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It's been a long day. He's tired and angry and wound tight as a bowstring. Dex hangs his keys on the hook and drops his briefcase into its rightful spot, toeing off his shoes and shrugging his blazer off his shoulders in preparation to hang it up for tomorrow. Same spot, same hanger, same routine every day. He walks into his bedroom and opens the closet door, taking the hanger meant for this blazer and situating the piece of clothing on it. Dex looks up to the hanger rod and hooks the garment in place. Before turning to close the door, one thing catches his eye. He spies the red fabric sitting on the top of his safe at the very back of the small space.
He stands stock still. It's been a good while since he's put it on. Maybe today isn't a tape day. Slowly pushing his clothes to the side and running the tips of his fingers over the material, he sighs. A long, deep sigh that crawls its way out of his lungs, leaving his throat in a rush of hot air. Dex moans quietly as he fists his hand into the suit. He gives in and pulls it out of his closet, draping it across his bed. He's not quick about stripping out of his work clothes, he wants to savor this. It's not every day that he allows himself this pleasure.
Dex snakes his belt through the loops in his jeans and slowly starts unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, staring longingly at the suit. His pupils already blown wide in anticipation and excitement; his skull buzzing with memories past. Three times. He's fulfilled this fantasy of his only three other times. Each time has been just as pleasurable as the last.
The dress shirt completely unfastened, Dex then thumbs the button of his tight fitting jeans, worrying the metal before undoing it and pulling the zipper open. He pushes them down his hips just an inch or so, enough to pull his dress shirt out. He shrugs it off and allows the material to slide over his thick, muscled arms- catching it in a calloused hand before it falls to the floor - and drapes it across his desk chair in the corner of his room.
Naked from the waist up, Dex runs his hand over his toned stomach and lets out the breath he didnt know he was holding. His eyes flutter closed as his hand follows the lines of his abs down to the waistband of his boxers. He slips a finger beneath the material and gently traces the fabric before removing the digit and shifting his hand to palm his hardening cock. He whimpers and continues his ministrations before remembering his mission. His eyes open, lids feeling heavy as he looks down to his cock- then to the suit. Right… the suit.
Dex continues removing his jeans, the material hugging the corded muscle of thigh and calf, until they're off and away, placed neatly on the same chair as his dress shirt. He stands for a moment looking down at the suit on his bed, his cock leaking, pressing, straining in its confines. His hand twitches, nerves firing inadvertently as the muscles in his fingers move under his skin. He feels hot all of a sudden. A wash of… shame? No no, not shame… desperation. He needs to feel it. Bare skin to kevlar- the rough, protruding seams pressing into his skin, his scars. The tender wounds still healing from a recent fight. He runs his hand over a scab on his face, rough and red. Tender but itchy. Close to being fully healed but enough for tonight.
Dex, almost reverently, picks up the suit from his bed and brings it to his face. He looks at it up close. Scratches marring the surface, but no punctures, rips or tears in the durable material. He brings the suit to his nose, closes his eye, and inhales. It's not the same. It wouldn't smell like… this. It would smell like him... He pulls it away from his face and turns it to grasp the zipper at the collar of the suit. He holds it in one hand and pulls to open the zipper with the other. He feels a sort of electric buzz settle itself under his skin, his cock continuously soaking his boxers as he goes to step into the suit. One leg, then the other. The material finally sliding across his skin sends a shiver through his entire body. He slides it up further, the material pressing down onto Dex's cock as it struggles to make its way past his ass and fully hardened dick. Dex keens out a breathy whine as it finally slips past, creating delicious friction he so desperately needs as it does.
Pulling the suit further up his body, he inserts his arms one at a time into the sleeves. He smiles wide, his lips drawn taught across his face as he revels in the feeling of it across his form. He reaches his arm behind his back and - achingly slow - he pulls the zipper up up up up up until the suit is settled snugly over his skin. He lets out a deep groan as he feels the texture shift with his movements. He turns back to his closet and removes the last pieces from the top of the safe: boots, gloves, holster… mask. He sets the boots on the floor at the foot of his bed and lays the gloves and holster on his comforter. Taking the mask in both hands he looks into the stark red lenses. Not the easiest to see out of, but damn if they don't make for a fine detail. He traces over the temple of the mask with his thumb, looking deeper into the lenses. If he can look deep enough maybe those eyes will end up behind them…
He drags himself back to reality before placing the mask safely on his bed - facing him - so he can don the rest of the armor. Boots first before gloves, sliding each one easily onto each foot. Thigh holster next, for that stupid baton he uses. Not enough holsters, Dex muses as he finishes clipping it into place. Another piece attached, another inch closer to his goal. Dex picked up a glove - the left one - and slides it over his sinewey hand, tendons flexing along with muscle as it finds home over his extremity. He takes the loose strap between his thumb and forefinger and pulls, tightening it until snug. He repeats the action with the next glove, flexing both hands after he finishes.
It's on. He feels… whole. Comfortable. Powerful. But… something else gnaws at him - chewing at the base of his neck. A feeling that it shouldn't be him in this suit. He knows it should be him. The real Daredevil. But in this moment he feels close to the Daredevil - in a way nobody else can. He's wearing the suit. Yes, tailored for Dex's body: his measurements, his alterations, but still closer than anyone else had come to being the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Dex's cock twitches at his thoughts and he looks down at the mask on his bed. He gingerly picks it up and walks into his living room: stepping quietly over to his couch, sitting down in the middle and placing the mask on the coffee table in front of him. The red lenses look up at him, feeling as if his eyes were there - behind the mask, watching, learning.
Dex leans back, legs wide as he begins to stroke across the length of himself through the suit. Barely anything more than pressure, but enough to push a long groan from his throat. He shifts, taking the fly zipper between his gloved fingers and pulling it open. He inserts his hand into the fly and pushes his boxers down, exposing his cock and pulling it through the opening of the suit. The head swollen red and sticky with precum; veins bulging along the length as he takes his gloved thumb and swipes it across the slit at his tip, releasing a choked whimper as he does.
Looking back up at the mask he starts stroking in earnest, the glove making it harder to hit all the right spots but a thrill that he wouldn't trade for anything. He looks into the lenses again, sitting there alone in his living room, everything else tidy and put together, while he falls apart for the mask, the suit, the man who should be wearing it. Dex wishes it was him. Wishes it wasnt his hand in this glove squeezing every ounce of pleasure possible from his cock. Wishes it was Matt telling him what to do. Where to put his hands, how to sit, how to touch, and lick, and suck.
Dex's breath starts to speed up alongside his fist; his face and neck turning red as moans and whimpers and whines eak their way from his throat and into the stale air of his apartment. The suit makes him sweat. He can feel each seam pushing in on him, adding to the sensations he's giving himself. His other hand creeps up to his face, tracing the scab on his cheek and he begins to press into it, seeking that sweet rush of pain and pleasure it gives him. He keeps pressing as he strokes himself, hips jerking when the gloves catch on the sensitive head of his cock and the cut on his face blooms with heat. He moans louder now, nothing here but the mask, the suit, and Dex - losing himself in feeling, in pleasure and pain. He keeps pumping, faster and harder and he presses deeper into his cheek as he watches the mask watch him. One final stroke, a press, and Dex yells. His vision goes white as the orgasm rips through his body, shooting ropes of cum across his torso. His vision returns as he slowly comes down from his high, reality setting in once again.
He looks down at the mess and sees fresh red on his left glove. Must have opened the wound, he thinks as he licks the blood from the material. He looks back down to the mask one final time before standing to clean himself up.
It should've been him. He wishes it was him.