sometimes I’m reminded that there are still people who don’t know ao3 was literally created by incest shippers — and the site’s sole purpose is to 1. be completely against censorship and 2. host all kinds of dark, taboo fics that are banned on other platforms — and the first ever fic that was posted on ao3 was a fic about an incest ship from supernatural.
you are in the house that was created by freaks. for freaks (affectionate). every disgusting thing you can think of is rightfully allowed and welcomed on ao3, because they are exactly the reasons why ao3 was created in the first place.
ao3 was created because its creators got tired of censorship, they got tired of dark and taboo fics getting banned on pro-censorship platforms, and they wanted a place that was safe for ALL FICS THAT WERE DARK AND TABOO.
ao3’s main principle is being against censorship and being proship / profic.
there are some things in fiction that make me uncomfortable, but instead of shaming people who are just minding their own business and not harming anyone in real life, I choose to curate my own internet experience by blocking/muting what I don’t want to see. ao3 has excellent tagging system, so instead of being a bitch, use their tagging system properly and you won’t see the things you don’t want to see.
it’s your job to curate what you see. it’s not other people’s jobs or responsibilities to censor themselves for your personal comfort. the world does not revolve around you.
also you cannot censor “only the things you personally hate” without expecting everything else, that isn’t of conservative beliefs, to be censored too. because censorship is a slippery slope and a fascist tool. I promise you there are people who think “why do tags for queer love even exist on ao3? they’re grooming children”.
if you allow the things that you hate to be censored — because someone with enough power gets to control what other people can and cannot create/consume, it will not stop at the things that you hate.
please eat enough and drink enough water and get enough sleep. this is so that you have enough energy. because we need you to be writing and drawing porn on the internet
sorry but once you notice how often ppl use a southern accent as shorthand for being unintelligent you can never unsee it. classism is baked so deeply and why are you acting like anyone who talks the way my grandfather talks is stupid.
i know folks are gonna call me a pedo for this one, but i grew up seeing my mom and grandma naked. they had health issues and at times needed care and help showering. and i truly think more kids need to be shown the nonsexual reality of naked women at a young age. there is nothing sexual about my grandmothers breasts, they were simply body parts. more women die of heart attacks because people are too afraid of breasts to do real chest compressions, because they are scared to touch their breasts. the sexualization of our bodies literally kills us. i need people to be more normal about naked bodies and i'm 100% serious.
Imagine Grace defined his name as the elegance definition of grace and Rocky spends years thinking how fucking ironic this clumsy leaky space blobs name is.
Until Grace slips out a sentence along the lines of "could you give me a little grace here" and Rocky immediately points out he used a word wrong so Grace has to explain that yeah, grace means elegance but it can also mean mercy sometimes too.
And Rocky has to suddenly reconcile that the clumsy leaky blob that saved his life twice, that almost certainly doomed himself to come back for him, name is Mercy.
pairings: benjamin poindexter x fem!reader.
word count: 12.2k.
summary: everyday feels the same for you, making coffee, going back to your lonely apartment, existing between one moment and the next. but some love arrives like a single bullet, you don’t hear the shot until you’re already on the ground, and it leaves you wondering how you didn’t see the gun.
warning tags: nsfw. heavy dark themes. non-con. ddba!dex. tony as dex. barista!reader. semi character study of pairing. older dex (40s), younger reader (20s). stalking. manipulation and gaslighting. implied kidnapping. obsessive and pathetic, needy dex. power imbalance. male masturbation, dex jerks off because he’s a loser like that. coercion cunnilingus, he eats you out as an apology what more do you want!! graphic violence. murder and mild gore. creepy dex alert. hint of fluff if you squint hard enough. every explicit scene is dex in his bullseye costume, sue me.
requested: this shit came to me in a dream, so no. but reqs are open!
mads says: i hadn’t intended for this fic to be this long, but i need benjamin poindexter in my life and i’m gnawing at the bars of my enclosure. rewatching all daredevil series made me the person i was when i wrote this one shot (in heat). anyway, enjoy! let me know what you think.
Dex thinks humankind are just insects, they live a bit and then die and that’s the lot. There’s no mercy in things, there’s not even a great beyond. There’s nothing—his hatred for all was so intense that it should extinguish the very love from which it was conceived. And thus, Dex ceased to feel. There was nothing further in which to believe that made the prospect of feeling worthwhile.
He discovered this about himself at sixteen, in one summer, when the headmaster of the Lyndhurst Home for Boys had stopped breathing mid-sentence at the supper table, collapsing. The other teenagers had wept—great, heaving, theatrical displays of grief that had struck Dex as almost pornographic in their excess. He watched them, and felt nothing. Not sadness nor relief, not even the mild satisfaction of witnessing an inconvenience remove itself from his path.
Nothing. The word had felt like a gift, unwrapped and held up to the light. An absence so complete it became its own presence.
He drinks his coffee sweet and creamy and hasn’t touched another person’s body by choice in years. Still, it isn’t loneliness because loneliness implies lack, and Benjamin Poindexter lacks nothing he wants.
What he wants is the problem.
Or rather—what he wants has never arrived, never been existing, never known to man. He’s had chances to watch desire from the outside, the way one might study a fugitive through a binoculars; flushed cheeks of couples when they argue on the sidewalk, the trembling hands of teenagers when they confess their petty infatuations, the way his elderly neighbour’s voice goes soft and stupid when she talks about her late husband.
For all its grandiose, Dex had never once envied them. All a dim illusion, was it? Surely it was foolish of him to think any of this had meaning. He would then spend hours staring at the night sky, wondering how best to pass the time if everything, even the sky itself, were for naught.
Until you, Dex supposes.
Tuesdays are meaningless to him, they’re depressing. Why are Tuesdays so depressing?
Dex once read an article on the internet that suggested the most productive day of the work week is Tuesday, which only proves that productivity is a disease and humans are its willing hosts. He has nothing against Tuesdays specifically, only against the assumption that any day should matter more than another when all of them end the same way; in silence, and the mechanical act of loading his sniper just to feel the magazine seat properly against his palm.
Dex had been counting his days into laying low. The AVTF has his face on file, his fingerprints, his particular brand of violence listed and cross referenced. He wants Wilson Fisk dead, so Dex waits. He takes the apartment with low rent, because it has windows facing the street so he could see, also because the landlord asked no questions when Dex paid him cash and a knife to his throat, the walls are thin enough to hear the couple next door fuckin, and the nice old woman below watching the same game shows on repeat. White noise. The soundtrack of people living their insignificant, dying lives.
But he also needs his coffee, that’s the whole of it. Need is a strong word—want is more accurate, but want means appetite, and Dex has never had much of that either. He simply knows that caffeine sharpens certain neural pathways, and he’d been sitting in the dark for three hours, rolling a catholic token across his knuckles, for his hands have begun to feel like they belong to someone else.
The coffee shop’s name was as basic as it looked like. Dex has been a frequent customer here and it wasn’t because the coffee was exceptional, no—it was entirely something else. Shop’s almost empty, too. A man in a beanie taps at a laptop in the corner. A woman with grey hair reads a paperback so worn its spine has split into three distinct sections. Dex’s gaze sweeps over the vastness of the area, looking for someone until it lands to who he was looking for.
There you are, Dex thinks. He’s smiling. Between his plans, the surveillance, and the hunt to eliminate Kingpin’s circus, AVTF—there are gaps. Hours that belong to no one but himself.
Dex spends them watching you.
You were behind the counter, wiping down the steam wand with a rag that’s seen better days. Your hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You weren’t looking at him—you haven’t even noticed him yet, and you were humming under your breath, some song Dex couldn’t name if his life depended on it, the sound travels through the ambient noise of the café.
Dex approaches the counter and his posture shifts; shoulders dropping, spine relaxing, it was a deliberate imitation of ease.
“Good morning,” he greeted along with your name, Dex’s eyes drifted to the name tag on your chest, just long enough to prove he looked, and then his gaze returned to your face again.
“Oh—hi, Tony,” you say almost delightfully, and there’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes. “The usual?”
Months ago, you didn’t know his face. Then weeks later, you have come to learn his order and fake given name. Today, you have christened it the usual, as though his presence here has weight, that his absence would have left a hole for you. Dex feels a smile try to happen, but he swallows it down.
“Yes,” he replies. “Please.” Because Dex is good like that. He wants to be that—for you. He wants to be anything you want him to be. If only you would allow him.
You nodded and turned to the espresso machine, your back half turned to him as you reached for the portafilter. Dex stood at the counter watching the movements of your hands—your efficiency to tamp the grounds, and the slight tremor in your left wrist that suggested either fatigue or a healed injury, he watched you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and revealed the soft hollow just below it.
You’ve been working here for six months, and Dex knows this because he’s learned the schedule changes taped to the back office door, visible through the crack when the manager leaves it ajar. Tuesday through Saturday, opening shift. You take your break at ten, give or take four minutes, spending it in the alley behind the dumpster with a paperback book and a lit cigarette placed between your lips, taking long drags.
Dex also has learned the titles of these books you’ve been bringing to work. He’d read all of them, sometimes after he comes home from killing some of the AVTF agents, his laptop open on his kitchen table while the camera feeds from your apartment, appearing on a secondary monitor.
He installed those three weeks ago.
It had been remarkably simple, your building’s security was a god damn joke—a buzzer system that could be bypassed with a paperclip and a landlords’ indifference that bordered on criminal negligence. Your apartment was a studio type on the third floor; one doorman, and a few old cameras in the hallway. Dex let himself in on a random day, when he knew from two weeks of observation you would be out meeting your friends, and your downstairs neighbour, Mr. Hargrove, would be watching his late-night Westerns loud enough to cover any incidental noise.
The cameras were small. Disposable. It was the kind Dex could buy with cash at four different electronics stores across the city, assembling the components piecemeal so no single transaction would register. He placed one in the smoke detector above your bed, one in the charging block you kept plugged in by the microwave, and then in the spine of a cookbook on your shelf that you had never opened.
Careless, he thinks, and the word carries no judgment, only perception. You are careless. You leave your curtains half open at night, offering anyone with eyes a view of your living room. You check your phone while walking home, earbuds in, oblivious to the world around you. You never look over your shoulder nor do you ever cross the street to avoid a stranger.
You are, in every measurable way, a target waiting to be acquired.
What if somebody follows you? Dex wanted to confront. What if somebody learns your routine, memorizes your schedule, watches you through the gaps in your defenses? What if somebody is already watching—and you have no idea? You should be more careful, he thinks as he stands inside your living room while on the other side of the room you sleep peacefully. You don’t know who’s watching.
If he were a different kind of man—if he were the kind of man he is warning you against, Dex could do anything to you, and you wouldn’t even wake until it was too late.
“How’s your day going?” you suddenly ask, snapping him back to reality, you slide the finished cup across the counter. Your fingers brush his, brief—electric. His cock twitched at the contact.
What should he tell you? His day has consisted of three hours of surveillance on a AVTF supply route, forty five minutes of strength training, a cold shower in which he imagined your hands running wet on his back, and the slow torture of cleaning his sidearm while listening to the couple next door argue about whose turn it was to buy groceries.
Dex didn’t think you wanted to hear any of this, did you? He wondered what your reaction would be if he said what he was thinking.
“It was eventful,” he says instead. “But almost quiet.”
You nodded like you understand. “Those are the best kind,” your lips turn up slowly, soft expression. “The quiet days.”
Dex wants to say something back. Wants to explain his version of quiet days are the dangerous ones, where his thoughts get loud, the buzzing in his head threatens to turn into worse—rage, grief, or the type of wanting that has no object and therefore no end.
But you were looking at him with those eyes—those innocent eyes that have somehow become the only fixed point in his drifting, Dex finds that he cannot contradict you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” a hopeful tone in your voice, he noticed.
Dex nodded, smiling. Showing his teeth. “I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.”
His hands are shaking and he’s inside your apartment—where you undress, where you sit in your chair with your back to the window and your face turned away from the world. The air smells faintly of you despite your lack of presence, and it makes his chest tighten. Everything about him hurts.
Dex almost died today.
Although he knows he wasn’t ever going to, not like that, at least. He couldn’t, especially now that he’s found his north star. But the AVTF has gotten faster, smarter. Someone has been feeding them information, and he has a short list of suspects, in which all of them will be dead by the end of the month, Dex guarantees. And yet, that’s not what matters right now—what matters was the shit that happened in the second between hearing the shot and dodging it.
He thought of you.
Your name fallen on his busted lips, your face blooming in his peripheral vision like a dark flower. His brain is tricky sometimes, it offered him a vision of the future—your expression, three days from now, glancing at the door of the coffee shop, waiting for a man who would never walk through it again. You wouldn’t understand why you felt the absence so acutely ( you don’t even know his real name ) but you would feel it. Emptiness. And eventually, you would stop waiting, and you would take someone else’s order, remember them instead of his, then you would have forgotten him entirely. Dex can’t allow that.
You have no one if he dies. He’s already checked. No partner, no roommate, no family that calls more than once a month, plus, you only have three friends you see on rotations. You are alone in this city, and the city is a mouth full of teeth with Dex’s only hand reaching into it.
The idea of dying would mean leaving you unprotected, the thought of someone else’s hands on you, someone else’s eyes gawking, makes the shaking in his hands feel like rage.
You’ve made him yours, even if you don’t know it. You’ve given Dex a reason to wake up in the morning that wasn’t spite nor the grind of survival. He will not let that go—he will not let you go. Even if it meant he has to crawl back from the grave to watch over you, Dex will.
He’ll appear in full gear, the armor of ugly indefinite livability, the real body, alive or decay—he’ll appear like a thundering, and he’ll save you.
So he’d decided to put a tracker into the lining of your coat for safety purposes, the one you wear every day to work, hangs on the hook by the door. Dex contemplates putting one inside your body, too. Perhaps if it ever comes to that point. He’ll watch you swallow your carbonated drink, and it would have been there, swirling inside you. Unremovable.
Then he sits on your bed and only for a moment. He wanted to know what it feels like, his long fingers running along your sheets and they are soft—cheap cotton, washed so many times they’ve lost their stiffness. Your pillow still holds the dent of your head, he puts his face there, buried within and inhaled deeply. Dex would offer it all, any trade, any sacrifice, anything to become yours. Maybe he’d cut his soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home.
Dex’s still in his gear, masked face, and his breathing is uneven. The suit feels tighter, somehow, or perhaps it’s the aftermath of the bullet that almost split his skull, his kevlar weave felt warm against his chest, holding the heat of his body from the chase. His knuckles bruised beneath the gloves, there’s blood on his cuff he knew wasn’t his own.
He doesn’t care about any of that, and instead goes to press his face deeper into your pillow, the scent of you floods his senses. Dex’s breathing changes, heavier. The adrenaline from the fight hasn’t left him and now was being redirected—pooling low in his belly, curling through his thighs, making him ache in a way that has nothing to do with the mild injuries he’s ignoring.
His cock was painfully hard.
And without thinking, Dex reaches down; his calloused hands fumbling with the armored waistband of his tactical pants until his cock sprang loose; thick and pulsing, already weeping with a bead of pre cum. His fingers wrapped around the length of him and it felt nearly unbearable as it demanded this sweet sweet release that mirrored the buzzing in his ears from the fight.
He then would lay back, his broad shoulders spreading across your pillows, and gripped himself. His hand was large enough to nearly swallow the girth of his cock, then he’d began to stroke a slow, heavy slide of leathered palm against skin, his thumb tracing the ridge of his tip with pressure.
“Mm. Fuck,” Dex groaned your name, tasting the blood in his mouth, his gaze drifted towards the empty pillow beside him, imagining your head resting there, innocent eyes staring right back at him. He could come in the mere thought of that, he thinks.
He shut his eyes closed, and tries to visualize your face. All you—you and your kindness, the way you would smile at him every time he comes to the coffee shop, how you never seemed to be bothered that Dex would sit there for hours even if his cup was already finished long ago, and why you never seemed to look at his way. Why don’t you look at him?
His pace quickened, his breathing turning into shallow hitches that reverberated across your bedroom. Dex didn’t know how to be gentle when his blood was this hot. He grasped himself with a white knuckled intensity, his hand sliding up and down in punishing strokes. Dex’s grunts became more frequent as he jerked himself harder and faster, using his pre cum as lube for the time being.
He wanted to feel the friction—the sheer overwhelming sensation of his own body responding to the memory of you. Dex imagined your hands; those delicate hands replacing his own, your fingers tracing the scar on his cheek before sliding down to claim his cock, or your lips wrapped around his entirety, gagging with tears prickling in the corner of your eyes, motioning him to stop but he’d go on, tell you it’s gonna be okay, that he wouldn’t hurt you like that, then—he’d thrust his hips forward, his cock would reach the back of your throat so deep he’d feel you choke on it.
“I need you,” he whines feverishly, your name falling on his lips repeatedly, and the pressure built behind his eyes, a mounting tension that reflects the ache in his groin. Dex needed you, even if you weren’t here to witness his desperation. “Fuck—please, I need you—please.”
Dex could feel it then, the familiar yet terrifying surge of a climax approaching, and there was nothing more he wanted than to spill himself into your space, to leave a part of his existence on your sheets. With a sharp, strangled cry that he muffled against the fabric of your pillow, Dex buckled. His body jolted, muscles snapping taut as he came into the thought of you.
Yours, he thinks over, and the word is a prayer. Yours, yours, yours.
He shuddered violently, his vision blurring as he emptied himself all over, and the hot thick reality of his cum coating the fabric in a humiliating sprawl. Letting out a shuddering exhale, his forehead remained pressed hard against the pillow as the aftershocks of the orgasm rippled through his heavy limbs. He felt drained, utterly revolting.
Dex stayed there for a while, slumped over your bed like a fallen soldier, with his skin slick in a mixture of sweat and the cooling remnants of his release.
He’ll clean them later, Dex thinks. First, he wants to cherish this moment.
Everything you do, you do it alone.
Years ago, you have decided that love was not for meant for someone like you. You had watched your peers catch it like a fever, trading their dignity for the shallow comfort of a hand held in the dark. It’s awful, your watching; the refusal to participate, the ogling and smug superiority, and the approximation of a true desire. It’s fake, you assumed. But it isn’t. Sometimes you can feel them pretending to know love more than you, they’re pretending yes, but it doesn't matter because they’re actually doing it.
There’s no ounce of motivation to form genuine connection so you’d choose to sit in the sidelines instead. You hadn’t remembered a time where you’ve longed for people. Was it when you were a child, full of naivety, purest of heart—never knowing the reality outside the door? You feel like a spectator of your own life.
You keep trying to slip away from everyone around you, it was written all over your face, and you should have been used to the feeling by then, you reasoned. But the feeling of unbelonging had started much earlier. Since childhood, there had been a glass wall between you and the rest of the world; you saw things in fractures, had noted the way the light died in the corners of the room, or how people used words like ambition to mask their fear of being mediocre.
This job as a barista was eating you alive, but you had no other choice anyway.
You had friends back home, of course. People you’ve grown up with, people you’ve met during high school—but you have never allowed yourself to let them see the entirety of you. Were you afraid? You supposed, till now, that you are. And you thought that maybe moving to an entirely different city would change that feeling; that you’ll become an entirely different person—you would never feel it anymore.
You had never felt more alone in your life. The truth was, no matter where you go, you will always be caged within yourself. There’s no escaping you.
There’s this stranger though. Tony. He comes to the café almost every day at the same time, it’s kind of endearing how he has his own routine even if you don’t know the whole of it. You also think he was attractive, probably a lot older than you, too. He’s nice. Talks to you sometimes when you ask him about his day, nothing of substance but at least he wasn’t creepy. He was just kinda there.
You were on your way home. It’s late, you’re a little tipsy from the bar you and your friends went to, and the vodka is still warm in your chest, loosening the usual tightness behind your ribs. You could have called a cab or booked a ride, but you decide to walk it off instead. Makes you feel grounded.
Long walks are something you’ve come to enjoy. Back home, it's all you ever did—walking, occupied by the surroundings, letting the city breathe around you while you held your own. The air was chilling, bites at your cheeks, and the sliver of skin between your scarf and your jacket. Then your building comes into view, stairs are endless but you take them one at a time, hand sliding along the banister, your reflection ghosting across the hallway windows.
Your hands struggle to find the keys, dropped them once on the stoop, and pick them up with clumsy fingers. The lock gives, and finally the door sighs shut behind you.
Inside your apartment, it was dark exactly as you left it. You don’t turn on the light—the streetlamp through your curtains is enough, casting everything in shades of blue and grey. You kick off your heels, then drop your keys in the bowl. Shrugging off your jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door, right where it always goes along with your untouched coat for work.
You were too intoxicated to notice the wrongness of your place, and too alone in your head to feel the weight of someone watching from the corner of your bedroom, pressed against the wall where the shadows are thickest, his breathing slow, deliberately silent.
You shuffle to your bed, and don’t notice the sheets were slightly rumpled more than you left them, but you were too exhausted to register the difference. Your whole body plops down onto the mattress face first, still in your clothes from the bar, and the world spins once behind your closed eyelids before settling into something manageable.
You just… sleep, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness like stone sinking into deep water, your body heavy and warm and devastatingly unaware.
Dex knows he should leave. The tracker is in place, and he’s already pushed his luck further than any man would dare, but rationality left him the moment he heard you coming. He stares at you, sprawled across the bed you don’t know he stained with his cum from hours ago.
Then he moves, his boots make no sound on your floor, crosses the room in a few steps, then lowers himself to his knees beside your bed. His face levels with yours—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin, you smell of liquor and nicotine, something underneath that is just you. Dex can already tell the headache you’ll have come morning, he wonders if you’ll work later or call it off with your boss.
He could take you right now. That’s the thought that circles his mind like a vulture. Take, take, take. Dex wants to touch you. God, he wants to touch you badly. You’re right there, pliant and warm and so fucking trusting, and the proximity is challenging. Dex has never been good at denying himself anything he truly wanted, but this—you, are different.
Not yet. Not tonight.
And if you saw him—if you opened your eyes and found a masked man kneeling beside your bed, still wearing the remnants of violence on his suit, you would scream and be terrified of him. You would look at him the way everyone eventually looks at him; a monster.
Dex doesn’t think he could survive that from you. He doesn’t touch, but he leans in anyway, his lips ghosting above your head.
“Good night,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his lips against your disheveled hair before turning around. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next morning, he arrives at the coffee shop before you do.
This is new for him, a deviation from routine, and Dex doesn’t deviate lightly. He woke at four in the morning because he heard muffled noises from his monitor. He had fallen asleep while watching you, then he realized you had a nightmare, that’s why.
Dex watched you thrash for three minutes before falling back to sleep; your limbs tangling in sheets, and small broken sounds escaping your lips. His hand hovering over the keyboard, fingers twitching with the urge to do something. To wake you, to hold you? He wants to promise you that whatever monster chased you through your dreams, he would kill it.
He couldn’t go back to sleep. So instead, he dressed, walked around for a bit, and then stood near the alleyway outside where you work, waiting. He checks his phone, and the live recording shows you were still asleep, turned onto your side, with one hand tucked under your pillow, he could see your breathing even. No more nightmares. Good. Dex would have hated to see you suffer twice in one night.
Your male coworker with the septum piercing opens the shop at seven. Lane with a last name he’d already forgotten. Twenty four years old, no girlfriend, and lives alone. He’s done his research, of course. He had to know the people who surrounded you.
Dex exhales slowly, and the cloud of his breath dissipates into the dark. The boy thinks he’s being subtle with his lingering glances and his casual touches, but Dex sees everything. He sees the way Lane’s gaze drops to your mouth when you’re not looking, sees the way the boy positions himself near you during slow hours, always finding excuses to be in your personal space. Harmless, he tells himself. It’s harmless, though it doesn’t stop the way his jaw tightens every time you indulge yourself in your coworker’s antics.
Was it luck? Timing? Did Lane simply exist in the right place at the right moment, and you decided he was worth your attention? Dex has been coming to this shop for months. He’s been polite and patient. He made himself appear warm and approachable for you, and yet you still look at him like he’s a stranger.
He needs to do something. Kill Lane or finally talk to you properly, Dex doesn’t know—but he needs to make his move.
“You’re early,” you greeted him as he approached the counter, half yawning and your eyes looked exhausted. But you did try to look presentable in front of a customer.
“Hey,” he says with your name, his mouth twitches. “Couldn’t sleep, I thought I’d get an early start.”
“Me neither,” you admitted, and your voice seemed quieter now, more private. “Hangover and bad dreams.”
“Tell me about it.”
You shake your head. “I don’t remember anymore. Just the feeling… you know the type that sticks around after you wake up? Yeah, that’s—I mean, yeah. Sorry. Uh, the usual?”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” there’s something almost boyish in the way Dex fumbles over the words, desperately attempting to sound genuine like a person who understands what you’re feeling, but the effort shows he’s trying. “It must have been hard, really hard.”
“It’s okay,” You shrug, a small and worn down gesture. “Comes with the territory.”
Dex inhaled a breath. “What territory?”
“Being human, I think.”
You look at him, your gaze traced the soft creases of his eyes, lined by pretty lashes, the way you did the first time, when you smiled and asked if he’d had a long night.
It feels like an affliction when you say it like that, as if it was something you suffer through rather than what you are. Dex has spent his whole life watching everyone from the outside, studying their emotions, their desperate need to matter. He understood them and yet, he had never once felt like one of them.
Dex wants to tell you that he knows what that feels like, he’s been carrying the same weight, this alienation. Because most mornings, he opens his eyes and waits for the emptiness to fill him, and sometimes it doesn’t, sometimes it does, and either way, he gets out of bed and loads his weapon and pretends to be a person. You’re pretending too. He can see it—the effort behind your smile, the emptiness behind your eyes. You’re pretending you’re not falling apart, and Dex is pretending to be human, neither of you is fooling anyone.
Except maybe each other.
He stands there with his hands at his sides and his heart beating too fast, mind racing through all the things Dex wants to say but can’t. He wonders if you know how much you sound like him.
I don’t know how to be human, he wants to say. But I do want to know how to be yours.
“He asked you out? This Tony guy?” Lane says, eyeing Dex from where he’s sitting—hunched over, holding a book you seemed to recognize, in the corner, his coffee cup half empty, pretending not to watch, then Lane gazes back to you. “And you said yes—are you fucking insane?”
“What’s wrong with him? He’s actually nice,” you argue, shaking your head.
Lane’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “Nice? The guy doesn’t talk to anybody. He sits in the corner for hours and stares at practically nothing. I’ve literally never seen him blink.”
“Well—I mean, he talks to me, you know.”
“Yeah, because he wants to get in your pants.” Lane lowers his voice, leaning across the counter. “Come on, you’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not normal.”
You glance over at Dex, he was reading yet you didn't notice the way his eyes weren’t moving across the page. You’ve seen that book before. Crime and Punishment. You read it once in college, struggled through the dense paragraphs and Raskolnikov’s spiraling guilt. Then some part of you wondered if he had nightmares too. Does he also wake up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and no one to hold onto, all alone? Perhaps he was lonely as you are—you could understand that.
“He’s just shy,” you say, turning back to Lane. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“He’s not shy. He’s fuckin weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m charmingly eccentric. There’s a difference.” Lane crosses his arms, the septum catching light as he tilts his head. “Seriously. You don’t know anything about him. Where does he live? What does he do? Does he have, like, a criminal record?”
You roll your eyes. “Not everyone has a criminal record, Lane.”
“That you know of.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“And you’re being reckless.” his voice softens along with your name, losing some of its teasing edge. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay? You’ve been through enough.”
Your expression contorts into something akin to annoyance, Lane has no right to stand there, acting like he’s protecting you from yourself. You told him things because you were lonely—because he was there. Sometimes you say too much when you’re not paying attention, though you wouldn’t consider him as a friend. You’re not even close. Lane is someone familiar, a familiar face in a city where every face is a stranger, and the notion of him acting like he’s more than that feels rather intruding.
“Thanks for the concern,” you flatly replied. “But I’ve got it handled, Lane. Trust me on this.”
Dex will not show his teeth too quickly, he decided. The date is three days away. Saturday. A dinner at a restaurant you were familiar with—neutral ground, you had said, because you’re cautious without realizing it, some part of you knows that strangers are dangerous even when they seem nice, and Dex appreciated that about you; the instinct, your own self-preservation. He agreed to your terms, of course.
The book in his hands was a prop, he hadn’t read a single word since Lane started running his mouth. Dex didn’t need to, he heard every single word of your conversation. He wants to get in your pants, he could almost snort at that because Lane had no god damn idea. No idea that Dex had already been in your apartment, laid in the intimate spaces of your life while you were completely unaware. Getting to fuck you was a formality at this point, a pleasant inevitability, sure, but not his main objective.
The goal was you, anyway. You wanted to believe Dex was safe, that he was worth the risk, and he was going to give you every reason to keep believing, despite not even knowing his real name.
You would, though. Eventually. When the time was right. When the mask wears off and Dex shows you who he really was—not all at once, never in a way that would terrify you, but piece by piece, until you were too invested to run, too attached to look away, fully his to even think about leaving. He knew you better than anyone ever had, he won’t fuck this up now.
Lane could stand behind the counter with his misplaced protectiveness and his complete ignorance of what Dex was capable of—and still, it wouldn’t have changed anything.
He came early.
The restaurant was small and kind of intimate, you described it as cozy when you suggested it, your voice casual but your eyes watchful, testing to see if he’d push for somewhere else. Dex didn’t, tells you it sounded perfect, and meant it. His clothes were new and he had worn them tonight, too. He’d stood in the mirror in his place for twenty minutes, staring at his own reflection, trying to remember the last time he bought clothes that weren’t for work.
Dex looks normal, he thinks. Almost human.
He’s spent the extra time studying the exits, assessing the other patrons, and positioning his chair so his back is to the wall and his eyes have a clear sightline to the door. Dex orders water—does not drink it, ice melting as he watches the condensation crawl down the glass like beads of sweat.
The menu is in his hands but he wasn’t reading it. Instead, Dex’s running through contingency plans. What if you’re late, or worse, you don’t show up at all? His hands clenches at the thought, then relaxes because you wouldn’t do that to him, would you? You already agreed, and you come home alone every night—you were his.
His doubts had been cleared when he saw you walk in.
For a moment, Dex forgets to breathe, his gaze sweeping over to trail down your body because you’re wearing a dress. Nothing fancy, it’s a simple one. But the dress had been black and it fell just above your knees, your legs are bare where he could run his fingers along your thigh and find the heat between your legs, and oh, your hair is down too.
He also noticed that you’ve done something to your eyes—darker than usual, smokier. You look like you're trying not to look like you tried, and the effort makes Dex’s mouth go dry, a growing bulge in his pants but he kept those thoughts locked away.
You spot him and smile shyly, Dex rises from his seat.
His tenderness toward you had the polished quality of a practiced performance. Dex pulled out your chair, waited until you’d taken your first bite before he touched his own. He asked if you were warm enough, or if you wanted another drink, asked simple questions if the commute here had been okay.
Each small courtesy landed, and you found yourself relaxing despite your better judgment.
The wine you were drinking helped, though every so often, you’d catch him looking at you with an expression that didn’t match the gentleness of his voice—intense hunger lingered in his eyes. Made your stomach flip. It would vanish as soon as you noticed, replaced by that boyish smile Dex has. You told yourself you imagined it, you were pretty sure you didn’t.
Still, talking to Dex had been easy, you braced yourself for awkward pauses, for the strange tension of sitting across from a stranger whom you knew his coffee order but not his life. The inevitable moment when conversations would curdle into silence and you’d both stare at your plates like they held the answers to questions neither of you knew how to ask.
None of that happened.
Instead, Dex asked questions that made you feel seen without feeling exposed, and you answered without meaning to, the words falling out of your lips, tumbling into the space between you. And he simply listened, with his eyes never leaving your face. It should have felt invasive, and yet it felt like being wrapped around in warmth.
“I feel stuck,” swirling your wine glass, elbow on the surface of the table, yet your gaze drifted away on to the strangers around you. “My life feels muffled... static? Somehow, I’m continually surprised when faced with this proof that the world is indeed moving—that it’s barreling forward… possibly without me.”
Dex set down his fork, the metal clicking softly against the plate. “Hm. Maybe you’re not stuck,” he finally offered, uttering your name. “Maybe you’re just waiting. For somethi—someone.” His eyes held yours. “The world doesn’t get to decide if you’re in it or not. You do.”
He doesn’t feel stuck when he’s with you, that’s for certain. Dex has to remind himself to keep his hands flat on the table because what he wants is to hover his hand above yours, and simply caress your softest skin, thumb rubbing in a circular motion, almost soothing.
He wants to build you a cage, a beautiful one.
A place where nothing could ever reach you, not the crushing weight of a world that doesn’t see you the way he sees you. Dex would line it with every book you’ve ever loved, make the cage to your liking. Then, he would sit outside it just to watch you.
Would you like that? Where he’d take your uncertainties, your doubts, everything that makes you feel less—Dex would carry them with him to his grave. You don’t have to worry about anything, because you only need him.
You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to show up. No one ever does,” you leaned back in your chair. A strand of hair fell across your cheek, and you didn’t bother tucking it back. “Maybe I’m just not the kind of person people show up for.”
“You have me now, I’ll take care of you.”
There was a beat of silence after Dex spoke, and in that silence, you felt the strangest urge to apologize. For what, you didn’t know. Perhaps, for making him say it? You had always thought you wanted someone to say something like that to you. To look at you with that kind of certainty and promise you that you weren’t alone, although now that it was happening—you realized you hadn’t prepared yourself for how it would feel. Heavy on the chest.
His words terrified you in a way. This man was practically still a stranger to you.
You shook the thought away almost as soon as it came, scolding yourself for being dramatic. Tony was just being nice, saying what people said, and yet you could feel the coldness of your hands, wine glass slippery against your palm. When you glanced up at him through your lashes, he was still watching you, as though you were the only one worth waiting for.
So why did it feel like standing on the edge of a cliff you couldn’t see the bottom of? You tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away anxiously, you didn’t say anything after that.
Dex must have sensed your discomfort, because when he spoke again, it was to change the topic to somewhat more lighthearted. You felt grateful for that.
“Can I drive you home?”
The question hangs in the air between you, soft as smoke. Dex’s voice seemed careful but there’s something underneath it, a current he can’t quite hide. His keys are already in his hand, held loose between his fingers, and he watches your face trying to decipher every micro-expression, your flicker of hesitation.
Say yes, Dex craves in his mind. Say yes, please.
Your gaze finds him, your head a little tipsy from the bottles of wine you’ve managed to consume in one night. Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, and demeanor almost careless. The streetlight catches your face, painting you in a beautiful light, and you’re smiling—a real one, soft and warm and slightly lopsided from the wine.
And Dex thinks he would kill someone for you right now if you asked. Anyone. Anywhere.
“I’d like that, thank you.”
Good, Dex thinks as he opens the passenger door for you. This is good. You’re doing everything right.
He walks around to the driver’s side, his heart beating frantically. Dex steals a glance at you—buckling your seatbelt, fitting into his space like you’d always been there, he allows himself a small grin. A surge of pride blooms in his chest, it was the pride of a man who has devoted months to learning you, watching you, edging into your periphery until you forgot he was ever an outsider.
The city slides past the windows in streaks of neon and darker hues. Dex keeps his eyes on the road, but his attention never leaves you; the sound of your breathing, your head resting toward the window, soft sighs you make when he takes a corner too slowly and you sway slightly in your seat.
Dex’s right hand comes to rest on your thigh, a bold move, yet you don’t pull away from him. A smile crosses his face.
When you reach your building, Dex parks the car and kills the engine. The street is quiet this late, the only sounds a distant siren and the click of his turn signal as he switches it off. You step out onto the curb, and he gets out right after, leaving the silence between you to expand on its own.
You stop at the front door. Your keys are already in your hand, fidgeting with them—twisting the metal between your fingers, the nervous energy rolling off you in unconscious movements. You keep glancing at him and then away, like you’re trying to gather courage for something. It was adorable, Dex thinks as he watches you.
“This was nice,” you finally break the silence, and the softness of your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “I had a nice time with you.”
“I did too. You are beautiful.”
He doesn’t trust himself to say more, not when you’re standing this close, and the wine has loosened something in you that Dex wants to keep loose, with his instinct screaming at him to close the distance between you and never let it open again.
Your gaze lifts to meet his, and then realize the proximity. How the darkness and the quiet and the wine have conspired to draw you together like magnets, pulling. Your face is close now—closer than Dex allowed himself to imagine during those long nights in his apartment, watching you through his screen, with his right hand wrapped around his cock, memorizing every inch and curve of your body.
He can also see everything from here; fine lines at the corners of your eyes, your pupils have dilated, swallowing the color of your irises. The way your lips are slightly parted, contemplating whether you’re going to speak—or you’re waiting for something.
“Tony,” you whispered, and he almost corrected you. Almost tells you his real name because he’ll do anything to hear the name Dex fall on your lips.
“Yeah?” his voice comes out rough.
You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lift yourself onto your tiptoes and lean in, reaching for his mouth.
Your lips press against his, and Dex goes very still, his hands frozen at his sides because he doesn’t know what to do with them. He hasn’t been kissed in years. Hasn’t let anyone close enough to try but your mouth felt warm and sticky from the wine, your scent filling his nose.
He doesn’t want to scare you, so his hand rises slowly, carefully and settles on your waist instead, fingers curling against the fabric of your dress. You make a small sound against his mouth, surprised and pleased, and Dex takes it as an opportunity to finally move his lips along with yours.
It’s gentle. Dex makes it gentle. But beneath the gentleness is something hungry, desperate, an urge that wants to pull you closer and press you against his firm chest, taste every inch of your mouth until he’s satisfied from it. He doesn’t do any of that. Dex keeps his hand on your waist, his lips soft and his breathing steady, he lets you set the pace.
His tongue swept past your lips, tasting the faint salt on your skin. One of his large hands came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a reverence that made your thighs squeezed together. The other hand pressed flat against the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction closer.
The kiss deepened in waves. Every time you thought you’d caught your rhythm, Dex shifted—tilting his head the other way, angling deeper, his tongue finding new ways to explore the inside of your mouth. His tongue moved against yours in slow strokes, coaxing rather than claiming. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers where they held your face, his breathing had gone shallow and ragged.
This was the part Dex couldn’t have planned for; the actual taste of you, the way you whimpered into his mouth, the small sound you made when his teeth grazed your lower lip, nibbling them.
When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours. Dex’s eyes were still closed. Your lips were parted, glossy and swollen. And for a long moment, neither of you knew what to say, it seemed, but he was holding you close to him that you felt utterly comfortable in his muscular arms. You could feel the heat radiating off from his body alone.
“Goodnight, Tony,” you breathe, gaze averted away to try to hide your already apparent blush.
Nothing feels like always right now. Living on the honey of hope.
Your back hits the door as it swings shut, and you stand there for a moment, pressed against the door, your fingers tracing your lower lip, reminiscing; the ghost of his mouth. It keeps replaying inside your head.
You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, black dress pooling around your thighs, and a laugh escapes your lips. You press the heels of your palms against your eyes and smile so hard your cheeks ache. You feel like a fucking teenager. Sort of like every movie you have ever watched and rolled your eyes at, the cliché you’ve dismissed as overwrought or simply not meant for someone like you.
Finally pushing yourself off the floor after a few moments, yet still smiling, floating somewhere above your own body. You kick off your heels and leave them by the door, then wander to the bathroom. You saw a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, you look ridiculous, but you’ve never looked blissful in years.
Happy. When was the last time you applied it to yourself without irony? You can’t recall. So much of you has been surviving for so long that you forgot people did more than that. They went on dates, held hands, and kissed while the city slept around them. They felt giddy, hopeful.
You deserve it, don’t you? Yes. This is somewhere to be, for this is all you have, but it’s something. Streets and sodium lights. The sky, the world. You’re still alive, still capable of loving. You’re still human, after all. Tony made you feel one tonight.
You can forget that the world will turn away from you someday, and leave you behind. For now, you’ll settle with this small dream filled exuberance. You cannot wait to prove Lane wrong, you thought as you washed your face, then brushed your teeth, pulled on an oversized shirt that used to belong to someone you don’t talk to anymore.
Your limbs feel heavy and light at the same time, weighted down by wine and lifted by something sweeter. You fall into bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Has this always been so cold? It didn’t matter, you couldn’t stop smiling.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.
You ignore it at first. It’s late, you’re still reeling, and you don’t want to come back down. But it buzzes again. And again. Three messages in quick succession, then a fourth. A sigh elicits from your lips, hands reaching for the phone, the screen lighting up your face in the dark.
Aa Lane (12:01 AM): hey i know it’s late but i was scrolling through some old news articles and i swear i’ve seen your coffee guy before
Aa Lane (12:01 AM): like not in person but somewhere.
Aa Lane (12:02 AM): tony right?? that’s what the fucker told you??
Aa Lane (12:02 AM): look at this and tell me i’m the one being paranoid
Something in your guts tells you to not click the link Lane sent you. It’s the same feeling you used to get as a child walking past a dark room—the instinct that something was waiting for you in the shadows, something that would change you if you looked at it too long. Don’t, don’t, don’t.
But you do. You click the link.
The article loads slowly, cluttered with ads and pop-ups and slow spinning wheels. Yet the headline loads first, bold and black, and your eyes catch on the words before your brain can catch up.
BENJAMIN POINDEXTER SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDER OF PROMINENT ATTORNEY FOGGY NELSON
Oh, fuck.
You scroll down before you can stop yourself, and there it is—a photo. It was a mugshot. His face—Tony’s face. Same sharp jaw, same piercing eyes, same mouth that had been pressed against yours not too long ago. But different, too. Colder. Much emptier. The eyes in the photo don’t look like they’ve ever held anyone gently. You read the words again, former FBI agent, sentenced to life, murder, escaped custody, and they don’t feel real. None of this feels real at all.
Do not approach. Do not engage. If seen, contact authorities immediately.
You could feel the way your hands started shaking, then comes your whole body; rigid and blood runs cold. You’re frozen and on fire simultaneously. Your hands drop the phone, and it lands on your chest, the screen still glowing, his face still staring up at you with those eyes. Then, a notification popped up once more on your screen.
Aa Lane (12:10 AM): fuck, i hope you’re safe and home. call me pls
You stare at Lane’s message, the words blur and sharpen as if your eyes can’t decide what to focus on. And yet, the numbness spreads. Starts in your fingers, those tingling extremities that had been warm against his skin just an hour ago. Then, it travels up your arms, settles in your shoulders, crawls across your chest, your heart is still beating—you can feel it, distant.
You think the panic has receded, that the fear has gone quiet. Suddenly, your stomach lurches.
It comes out of nowhere; a violent, involuntary spasm that doubles you over on the bed. You press your hand hard over your mouth, and for a terrible moment you think you’re going to throw up. Swallowing hard, once, twice, as your throat works against the rising tide, and eventually, the nausea subsides, residing somewhere low in your belly.
But the sickness doesn’t go away, simply moves. Finding its way into your veins, your bones, you feel poisoned, like an insect has crawled inside you and died. Truly rotten.
Another message.
Aa Lane (12:21 AM): please answer me i’m getting really fucking worried
Your vision becomes blurry—tears, you realize, when did you start crying? Forcing yourself to type back, one word, because it’s all you can manage.
You (12:22 AM): Here.
The response comes almost instantly.
Aa Lane (12:22 AM): i’m coming over, wait for me
Tony isn’t real, it was a mantra that repeats inside your head as you wait for Lane. There is no Tony. There’s only ever Benjamin Poindexter—convicted murderer, a man who has killed and will kill again. And somehow, absurdly, you find yourself on the verge of laughter. Because this is your life, isn’t it? This is what you get for daring to hope.
Tonight, you let yourself believe that perhaps, the universe had something good in store for you, and instead, what you were getting was the universe reminding you, yet again, that you don’t get to have nice things—you never did and you never will. The world has a sick sense of humor, you’d almost admire it, if only you weren’t busy falling apart.
Little serpentine slithers its way into your thoughts, mind boggling, what you had never realized earlier, you do now. Fully sobered up.
You never told Tony where you lived.
He drove you home tonight but he’d known where to go. Never asked for directions, nor plugged anything into his phone either. Not a moment of uncertainty, he’d just driven. Like he had done it before—as if he’d been here before.
Stupid girl, where is your mind now?
Dex watched it happen in real time.
He saw the way your smile falters, then fades. Watched your hand over your mouth, repulsed by him, swallowed something rotten and now was crawling back up your throat. He knew that look. He had put that look on a hundred faces before yours. But never yours—never yours.
Dex was so careful, so patient with you. He had done everything right, he thinks. He had to have known, on some level, that you couldn’t stay ignorant forever, and still, he let himself believe otherwise. A mere fantasy, was it ever was. Dex wanted it so badly that he convinced himself it could be real.
That somehow your parallel paths converge, and found himself in the arms of your warmth. This emptiness, this nothing inside him consumes the entirety of you, and the promise of normalcy. He wanted to think he would be sated for a lifetime with you, and in all the deaths that exist after. Dex could only blame himself for thinking he could ever be anything else.
And now you know.
His skin starts to burn, an itch to his soul. Dex stands over the body, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths. The alley is darker than the place where Lane’s car still idles, engine humming, door hanging open like a wound.
There’s this satisfied curl of Dex’s lips beneath the mask, seeing Lane on his knees.
The boy didn’t beg, Dex will give him that much. Didn’t plead for a life he clearly valued, despite all evidence to the contrary. He just looked up at Dex with those wide, stupid eyes.
“I fucking knew it, you piece of shit!”
The first impact doesn’t satisfy Dex, so he does it again—pulls Lane’s head back and slams it forward, a second crack, this one weaker than the first. Lane’s eyes seemed unfocused now, with his body limp in Dex’s grip. But he doesn’t stop, can’t help himself. He holds Lane against the wall, feeling the boy’s pulse flutter beneath his fingers, and leans in close.
“You had to run your god damn mouth, didn’t you?” his voice barely a whisper, seething. Meant only for Lane, to be the last thing he hears before life fades from his eyes. “You had to take her away from me, make her afraid. You just couldn’t help yourself to be the savior, hm?” Dex pauses. “She’s not gonna fuck you, Lane—she wants me. And I’m going to take something from you, too.”
“She should be terrified of you,” Lane had spat back, words almost slurred, blood already dripping from his split lip. “You’re a fucking killer.”
“Yes,” Dex’s toothy grin shows. “I am. I’ll show you.”
He had half a mind to leave Lane bleeding out here.
The boy was done for anyway; cracked skull, blood seeping from his hairline, eyes struggling to focus on a world that was already slipping away. He wouldn’t last an hour, maybe not even the half. He can walk away now, because all he ever wanted to do, what burned in his chest was to come over to your apartment and apologize.
Never mind the bloodied mess he made on his suit, he’d fall to his knees and make you understand. He’ll tell you everything, the truth, the ugly, this impossible truth of what you’d become to him. You had reached something inside him he thought had died years ago, scraped out, buried, and mourned by no one.
You have me, Dex would say. You have all of me. The good parts, the bad parts, the parts that have done terrible things. They’re yours. They’ve been yours since the first time you met me. Dex needed to believe he could make you understand, because the alternative was unbearable. It would crack him open, spill whatever was left of his humanity onto the floor, and there would be no putting it back together.
Deciding he’s running out of time before you could be out of his reach, Dex turned away from Lane’s crumpled body, already calculating the fastest route to your building, and then this fucker just had to speak once more.
“She’ll know.”
He halted in his steps. Listening.
“She’ll know,” Lane repeated, stronger now, forced through lips that were swelling. “She’ll hate you for the rest of her fucking life, for what you did to me—for what you are. That’s the best damn thing I’ll ever do,” Lane laughed. It was a terrible sound, wet and gurgling, half-choked on his own blood. “Make sure she knows exactly what you are. A monster. A fucking monster in a mask who thought he could pretend to be normal. Creepy fuckin asshole.”
The rage that flooded through Dex was cold, then his hand moved before he consciously decided. With the knife in his palm, flying through the air, spinning end over end, simply knowing where it would land—his blade buried itself in Lane’s throat.
Lane’s eyes went wide, his hands flew to his throat, grasping at the hilt, to the blood that was already pouring between his fingers. He let out an inhumane sound, gasping for air, clawing his way to escape death. That’s what Dex loves about this, when severe pain has caused men to lose their air of arrogance, and only then, realizing that life was already out of their grasp.
Dex walked toward him slowly, then crouched down in front of Lane, bringing his masked face level with the boy’s. Real fear painted across irises, and Dex reveled in this moment of clarity between them.
“Shh, it’s easier if you don’t fight it.” Dex mocks him, pressing a gloved finger to his own lips, though Lane couldn’t see beneath the mask. Lane’s eyes were wet with tears or blood—Dex couldn’t tell, didn’t care. He then gripped his chin, forcing Lane to look up. “I’ll make sure she won’t ever think about you again. You hear me? I’ll make sure of it. You’re nothing, Lane.”
Dex watched until the boy’s eyes went still, his hands fell away from his throat, body slumped sideways, collapsing onto the wet pavement, the knife still buried in his throat. Then Dex stood up, wiping his gloves on his thighs like he had touched something dirty, removed the mask to give himself a moment to breathe.
“Good bye, white knight.”
He had to come find you now. Dex would make sure you didn’t wait long.
You had a knife in your hand, it seemed.
It’s not a good knife, not like his. This is a kitchen knife, the kind that comes in a set, and the blade is short, its handle plastic, and your grip is wrong—too tight, your thumb wrapped over the top instead of resting along the side. You could hurt yourself, Dex worries. You’re going to cut your palm open if you decide to finally swing at him.
Dex stands in the shadows of your living room, watching you through the archway that separates your kitchen from the rest of your life. You haven’t seen him yet, because your back is half turned, shoulders hunched, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps that he can hear from here. You were shaking, he could see it from his standpoint.
You turn suddenly, and you see him.
The knife comes up—not toward him, not exactly, just up between you, a semblance of barrier made of cheap steel and trembling fingers. His suit is still on, never bothered to change, didn’t see the point of it if you know who he is now. But Dex had taken off the mask, as he wants you to see his face.
“Don’t,” your voice cracks on the word, the knife wobbles in your grip. “Don’t come any fucking closer.”
Dex slowly raises his both hands, making himself appear harmless. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
An incredulous laugh escapes your throat. “Won’t hurt me? Right, because you’re not a killer—fucking right. Just how stupid do you think I am to believe you?”
It pains him to see you this way, so broken yet admirably brave. Your expression is the most beautiful thing Dex has ever seen, and he would let you use that knife. He would stand still and let you sink it into his chest, if that’s what you needed—if that would make you feel safe. He’ll let you.
Look at him, if you would be so kind, and find whatever it is you’re looking for, even if it’s not what you wanted to find.
“You matter to me,” it’s the way Dex says your name with such raw, convoluted emotion. “I said I would take care of you, and I meant it. I’m not going to hurt you—I know it won’t ever be enough to believe but I won’t.”
“You’re a liar, you fucking lied to me.”
“I’m not lying—please, if you could just—”
“Everything about you is a lie,” there were tears sliding down your cheeks as you cut him off, and Dex wanted to reach out to wipe them away. “Your name. Your whole life. I don’t even know you. Tony? What the fuck? Who even are you?”
“I was a lot of things.” Dex takes a single step forward, and you stumble backward, your hip catching the kitchen counter, and your knife clatters against the marble, you snatch it up again quickly. “I'm still a lot of things. But I need you to know that I would die before I let anyone hurt you. I would kill anyone who tried—and I know that doesn’t sound like comfort. I know it sounds like the opposite of comfort, but fuck, it’s the truth.”
“Stop,” you shook your head, gaze averted away from him. “Stop talking. You’re sick in the head. You’re—”
“I’m yours,” Another step. Your back meets the refrigerator, and there’s nowhere left to go. “I have been since the first time you said my name.”
“Your fake name.”
“Dex,” he finally says, a thorn being pulled out from his chest. “You already know my name, but everyone calls me Dex.” He reaches up, slowly, giving you time to scream or stab him, yet you do none of those things. Ever so softly, his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear, he felt you shiver beneath his touch. “You can call me whatever you want. Anything. I don’t care—just… don’t turn away from me, please. I need—I need you.”
“I can’t do this,” you whispered, something stirred inside your chest. “I’m not built for this, Dex. Whatever it is you’ve pictured in your head.”
“I know, sweetheart.” he coos amorously, his large hand cupping your jaw fully, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth, your breath hitches but you don’t pull away, he gently takes the knife from your hand. “I’ll make you. Going to make you understand, hm? I’m right here.”
“My legs won’t—” a sob catches in your throat. “Why can’t I run?”
Dex inhaled a sharp breath, and carefully, so tenderly, he leaned in closer to your face, your eyes fluttering closed when his forehead had rested against yours, your breath mingling with his, hot and shaking.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “You don’t believe me yet, I know you’re terrified. But you will. You’ll see.”
“Please,” you whisper again, though you’re not saying it to the knife anymore. You’re not quite certain who you’re saying it to. If your entire life came crashing down and the whole world descended on you, Dex would hurl himself in death’s way to save you, you’re sure of this, but why?
Why you? Though your uneasiness had been swept away when you felt Dex’s lips pressing against yours, not like the first time, no. This time it had felt desperate, almost painful, his hand sliding into your hair and tilting your head back while his mouth claimed yours. You make a sound against his lips, something needier, your hands coming up to fist in the bloodstained fabric of his suit.
You’re not pushing him away, Dex realizes. You were holding onto him. His heart is hammering so hard he’s certain you can feel it through all the layers between you.
“I’m sorry,” he says in between kisses. “I’m really sorry.”
As he pulled away, Dex shifted his weight, his massive frame looming over you, effectively pinning you between the cold metal of the refrigerator and the heat of his body. He was a wall of muscle, a shadow that had finally swallowed you whole. His other hand came up, settling heavily on your waist, his fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip, claiming the space you occupied as if it were his birthright.
He didn’t wait for you to find your voice. Dex couldn’t. If he gave you the chance to speak, you might find the strength to push him away once again—re-establishing the boundary of your own soul, and Dex was far too desperate to let that happen.
What he did was to crash his mouth against yours again, although the dread was long gone, replaced by this starving need. It was a messy, uncoordinated collision of lips and teeth, a silent plea for you to accept the madness he offered. Dex tasted the salt of your tears and the heat of your desperation, it drove him into a fever.
“Please just let me in—let me be the only thing you feel.”
Dropping to his knees with a heavy thud, his eyes never leaving yours until the very last second when he moved to settle between your legs. He worked with such ferocity, his large hands fumbling with the hem of your clothes, his breath warm and hitching against your skin as he bared you to the dim light of the kitchen, naked from the bottom down in front of him.
How beautiful you looked, only for him. And when Dex finally pressed his face into the damp, sweet heat of your cunt, a broken sound escaped him, a pathetic whine that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against you, his voice muffled by your skin, thick with a desperate, weeping sort of devotion. “I’m so sorry for scaring you… mm, so sorry.”
The only thing you could discern was the silhouette of Dex’s broad shoulders as his head dips between your thighs. Dex begins gently, filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal, dragging his tongue against your slick folds, making your chest heave with every whimper.
And the sweet taste of your wetness coats his tongue, pulling a low groan from his chest. Dex needed this as much as you do, he had been longing to devour your pussy, to hear your breathy cries and soft moans while his tongue delved into your pulsing heat, your shivering body held steady under his selfish touch.
“Dex, please…” you whine and beg but don’t know what for, attempting to squeeze your thighs together but his hands had been a lot stronger gripping them, certain he’d leave bruises along. “Fuck…”
When Dex hears your voice break like that, it unlocks something feral within him—to eat you in his earnestness. He switches between flicking your swollen clit with his tongue, then dragging the broad flat of his tongue through your folds. His grip is unyielding, keeping you exactly where he wants you as he fastens his mouth to your pussy and begins to suck the inner lips. Your desperate, high pitched moans bounce off the kitchen walls, and to Dex, they’re pure music.
There’s something holy in the softness of his mouth, driving you into an immaculate euphoria with each unhurried stroke of his tongue. Dex drinks you in, pushing his tongue inside you as his arms lock around your thighs, tugging you nearer so he can taste deeper—consuming you from the inside.
“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he rasped, pulling out his tongue with your name woven into his breath. “Let me make you feel good. So perfect for me.”
Dex’s nose nudges your clit, and you roll your hips against his face, smearing your wetness across his lips. He hums in approval, the vibration running straight through your core.
A sudden flare of heat surges through you, your legs wobbling as your pussy clenches around his tongue and releases, pleasure like white fire racing through your veins. Knees nearly give out. Dex’s tongue gathers the aftermath of your climax, lapping it up to savor the essence of you. It tasted sweet. When your body finally drifts into that state of trance post orgasm, Dex doesn’t move his mouth away—he just keeps going, gliding from your entrance up to circle your clit, over and over in a soothing, endless rhythm.
You couldn’t remember how long he had been down there, simply tasting your cunt. It must have gone on for hours, yet it didn’t matter. Poor you, so overwhelmed with the sensation Dex had been giving to you, you must have forgotten all the worse things he’d done, and what he will continue to do with the way you kept chanting his name like a prayer.
Shame bubbles up inside you, suffocating, and unable to contain the amount of pleasure overstimulating you. The things you let Dex do to you—what you won’t admit. What does it say about you, that the fear and the pleasure have somehow entwined together into something you can’t unravel? Maybe you’d scrub your cunt raw afterwards, tremble at what you couldn’t prevent, wondering how you became someone who could be complicit in one’s own destruction.
But Dex has his purpose now. You.
With him, he made you his salvation, cleansing him from all his unrighteousness. Dex was your man, the worst man to ever exist. He’ll apologize if he finds paradise in indulging himself within you, a selfish consumption of the one thing Dex holds dear. His hands are scarred from killing, and yet you would trust him completely because you will only ever need him.
I think ao3 is literally the only site where no censorship means no censorship. you can post the most vile things on there — things that will get taken down on any other platforms — and ao3 will protect you, your works, and your rights to create whatever you want, however you want.
and no, this isn’t me saying “write that messed up, disgusting thing” because while, yes, write it if it’s what you want (I myself enjoy writing dark fics, something I believe would be considered “vile” to a lot of people), this is me saying in a world of censorship and capitalism, ao3 really is a treasure.
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
