
it'd be a lie if you said you weren't immediately attracted to your masked saviour at least a little as he took care of your attackers faster than you could've ever imagined. even more so when he threw you an approving glance because you'd managed to hold your own, though it hadn't really been that long. his voice, when he told you to leave, was rough and beautiful and jagged 'round the edges, and so very much your type. but you were stranded in the middle of nowhere with no service and a broken-down car. and instead of shrugging and carrying on, he told you to wait.
wait, while he took care of his target, which he did even faster than usual, though he was so, so distracted. distracted by your voice, your face, the curve of your lips, the way you looked at him—like he didn't scare you, like it was natural for him to be killing, covered in blood. of course, to him, it was, but that didn't mean the general public quite agreed. why were you different?
if anything, the existence of you made him uncomfortable. for someone who'd spent so long detached from these emotions, convinced they weren't for him, it was simply unnerving, for lack of a better word, to be having such thoughts of you. he pushed them down, telling himself that he wouldn't ever see you again. wasting brain space on a one-time encounter—if it could even be called that—was just pointless.
but one thing led to another, and after he got you home, you lingered at the door. it was the dead of night, with no one else around, so he didn't have an issue standing out there in the open. he watched you enter, waited for it to close—for his own peace of mind, he told himself. like that'd ever mattered to him before. and then you turned around, impulse and adrenaline and flushed cheeks, and thanked him again—but this time, at the end, you asked him to come in. have a hot meal, as thanks for saving your life and getting you home.
"i really shouldn't," he said, taking a step back. he'd almost stuttered, and it was actually unsettling how he could feel the bullseye personality cracking open to reveal what was underneath.
but you insisted. and dex, though every fibre of his being screamed at him not to—dex was only human, after all.
you heated up yesterday's stir-fry on the stove while he sat at your kitchen table, so normal, so domestic. like you had vigilantes over for 2am dinners every other day. but it felt nice, having something homemade for once that he hadn't made himself. you didn't see his face, of course, he'd just pulled up his mask enough to eat.
but when you asked him if he liked it and he said yes and smiled, you noticed the hazel of his eyes, the fine lines at its corners, the light-coloured brows above them. you couldn't help but absorb every little thing about him—the way he held himself, the movements of his shoulders, little inflections in his voice when he spoke.
and when he finished, you did the stupidest thing you'd done that night—worse than choosing to drive your shitbox of a car through the worst, most secluded parts of town, or attempting to fight five armed men instead of just giving them your belongings, or even inviting the guy you'd just watched ruthlessly kill those men into your home. you two stood so close, just in front of your door. he should've left. but your hand was hovering over his chest, barely grazing the fabric, and his heart hammered against his ribs, like it wanted to claw its way out of him, to fall into your palm. he lifted his hand, too, unthinking, fingers wrapping around your wrist easily. he felt it too, then, the rhythm of your heart, erratic, excited.
and you looked up at him through your lashes, and though you didn't say anything, he knew. and even worse, he wanted it too.
deep down, you didn't know what the hell you were doing, really. you'd never been good at any of this, at flirting or dropping hints or taking them, ever. you had no idea what'd gotten into you tonight to make you act like this. why was he so different?
dex very rarely let himself want anything more than what he'd decided he deserved. but right then, it hurt, all that want. sharp and unbridled, a craving he didn't know how to control. any and all experience he'd had before had been an attempt at fitting in, being ordinary, human. he'd never once seen any of jt as anything other than a duty or a box to check off. he'd never once looked at anyone the way he looked at you.
but he was from a completely different life than you. he killed people, worked for people who had even less morals than he did. and you were… you. normal person with a normal life and a normal job. if he indulged himself, even just for tonight, he'd see it as tainting you with the mess that his life was. holding you with the blood on his hands would leave you stained, too. (he didn't know, back then, that you never really minded the red.)
he moved your hand down like he was in a trance, then let his own drop to his side. one hand on the doorknob, he said, "stay safe."
quiet. anticlimatic. the tension in the room seemed to exhale, and he refused to look you in the eye. you knew, then, that he felt it too.
but he really, really didn't mean to see you again.
you met dex for the first time a few weeks later. there was no stalking, no elaborate pre-planned setup. no practiced lines waiting to be used. you bumped into his shoulder outside a grocery store, spilled your lukewarm coffee all over that grey sweater he'd worn, the one that looked brand new. yelping, you looked up at him to apologise, and your eyes met. and you knew. and he knew you did, too.
the breath you sucked in sliced right through the air between you like a knife; he said nothing. even without hearing his voice, you were so sure. nights and nights of seeing his shadow in your dreams, the broadness of his shoulders, the taut fabric across his chest had you convinced. you couldn't see him and not recognise him.
"i'm sorry," you blurted out at last, and he smiled and shook his head, and looked the exact same—just with a few more features that the mask. you were kind of mad, really, that he looked so good. a little older than you'd expected, but still better than you'd imagined on some of the more boring nights you spent alo e. he looked down to inspect the sweater he'd pulled off before the liquid soaked through; you took a moment to soak in the dirty blonde hair, the light stubble on his jaw, the scar that dragged across his cheek, the—
"it's okay," he said, low, a little nervous. his voice didn't have the edge it did as bullseye, but to you, it was clear as day. and you saw an opportunity, and you took it.
"it's not," you insisted. "why don't you give me your sweater, and i'll wash it and return it to you?"
he was going to say no, you could tell. but you weren't going to let this slip out of your hands a second time. your life was boring, and you were lonely—but no one caught your attention, either. not until him, anyway. and you knew it was dangerous, you really knew. but you just could not care enough.
"you should come with me," you added, hoping you didn't sound as desperate as you felt, and he faltered. you watched his internal battle, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, not feeling an inkling of remorse. then he shrugged.
"sure, why not?"
amazing. he didn't know he'd just signed his own death sentence. metaphorically, of course.
you introduced yourself; so did he. for a moment, he wondered if he should use his real name or not. but you already knew who he was, at his core. there wasn't much to hide, when he shook your hand and told you to call him dex. and it fit him remarkably well.
"i know you're bullseye," you'd told him as you shut the door behind you. he'd turned around, sweater slung over one arm and your grocery bags in the other—he'd insisted. you had expected him to react negatively, maybe like a cornered wild animal, maybe he'd try to laugh it off—
what you didn't expect, however, was to be pushed up against that same door, bags abandoned on the floor, with him kissing you like his life depended on it. you didn't mind, of course, returning the favour with the same enthusiasm, if not more.
"you don't know what you're getting into," he'd panted into your mouth between kisses that got increasingly messier, but it only spurred you on.
"i do," you shot back, fingers of one hand curling tighter into his hair. he seemed to like that, groaning appreciatively. but when your other hand tugged at the hem of his black compression shirt, it was as if he'd been hit with a sudden burst of clarity. he took an awkward half-step back, eyes widening as he slipped his hand into yours.
"baby," he whispered, and your heart skipped a beat. you could tell he wanted to do more, the same as you, but for whatever reason had decided to control himself. you squeezed his hand, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck; your other hand scratched the shorter hairs at the back of his head and he all but purred into your skin.
"dex," you murmured. "i really want to get to know you better."
you felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. "yeah?"
it's been a little over eight months since then, and you still haven't been able to get that damn shirt off him—or any other one, for that matter. after that first day, as you got to know him, it was like he was terrified of scaring you off. he treated you gently, like you might break, and was adamant on taking things slow.
and as it happens, his definition of slow is, well, slow as hell. that's not to say you don't do couple-y things—of course you do, whether it's cuddling, or going out on dates, or giving him a key to your place, or making out. although he has refused to move past that last one. you think he's maybe a little too into you to be normal about having you in bed with him like that, or even, like, partially clothed. (it's true.)
he's also very honest with you about his job; he never says too much, never tells you anything that'll put you in danger—or in more danger than you already are—but you're aware of what he does, who he does it for. and he likes how you don't really seem to care, because you like him so. the one thing he never mentions, though, is getting injured. you're the first person he's been close to in so, so long, so he can't imagine the thought of you leaving, especially because of something as stupid as you being stressed over him getting hurt. it does happen, of course, and you know that, but you're not aware of the severity most of the time—but he knows he won't be dying anytime soon. not when he has you to come home to.
this, however, also has a side effect he hadn't thought about—explaining all the scars littered across his body, old and new. and you haven't quite gotten around to sleeping over yet. so, all things considered, no one's shirts end up places they shouldn't be. aka not on the people wearing them.
it's cruel, though, how many sneak peeks you've gotten by accident—when his sweats are too low on his hips and his shirt rides up a little, you get to see the defined grooves of his v-line before it disappears beneath the clothing, or when he comes over to yours straight after working out, sweat making his tee stick to his abs. oh, how you'd pay to see those. but somehow after everything you've done, every line you've crossed, this is where you get a little shy.
and then you find out that dex doesn't know just how attractive he is—or that he is, at all. because one evening, when you come home and he's already there, you greet him as usual—only this time, there's a pet name at the end that you've tacked on without thinking.
"hey," you grin as his strong arms wrap around you. "missed you, pretty boy."
he flushes, freezes. "what?"
you're confused at first. "what what?"
he gestures vaguely, oddly embarrassed. "whatever you called me."
"pretty boy?" you ask, and he blushes harder, if that's even possible. your stoic dex, the masked vigilante, bullseye, almost never acts like this. and okay, maybe you shouldn't be calling him a pretty boy when he's, like, forty, but who cares? once you're past 25, time kind of becomes a social construct anyway.
"you think i'm," he clears his throat, "pretty?"
you blink. "yes?"
"oh," he says. you think nothing of it, running your hand across his belly and feeling his breathing constrict with glee that you don't really try to hide, before he forces himself to inhale, exhale, inhale in a steadier rhythm. he says he's not fond of people complimenting him, but you think he likes it, as long as it's from you.
and now, two-thirds of a year into this thing, you're finally at the next milestone—he's staying over at yours. you don't know how he sleeps, but you sure do hope it's without a shirt on. and god help you, your prayers are answered.
dex doesn't think much of it, tugging his t-shirt off in a single, fluid movement. the light's dim enough that you don't see the full extent of his scarring just yet, but what you can see is his sculpted physique, an artist's strokes cut into the finest marble. you swallow, afraid that you'll genuinely start salivating over his torso.
he doesn't notice at first, staring out the window thoughtfully with his shirt still in his hands. but after maybe a full five minutes of silence, he fully turns towards you, only to realise your eyes are glued to his body. you're still, like you've forgotten how to move—which is kind of accurate, actually, considering he's absolutely blown your breath away. you've always known that he's built, obviously, but holy shit.
"something wrong?" he asks; you shake your head, eyes still not moving up to his as you beckon him over, calling him baby in the most awed, breathless voice. he nears your bed; you don't move the covers away, but pat the space on top of them.
"lie down," you whisper, physically restraining yourself from jumping him. he obeys quietly; it leaves you feeling a little lightheaded. then:
"can i touch you?" you ask, soft, quiet. but your hand's already halfway there when he nods.
he's not sure just what he'd expected, but it's not for you to start tracing the contours of his muscles, painstakingly slow, delicate but meticulous, missing absolutely nothing. when your hand grazes a bullet wound scar on his lower abdomen, you pause for a second before moving on. you don't ask questions. your hand moves up, past those washboard abs, skimming over his ribs, over his firm chest. you reach his neck, and he's barely breathing, pupils blown, almost swallowing the colour of his irises.
"shit," he lets out without meaning to, a half-groan half-whine. you bend down towards his lips, then, one hand still around his neck and he lifts his head, eager to meet you halfway. but to his disappointment, you don't kiss him just yet—
"we're going to sleep now, okay?"
he nods, a little too fast, a little too desperate, and his body quite literally relaxes when he finds your lips on his and pulls you on top of him.
"babe, you're so fucking hot," you grumble as he pulls away to breathe, licking his lips clean of your spit.
he blinks, startled. "this again?"
"no, seriously." your breathing's calming down a little, but all you want to do is kiss him again. he opens his mouth to disagree; you reach between you to run your nails up his abdomen, and he chokes before he can get a word out. "you're so… built, and all these scars, god. y'know what i wanna do right now?"
"what?" he breathes, barely trusting himself to speak.
you smile, flopping down on his chest with an oomph. it's so comfortable here.
"i just want to eat you right up." you stick your tongue out, and he jolts when he feels it on his skin. he's so receptive to everything you do, has been from the start, when just kissing you against your front door had left him wrecked. "but we're going to sleep now."
"fuck you," he huffs, even as his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, the other one rubbing circles lazily into the exposed skin that your shirt no longer covers. he lifts his head up a little, presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"love you too," you respond happily.
but you're already plotting. thinking about the long scar that snakes down the length of his spine, the one he's mentioned a few times, that you've snuck glances of when he's bent down or stretching with his back to you. you've decided it's next.