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[pinkmatters-deactivated20220507]

[girl-wnder]

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter Fic Recs

Updated 5/26/2026

Working Out: Dex coming home horned up after a workout.

The Whetstone: Dex kills someone for you. You deal with it.

A Bet: A handsome stranger makes a bet with you, and you're the prize.

Wet Spots Guide: Pure smut with Dex.

Only A Touch From You Will Do: Dex always counts down the minutes until he’s home again. Until he can breathe again. Until he’s back in your arms again.

Are You Okay: Dex’s girl fails to text him and sends him into a spiralling mess. Turns out she’s just sick.

Intrusive Thoughts: A bit of Dex's sadism shows through despite his best efforts.

The Offer: Due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.

Cry For Me: Edging Dex until he breaks LETS GOOOOO

Bad Idea: You wake up one night to a familiar knocking on your window.

I Can See You: You should’ve known Dex would have unusual ways of keeping an eye on you.

Just A Joke, Right: You ragebait Dex for fun.

Pretty Privilege: The start of yours and Dex’s relationship.

Random Blurbs Dex is a munch Benjamin Poindexter is big, needy, and pathetic Benjamin Poindexter as your boyfriend Dex who will absolutely perish if he doesn’t eat you out Jealous FBI Dex

[aquaticmercy]

Art for Art's Sake

Summary : Dex has a growing obsession with his neighbor. Little did he know, the feeling is mutual.

Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Neighbor! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Reader is a tattoo artist and has non-specific tattoos, Dex gets tattooed, sexual themes, nudity, Freak4Freak/stalker x stalker, alcohol and cannabis use, suggestive content, pain kink, obsessive/possessive behavior, morally ambiguous reader, references to murder, depiction of a panic attack, reader mentioned to be a daughter of a crime boss. Both reader and Dex take turns in being pathetic for each other, Dex commits some violent shit in your name, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 13.7k

Requested by : Anon

Notes : I think this is my favourite dark fic i have written with any character ever. Enjoy!

He was lying. And you knew he was lying.

You clocked that before he even spoke.

You’d just gotten back from the studio the day you met him. Your feet were aching, shoulders tight, the faint buzz of tattoo machines still ringing in your ears. The plastic bag full of groceries you just picked up dug into your fingers as you fished for your keys, climbing up the stairs.

That’s when you noticed the new guy moving into the apartment next to yours.

Moving might be an exaggeration. He had barely anything with him— just a duffel bag and a backpack like he hadn’t had a life before this at all.

“You new here?” you asked when you got to the top of the stairs.

He turned, and there it was.

You recognised him instantly.

Benjamin Poindexter.

Bullseye.

You didn’t know him personally, but you’d seen him enough times, in enough places. You saw him on screens, from news clips, in courtroom sketches on social media. After all, you kept tabs on a lot of dangerous people in NYC. Out of habit, more than anything, really. 

Your expression didn’t change, though. You just shifted your groceries slightly higher on your hip.

“Yeah, I just moved in.” Then, after the tiniest pause, he introduced himself. “I’m Tony.”

A lie.

You almost laughed at how mundane Tony sounded. Still, you didn’t call him out.

You weren’t a snitch, and never had been. After all, grew up around men who made him look almost… refined. Your father would always tell you there were honour amongst thieves. 

In this case, murderers.

Still, you’d learn early how to mind your business and survive.

And besides… You’d heard what he’d been doing.

He’d been hunting Anti-vigilante task force agents, dropping them on the streets one by one.

You didn’t lose sleep over that.

So you pushed off the walls by the staircase, stepping a little closer like this was just a normal introduction. “Welcome to the building, Tony.”

His eyes were still on you. There was a sparkle there, as if interest formed before he could stop it.

You pretended not to notice, especially because your arm was starting to hurt. 

“Hold on—” you muttered, shifting your grocery bag to the floor and digging through it. “Here.”

You pulled out an extra roll of paper towels and held it out to him.

He blinked, like that hadn’t been part of the script.

“For the pipes,” you said, pushing it into his hand when he didn’t take it fast enough. “They’re shit. They’ll leak, clog, make your life miserable. You’ll want backup.”

“Thanks,” he said as he took it, still looking at you, still so… focused.

You grabbed your groceries again, already turning back to your door.

“Don’t mention it,” you said, slipping your key into the lock. “And if you die in a pipe-related accident, I’ll tell management I warned you.”

“Very reassuring,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

You pushed your door open, stopping just long enough to glance back at him. “Try not to flood the place, Tony.”

Then you slipped inside, leaving him in the hallway with a fake name, a paper towel roll, and a seed of obsession watered by conversation.

Like ivy finding its first crack in a wall, he knew it was going to grow.

—

A week passed before anything more than that happened.

Not that he didn’t notice you.

He did. Fuck, he did.

He noticed you every time your door opened. He logged every time your footsteps hit the hallway. He listened every time your laugh carried faintly through the thin, terrible pipes you’d warned him about.

But the interactions were small and contained. 

You’d nod when you crossed paths. You’d say a quick “morning” on your way out of the apartment. Once, you smiled sweetly when you both reached the stairwell at the same time and you gestured for him to go first.

He didn’t.

“After you,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. A gentleman.”

That was it. Still, he thought about it longer than he should have.

Then, one morning, you stepped out into the hallway, to spot the other neighbour who lived on this floor. She was a lovely elderly woman, and she definitely loved you. She’d call you the “granddaughter she never had,” then proceeded to try and try to get you on a date with literally any guy she knew. She introduced you to the landlord’s son, the electrician, and even her own grandsons. 

Her apartment door was propped open, and she stood there, gently ushering her cat into the hallway to stretch its legs.

“Well, look who it is,” she said the second she saw you.

“Good morning,” you greeted sweetly, passing her a brown bag with a mint chocolate chip cookie in it.

Her face lit up like you’d handed her gold. “Oh, you angel. I told you, you don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I know,” you said, smiling. “I want to.”

The cat stretched toward you immediately, paws reaching, and you obliged, scratching under its chin. It purred loud enough to echo. As you picked her up and cuddled your little furry friend in your arms, you coddled her and whispered a little “Hi, baby. When do I get to cat sit you again, huh?”

That’s when another door clicked open.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Dex stepped out into the hallway, pausing when he saw the little scene in front of him. His eyes landed on you first, then flicked to the older woman, then back again.

She followed your glance and her face lit up.

“Oh! Perfect timing,” she said, waving him closer. “Come here, come here.”

He stepped closer like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else.

“Tony, this…,” she said proudly, gesturing toward you, “is the pretty girl I was telling you about. She always brings me cookies.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like it was a secret. “She is an excellent baker.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We’ve met.”

The cat wriggled happily, and you set her down, watching it immediately circle your legs again. You turned slightly toward him, tilting your head. “Are you a cat person, Tony?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

What kind of answer was sure? Did he just see that you seemed like a cat person, and decided he simply would be, too?

The cat brushed against his leg, and he glanced down at her like he was trying to figure out the correct response.

It was slightly stiff, but you could tell that he was trying. 

It was… weirdly cute.

“Anyway,” you shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “I need to go to work. I’ve got a client who wants a full sleeve done in one session and I really need to tell him it’s not happening.”

“You work all the time!” Your neighbour said, scandalised.

You scoffed fondly. “Oh my god.”

“It’s true,” she insisted, looking between the two of you like this was critical evidence in her case. “She’s never around long enough to meet anyone nice.”

You rolled your eyes, but turned away to go. If you let her, she’d keep you here all day and talk about all the nice boys your age she met in church. “I gotta go now,” you said, “I’ll come by later.”

You headed toward the stairs.

A second later, you heard footsteps behind you.

Of course, Dex was going out, too.

You didn’t slow down, but you didn’t speed up either.

“Pretty girl?” he said from a step above you, almost amused

You groaned under your breath. “Don’t start.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered as you let him catch up. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You almost missed a step.

“Wow,” you said, recovering quickly. “You’re laying it on thick this morning.”

You reached the bottom of the stairs, past the mailboxes. He followed, falling into step beside you.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you said abruptly.

He glanced at you. “About?”

You leaned in just slightly, lowering your voice. “The cookies?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re from the supermarket.”

He went quiet, before letting out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “So you lied.”

You nudged at him immediately. “I never said I made them. She just assumed.”

“And you never corrected her,” he pointed out.

“It makes her happy,” you said, shrugging. “She likes the idea of it. I’m not ruining that over a 3 dollar box of cookies.”

He watched you for a second longer than necessary. There it was again, that focus. That sharp, almost unsettling attention.

Softer, he said, “Fair enough.”

You crossed your arms lightly, smirking. “What? You’ve never bent the truth before?”

For a split second you could see his brain buffer, but it was gone just as quickly. “Maybe once or twice,” he said.

You huffed. “Right.”

Internally, you almost laughed. Talk about lying.

Outwardly, though, you just shook your head, nudging the door open to head your separate ways.

“I hope my secret’s safe with you,” you said, stepping out onto the pavement.

“Of course,” he replied.

You started walking, then glanced back at him once. “And if she asks, I spent hours baking them.”

The last thing you saw before turning was his smile.

He stayed there for a second, watching you go.

That day, he debated following you to your workplace  instead of killing the two Task Force agents he knew were going to be by the bridge. 

—

A week later, you found yourself in the basement, doing your weekly rounds of laundry. It smelled like detergent, damp concrete, and rust.

You were crouched in front of one of the machines, shoving a stubborn pile of clothes deeper into the drum with your forearm, when the door creaked open behind you.

Then, you heard footsteps. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Hi, Tony,” you greeted with a small smile. But as you got up, you winced a little. 

“You okay, pretty girl?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

Oh, so it was a nickname now?

You waved it off immediately, rolling your shoulders like that would fix it. “Yeah, yeah. Just…” you paused, stretching, “—work is trying to kill me. I’ve been hunched over a chair all day today.”

His eyes flicked over you as he put his basket down on the table. “What’s work?”

You snorted, grabbing your laundry basket and setting it on top of the machine. “Ink,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. “I work at a studio a few blocks over.”

He nodded like that was new information.

It wasn’t.

He knew your route down to the minute. He knew what time you left, what time you got back, which days you tend to stay late. He knew which shop you stopped at when you were too tired to cook.

You, on the other hand, just kept talking.

“Actually—” you turned a little, hooking your thumb under the hem of your shorts, tugging it up just enough to expose a small piece of ink on your upper thigh. “See this?”

His eyes dropped instantly to a small design, a little uneven if you looked closely, lines not quite as confident as your newer work, shading a touch inconsistent.

But it was… cute. Especially on you, Dex thought. It was definitely on theme with the other tattoos you had down your arms and legs. 

“I did that,” you explained. “I don’t usually tattoo myself, but it was studio policy. Had to do it to get from apprentice to artist.” 

“I like it,” Dex said, and for once, he was honest. 

You glanced down at it fondly. “It’s a little wonky, but… yeah. It’s part of me now.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He was still looking, and not just at the tattoo.

He was looking at the way it curved with your skin. The way your fingers rested just above it. He was thinking about how you didn’t think twice about showing him something that permanent, that close, that personal.

He briefly wondered what you would do if he hooked his finger on your shorts, maybe dragging it higher… 

You dropped your shorts back into place, completely unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken.

“You got any?” you asked, nodding toward him. 

“No,” he answered. 

You hummed, tilting your head like you were considering him from a new angle. “Would you ever get one?”

He almost said no again.

Tattoos were permanent. Identifiable. Stupid, for someone like him and his… line of work.

“You’d be a hell of a canvas,” you added, like that might sweeten the deal.

And just like that he said, “Yes.”

It was pathetic, really, how quickly he folded. All he could think about was how you’d be doing it, how you’d be marking him, how you’d be the one sitting him on a chair telling him to sit still, how you’d tell him he was taking such a good job resisting the pain when he would like it simply because it was you who was hurting him. 

You blinked, then broke into a smile like that was the exact answer you wanted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nodded, like you’d already figured out the logistics in your head. “If you ever want one, you don’t have to go to the studio. I’ve got a setup in my apartment. It’s nothing crazy, just for friends and stuff. People who don’t want to pay the upcharge or deal with the whole… environment.”

His eyes flicked up to your face again.

“Noted,” he said.

You smiled, satisfied, turning back to your machine as it started its cycle. “I give a mean tattoo, Tony. You’d be in safe hands.”

He believed that.

You leaned back against the machine, folding your arms loosely. “So what do you do for work?”

You loved watching him squirm, even if his body language didn’t necessarily show it. His eyes darted a little, and you learned that it was as close as he got to a tell.

“Freelance,” he answered abruptly.

You raised an eyebrow slowly. “Uh huh.”

Still, you didn’t push. You didn’t call him out.

“Must be nice,” you said lightly. “Flexible hours and all that.”

He gave a vague shrug, but his attention had already drifted back to you, and to the ink peeking out from under your sleeves, continuing lines at your arm. He decided that you’d definitely have more hidden under your shirt.

He wondered how far it all went, how much of you was marked.

What it would look like if he could get you alone, without the distraction of clothing. He would trace every line, every curve, every piece of art embedded in your skin with his tongue, tasting and—

“Earth to Tony.”

He blinked. You were looking at him, amused.

“You just completely checked out,” you said. “I was saying, don’t overload that machine. It’ll make a noise so loud Mr. Ramirez from across the street is gonna file a noise complaint.”

“Right.” He nodded. Then, almost to himself, he added. “I was listening.”

You smiled, unconvinced but not pressing it. “Sure you were.”

The machines hummed between you, filling the silence.

For a second, neither of you moved.

“Well,” you finally pushed off the machine, grabbing your basket. “Have fun doing laundry, Tony.”

And just like that, you were gone.

—

You got so used to Dex being your next door neighbour that you almost forgot he was a convicted murderer.

After all, it was hard to even believe that when your interactions with him were so… wholesome. 

You’d be halfway down the stairs, keys between your fingers, already running through your day in your head when you’d hear his door click open above you.

“Morning, Tony,” you’d call, not even looking back.

“Morning, pretty girl.”

That was it, at first. Eventually it became…

“Running late?” he asked one day, watching you juggle your bag and a half-zipped jacket.

“Shut up, Tony,” you shot back, hopping the last step. You were amused though, and pleased that he even gave you any attention at all. 

He smiled.

A few days later, he “accidentally” ran into you on your way back, after the sun had dropped. You were tired, shoulders slumped, ink smudged faintly along the side of your wrist.

“Long day?” he asked.

You huffed, digging your key into the lock. “This girl wanted a tattoo of her boyfriend’s name. Bad idea.”

He laughed, cherishing every little interaction he had with you.

Some days, you’d offer him a bottle of water when the building’s pipes went weird again. He’d hold the door open when your hands were full. He'd give you salt when you ran out. He even helped you babysit your mutual neighbour’s cat once. 

And then one night, it changed.

You got back late. Later than usual.

Thank god you were back, though. Dex was a few seconds away from breaking and entering into your shop to make sure no one had hurt you. 

Still, your feet hurt, your back hurt, your patience was hanging by a thread. The second you stepped into your apartment you made a beeline for the window.

You shoved it open, letting the cool air hit your face, dragging in a breath like you hadn’t taken one all day. The city hummed below with distant traffic, music bleeding faintly from somewhere down the block.

You climbed out onto the fire escape without thinking about it. You’d done it a hundred times before.

You sat there with a beer, legs stretched out, back against the brick, letting the noise settle your brain.

Tonight was no different.

At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.

Little did you know, Dex had been watching you for a good five minutes. 

And because he just really wanted to sit with you, he eventually pushed his own window open and stepped up to his own fire escape.

You didn’t look over right away.

He moved across the narrow divider between your sides (there was barely a gap at all), and that’s when your head tilted, just slightly.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “most people use the front door.”

Dex paused before stepping fully onto your side.

“Didn’t feel like it,” he replied.

You let out a small huff of a laugh out.

You lifted the bottle in your hand slightly. “Beer?” you offered to share.

Dex stared at you for half a second too long.

That was it? You let him into your space, just like that? 

“Take it or don’t,” you said lightly. “But if you murder me, I’m gonna be really annoyed I wasted good beer on you.”

That almost made him laugh.

He took the bottle, and stiffened as your fingers brushed his for a second. “You trust me?”

You shrugged, settling back into your spot like the moment had already passed. “I figured if you were gonna kill me, you would probably be sneakier.”

He took a swig of the bottle. You were right, it was good beer.

“I might just be bad at it,” he said.

“Yeah,” you snorted knowingly. “You look real incompetent.”

Silence settled for a second, but not an awkward one.

You took the bottle from him and sipped, glancing sideways at him.

“So,” you said. “you always break into people’s fire escapes, or am I special?”

Dex leaned back against the brick. “Special,” he decided.

You hummed, clearly pleased with that answer. “Thought so.”

The conversation drifted after that. You talked about a client who tapped out halfway through a tattoo and blamed you for it. You complained about the landlord again. You pointed out which windows belonged to which neighbours, offering little pieces of your world like they didn’t matter.

Dex listened, of course. He logged everything. But for once, he didn’t feel like he was gathering intel.

He felt like he was… sitting. With you. 

At some point, you laughed head tipping back again, and it echoed out into his skull and gripped his heart like a vice.

He only really snapped out of his little trance when you asked, “Same time tomorrow, Tony?” 

—

It became a habit.

You’d sit cross-legged or stretched out along the fire escape. Dex would cross over, and then you'd pass bottles back and forth, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Work stories, complaints about neighbours, stupid observations about people on the street below. Easy things, safe things.

Dex told you just enough to keep it believable.

You didn’t push, not even when you smelled the lingering iron scent of blood on him. 

Still, you’d bump your foot against his when you laughed. You’d steal his drink the way he stole yours. Sometimes you’d talk over each other, then both stop, then both say “you go first” at the same time and laugh about it like idiots.

It was dangerously normal.

Occasionally, though, you weren’t as upbeat as you usually were. Those nights, Dex tended to pry a bit more. He needed to know what was wrong with his pretty girl, and who was responsible for you being in a mood, right?

“You’re quiet today.” Dex said once.

You glanced at him, a little surprised, like you hadn’t realised it yourself. Then you gave a small shrug, curling your fingers tighter around your beer.

In the end, you just shook your head. “Wow. Okay.”

You nudged his foot lightly with yours, a habit by now, but there was less energy behind it than usual.

“…It’s stupid,” you added after a second.

Dex just waited for an answer.

You exhaled, tipping your head back before finally giving in. “I did this back-of-the-hand tattoo today,” you explained. “Like, really intricate. It was of a sun with fine lines, proper detail, the whole thing.”

As you talked, a little life came back into your tone, the way it always did when you spoke about your work.

“I genuinely think it’s one of my best pieces,” you went on, glancing at him briefly. “Especially for that placement. Hands are tricky as hell.”

Then your tone dipped again.

“Guy ran out and didn’t pay.”

Dex tilted his head, but didn’t interrupt.

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t quite land as playful. “Honestly? I don’t even care about the money anymore.” You picked at the label on your bottle, peeling it slowly. “I just wanted a photo of it. It was my art, you know? But he won’t even return my calls.”

His fingers tapped once, lightly, against the glass bottle in his hand. He was thinking of every scenario, how he could handle this, when, and how he was going to tell you about it. He needed a plan. 

“Does he have a name?” he asked.

You blinked, looking over at him. “Yeah,” you said, a little confused by how direct that was. “Jack Hargrove, I think. That’s what he signed in the form, why?”

Dex nodded once. “Okay.”

That was it, no more questions asked.

—

And then… there were the nights you got high.

Those were his favourite.

You had already grown into his favourite person by then, but when you were giggly and mumbly? He found you fucking adorable. 

You’d show up already a little floaty, or you’d pull out a blunt halfway through the night like it was nothing.

The first time you did it, you asked, “Hey.” You nudging his arm lightly. “You smoke?”

Dex didn’t even hesitate before answering. “No.”

You blinked at him once. Slowly, your eyes narrowed just a little, almost amused.

“Wow,” you said, dragging the word out slightly. “That was fast.”

“I don’t,” he repeated.

You snorted, shoulders shaking as you leaned back against the wall, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth like you were trying (and failing) to contain it.

“Alright, officer,” you said, wondering how much you can bring up about his past without him being suspicious. “or is it… agent?”

Dex’s head turned toward you so quickly it almost hurt him. “What?”

You were already grinning, wide and lazy, eyes bright with mischief, ready with a lie to soften your statement.

“You just hit me with the most federal ‘no’ I’ve ever heard in my life,” you quickly backtracked, knowing you had just put him on high alert. “Like, no hesitation, no curiosity, no ‘what is it?’ Just… no.”

He stared at you.

You pointed at him with the blunt, still smiling. “That’s fed behaviour.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, playfully.

After a while, you leaned a little closer, squinting at him like you were inspecting something. “Yeah,” you teased, trying to push little buttons. “You’d hate paperwork too much.”

Dex almost frowned. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“And you’re being very defensive for someone who’s definitely never been a fed,” you shot back lightly.

There was a good five-second pause before you grinned again, gentler this time.

“Relax,” you added, nudging his arm again. “I’m kidding.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did enjoy toying with him. 

Dex let out a deep breath, tension he hadn’t even acknowledged easing just slightly.

“I just don’t smoke,” he said.

You hummed to yourself, satisfied, and brought the blunt to your lips instead.

“Suit yourself, officer,” you murmured, the tease slipping back in just enough to make it light again.

The flame flickered briefly as you lit it, casting a warm glow over your face before fading. You inhaled slowly, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Dex watched the way you exhaled, smoke curling into the night air. He watched the way your shoulders dropped, tension leaving you in real time.

“Okay,” you sighed, settling back against the brick, your knee bumping his again. “Now I’m fun.”

Dex didn’t look away. “You’re already fun,” he’d mumble under his breath. 

Still. The more you smoked around him, the more he got used to it. 

He already adored you before, but something about the cute string of laughter you only got when you were high would make his heart melt.

The way you shifted closer without thinking, your knee bumping lightly against his. The way you leaned back, head tilting until it rested briefly against the wall, eyes half-lidded but still bright.

Most times, you’d just trip over your sentences.

“You ever just…” you started, then stopped, laughing under your breath. “No, wait, that’s stupid.”

“What?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You turned your head toward him slowly, like it took effort, eyes landing on his face and staying there.

“You’re, like…” you gestured vaguely toward him, giggling again. “You’re very… intense.”

You didn’t sound intimidated. You sounded delighted.

“Am I?” he said.

“Yeah,” you nodded, completely serious for half a second before it slipped again. “But it’s okay. I like it.”

Your words would drift in and out, sometimes making perfect sense, other times, it meant nothing. You’d laugh at things he didn’t understand. You’d drift from one thing to another. Childhood stories that didn’t sound like childhood stories. You'd say things that sounded like names you never explained. You’d mention places that didn’t quite exist in any way he could trace.

Sometimes you’d say things that should have sounded serious, but you said them with a smile, with a laugh, like they didn’t weigh anything at all. You once even said something about sleeping next to a sawed-off shotgun when you were twelve “just in case.”

In case of what?

Dex couldn’t find anything abnormal about your day to day life, no matter how much he dug or how many times he followed you, so he assumed it didn’t mean anything.

Every now and then, you'd let him tuck you in bed. Tonight was one of those nights.

You blinked slowly, looking at him like you were trying to say something important.

“Tony,” you murmured.

He leaned in slightly without thinking. “Yeah?”

You smiled, soft and sleepy. “You’re… nice.”

The word came out like it surprised even you. Then you giggled again, like the effort was too much.

He didn’t correct you. He just watched as your eyes drifted shut for a second too long.

“…Okay,” you mumbled, barely coherent now. “I think I’m… yeah. I’m done.”

Dex stood before you could even try. You didn’t protest when he guided you up.

You didn’t question it when he helped you through your window, one hand steady at your arm, the other hovering just in case.

Inside, your apartment was dim and warm.

You barely made it to the bed before sinking into it, still half-laughing at something only you understood.

Dex pulled the blanket over you as you shifted slightly, face turning into the pillow.

“Night,” you mumbled.

He stayed there for a second, looking at you. At how soft you looked like this. How open. How completely unguarded.

But then… your eyes opened up again just a little. You traced the scar on his cheek gently. 

“You don’t have to worry,” you mumbled. Your voice was different. Not quite giggly, but clear as day. “I’m not on anyone’s side anymore.”

—

That night, he left your apartment without a sound.

He came back over the fire escape, slipped through his own window, and closed it behind him like he had done many times before. 

Dex moved straight to his laptop, already pulling it open, fingers moving before the screen fully lit up.

Not on anyone’s side anymore? That was a red flag, right?

He immediately looked up databases, records, everything. 

He checked for you— your address, previous work history, licenses, financial trail. 

He found nothing.

He refined his search. He tried running deeper pulls. He cross-referenced. He even systems.

Still… Nothing. No childhood records, no school registrations, no medical history.

No digital footprint worth anything. No tickets, no fines, no traces.

It wasn’t just clean, It was impossible.

Dex leaned back slowly, eyes still locked on the screen like something might appear if he stared long enough.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Because now those moments replayed differently.

The way you talked, the things you said, the way you never explained anything fully, the way you didn’t ask questions.

You weren’t just a tattoo artist with a strange past.

You had no past at all. 

He stared at the blank screen again. “Who are you?” 

—

The next couple of nights were normal. It wasn’t until Thursday that things began to unravel. 

That night, you weren’t at your fire escape. 

Most people would ignore it, maybe even justify it with she’s just busy, she’s just tired, it’s just one night.

Dex didn’t believe in just one night. Not with you.

You were consistent, and that made patterns easy. You came home at the same time, your lights turned on within minutes, your window slid open not long after that. Sometimes you were early. Sometimes a little late. But you always showed up.

So when he stepped out onto the fire escape and your window stayed dark, he immediately started running all the scenarios in his mind.

He stood there, one hand resting against the brick, eyes fixed on the blank glass like it might change if he waited long enough.

Still, nothing.

He told himself to leave after ten minutes. He didn’t.

He stayed longer than that, longer than he would’ve for anyone else, eyes flicking to your window every few seconds like it was a reflex he couldn’t shut off.

When he eventually he went back inside, the feeling didn’t go with him.

—

The next day he confirmed you weren’t at work.

At first, he was confused when you didn’t get out of your door at all. Then, he thought you might’ve gone extra early. 

So he did what he did best— he went to your studio. 

From across the street, he saw that your workstation was empty. No setup. No sketches. No you leaning over someone’s arm with that focused look you got when you were working.

Nothing.

By the time he got back to the building, he made a beeline straight to your door. 

Dex didn’t knock, or call. He didn’t do things halfway.

He broke in, lock giving up in seconds. He slipped inside without a sound.

Your apartment felt… wrong.

Not messy or disturbed. Everything was where it should be. Your shoes were by the door, your jacket thrown over the back of a chair, a glass left on the counter like you’d meant to come back to it.

But it felt… stale. Like you hadn’t opened the window all day and all night.

Dex moved through it quickly, eyes scanning every corner, mind already working through possibilities.

Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen.

Then, he heard a faint sound from down the hall,

He stopped immediately. He heard a shallow inhale, followed by another, and another, like whoever it was couldn’t catch up with their own lungs.

Dex followed the sound to the bathroom. The door was barely closed, just enough to muffle the sound.

He pushed it open.

You were on the floor, folded into the corner like you were trying to disappear into it.

Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them so hard your knuckles had gone white. Your head was tipped forward, forehead almost pressed to your arms, your entire body shaking in violent, uncontrollable tremors.

You were breathing too fast, each inhale breaking halfway through, like your lungs were locking up on you. Your chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

Your eyes were wide, unfocused, glassy with panic, like you weren’t fully there anymore.

For a second, you didn’t even recognise him.

When you did, you shrank even more, as if you were embarrassed to be found. 

“Hey…” he pushed the door away, “hey, I’m here now.”

You looked up at him through glassy lashes, dead silent for a second.

“H-he’s here,” the words tore out of you eventually. “He’s here, he’s in town! I saw him-I saw him—”

Dex dropped in front of you, one knee hitting the tile hard, but his focus never left your face.

“Look at me,” he said, cutting through the chaos. “Tell me what happened.”

Your gaze flickered, struggled, then caught on his.

“One of my dad’s friends—” you choked, your breath hitching so hard it made your whole body jerk, “His old friends, he found me, he found me—”

Your hands went to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling just enough to hurt, like you needed a physical sensation to hold onto.

“He’s gonna tell him,” you rushed, the words tumbling over each other faster and faster, spiralling, “he’s gonna tell my dad and he’s gonna… he’s gonna get me, he’s gonna—fuck—fuck!”

Your breathing broke completely after that, a choking inhale one right after another.

Your body folded tighter in on itself like it was trying to shut everything out.

Dex grabbed your wrist. “You need to tell me who you saw and where you saw him,” he insisted, “I can’t help otherwise.”

You stared at him, chest heaving, like you were trying to force your body to cooperate.

“Marko,” you whispered, the name barely making it out. “Marko Kovač.”

Your breath hitched again, but you pushed through it, words spilling out uneven and desperate.

“I saw him on E-Eighth and 23rd, outside that liquor store with the broken sign… he was just standing there and he looked right at me, like he knew, like he recognised me—”

Your grip tightened on his sleeve without you even realising.

“He knows I’m here,” you said, voice cracking completely now. “He knows.”

Dex went still, only for a second.

“Okay,” he said immediately.

Just like that, he stood up like there wasn’t time to waste.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve before he could step away, fingers clutching hard, desperate.

“Don’t…” your voice broke so badly it barely sounded like you. “Don’t leave me, please—”

Dex stopped and looked down at you. He looked at the way you were shaking. He looked at the tears you didn’t even seem to notice. At how completely, utterly terrified you were.

You, who laughed at everything, who teased him, who sat on that fire escape like nothing could touch you…

You were breaking.

And you were asking him to stay, but it didn’t change what needed to happen.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, quieter now. “Okay? Stay here.”

Your grip didn’t loosen right away. Your fingers trembled too much.

“Okay,” you whispered finally, as he gently pulled free. 

Because at the end of the day, you trusted him. 

—

It took a while before you could even move.

For a long time, you just stayed there on the bathroom floor, curled into yourself, your breath still catching every few seconds like your body hadn’t quite figured out how to come down yet.

But slowly, it eased.

Not gone. Not even close.

But Dex being there, telling you that he’d help, it was enough that your fingers stopped shaking so violently. Enough that you could uncurl your arms without feeling like everything would fall apart if you did.

You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, dragging in a shaky breath that actually finished this time.

In.

Out.

It was still uneven, but it was better.

“Okay,” you whispered to no one, voice hoarse.

When you moved, every motion felt heavy, like your body wasn’t fully yours yet. You pushed yourself up using the edge of the tub, legs unsteady, breath catching again when the room tilted slightly.

You waited it out. Then you made yourself keep going.

You washed your face with cold water over and over until your skin stung and your reflection looked less… broken.

It didn’t fully work, but it helped.

You pulled your favourite hoodie on like armour. You tugged the sleeves down over your hands, fingers disappearing into the fabric, as if you could hide in it.

Then you made it to the couch.

You curled up in the corner, knees tucked in again, but looser this time. 

He said he’d be back.

So now, all you could do was wait. 

—

The door clicked open so quietly it almost blended into the hum of your apartment, but you still heard it. You didn’t even question how he got the keys. 

You didn’t move right away. You were still curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie pulled over your head, sleeves covering your hands, your body folded in on itself like you hadn’t fully decided it was safe to exist again. 

You looked up as he stepped into the living room.

Dex stood there like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left you shaking on the bathroom floor, like he hadn’t disappeared into the night with a name and a purpose. 

“Hey,” he said casually, like he’d only gone out to grab dinner.

Your throat felt a little tight, but not from fear. Not anymore. “Hi, Tony.”

You watched his mouth twitch at that, like the name amused him now instead of hiding him. 

Your eyes dropped to his sleeves and saw blood.

It was dried now, but you could tell it soaked into the cotton blend near his wrists and forearms. It was subtle. If you hadn’t seen blood on fabric before, you might have chalked it up to a stain. 

Your gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He followed it.

Then, almost like it didn’t matter, he lifted the plastic bag in his other hand slightly. “I got Chinese.”

Your lips curled up faintly.

He didn’t ask where anything was. He set the bag down, pulled containers out, found plates in your kitchen as if he’d done it a hundred times before. The fragrant smell filled the room and it felt almost surreal layered over the reality of him standing there with blood on his clothes.

You pushed yourself up slowly, legs still a little heavy, and drifted closer.

“Did you—” you started, then stopped yourself.

You were going to ask. You wondered, distantly, how long it had taken. If Marko had recognised him. If he had time to understand why he was dying, or if it had been quick and efficient, like everything Dex did.

You wondered where the body was.

The Hudson, maybe, weighed down. Or maybe somewhere no one would ever think to look. Dex didn’t seem like the kind of man who left loose ends. 

Maybe he wanted someone to find the body, maybe as a deceleration of loyalty to you.

You decided against asking. 

He glanced at you anyway, oblivious.

“I got your favorite,” he added instead, nudging a container toward you as he sat down.

You blinked at that. “You don’t know my favorite.”

“I do.”

You opened the container. He could tell by your smile that he was right.

You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head as you scooted beside him. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. 

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his as you settled in. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it just enough that you noticed.

You picked up your chopsticks, pausing for a second before actually eating. Your hands weren’t shaking anymore. That alone said everything.

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Dex said.

You went still for half a heartbeat. Then you nodded. “Okay.”

You wondered again, briefly, if Marko had been scared. Then you took a bite of your food.

“Good?” Dex asked, watching you a little too closely.

You chewed, swallowed, then nodded again. “Yeah. Really good.”

He relaxed. It was as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction and didn’t quite know why.

And just like that, the moment settled into comfortable silence.

You leaned back into the couch, letting your shoulder brush his arm this time. 

Your body felt different now. Not wired with panic anymore, not collapsing in on itself. 

Against all odds, you felt safer because he was here.

Dex turned his head slightly, after finishing his meal. “Who was he?”

You knew what he meant. You nudged your food around with your chopsticks, eyes dropping. “My dad’s friend.”

You said it very flatly.

“Your dad has… very armed friends.”

You couldn’t hold back a scoff. You shook your head, unable to hide your cynical amusement. “Yeah,” you said. You hesitated, before reluctantly adding, “He was the one who armed them.”

That got his full attention. “Oh?”

Well, fuck.

You were assuming he killed a man for you. What more did you really have to hide?

“Ugh,” You exhaled, dragging a hand up over your face before letting it drop. “He was—is-  an arms dealer.”

You leaned back further into the couch, head tipping slightly against the cushion as you stared at nothing in particular. “I ran away when I was eighteen,” you continued. “Just as he was starting to talk about how his empire was one day all going to be mine.”

You let out a small, humourless huff. “Guess I wasn’t into the whole… family business.”

You never really had a problem with what he did, it was just the world you grew up in. You learned early not to judge it. To each their own and all that shit. Survival didn’t leave much room for morals anyway.

But you didn’t love it.

You could do it. You would do it, if you had to. That part of you was there, shaped and grown exactly the way your dad intended. 

Violence didn’t scare you.

You understood it, the same way you understood how to hold a pencil or steady a glock in your hand. If you were out in a situation where it could arise, you wouldn’t hesitate to dish it out. Even your mother considered you trigger-happy.

Still… it was never what you wanted.

You just wanted to draw.

And sometimes, that made you feel… pathetic. 

Because the voice your dad left behind in your head never let it be simple. In your nightmares, he’d call you selfish and weak. He’d say that all you cared about was your own need for self-fulfillment. While everyone else carried the family legacy, you were chasing something as small and useless as art for art’s sake.

Safe to say, he wasn’t exactly a good father.

Not when he shoved a gun into your small hands at seven years old and told you to stop shaking and kill the son of a bitch already. Not when he pressed the barrel one to your head at thirteen because you were sketching during one of his “important meetings,” telling you that if you were going to survive in this family, you needed to learn what deserved your attention.

He called it tough love. He was preparing you for a bright future.

And maybe it worked, a little. 

Because you didn’t run from violence. You just… didn’t actively seek it.

Dex didn’t interrupt. He just listened.

“He’s still looking for me,” you added, looking down. “Or was. I don’t know. I stopped checking.”

You lifted your shoulders in a small shrug. It looked casual, but there was a tired smile behind it. For a second, Dex wondered how much time you had really spent on the run.

“I just want to draw,” you finished, looking down at what was left of your food. Suddenly, your appetite vanished. 

To Dex, everything made sense. 

To him, it explained the missing pieces, your lack of records, your offhand comments, the way you never asked questions you should have asked.

He studied you for a second before asking, “You left all of that behind?”

After all, as an FBI agent, he’d seen heirs fight over an empire far less than what he could gather was your father’s. He’d seen people kill their own brothers over a small-town drug operation. 

You managed a chuckle. “I could’ve been filthy rich,” you paused for a second. “But I don’t like paperwork.”

For a second, he just stared at you.

Then… he laughed.

It wasn’t loud, but it was real. It sounded abrupt and rough, like the sound surprised him. You glanced at him, a smile tugging at your lips in response.

Out of all people, he made you feel like you had normalcy.

You were just on your couch, eating takeout, laughing about paperwork… while a speck of his sleeve was still dark red. 

You wondered, again, how it happened. What it looked like. If he’d been thinking about you while he did it.

The thought didn’t make your stomach turn. Instead, you felt more at peace knowing he had done it.

That Marko was gone.

That wasn’t coming to drag you back.

You nudged his arm lightly with yours. “Hey, Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“Come back when you’ve got time.”

He watched you, waiting.

“Think about what you want, and I’ll give you that tattoo,” you said, a warm smile forming. “It’s free,” you added. “As a thank you for helping with Marko.”

Dex held your gaze for a long second. Whatever he was looking for, he found it.

“Okay,” he said.

—

A couple of days later, he showed up at your door on your day off.

You let him in without a second thought.

“So,” you said, stretching your arms over your head as you turned toward your setup, “today’s the day. What are we doing?”

Dex stepped inside, eyes looking to the couch, now covered with extra fabric, the neatly arranged tools, the small table you’d set up.

“I don’t know what,” he said after a second.“But I know where.”

“Alright, Tony,” you nodded, grabbing a pair of gloves and snapping them lightly against your wrist. “Show me where you want it. We’ll figure the rest out together.”

He didn’t hesitate before he took his jacket off and reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off in one smooth motion.

And… Jesus.

You knew he was built. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his shirts fit, the way he carried himself, the way fabric would ride up his stomach on the fire escape. 

But this was different.

You could see his defined muscle, veins underneath, broad shoulders. His body didn’t just look trained. He looked like a biblical carving made by the hands of Michaelangelo himself. It was unfair really, especially when he had the face of a Caravaggio angel. Scars scattered here and there, some small, some not. Every inch of him looked… precise.

Your brain very helpfully went: oh my fucking god.

Then, you snapped your head back in the game before the heat between your legs could derail your train of thought.

And yeah. It almost did.

“Wow,” you said, casual, like it hadn’t hit you at all. “You’ve been hiding all that under those boring shirts on purpose, or…?”

He didn’t answer.

But you saw thoughts stalling behind his eyes, almost like a glitch. Soon, the faintest flush crept up the tips of his ears, just barely pink against his skin. His shoulders shifted, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself under your watch.

Dex, who could look someone in the eye without blinking while deciding whether they lived or died…didn’t know what to do with a compliment.

How adorable, you thought.

You just smiled. It was flirty, but it didn’t faze you nearly as much as it did to him.

Instead of acknowledging that, he turned slightly, presenting his back to you.

“See the scar?” he said.

You knew what it was, the raised skin that went from the bottom of his neck to right above the waistband of his trousers.

You knew about the experimental operation, the spinal damage— the whole story. But you didn’t say that.

You stepped closer instead, fingers hovering just above his skin. You weren’t quite touching yet, just tracing the air along the line of it.

“Surgery?” you asked casually.

“Yeah.”

You hummed, stepping around him to get a better angle. “You want to cover it, or… work with it?”

He considered for a second, but didn't seem to come to a conclusion  “It’s up to you,” he said.

“Dangerous thing to say to an artist,” you murmured.

Dex managed a shrug anyway.

You gestured toward the couch. “Lay down. Face down.”

He did, no questions asked. You made sure the surface was clean with a fresh sheet, and then you got to work with a sharpie.

Dex could heat the scratch of your marker against his skin as you started sketching directly onto him, your hand steady, movements confident. You worked instinctively, letting the shape of the scar guide you.

Dex didn’t even move once.

You leaned back after a while, head tilting as you assessed it.

“Hold on,” you said. “I need a better angle.” You hesitated just a fraction before adding, “Mind if I climb up?”

After all, your couch wasn’t exactly a tattoo chair. Or a bed you could just go around. You had limitations, and you just had to work with it.

“Go on.”

So you did.

You swung a leg over, settling carefully against him, straddling his ass just enough to get the position you needed. 

You ignored the way your stomach flipped.

You should be focused, professional. Mostly.

You adjusted slightly, bracing one hand against the back of the couch as you leaned forward to refine the lines. Your other hand moved with purpose, sketching, correcting, building lines that felt right.

It didn’t take long before you finished the initial sketch.

You pulled back again, grabbing your phone.

“Don’t move,” you said, already snapping a photo.

Then you climbed off him, stepping around to his side and holding the screen out.

“Alright,” you said. “What do you think?”

Dex pushed himself up just enough to look.

Oh. Wow. 

You had drawn simple ivy vines winding up his spine, starting low and growing upward. It curled, twisted, and wrapped around the scar like it belonged there. Like it had always been part of it. Like life had taken root in a broken part of him and made it… beautiful.

Dex stared at it for a long second.

“It looks like it’s growing out of it,” he said quietly.

You nodded, watching his reaction. “That’s the idea.”

He looked at it again, then at your fingers, purple from the ink on the sharpie. 

If he agreed, if he said yes to this, you would be part of him forever. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling than that, so he said, “It’s beautiful.”

Your lips curved up into a pleased smile. “Let’s prep you, then.”

—

You settled into your rhythm quickly after you put your gloves on. As the machine buzzed to life, you leaned over him.

“Alright,” you warned, steadying your hand against his back. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

The needle touched down.

Most people flinched. Some needed a second to adjust.

Dex didn’t.

If anything… Dex pressed into it. 

Your eyes looked up for a second, then back down to your work.

He seemed to be chasing the pain. Interesting.

You dragged the line a little longer this time. Your voice was right there, focused on the task at hand when you said. “Your skin’s taking this really nicely.”

His breath hitched, and from the needle.

From how it felt.

Dex clenched his jaw shut immediately, forcing the reaction down, forcing his body still. The next needle drag came slower, more deliberate, and it pulled a pleasure out of him that he wasn’t prepared for.

It burned. It lingered. It made his spine feel too sensitive, like every nerve was suddenly awake and paying attention.

And he… liked it. He liked it a little too much. The fact that you were the one doing it to him made it worse. 

His fingers curled into the couch as he swallowed hard.

Focus, Dex.

He tried to file it away, treat it like any other sensation, but then your gloved thumb brushed close to the fresh ink, grounding him just enough to make the next sting hit harder.

“Stay like that,” you said, encouraging him. “You’re doing really good.”

That… fuck. That made it so much worse.

Because now he wasn’t just chasing the pain.

He was chasing the reward: your praise and approval.

His body reacted before he could stop it, a sound clawing up his throat. He crushed it down.

But the next line came. And the next. Each one was slow and intentional, as if you were making sure he felt it.

“You’re sitting so well for me.”

For you.

The words tangled with the sensation, twisting it into the same vine he couldn’t separate anymore.

Dex’s grip tightened again, knuckles paling as another line burned up his spine, and this time, the sound almost slipped. It manifested in a small, strained breath that edged too close to a whine before he cut it off.

But you kept talking like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

“Most people don’t handle this like you are,” you said, dragging another line. “You’re taking it really well”

His breath broke again, quieter this time, but worse, because it didn’t fully go away when he tried to control it.

He wasn’t just enduring it. He was waiting for it, anticipating the next drag of the needle, the next burn, the next excuse for you to praise him like that.

“Looks so fucking good on you.”

Oh, that one went straight through him. 

He choked it down so fast it hurt, throat tightening, breath uneven no matter how hard he tried to fix it.

Honestly, it was pathetic, the amount of moans and lewd whines he had to swallow simply because he was being marked by you. 

Still, he wanted more.

—

The machine finally fell silent after what felt like hours, the buzz fading into nothing but the sound of both your breathing.

You leaned back slightly, flexing your fingers before grabbing a clean cloth and wiping gently over his back, clearing away the excess ink and plasma. The design came into full view: dark, clean lines curling up along his spine, wrapping around the scar like it had always belonged there.

“Good canvas,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Dex didn’t respond right away. He was too busy feeling the absence of the needle, the strange numbness where the sensation had been, his body still humming.

“You didn’t even twitch,” you added, a little louder this time, clearly impressed as you reached for the wrap. You stepped aside, clearing a path to the full-length mirror at the corner of the living room, “it’s even more impressive that it’s your first tattoo.”

He pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once before stepping toward the mirror.

And then he saw it.

The ivy climbed his spine in delicate, elegant lines, twisting around the scar instead of hiding it. 

For a moment, he just stared. The scar looked… pretty. Pretty like a dewdrop from a leaf at dusk. Pretty like the sky’s reflection in the water at dawn. Pretty like you.

“You wear it well,” you said casually behind him, like it wasn’t a big deal, like you hadn’t just permanently changed the way he saw himself.

His fingers hovered near it, not really touching.

“Thank you, pretty girl.” he said, smaller than usual. The usual teasing edge with that nickname was dulled. He said it almost reverently.

You smiled a little at that, already focused on your next task as you stepped closer again. “Hold still.”

You smoothed the second skin carefully over the tattoo, pressing it down along his back with practiced hands.

“This’ll stay on for like a day or two,” you explained, your tone shifting into professional. “It’s basically a clear bandage. It keeps everything clean, helps it heal faster. You can shower with it, move around, whatever. Just… don’t mess with it.”

You stepped back, giving it a quick once-over to make sure it was sealed properly.

“After you take it off, wash it gently, no harsh soaps,” you continued, ticking a mental list off like muscle memory. “And don’t forget to moisturize.” You paused, then snapped your fingers lightly. “Oh, cocoa butter. That’s what I use.” You turned toward the hallway. “I’ve got a shit ton in my bedroom, let me grab you some.”

And just like that, you disappeared.

Dex was left standing alone in your living room.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he shifted, awkward in a way he never was anywhere else, glancing around the space like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself without you there to anchor his attention.

His eyes drifted to the couch and the table. 

And then he saw it.

A sketchbook, sitting on the coffee table. It had a plain black cardboard for a cover, but even the edges were worn.

He would bet good money that you laid your mind out there. That the sketches you drew were part of you, that it would give him an insight to how you thought, how you felt, who you are.  

He stared at it for a moment.

Looking wouldn’t hurt… right?

He sat down on the couch again, slower this time. The couch dipped beneath him, still warm from where he’d been lying earlier, and for a second he just stared at the sketchbook he’d just picked up his hands.

It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. That thought didn’t stop him.

His thumb dragged along the edge of the cover before he opened it, the paper giving that worn sound that only came from books that were handled often.

The first pages were exactly what they should’ve been.

They were professional.

It was a string of roses meant to wrap naturally along muscle, thorns placed intentionally. The notes on the margin said the name of the client and the placement: forearm. He could practically feel where the needle would drag just by looking at the line weight. The shading was subtle but deliberate, gradients that would settle into skin instead of sitting on top of it.

Next page was a skull, split clean down the middle, like it had been cut open and arranged. Inside, instead of emptiness, there were peonies blooming out from the cavity, stems threading through bone like they’d grown there.

He turned the page.

This was a serpent coiled around a dagger, its body twisting. The scales overlapped in tight, careful patterns, each one slightly varied, like you actually understood what repetition was supposed to look like.

There were smaller pieces too; Fine-line constellations, minimalist script, coordinates. There were notes scribbled in the margins from placement ideas, sizing, reminders to adjust line thickness for certain skin types.

He flipped another page. Then another.

He saw a dragon stretched across two sheets, body flowing in a way that made it feel like it would move if you looked too long. A pair of hands reaching toward each other, fingers just barely missing contact. A moth with wings patterned like stained glass.

And then, somewhere in the middle of turning another page, that changed.

The lines loosened. The structure wavered. It felt personal, and the notes disappeared. You weren’t drawing to a prompt anymore; this was art for art’s sake— the view from your window sill, the cat from across the hall, the plants near the flower shop down the street. 

The next page was a figure, a woman. 

She was reclined on a chaise, her weight settled into one hip, body angled in a way that emphasized curve without exaggerating it. These were a little stylised, vintage sailor-inspired style tattoo. 

She had high-waisted shorts hugging her hips, a tied cropped top slipping off one shoulder, exposing more skin than necessary, Her hair was pinned up, a few strands falling loose like they hadn’t been corrected.

Dex’s eyes lingered longer than they should have.

He turned the page to see the same figure in a different pose.

She was this time, one knee pulled up slightly, fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts absentmindedly. 

Her head was tilted seductively, and that smile…. 

He flipped again.

This time, she was one leaning back, arms braced behind her, chest lifted just slightly, the fabric of her shirt stretched in a way that felt… intentional, even if the pose wasn’t.

Oh. 

He had suspected it on the first figure, but this one confirmed it. 

That smile.

He knew that smile.

He’d seen it across from him on the fire escape, half-hidden behind a beer bottle. He’d seen it when you teased him, when you pushed just enough, when you knew something and didn’t say it.

He’d know it anywhere.

“…fuck.”

You were undoubtedly the reference to all these sailor girls. 

Every page after that only confirmed it.

You, over and over again, translated through your own hand. The way you saw yourself. The way you chose to present yourself.

It only got more and more explicit and intimate as he flipped the pages, comfortable being looked at by your own eyes, leaving less and less for the imagination as he saw another page of you bent over—

Fuck, even his thick tactical trousers can’t hide his physical reaction right now. 

He could imagine you sitting right here, in this exact spot, probably topless. The sketchbook would be balanced against your thigh, pencil moving in steady strokes. He imagined you glancing up at a mirror before putting it down on paper.

Dex wasn’t gonna lie to himself— he’s thought about you like this way too many times.

It would happen after long, stressful nights, alone, replaying the way you leaned into him, the way your voice dropped when you teased him, the way your knee bumped his.

He’d go into the bathroom for a hot shower, fist around himself as he thought about you. How you’d look under him, how you’d react to his touch, how you’d sound if only you’d let him…

His jaw clenched as heat crept up the back of his neck. His grip on the page shifted, fingers pressing harder like he needed something physical.

There was something about seeing it, about knowing you had made this, that made it worse. He felt possessive, in a way he didn’t bother examining.

He wanted this page. He needed it. He would at least something other than his own imagination to help. 

He shouldn’t do it, but when has shouldn’t ever stopped him?

He tore the page, not even caring that the paper crinkled way too loudly in your otherwise silent apartment. 

He just held it there, fingers tightening around the paper like it might be taken from him if he didn’t.

But then…

The page underneath caught his eye.

“…oh.”

That… wasn’t you.

It wasn’t your pinup sketches, not a personal drawing, not even a client drawing.

It was…. him.

Dex leaned forward slightly without realizing he was doing it, eyes narrowing as they traced over the lines.

It wasn’t stylized. It was accurate, down to the placement of his scars and the faint lines on the forehead. It looked like he was doing laundry. 

You… had been drawing him?

Then, he turned the page again. That was when his heart dropped. 

It was him again, but not Tony.

You had drawn Bullseye, mask on and everything. 

His grip on the torn page tightened.

He flipped and another one.

It was him again, on a rooftop, rifle braced, body aligned with the shot. The environment was barely sketched in, just enough to ground it, but the focus was entirely on him. 

He remembered that night. He had been tracking Task Force for hours.

He flipped again.

It was him, mid-step, tracking through a crowd, head slightly dipped.

Another.

Him throwing a knife between his fingers, captured right before release.

He flipped faster.

Page after page after page, all him. From different angles, different nights, different moments.

Some of them were rough sketches, quick captures like you hadn’t had time to refine them. Others fully rendered, detailed down to the smallest nuance. 

There were dozens of these, enough to go back months. 

You knew.

All this time, you were aware of him, what he had done, what he was capable of. 

Dex let out a deep breath. 

He realised now, what this meant. 

He had been following you in broad daylight, keeping track of your habits, your pattern, your days. 

But he hadn’t accounted for your nights.

So you must’ve been watching him then.

All those times he was doing his self-appointed mission, thinking he was alone in it… he wasn’t. 

You had been there, too. Another presence just outside his line of sight. Watching him the same way he watched you.

He wasn’t creeped out; it would be hypocritical.

He was in awe. He was amazed that his pretty girl was capable of this. Perhaps he shouldn’t be— daughter of a crime boss and all— but if anything, it only made him fall deeper in love with you, if that was even possible. 

All this time, the obsession was mutual. 

And then, he heard footsteps approaching. 

He didn’t move. He didn’t close the sketchbook, didn’t hide the torn page still in his hand.

He just sat there, surrounded by the evidence of crossing a line. He had a feeling you wouldn’t mind, though.

The hallway creaked faintly.

“Ah,” you said, setting down the tub of cocoa butter. “You found it.”

Dex stood up slowly. He didn’t rush you, didn't corner you right away. If anything, he was taking you in slowly. His eyes were locked on you like he was seeing you properly for the first time.

He set the sketchbook down.

“How long?” he asked again, like the answer mattered more now that he knew there was one. “How long have you known?”

“From the start.” You said it like it was obvious. Like it had never been a secret. Like you were almost surprised he had to ask.

“I might be pretty,” you added with an easy shrug, “but I’m not stupid, Dex.”

Dex.

Not Tony.

He lit up.

It was visceral, that switch up. He loved hearing his name from your mouth as if it belonged there.

A breath left him, almost a laugh, but rougher. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to study you again.

“My girl’s been watching me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

You huffed a laugh, suddenly shy. You weren’t expecting a confrontation, at least not today. “Oh, don’t start,” you said, but there was no real resistance in it.

He took a step closer.

“Following me,” he continued, piecing it together out loud now, realising just how much you had stolen from his playbook. “Watching my routes. Studying my patterns .”

He took another step, and you stayed where you were, wanting him to come closer. 

“And I didn’t even notice.” He almost sounded impressed.

You tilted your head slightly, crossing your arms. “Yeah,” you said. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Dex let out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but heavier.

“Mind?” he echoed, head tipping. 

You held his eyes and didn’t back down, as he stepped in front of you.

“If you didn’t like it,” you shot back, “you wouldn’t be standing this close.”

You were right. 

His hand came up firmly as it found your wrist, fingers curling around it gently. 

“And you let me follow you,” he said under his breath. 

Of course you knew. Denying it now would just be an insult to everyone involved.

“Seems rude to stop you having so much… fun,” you said.

Fuck, you were something, were you?

Dex moved, closing the last of the distance between you. He pushed, just a bit, backing you up against the wall. He didn’t do it harshly, but his movements were certain, like there was no version of this where you weren’t right here.

His other hand braced beside your head, boxing you in without forcing you.

For a second, he just looked at you, and not as the neighbor. Not as the girl on the fire escape.

You.

The one who knew about him all along. The one who watched him. The one who kept up with him.

“Admit it,” you said, breathing just slightly uneven now, “You like that I was watching you.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting again. He was still trying to wrap his mind around how you knew who he was, and you still—what? Invited him in? Sat next to him? Drank with him?”

“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “I do.”

You bit your lip as if you’d been waiting for him to say it.

“What else did you see?” he asked, beads of sweat trickling down his bare chest. 

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, “What are you worried I saw?”

“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. His mind was still tripping, even with his newfound confidence. “You’re—”

He didn’t finish it. 

Your hand came up, fingers hooking lightly at his belt loop, pulling him just a fraction closer.

You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing near his, your voice conspiratorial. “I can hear it, you know,” 

He froze.

“I love it when my name when you’re touching yourself, Dex,” you continued, tone playful. “Music to my fucking ears.”

His hand tightened at your waist, pulling himself flush against you, any space between you gone in an instant.

This was it. 

This was all he ever wanted. 

But it was you he was talking about, and what kind of man would he be it he just let his girl do all the work in the relationship?

“You talk too much,” he said, and that was the last thing either of you said before he kissed you.

It was hungry.

Like he had been thinking about it for too long. Like he already knew what it would feel like, had imagined it enough times that when it finally happened, his body just followed instinct. 

You made a small, surprised whine, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned into him harder, your hands coming up immediately, gripping his shoulders before sliding higher, fingers tangling into his hair and holding him there.

He gasped against your mouthlike feeling you pull him closer snapped whatever control he had left clean in half.

His hands explored, one firm at your waist, while the other came up to your chin, gripping harshly as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss.

It turned messy fast.

It started with breath breaking between movements, teeth catching his bottom lip for a second, neither of you slowing down long enough to make it neat. There was nothing careful about it, nothing rehearsed, just the way you liked it. 

You felt him everywhere, from the press of his chest against yours to his grip tightening and loosening like he was testing his limit. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to get a reaction in the form of a low, reverberating groan. 

When you caught your breath, you smiled, “Took you long enough.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he bit out immediately, as if every second your lips weren’t on him, the world was falling apart.

That almost made you laugh, but it dissolved the second he kissed you again, harder this time, like he didn’t like the break, like he was making up for it.

Your hands slid from his hair to his neck, fingers curling there, holding him in place, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.

And he let you.

Dex, who controlled everything, let you pull him, let you guide him just as much as he guided you.

Your back was pressed more firmly into the wall as he leaned into you, his body feeling  inescapable in the best way.

Your fingers dragged slightly along the back of his neck, and he reacted again, his breath hitching, his grip tightening as he toyed with the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin now. 

He broke the kiss, but only just.

His lips lingered a fraction too long before pulling back, like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop. His breath was uneven, his forehead against yours.

For a second, neither of you moved.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like he was already thinking about doing it again.

Then they flicked back up to yours, darker now, heavier with a primal lust that hadn’t been there before… or maybe had, just buried under a mask he wasn’t bothering with anymore.

“Does my pretty girl want me fuck her stupid?” he whispered, so condescending it bordered on arrogance. 

He knew the answer immediately when you pressed your legs together, desperate for any form of friction, but he wanted to make you say it anyway.

Your throat felt tight, eyes in a haze as you followed the trail of spit that still connected your mouth to his. 

You nodded. And it was pathetic, desperate, and eager.

Unable to form words? Aw, how adorable. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, almost to himself, like he was locking it in. “That’s what I thought.”

—

Morning came slowly.

The distant buzz of the city filtered in through the cracked window, light spilling in thin, golden strips across the room, catching on empty bottles, painting colours on your walls. 

Dex woke to your touch.

You were so gentle this time, so different from the way you’d had them on him the night before. Now they moved carefully across his back, fingers gliding over his skin spreading cocoa butter along the fresh ink.

His eyes opened, blinking against the light as he shifted under you, enough to register where he was.

Your bed, your sheets, your room.

You were behind him, straddling the backs of his thighs, completely focused on his ink like nothing else in the world mattered.

Your hair was a little messy, falling forward over your shoulder as you leaned in. Your hands moved in careful strokes along the length of his spine, following every curve of the ivy you’d etched into him.

His teeth tightened slightly, a small exhale slipping out before he could stop it.

You noticed.

“Morning,” you greeted, not even looking up at first.

The second skin had peeled off sometime in the night from the overly strenuous activity he had called sex, and you’d made good on your promise to take care of it after.

You even reassured him that after it healed, you’d touch  it up if needed.

Your fingers traced just along the edge of the tattoo, careful around the more irritated areas like you were memorising it all over again.

Like you were memorising him.

“That didn’t exactly last long,” you added, a hint of amusement slipping into your voice now.

Dex huffed out a laugh. “You said a day or two.”

You finally glanced down at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t account for you… being like that.”

He shifted slightly under you again, trying to decide whether to sit up or stay exactly where he was.

He let his head drop back against the pillow briefly, eyes half-lidding as your hands moved up his spine again one last time. 

You kissed his shoulder, whispering close to his ear, “all done.”

At that, Dex shifted slightly beneath you, then pushed himself up onto his forearms, rolling his shoulders once to stretch.

He looked at you, at how cute you looked in the afterglow, wondering how he could possibly have underestimated his sweet girl.

That’s when he remembered. 

“Oh,” he said, like it annoyed him he’d nearly forgotten in all the chaos of last night. “I got something for you.”

You blinked, still docile from the intimacy of the morning. “Yeah?”

“Can you grab my jacket?” He asked.

You frowned a little at that, head tilting. “Your jacket?”

“It’s in the living room.”

Weird request. 

“…Okay?” you said slowly, sliding off the bed.

You didn't even bother covering up.

Why would you?

It was your apartment, your space. And after last night… please.

You stretched slightly as you walked out, feeling his eyes on you before you even turned.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching his unashamed drag of his gaze down your back, your hips, the curve of your ass. 

You clicked your tongue. “Perv.”

There was no bite to it. 

Dex didn’t even try to deny it. If anything, he smiled like he liked being called that by you.

You grabbed his jacket from the chair, and returned a second later, tossing it onto the bed without ceremony.

“There,” you said, climbing back up, settling beside him again. 

He was already reaching into the pocket, pulling a small piece of fabric out. 

Leather.

At least, that’s what you thought.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning in.

Instead of answering, he held it out to you.

You reached out, your fingers brushing the surface before your eyes assessed it properly.

Oh.

Oh.

“That’s…” you gasped in disbelief. 

It was the exact sun you had tattooed on the back of Jack Hargrove’s hands.

You traced the familiar details, the tiny imperfections that you knew because you had put them there.

Your fingers pinched it as your brain caught up with what you were holding.

Human leather.  

You should be appalled. You should be horrified. You should be scared of him. You should feel sick to your stomach.

Instead, all you could think about was how this was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. 

“…Dex,” you breathed, your voice reverent. 

He watched you closely, watching you figuring out the implications in real time. 

Not just that he killed him, but just how far he went.

He tracked him down, took his hand, skinned it, and preserved it. Just for you.

You turned it slightly under the light again, your thumb brushing over the ink.

Dex shifted a little beside you, like the silence had stretched long enough for him to fill it.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.

You glanced up at him. That was not what you expected.

His expression didn’t change much, but there was the faintest edge of something almost… earnest there. Mild frustration, maybe. Not at you, but at the process.

“Making it was harder than I thought it would be,” he added, like he was explaining a minor inconvenience.

For a second, your brain just… stalled.

Then you laughed in disbelief. Not because you were afraid, but because you were delighted.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head, still smiling as you looked back down at it.

Dex watched you carefully, like he was checking whether that was the correct response. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”

“Dex,” you said, smiling at him incredulously, “you literally took the time to make me art out of someone who pissed me off. Of course I love it.”

Instantly, his shoulder dropped in relief. 

You leaned in without thinking, pressing a kiss to his cheek, right over the scar, lingering just long enough to feel his cheeks pull a smile. 

When you pulled back, your hand was already reaching to take the leather properly, to keep it. Maybe you’d even frame it.

But he pulled it back just out of reach, teasing you. 

You blinked at him, your mouth pulling into the most adorable pout he’d ever seen. “Hey,” you huffed.

He watched you for a second, clearly enjoying it. His eyes switched between your face and your mouth like he was deciding a game.

“I’ll give it to you,” he said casually. “if you promise me something.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, you’re negotiating now?”

He tilted his head just a fraction. “Tattoo me,” he said. “One of those pinups.”

Oh.

You knew which ones he meant.

You shook your head, laughing under your breath, but your eyes gave you away completely. “I thought you’d never ask.”

That was all he needed.

He leaned in again, closing the space between you, his mouth finding yours as he laid the leather on your bare thighs.

And this time, kissing him felt different. It felt like he was yours. 

It felt so right in the way only things that were deeply wrong and perfectly matched could feel.

When you pulled back, you already knew he was going to be your favourite canvas.

—end. 

[fiction-is-the-new-reality]

the enemy of my enemy | Benjamin Poindexter

word count: 20k

warnings: SMUT!! Enemies to lovers, swearing, pet names (baby, sweetheart, pretty boy), switch!reader, switch!Dex, talking to body parts, major sexual tension, you match Dex’s freak.

summary: Matt and you used to date, until Matt screwed it all up. Poindexter on his road to redemption has one important stop, you. What happens when Dex starts taking a liking to Matt’s ex?

a/n: this was a beast to write. It’s my longest piece I’ve ever done and I’m so proud of it but also so sick of looking at it 😫😆. so please enjoy it! here are my other works!

For one year, six months, and one day, you and Matt had been the happiest couple in the world. Still deep within the trenches of what seemed like a never-ending honeymoon phase, paired with being attached at the hips, Foggy and Karen wondered how you guys could be so…grossly cute. Even random New Yorkers you passed on the street commented on the love you two shared. It had been clear to everyone that you were it for each other. That was until that one (un)faithful night.

​

Spending another night at Josie’s, Foggy had questioned Matt after the fourth round of beer. “I mean, come on, man, how do the two of you do it?

“Do what?”

“You know, look so in love, so happy all the time?”

A soft chuckle leaves Matt’s lips. “I guess it’s just easy with her.”

Turns out, it had been easy for Matt. A perfectly healthy relationship was actually too easy for the ever self-tormenting, Catholic-guilt-filled Matt Murdock. At least, that was what you told yourself after you found Elektra lounging in his bed. You hadn’t been enough of a challenge to keep him interested for longer. You had been too safe for him, too nice, too understanding, too nourishing for him to handle, but most of all, you had been too stubborn, and it bit you in the ass. Matt had pleaded with you multiple times to leave him before this had happened. Claiming he wasn’t good enough for you, that all he would do was pull you down, get you hurt, or possibly worse. You had ignored him, wiped his tears, and reassured him that everything would be ok. Promised him that you were a big girl who could deal with the consequences of dating Daredevil.

You hadn’t realized that had included finding his Greek goddess of an ex-girlfriend curled up in his bed, nothing but his blue button-up on, while he tended to her wounds. The scene you had walked in on had felt like you had intruded on a couple. Not your partner and his ex.

The tenderness of his touch, his whispers, paired with the look on her face as she stared, as if he were everything to her, churned your stomach. The bile rose in your throat as you backed away, overwhelmed by the pain of betrayal and disillusionment, desperate to escape this moment of raw vulnerability. Everything felt fake as you made your way to the door. The floor wobbled, and the walls swayed as you briskly tried to escape Matt.

He had called your name, startled, but gentle when he had realized you were there. But you were already fleeing, not intent on stopping. He chased after you, your name leaving his lips as a desperate plea.

“Sweetheart, please, just-just let me explain it. I-I can explain all of it.”

His voice made you feel the sting of salt being rubbed into a cut. Once at the front door, you whirled around to face him.

“I don’t need you to explain anything to me, Matt. I’ll be by later to get my things.” Your voice quivered from the knot that was forming in your throat, but you refused to cry in front of them.

You were familiar with Elektra Natchios. One night over a round of drinks with friends, Matt had given you the history of their relationship. What he hadn’t told you about was the undeniable pull he had to her and how it never went away. It would only hibernate until she showed up in his life again, reigniting the feeling to burn everything else in Matt’s life.

As promised, you returned later that week to retrieve the items that littered his apartment: your favorite throw blankets, the unkempt line of shoes by the door, the smaller articles of clothing in the hamper, and the fancy unscented soap you bought to avoid disturbing Matt’s space. Each item reminded you of the last year, making your nerves grow short and raw.

Matt stood off to the side, a deep frown wrinkling his whole face. The sniffles you tried to contain echoed off the brick walls while your tears brined the stale air of the apartment. His heart broke more with each passing second.

“Could we please just talk about all of this? Just for a moment, please.” He begged. You kept your back to him as you continued to collect your belongings.

“Jesus,” He whined, “All I’m asking for is five minutes. Can you please talk to me? I-I feel terrible-”

“You feel terrible, Matthew? Do you?" Your voice cracked with venom, each word sharp and cutting. "Explain why your ex was in your bed, in your shirt. All while you’re kneeling beside her, treating her like she was everything. Tell me how you couldn’t text me that you weren’t going to make it to our plans. Explain how comfortable you were with forgetting about me. I am dying to hear how you make all of this better, Matt. So please, go ahead and explain it-quickly!” Your voice trembled with rage, echoing through the apartment, leaving him speechless, your body trembling with the effort to hold back tears.

Brown eyes widen behind red-tinted glasses. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, and finally shuts when nothing comes out. You let out a humorless laugh.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.”

He trails behind you toward the door, voice trembling with guilt. “I’m sorry, all I can say is that I’m sorry.”

Squeezing your eyes and clenching your jaw, you begrudgingly turn to face him. “I know.”

“I-I do love you, so very much.” His voice wavers, turning hoarse as tears begin falling. “I never wanted to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

You exhale deeply, the anger being replaced with pity for him. “I know, Matt, that's what makes this worse. I know you love me, and I know that you are really sorry. I’m aware you weren’t trying to hurt me. You weren’t intentionally running things between us. You-you were doing something good by helping someone. But I can’t be a placeholder or second place in my own relationship.”

“You weren’t! You never were.” His voice rises, desperate to get it across.

“Yes, Matt, I was. If it wasn’t to Elektra, it was to your own guilt. I truly hope that one day, you can allow yourself to be happy. Whether that’s by yourself or with someone, but I can’t, and I will not stand around to wait for that day.” The words slashed through Matt, sharper than any knife he’d ever felt.

Your hand caresses his stubbly, frowning, tear-streaked face. “Goodbye, Matthew.”

In the span of a week, a myriad of red bubbles overwhelmed your phone as Foggy, Karen, and even Frank tried to reach you. The messages from Karen and Foggy were all the same: “I’m sorry you got swept up into the storm that is Matt Murdock. I’m here if you need to talk. Please don’t ignore me.”

Frank’s two messages read, “Don’t forget about yourself” followed by “Call if needed, kid.”

There was something about the details of your heartbreak being known by your closest friends that had shame twisting your gut. You tried to shove it away, but maybe it was the way you were raised or your own selfish need to be seen as put together that kept it crawling back up, because no matter what you did, there was still that voice in your head that told you to feel embarrassed over Matt’s choices.

​

You gave yourself one week to wallow in the grief of your old relationship. One week to mourn who you had been, the life you had, and the future that now no longer existed. After that week, you pulled yourself up, dusted off, and found a new routine, minus the man you were still learning how to unlove.

Returning to patrol duty was your only way to bleed off the rage that refused to die. Every confrontation became a brutal outlet, and you refused to pull your punches. Some nights, the ER filled up thanks to you alone. In a shadowed alley, you disarmed a mugger with a single twist and shattered his kneecap with a stomp. When two gang members tried to trap you, you responded with cold efficiency, driving your blades into their abdomens and watching them crumple, breath stolen by pain and shock.

Two weeks ago, you started tracking an organization that was notorious for trafficking people. Every night, you were gaining more information, pushing you further along in finding the base of the vile criminals. During all this, you had been deliberate in avoiding Daredevil’s usual haunts, unwilling to risk running into him not on your own terms. Unfortunately, that did not last long. Of course, Matt would be all over the trafficking group. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind while you had been so caught up in uncovering them. But now, standing on this rooftop, across from him, you realize how silly you had been. Seeing Matt hadn’t bothered you at all, like you feared it would have. What bothered you, however, was the man standing beside him.

Bullseye. Benjamin Poindexter. The same man who had once buried a knife in your back, dressed as your own friend.

Both of them stand, frozen under your glare.

Dex watches you closely. He notices the instant cracking of knuckles as you process the two of them in front of you. He watches your chest heave, but before he can say the snide remark he’s thinking, Matt speaks.

“Hi.”

It takes you a moment before you repeat the word back. It’s clipped and void of emotion. Dex can’t help but feel a little entertained by witnessing your couple's fight. He wonders who initiated the fight. He thinks it over, studies Matt, and concludes that Matt was the clear choice. Dex smirks, feeling joy in watching Matt shift on his feet, clearly unsettled by your heavy gaze.

“What, uh, what are you doing here?”

“Tracking a crime ring. You?”

“Uh, yeah, same thing.”

“I see you got a new sidekick.”

Dex meets your gaze with a raised brow and a smile.

“Not a sidekick. Just back up.”

You scoff at this. “Careful, Matt, I’d watch my back around this guy.”

A snort leaves Dex, “Good one. Are you still torn up about that?”

“I spent a week in the fucking hospital because of you, you dickbag. So, yes, just a little bit.”

Something warm flickers in Dex’s chest at the way you square up to him. His smile turns darker as he flips a coin between his fingers. “Do you want to do this right now? It might get messy, and I’d hate to make a mess out of you in front of your man.”

Heat shoots straight through you at his husky voice. You thank the universe that you’re wearing a mask. There's no doubt that if he saw the flush, he’d torture you over it. It is quickly simmered as Matt whispers shouts at both of you to follow him.

As the night progresses, Dex notices every single one of the short, tension-filled interactions between you and Matt. Holy shit, this must be one hell of a fight. He thinks.

“Can you not make this difficult right now?” Matt asks, hands waving slightly in frustration.

“I’m not making it difficult. I would just prefer you not treat me like a child.”

“Sweet-” Matt clears his throat. “It’s not me treating you like a child. It’s me trying to keep you safe.”

“Oh, ok.” Your eyes roll as you turn away from Matt. You don’t speak in a fondly annoyed way, but rather, in the same way you speak to Dex.

That’s when it all comes into view. This isn’t a fight. This is-

“So how long have you two been splitsville?”

Ding, ding, ding. Once again, Dex has hit the mark. Both you and Matt glare at him.

“I’m guessing not for too long, since you’re still moping, and you’re-” He points at you, “Trying to be normal, but are failing miserably.”

“Poindexter.” Matt warns at the same time that you’re gritting out, “Fuck off, Dex.”

He shoves his hands up in surrender, laughing as he does so. The subject is dropped as Matt continues deeper into the tunnel.

Not a single one knows how it happens. One minute, the three of you are walking through the tunnel; the next, a wall is slammed down. Separating you and Dex from Matt. From behind the wall, you hear Matt pound his fist into the wall, then yell something about finding another way.

Turning slowly from the new wall, you face Dex. His green eyes already locked on you.

“Hi.”

You nod back.

With eyes clenched close with a tight, sarcastic smile, you mutter to yourself, “This is great.”

The silence only lasts a few minutes before Dex is pestering you.

“So who called it off?”

You ignore him, searching the area for anything to focus on other than this conversation.

“Did he use the ‘ole catholic guilt under the guise of wanting to protect you?” He hums, pretending to think. “Let me guess, he’s some downright awful sexed out satyriasis and you couldn’t deal with it anymore?”

Without a response, he keeps going. You don’t notice the way he rakes his eyes over your figure.

“Maybe you’re the nympho. Were you too much for poor little Matty to keep up with?”

In a blur, he’s shoved against the wall with a silver blade, kissing his Adam's apple. He looks at you through his brow with eyes that shine too bright to belong to someone with a knife pressed to their throat. His lips pull into a crooked wolfish grin, and the sight of him does something you’d never admit to anyone.

“Shut up. If I have to hear any more sarcastic bullshit from you tonight, this knife is going to find a new home. Lodged somewhere, extra deep in you.” Applying more pressure, the blade is one small movement from breaking the skin of Dex's neck.

Your warm breath fans over his face as you threaten him, and once again, a warmth flickers through him, traveling south fast. He nods. Miming the action of zipping his mouth and throwing away the key.

“God, you’re unbearable.”

You shove off of him, turning quickly to continue down the hall. Dex, thanks god the hallway is dark, and for the extra padding in his suit, hoping you hadn’t noticed the growing tent in his pants.

He stays hunched over for a moment, watching you walk away, before standing to stride after you.

It’s your turn to interrupt the silence this time.

“I found him in bed with his ex.”

You’re unsure of what possesses you to say this, but once the idea had popped up, you couldn’t stop it from happening.

Dex freezes for half a second, his brain fully rebooting before he says the only thing he can think of.

“That must have been hard to see.” You can hear something genuine in the words.

A humorless laugh escapes your mouth. “Yeah, I’d, uh, I’d say so.”

Maybe it’s because Dex is a killer. He’s someone that others fear, an unpredictable, selfish, livewire. Or perhaps it’s because he’s the only person that you’ve been around since everything with Matt. Then again, maybe it’s simply because you don’t think he’d care. But there’s something else, too, something deeper than proximity or convenience. Dex is raw honesty, never pretending to be anything other than what he is. With him, there’s no need for polite masks or careful words. No need to shrink yourself. He’s seen you at your harshest and your weakest and never looked away. Maybe that’s why, tonight, it feels easier to speak than to hold it all inside. Your brain runs through every reason as to why you felt the need to fill Dex in on your personal life.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone about it.” You say, matter-of-factly, in a way that tells him that you’re not looking for pity.

He’ll ask if that’s what you want. “How long ago?”

“Almost two months. And just for the record, I broke up with him.”

Dex smiles, a small laugh leaving him. He knew Matt was stupid, but he didn’t realize that he was idiotic enough to ruin a relationship.

The sound of his footsteps halting causes you to do the same. You turn to face him. He’s closer than you had realized.

“Since we’re on the topic of honesty. I’m sorry for stabbing you. I wasn’t in a good space at the time. I wasn’t in control of my body. I mean, I-I was,” His eyes roll as he pieces together the words he wants to use, “I was lost and broken. Fisk saw that and used it to get what he wanted. Made me his puppet, then threw me aside. I wasn’t seeing you as a person, but rather just an obstacle in my way. But I’m different now. Still broken, just not lost. I control myself now.”

You’re nodding as you listen. Dex thinks that you must be an excellent listener, probably the one that all your friends go to for a shoulder to cry on. He wonders who you turn to in your own moments of need. Wonders if you have anyone, or if you just shove it all down.

“I got a cool scar out of it, so it wasn’t too bad of a deal.”

Dex, like you, isn’t sure why he feels the need to tell you this, but he doesn’t stop the words from coming out.

“I’m working on my redemption. I want to fix past mistakes and balance the scales for me again. I understand if you can’t, but I’d appreciate your forgiveness. It doesn’t have to be today, but someday I hope I’ll-I hope we’ll be in a better spot with each other.”

“I’m happy for you, Dex. Big change is scary, especially if you’re doing it alone. But you’ll have to earn my forgiveness.”

You’re so close to him you can smell his natural musk, combined with something smoky that has permeated his suit. At this distance, you’ve noticed his eyes are speckled with flecks of brown and gold, and they are accompanied by a delicate fray of fine lines that peak out from the edge of his mask.

“Understandable.”

A large room filled with tables greets you and Dex at the end of the long corridor. Each table is fully covered in stacks of paper, money, and bagged substances. While looking around, you hear Matt make his way into the room. No one speaks, all too busy searching for the next trail to follow.

Matt’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “People are coming. We need to go now.” His head cocks to the side, judging the distances of the footsteps.

You shake your head, “I haven’t found anything useful yet.”

He spins to face you before he heads back to where he came from. “Doesn’t matter. There’s multiple men, all armed, coming in here in the next few minutes.”

“Then what the fuck was the point of coming here if we don’t get what we need?”

“What's the fucking point of getting what we need if we’re dead?” Matt hisses back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we’d made a vote that you’re in charge here. If you want to leave, go, I’m not stopping you.”

Matt exhales, shoulders sagging, his head dropping toward his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Don’t even start.” You warn, voice dropping into a growl.

Dex waits patiently, letting the two of you go back and forth before speaking up. “They’ll torch all this the second they know we’ve been here. If we don’t get anything useful now, we won't in the future.”

You shoot Dex a look of gratitude, relief flickering across your face. Matt just scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think I’ve got something.” You’d found a folder full of invoices all paid for by the same card.

“Great. Now, let's go.”

Footsteps echo from the upper level as the armed men approach the cavern. Matt has begun retreating to the hall he came from. Dex lingers as you grab the surrounding folders, skimming through the papers himself.

Matt barks for you two to hurry. After collecting the papers, you join him in the hall, while Dex trails behind you. Once back on the surface, the noise of people hustling around and shouting reaches your ears.

“On my move,” Matt whispers. There's a beat, then. “Now.”

Keeping low, the three of you slip between the looming cargo containers, shadows swallowing your movements. Matt leads, crouching and darting from cover to cover. You trail just behind, while Dex brings up the rear, scanning the maze of metal and rust with vigilant eyes. At one point, the beam of a flashlight sweeps dangerously close, forcing everyone to freeze behind a stack of tires. Breath held, you wait as the footsteps fade away.

“I’m getting twitchy,” Dex grumbles out.

“We’re almost out. Just hold out a bit longer before you start maiming people.”

“No promises.”

If you didn’t know better, you might have believed that to be him teasing you. You watch his eyes scan the area. His vision is tight and domineering as he searches for a potential target.

Now, on the other side of the dilapidated concrete lot, the three of you begin making it back up to the roof.

Matt calls your name, but he’s both too far and too late to do anything.

A large, warm hand grasps your bicep tightly before it pulls you off your feet with abrupt force. The screech of metal slicing through the air is so close it leaves your ear ringing as you’re slammed into a firm, blue-clad chest. It’s not the impact that knocks the breath from your lungs. But instead, the thickness of Dex’s arm as it looms so close to your face. The feeling of his firm chest under your hands makes your blood pump even more.

A single man stands, no, staggers, as blood sheets from the gash in his throat. His grip slackens, and the gun drops from his hands with a heavy thud. For a moment, he sways, knees buckling, before collapsing face-first onto the pavement.

Peering up at Dex, you’re almost lost for words. His gaze meets yours for a brief moment. Even through the balaclava, you can see his lips edged with a small, teasing smile. The glint in his eyes suggests he’s enjoying your stunned reaction. In an all too smug voice, he speaks, “You’re welcome.”

“What the hell did you just do?” Matt snarls at Dex, his voice shaking with revulsion. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, and his breathing labored.

“Something you couldn’t.” Dex’s reply slices through the air, cold and unflinching, daring Matt to challenge him.

“You just killed that kid.”

“He had a gun ready and aimed right at her. I’m not apologizing for saving your girl, or actually, I’m not apologizing for saving your ex-girl.” Dex states this as if it had been common sense.

Matt fires back, voice raw, “You don’t care about saving anyone. This is just another excuse for you to hurt people. They should’ve left you rotting in that cell.”

Matt’s attempt at goading Dex into fighting him fails miserably.

“Ok, guys, enough.” Your voice carries no emotion as you lazily try to stop them.

"You’re just mad that you’re not man enough to do what's necessary when the moment calls. Not with Fisk, not with me, not with that guy, and not even with your personal issues. It always magically falls out of your hands when it’s time for the serious decisions." Dex’s voice remains unamused and flat as he speaks to Matt.

As someone who has been in Matt’s orbit for the past few years, you’re an expert at picking up his next moves. Just as quick as he moves, so does Dex. The taller man blocks the hit from Matt before side-stepping him. Before they get too bloodied and bruised, you intervene.

But when neither of them backs down, you realize talking won't be enough. You plant your feet and, with a surge, lunge between them. Dex comes at you first, swinging wide, but you duck beneath his arm and drive your shoulder into his chest, knocking him back. Catching Matt off guard, you parry his punch that was for Dex, twisting his arm behind his back, forcing him to grunt in pain. For a moment, it's all chaos with fists flying, grunts echoing in the night. Dex recovers and rushes you, so you whirl and deliver a swift kick to his thigh, sending him stumbling. Matt regains his footing and comes at you again, but you meet him head-on, matching his strike with one of your own. Both men, bruised and winded, become still as they plan their next move. You all stand there breathing hard, the heavy breathing mixing with the noise of the city.

"Enough!" you command, your voice cutting through the tension. Matt’s nose flares, his fists still clenched, but he hesitates. Dex wipes blood from his lip, glaring at Matt but not moving forward.

"Jesus Christ, you guys are worse than fucking animals," You sneer.

Matt mutters something under his breath, but he relents when you snap your neck toward him.

“Either kiss and make up or leave each other alone.”

Matt laughs sarcastically at your proposal. “Sorry, but Dex isn’t really my type.”

“What, not Greek enough for you?” Dex amuses back.

Both you and Matt fall silent. The emotional scab peels back ever so slightly, and you feel the warmth of the metaphorical blood coming to the surface as Dex’s words land heavily. Logically, you know it’s a dig at Matt, but it still has that worm of self-loathing wiggling its slimy way back into your brain.

Matt frowns in confusion, a soft ‘what?’ tumbles from his mouth, “Did-did you tell him?”

Unbothered, you respond, “Yeah, Matt, he asked me.”

“I just can’t imagine why you would feel compelled to tell our personal business to him.”

“It’s MY personal business just as much as it is yours. If you didn’t want people to know about it, then you shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

“It's just him, of all people? It’s one thing for Foggy, Karen, hell even Frank, but,” He wets his lips, “But him?”

“Again, Matt. It’s my business too, and I can choose whoever I want to share it with. Hell, I might even call Fisk after this. See if he’s interested in hearing the latest hot goss on Daredevil.”

A wicked smile covers Dex’s lower face as he adds, “Now you’re just being mean.”

At this moment, you realize he’s lost the balaclava, and it’s the first time that night, actually, the first time in years that you’ve seen his face in the open. The sight hits you with a visceral force.

The years have carved away whatever was left of the haunted boy you once knew. Gone is the wiry, sharp-edged soldier with hollow cheeks and restless, wounded eyes. Dex now stands before you as a vision of dangerous strength, his frame packed with dense muscle that pulls his shirt taut across newly broadened shoulders and chest. The harsh streetlight lights his sharp jaw and high cheekbones, making the scars on his skin stand out pale and striking. His hair, once cropped harshly, is longer now, damp and tousled, giving him a wild, unfinished beauty that feels primal and untouchable. Even the way he holds himself has changed. A contained energy simmers beneath the surface, every movement slow and deliberate, brimming with confidence and a predator’s certainty.

His eyes, no longer hollow but burning with something raw, you feel your pulse skip. Heat flares beneath your skin, hot and unexpected, as a potent wave of chemistry crackles between you. The man in front of you demands attention, makes your breath come faster, and makes your skin prickle with awareness. For a split second, you forget to be guarded; you are only flesh and want, drawn to him like gravity, enthralled by the transformation he’s undergone and the charge that now thrums in the air between you. When your eyes return to his, he’s already waiting. A buzzing slices the air, breaking the moment.

Matt answers the call, lowering his voice to speak softly. You don’t need to guess who’s calling. Your heart squeezes, certain you already know.

Turning to Dex, you whisper, “Do you feel like getting breakfast? I’m starving.”

With a furrowed brow, he squints at you, his eyes searching for alternative motives. When you widen your eyes up at him, he finally nods with a small, “Sure.”

​

Inside the diner, the air was frigid, a biting cold that seemed to burrow beneath your skin and settle deep in your bones. The large glass windows were clouded with condensation, blurring the outside world, while the rough plastic seat beneath you pressed uncomfortably through your jeans. The place was deserted, save for you, Dex, and the three weary figures behind the counter. Silence stretched between you and Dex, thick and expectant, as you waited for someone to notice you. You kept your eyes fixed on the laminated menu, refusing to meet Dex's gaze, though you could feel the weight of it. At last, a kind-faced older lady appeared to take your order. When she left, she seemed to take the fragile sense of peace with her, leaving the quiet to unravel.

“Why did you ask me to join you?” It’s not harsh or mean-spirited, just simple curiosity.

You finally risk a glance at him. "Honestly? I don't even know. Why'd you say yes?"

He parrots your previous response.

You lean forward, voice low. "So what were you doing with Matt tonight, anyway?"

Dex sighs. "I told you. I want to make amends. Trying to fix old messes-"

You cut him off with a scoff. “Right, right, fix the scales. All that righteous bullshit. There’s no better teacher than Matt.” You roll your eyes, the words bitter like the diner’s arctic air.

He stares with a shine in his eyes, “You really are done with Matt, huh?”

Instead of responding, you hum in agreement, absentmindedly picking at the peeling corner of the menu's laminated cover as another silence settles in.

"Not to be insensitive," Dex begins. A loud bark of laughter leaves you at his faux sentiment, but Dex carries on, "Were you really expecting the whole nine yards of a white picket fence with him? I find it hard to believe that you’re that idiotic."

"I wasn’t expecting anything other than loyalty and love from him," you reply. You drag a huge sip of water through your straw before continuing, "It took us six years of friendship for us to get together, but it only took him a year to throw it all away."

“Do you blame yourself?”

You shake your head as you debate how to respond, “No, yes, I-I, the answer changes from time to time.”

As you say it, heat prickles at the back of your neck. Saying it out loud makes you feel raw, exposed, almost shameful. Part of you wants to take the words back, to put on some mask of certainty, but instead you stare at your hands on the table, fingers tightening and loosening around the sweating glass. Some nights, everything feels like it was your fault, like if you could have just been someone else, things would not have fallen apart. Other nights, you convince yourself it was all on Matt. Tonight, it’s neither and both at once, an exhaustion that settles low and heavy in your chest.

“I try not to blame myself, but I’m only human, you know?”

He grunts in agreement, drinking from the steaming cup of coffee.

Soon, the clatter of plates interrupts the silence as the server sets your food in front of you. For a while, neither of you speaks. The scene feels oddly gentle, almost domestic. Nothing like two people with years of tangled resentment between them. You catch your reflection in the window and wonder what story it tells to the world outside: two figures sharing a quiet meal, maybe old friends, maybe something more. For a moment, you allow your heart to feel whole, and yourself to feel joy as you enjoy a meal with company.

You wonder if your history with Dex makes it easier to be honest now, or if it’s just that you have nothing left to hide. He’s seen you at your lowest, bloodied, broken, your pain staining his hands. He’s watched you unravel, felt your insides as he drove a blade into your back, held pieces of you no one else ever has. Maybe that’s why there was never any illusion between you, no sugarcoating, no rose-tinted haze of love or friendship. He’s hated you deeply enough to want you gone, and in that brutal clarity, he’s seen the raw, unvarnished version of you.

Not even Karen, your closest friend, knows how you really feel. You’ve avoided her and Foggy for months now, too worn out or too afraid to keep up the act that everything is fine. The thought of pretending that your circle hasn’t fractured for good because of you and Matt makes you ache with guilt.

“Are you going to finish those?” Dex asks, gesturing with his fork toward the half-eaten pile of buttery, sweet pancakes.

“Uh, no, be my guest.”

Before you can help him take the fluffy circles, he’s already stabbed them with the fork and moved them to his plate. “Fanks,” he muffles out, his words thick from the heaping bite he just shoveled into his mouth.

Stepping out into the thick, pulsing heat of a New York summer night, a different kind of warmth settles over you, one born not from the air but from the strange comfort of Dex’s company. You pause on the stoop, senses thrumming, and catch Dex lingering too, at least you think you do. For a fleeting second, your tired, overworked brain considers closing the distance, saying more, doing something that you’d surely regret. Instead, you force yourself to offer a simple goodnight, destroying the imaginary scenario you had created as you turn away from him.

Dex lets you go, his watchful eyes tracking you until you turn the corner. A heavy breath leaves him, and he breathes in the lingering smell of you before he leaves the brightened sidewalk of the diner. For the first time in a long time, Dex has an extra pep in his step.

​

The club pulses with deafening music, each beat hammering through your chest and rattling your bones. Overhead, colored lights cut through the haze, spinning dizzy patterns across the writhing crowd. Suddenly, a beam splashes across the face you’ve been hunting for weeks. Myron Golubov. The leader behind the recent surge in trafficking. He lounges at a table buried in empty bottles and flanked by women, his grin sharp, predatory. For weeks, he was a ghost, but now, at last, he’s flesh and blood before you.

Perched at the bar with a garish cocktail in hand, you pretend indifference, masking the prickling sensation of being watched. You swirl the straw between your teeth, eyes roaming the crowd with practiced nonchalance. As you steal another look at Myron, you catch a flicker of movement as he’s already slipping through the shadows toward the back exit.

In the alleyway behind the club, it reeks of spilled beer and motor oil. Five men stand, enveloped in shadow, their metallic weapons catching the little moonlight that shines down. Myron ushers two small women into the back seat of a black SUV. Even from your position, their tears are visible. After the car door shuts behind them, you strike.

You emerge from the shadows just as Myron grabs the SUV door, his shout sending his bodyguards scrambling. Guns and knives flash in the dim light. You duck as a shot cracks past your ear. You kick one man hard in the groin, sending him crumpling to the ground. You snatch the gun and toss it aside. Another swings at you, but you sidestep, driving your palm into his nose with a sickening crunch. He collapses

Myron tries to bolt for escape, but you fire at the ground, forcing him to freeze.

Suddenly, a hulking man grabs you and tries to drag you down. You grab his jacket to haul yourself up. His fist clips your head, but you slam your elbow into his skull. He drops, limp.

A fist smashes into your jaw, then your gut. You hit your knees, gasping for breath as three men leer down at you. You bide your time, then surge upward, hands latching around a throat, and the man stumbles backward. A gunshot explodes your hearing, shatters a split second before searing agony rips through your side. Your body jolts, breath catching as your skin tears and burns from the bullet’s impact. Blood gushes, soaking the shredded fabric on your abdomen.

Before the others react, a coin whistles through the air, striking your attacker in the head. You’re too focused on the pain in your side to care about the blood splattering you as the coin punches out the other side of his skull. He drops, limp, onto the filthy concrete.

Another metallic ping rings out, then the whoosh of a blade. It buries itself in the shoulder of one guard with a wet, sickening sound. He howls, while his stunned partner forgets you completely. You fling your own blade, slicing his wrist. His hand weakens, the gun clattering uselessly to the ground.

A pair of footsteps echoes as a large masked figure emerges from around the back of the car. Quickly, the last two men are neutralized, and only Myron is left. When you look at him, he’s a shaken, soiled mess. Forcing yourself to move, you stride over to the car. The two women in the car stare wide-eyed. You nod in reassurance as sirens wail in the distance.

Shuffling around the car, you’ve made it a few feet before your knees betray you, causing you to stumble.

“You’re bleeding.” His gruff voice cuts through the air, unexpectedly pleasing to your ears.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself upright. “Yes, Dex, thank you for letting me know,” you say, sarcasm sharpening your words despite the pain.

Dex lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Let me carry you. If we take too long, we’ll get caught up with the AVTF.” He glances over his shoulder, analyzing the alley for threats.

You lean heavily against the wall, barely able to catch your breath. Each gasp is a struggle. “I’ll be fine,” you mumble, your voice weak and slurred.

“I wasn’t asking.” Dex stoops and hooks an arm behind your knees. Your legs give out, and you clutch his shoulders for balance. Dex’s other hand never leaves his holster as he sweeps you up and carries you out of the alley, muscles tense beneath your grip.

“Hey, don’t do that.” Dex’s sharp voice jolts you from the edge of unconsciousness, his gaze boring into you.

“Wasn’t doing anything,” you try to snark, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. You blink blurry at Dex, the world tilting around you.

“You’ve got to keep your eyes open.” Dex’s tone softens. You blame the bleeding out for thinking the command sounds concerned. “Talk to me.”

You swallow, fighting dizziness. “What about?”

“Anything.” Dex’s voice is low, almost gentle now as he carries you down the block.

You hum, searching for words, but the throbbing pain in your side and the heat from Dex’s chest distract you. You close your eyes for a moment, steadying yourself against him.

“Were you watching me?”

Dex’s lips twitch. “No, I’ve been tracking Myron,” he says, eyes searching your face for signs you’re still with him.

You shift in Dex’s arms, voice rough. “Where are we going?”

“Off the streets,” Dex replies, moving faster, boots thudding softly on the pavement.

“But where?”

Dex doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts your weight in his arms and changes the subject.

“What did you order to drink at the bar?” Dex asks, his tone turning almost casual, trying to pull your mind away from the pain.

“Don’t ‘member, was fruity ‘n sweet.”

​An overwhelming heaviness settles on your eyes, too much for your eyelids to resist. Even with both your and Dex’s best attempts to keep them open, they still close. With a final, unfocused glance, the sharp angle of his jawline registers before your eyes roll upward and you go weak in his grasp.

“Fuck.” Dex groans.

You’re unaffected by Dex’s effort of climbing the stairs, the click of your lock, and the yielding embrace of your plush couch as you sink into it. With ease, he navigates your apartment, quickly finding the first-aid kit. Soon, he’s back at your side, cutting the remaining material of your shirt away for better access to the bullet wound. His hands are steady and practiced as he begins cleaning the wound.

A groan escapes you at the sting of antiseptic, making you turn slightly. Unperturbed, he keeps working, methodically wiping away blood and debris before stitching the gash. After stitching, he presses a large wad of gauze against the still-trickling wound and tapes it down securely. His touch lingers a moment before he lets go.

Making his way to the kitchen in search of a trash can, Dex spots a photo in the corner of the counter. A simple wooden frame holds a picture: you stand between Matt and Karen, while Foggy, just behind, holds up his pointer and middle finger to give you bunny ears. If he had to guess, it had been taken at least four years ago. Your hair is the same shade as when he first saw you, and your eyes have a more naive sparkle.

Jealousy flares through his chest as he thinks about how long you’ve known the trio in the picture. How many stories you all must share, the laughs, the fights, the embraces, the love. The thought of them knowing you so intimately twists the bile in his stomach, and his breathing turns ragged. He should have been the one you shared your birthdays with. He should have been the one you relied on. He should have been the one to hold you close, kiss you whenever he wanted, make you smile, make you laugh. It will be me, he reminds himself. Dex repeats this mantra to himself to calm his breathing. When it finally smooths back to normal, he returns to the living room. Sitting in the chair diagonal to the couch, he watches as you rest.

​

The tight pull of stitches in your side is the first thing you notice as you force yourself upright. Sunlight explodes across your pupils, flaring the vertigo and pounding headache. Hissing, you shield your eyes with a trembling hand. You try to remember anything past Dex’s face in the dark alley from last night, but you’re halted as something cuts through the fog. Fists hammer your front door, your name echoing through the room, and suddenly, it’s as if someone yanked cotton from your ears. Every sound sharpens, becoming insistent. The city’s chaos floods in from the open fire escape with horns, engines, and distant voices. You glance at your phone, vibrating in frantic bursts on the coffee table. You shove off the couch, staggering off-balance toward the door, heart pounding.

Throwing it open, it reveals a disheveled Karen on the other side. She whispers your name, throat raw as her red, tear-rimmed eyes scan down and then back up. “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

Your eyes follow the path she took and find that your shirt is barely hanging on. The bloodied, bruised, gauze-covered skin on full display for her worried eyes. She moves quickly past you, making you retreat into the apartment as well.

Fierce blue eyes race around the apartment. Once satisfied with what she’s found, she whips back around to you. You hunch, leaning back on the door, hand still clasped around the handle.

“I got shot,” you mumble.

Her arms fold across her torso, “Yeah, I, uh, I can see that. What, h-how did that happen?”

“I was sloppy and got my lesson from it.”

“We’ve been calling you all day. Have you just been-”

“I-I don’t even know what the time is, Karen. I’m sorry that I didn’t answer, but clearly,” You gesture to yourself, “I’ve been out of it.”

She turns, searching for and then finding your phone on the coffee table. She rips it up to check the screen. “Me, Foggy, and,” she hesitates for half a second. “And Matt have all been worried sick, but I’m glad to see that it still works at least.”

You shake your head with a small scoff, “Yeah, I just haven’t had much energy recently. I’m not meaning to avoid you.”

“If it’s because of what happened with Matt?”

“Karen, don’t-”

“No! Listen to me, I don’t care about what went down between the two of you, but I-I do care about not losing my friend. So please put on your big-girl panties and come back to being our friend. Why can’t it be like how it was before you two were together?”

You meet her eyes, “You’ll have to ask Matt that question.” A deep sigh leaves you, “Karen, I wish I could fix everything, but I can’t. We’ll just have to get used to the new way of things.”

Her brows furrow for half a second before glaring at you. She shakes her head. “I don’t want things to change. Nothing has to change.”

You say nothing, opting to look at the open fire escape window instead of her disappointed face.

“Fine. Let me know when you decide to be my friend again.” She marches for the door, and you move to the side. Before she closes it, she looks at you. “Could you at least find the energy to call Foggy? He’s going crazy waiting to hear from you.”

“Yeah, Karen, I will.”

Nodding, she slams the door closed. Leaving you alone in the quiet, metallic-tinged air of your apartment.

Later that night, after a much-needed shower, you climb the old rusty ladder to the rooftop. Already waiting for you up there in the slightly breezy summer air is Dex. He stands with his back turned to you, dressed in his civilian clothes. Approaching him in slow strides, you take the opportunity to admire his broad shoulders.

“How long have you known that I’ve lived here?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, but doesn’t speak.

“Have you been watching me? Following me around?” Your voice rises slightly as you ask him. The thought makes your skin crawl slightly.

“I came here when I got out of prison. I wanted to see if you were still alive or if I had killed you.”

“Were you planning on finishing the job?”

His head shakes, and finally, he turns to face you. His tongue darts out, and you track the movement before your eyes flick back to his.

“I was going to try to make it up to you. Apologize real sweet like, do some groveling, you know, make you forgive me.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words. The image of Dex pleading for forgiveness at your feet does heinous things to your body. You take a step closer. Dex mirrors it.

“Your first thought out of prison was about me? I must have left quite an impact on your damaged mind.” Dropping your voice low, “It’s not too late for some groveling. I’m feeling pretty generous tonight.”

He smirks at your teasing, but before he can respond, a deep voice cuts through the tension-filled atmosphere.

“You were shot and didn’t call anyone?” Matt demands, his voice heavy in your ears, immediately squashing whatever was building between you and Dex.

“I had to find out by going to the crime scene and smelling your blood. It reeked of your blood. I thought-I thought you were dead. And then you don’t answer your phone all day. Karen has to be the one to come and see if you’re alive or not?” He breathes out sharply, frustration and worry tangled together. "I get it, you’re still pissed at me for what happened with Elektra, but that doesn’t give you the right to be an idiot, on some mission to get yourself killed. And it sure as hell doesn’t give you the right to be a shit friend.”

You wrench your gaze from Dex and square off with Matt. Jaw clenched, your voice slices through the tension. “Feel better, Matthew?”

“You are the last person who should be dogging on anyone for being a ‘shit friend.’ That’s practically in the Matt Murdock playbook.” The words tumble out, knives wrapped in sarcasm. Matt stands there, silent and stiff.

“And I wouldn’t throw that stone of being an idiot getting themselves killed too far, counselor. You might hit a fucking glass wall.” Your anger simmers just beneath the surface. “I’m not still mad about Elektra. Honestly, I haven’t even been thinking about you. I’m not your responsibility to check up on. I’m an adult, and I’ll be fine without the patron saint Matthew Murdock looming over me.”

The clench of his jaw and the subtle twitch of his lower lip let you know that you had struck a nerve, and now you’re witnessing Matt grappling to control himself.

“I just really hope that you’re not doing anything reckless in a desperate attempt to fill the void of being wanted. I’d hate for you to do anything you’d regret.” Matt drops his voice, the heat of anger completely gone. His voice is soft and gentle, carrying the same tone he used to comfort you. Only now, instead of comforting optimism, it’s heavy with pity.

Your anger erupts, but underneath, you go cold. Numb, scraped raw, left wide open. Matt always knew how to drag you to this breaking point, where holding yourself together becomes nearly impossible. Your fists clench, muscles coiled tight, shoulders folding inward. Tears sting your eyes, blurring everything as your throat constricts in agony. His misplaced pity doesn’t just sting; it incinerates, shrinking you into a shadow of yourself. The hypocrisy of his words twists your insides, leaving you furious, gutted, and desperately alone.

“Thank you for your concern, Matt, but please find someone who actually wants it.”

With Matt finally gone, your body can no longer hold itself together. Hot tears stream down your face as your shoulders sag and you begin shaking from the adrenaline leaving your body. You’ve forgotten about Dex until his boots shuffle against the rooftop. Immediately, you straighten up, trying to pull yourself back together quickly.

“Your stitches are ripped.”

Glancing down, you see a dark red circle soddening your shirt. “Huh, I guess they are.” Even to your ears, your voice is flat and distant. Your mind far away from this moment.

Dex notices you aren’t fully present and steps in. He feels a surge of pride and excitement when he realizes he can be useful to you again. He can prove to you that he deserves your forgiveness, that he deserves your attention, that he can treat you better than Matt. He hopes that soon, you’ll begin to associate him with the feeling of being safe and cared for. Silently, he thanks Matt for further pushing you away, making his siege on you even easier.

His warm palm applies gentle pressure to your shoulder, giving you the cue to walk. Your body mindlessly obeys him. Dex trails behind you as you make the trek down to your apartment.

A slight wave of deja vu washes over Dex as you sit on the couch, the soft, battered skin of your stomach bare to him, with him kneeling below you. More gentle than Dex has ever been in his life, he swipes at the area with an antiseptic wipe. You hiss as the cool sting washes over the gash, and dark green eyes flick to your face. Dex takes in, memorizes, and files away the expression of your pained face. His chest warms as he saves this intimate moment for himself.

Your body is tense, and you both know it’s not from the pain of the physical wound but rather from the events of the day.

“It’s funny. I get shot, and yet it’s not even about me,” you scoff, tears clawing for release.

Dex stays silent, struggling to find what you need. Everything he considers sounds wrong, so he keeps patching you up.

“I-I get it. I’ve been distant and different than what they’re used to. And-and I don’t want to be a shit friend, but maybe I don’t want to pretend to be happy around them. You would think that Karen would understand that, and Jesus fucking Christ, I could kill Matt.” You wince when the needle slices through the tender skin. “He wants to pretend that nothing happened, as if we would just return to friends overnight. Like, he didn’t fuck everything up! Like this was all my fault, and then try to shit on my choices!”

A raw whine escapes you from the pain. “Oh, fuck, Dex.”

Your breathy words hit Dex like a punch. Heat floods his body, his eyes drawn helplessly to you. With your eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowed, and lip caught between your teeth, you’re the very image of temptation. It’s almost impossible for Dex to rein in the surge of want that crashes through him as his mind runs rampant with images of him getting that noise from you again.

He grumbles a barely audible apology. His throat felt constricted, preventing him from forming coherent words.

“I don’t even know if I want to be friends with Matt. I don’t know if I’ll ever be willing to act normal around Matt again.” You’ve got that glazed look in your eyes again as you think about what you just said.

“No one is forcing you to do that.”

“I-I don’t know a life in New York without Matt.” Dex hears the anger in your voice at this confession. He feels another ugly flare of jealousy at your words. “I can’t just lose the only friends I have.” Your shoulders droop in sadness.

“From where I’m standing, having friends doesn’t look like what it’s all chalked up to be.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you had any real friends.” Your voice is light as you try to joke with him. Intense green eyes meet yours as he speaks. “Maybe you’re right.”

With a fresh badge over the new stitches, Dex stands up, slightly proud of his handiwork. “If you rip them again, I’m going to let you bleed out.”

“As if. You enjoy playing my knight in blue kevlar too much.”

“I’m just at the wrong place at the right time.”

“You could have left me to die in the alley, but you didn’t.” You sing the last words, and heat crawls up Dex’s neck. “Maybe you could stay and make sure I don’t rip them again.” Something is simmering in your eyes as the words lie thick over the room. Leaving the ball in Dex’s court.

He eyes you up and down before he concedes to staying for a while.

​

You wake to the sharp crackle of oil in the pan, the scent of frying food curling through the air and pulling you from sleep. Padding across the chilled floor, you follow the lure of breakfast and sunlight. Dex stands in your cramped kitchen, haloed in golden morning light that spills through the window, painting his shoulders in soft gold. His back is turned, and you catch a glimpse of a pale scar peeking out just beneath the edge of his shirt. The coffee machine sputters awake, filling the space with the familiar hiss and pulling your eyes from him.

Tentatively, you call out, “Good morning?”

“Mornin’.” His voice is still thick with sleep.

You sink onto the barstool, elbows pressed to the cool countertop, eyes fixed on Dex as he moves with easy grace. He glides through your kitchen as if he’s always belonged there, every motion practiced and sure. The room feels warmer, fuller, with him in it like he’s stitched himself into the fabric of your mornings.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“I woke up hungry. So, I looked through your kitchen, found enough things to make a decent breakfast.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if this is normal.

You just hum, too stunned and hungry to oppose him.

He plates the food, then swiftly cleans what he’s used. As you pour two coffees, Dex brings the two plates to the small table by the window.

Dex’s broad figure sits across from you, with his elbows resting on the table's surface. Half of him glows with the golden light, and the sharp lines of his face have softened. You’ve never seen him look so gentle, so peaceful. Your stomach flutters, and heat spreads through your chest at the domesticity of this moment. Quizical green eyes look up at you from under his brow as he realizes you haven’t taken a bite.

“What?” Even though the word sounds harsh, you know he means nothing by it.

You smile at him, “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t poisoned.”

Picking up more on his fork, he shovels a rather large amount into his mouth. From around the food, and with a quirk of his eyebrow, he responds, “Sure hope it’s not.”

From that day forward, a new routine was formed. For the next few weeks, Dex drops by a few nights under the guise of checking your wound or having you patch him up, and ends up crashing on the couch. The next morning is always followed by food and coffee. Most mornings, Dex takes on the role of chef, but there are rare occasions when you beat him to it, like this morning.

Dex wakes and instinctively looks for you. Pushing himself up, he watches you from over the back of the couch. You move, mouse quiet, around the kitchen, a look of peace across your features. Still drowsy, he stumbles over to lean on the doorway. As he does, one hand comes up to rub the sleep from his eyes.

His heart gets a jump start as he takes in your attire. An oversized shirt covers you completely, and just beneath the hem, a thin line of black hints at a pair of tiny shorts. His softening morning wood begins to fill with blood again, despite Dex trying to think of anything but you.

You turn toward the coffee pot and startle at Dex, leaning against the doorframe. You jump back, crying out, “Oh my god!”

Finally, your brain processes the actual sight of him, standing shirtless, leaning against the doorframe, embodying the perfection of a Greek god. Your breath hitches as your eyes move over his pale skin. The area is littered with scars in muted pinks of varying sizes. When you reach the patch of dark hair that trails down his lower abdomen and beneath his waistband, you begin salivating immediately. You continue making coffee, needing it to distract you from jumping on him.

“Mornin’,” He grumbles as he steps into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” you chirp back. Attempting to keep your voice steady so as not to reveal the way your body is reacting to his presence.

Suddenly, your back is engulfed with heat as Dex invades your personal space. One thick arm extends past your head as it grabs for the cupboard above you, the action causing Dex to lean in even more. You stiffen up completely at the feeling of his breath fanning over you and fiercely fight the urge to press back as something hot and excruciatingly hard presses into your lower back.

“Jesus Christ, Dex,” you side-step away from him. “Ever heard of personal space?”

“Don’t get mad at me because you enjoyed it.”

You're glad not to be facing him, as you’re sure your face is reflecting the sudden need for him. Not responding, you return your attention to the food, ignoring the growing wet spot in your underwear.

After breakfast, you start wiping down the counters, desperate to put some space between yourself and Dex. As you turn your back to the door, you feel him, unseen but unmistakably present. The air grows thick, humming with tension. You don’t dare look, already knowing what’s waiting if you do. But eventually, you have to turn, and when you do, it’s like a match striking gasoline. Sudden, consuming, impossible to ignore.

His eyes lock onto yours, intense and unreadable. The silence presses in, thick and charged. You grip the dish towel a little tighter, knuckles whitening, heart pounding in your chest.

Taking a careful step forward, floorboards groaning beneath his weight. You shake your head, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. “We can’t do this. Whatever it is you’re thinking, we can’t.”

Dex stops, searching your face, his jaw clenched. “What if I can’t stop thinking about it?” The words hang between you, dangerous and electric. “What if I can’t stop thinking about you?”

You swallow hard. Fear and longing twist together in your chest, sharp and aching. “Dex,” you murmur, your voice a tangled knot of warning and want. “This isn’t a good idea.”

He closes the distance, slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to step away. “Maybe not,” he says, voice rough with honesty. “But making good choices was never my strong suit.”

The tension stretches, thin as wire, and you know, if he touches you, you won’t stop him.

Dex continues forward, crowding you until your back presses hard against the counter, the edge digging into you with a subtle ache that only intensifies your awareness of him. He takes his time, no hurry in his movements, as two big, calloused hands reach out to cup your face. Long thumbs trace your cheekbones in a breathtakingly slow and reverent manner, making your eyes flutter shut as you surrender to the sensation. You’re utterly pinned, his body radiating heat that seeps into your skin, wrapping you in dizzying anticipation. All you can do is look up into his eyes, your pulse thrumming wildly beneath his palms.

Tilting your head back, you meet Dex’s intense, hungry gaze, his green irises now reduced to a slim halo around pupils blown wide with want. The air between you crackles, each breath charged, and goosebumps prickle over your skin as a shiver runs down your spine, leaving you trembling beneath his touch.

Before the two of you can go any further, a knock echoes through the apartment. You both freeze, eyes still interlocked as you wait for whoever is there to leave. Instead, another knock rings out. Dex makes a noise similar to a growl when you shove him away. You check through the peephole and, outside your apartment, Foogy Nelson stands rocking back and forth on his feet. You turn to Dex, wide-eyed.

“You’ve gotta go. It’s Foggy.”

“So ignore him.”

“I can’t ignore Foggy.” You shove his shirt and shoes into his arms. “So you need to leave now.”

Dex grits his teeth, swallowing his frustration as you rush him out the window. He tries to convince himself that this is the right move, but the logic feels hollow. There’s no reason for him to be in your apartment, half-dressed, caught in a domestic moment. He knows it, but the anger simmers hot and restless beneath his skin, crawling up his spine and threatening to spill over.

“Fine.” He grunts out.

​

“Hey, Foggy, uh, what-what are you doing here?”

“We’re doing brunch. Me, you, and an endless supply of bottomless mimosas.”

“It’ll take me a minute to get ready.” You say not to dissuade him, but hint that you don’t want to inconvenience him.

“That’s fine!” He plops down on your couch. “Do whatever you’ve gotta do. I’m in no rush.” His lips pull back in his usual warm smile. The sight makes you nod before you turn toward your bedroom.

At brunch, you realize just how much you’ve missed Foggy. Despite your worries about awkwardness after so much time apart, the conversation flows easily, laughter coming naturally as you slip back into your familiar dynamic. The comfort of his presence chases away lingering doubts, reminding you that true friendships can withstand even the longest silences.

“Foggy, I’m sorry I haven’t reached out,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, fingers nervously twisting your napkin. “There’s been so much swirling around in my head lately. I never meant to freeze you out or make it seem like I forgot you.” The words come out raw, your heart thudding as you wait for his response, hoping he understands.

Foggy blows a raspberry as he waves his hands. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. The moments all gone, so now it’s all dust in the wind.”

“Did you seriously just brush off my heartfelt apology with a Kansas song?”

“Yeah, man. Kansas rocks!” He laughs, holding up his hands in a ‘rock on’ gesture.

“I won’t argue with that.” You clink your glasses together, sharing a grin before downing another mimosa, the fizz tickling your throat as the mood lightens.

He says your name gently before he continues speaking, “Look, I can’t apologize for Matt, nor would I. He fucked up majorly and hurt you, I understand that, so I also understand if you say no to this, but I’m going to ask anyway. Will you please, please, come to Josie’s tomorrow? We’re all going to celebrate or drink our sorrows away, depending on how this trial turns out. I would love for you to be there, and Karen would love for you to be there.”

“I’m not sure, Foggy. Both Matt and Karen seem to be upset with me.”

“I know, I know, but I think it’s what we all need. I’m not asking you to be friends with Matt again or make everything magically better. All I’m asking is that you come whip my ass at pool while we both get shitfaced off of cheap room-temperature beer.”

You burst out laughing, unable to resist his infectious energy. “Okay, now that I can do. Who knew you were such a masochist, Foggy Nelson?”

“Not a masochist, just a realist.”

“Fine, I’ll be there. But the second it hits awkwardville, I will be Irish Goodbying.”

Laughing at you, he chokes out, “You and me both, sister.”

After a long day with Foggy, you retreat to the welcome solitude of your apartment. The sun dips below the horizon, washing the room in a moody blue tint that hints at approaching night. Time stretches, each minute thick with anticipation as you wait for Dex to climb through the fire escape window. But he never comes. With three hours gone and no sign of Dex, the ache of disappointment settles in, and you abandon hope, heading for a shower instead.

You avoid the harsh glare of overhead lights, opting instead to light a few candles as you move through the flat. As the warm glow suffuses the rooms in a soft golden haze, the flame's shadows flicker along the walls.

Soon, the little bathroom is alive with the soft, rhythmic patter of water against tile. Steam thickens the air, curling around you and mingling with the gentle candlelight just beyond the door. Under the steady stream, hot water cascades down your back, dissolving the tension in your muscles. You lather up, the scent of soap blooming in the warmth, and rinse until your skin feels new. For a lingering moment, you stay behind the curtain, savoring the cocoon of heat until the water turns cool. Wrapping your favorite towel snugly around your body, you step out and pad softly to your bedroom.

The wooden floor sighs beneath your feet as you move, each step leaving a faint damp imprint that quickly fades. The bedroom is dim, touched only by the golden spill of candlelight and the faint hush of rainfall against the window. You sit on the edge of the bed, letting the towel absorb the last drops of water clinging to your skin. For a moment, you listen to the soft hum of the night, the distant city sounds blurred by the rain, and the steady cadence of your own breath.

From the living room, a thud reverberates through the flat, followed by the squeal of your window being forced closed. The solid thunking of boots begins, purposeful and unhurried, echoing off the narrow walls as they make way to you. You remain unmoved while Dex’s shadow expands across the wall opposite your room as candlelight frames his silhouette, broad-shouldered, imposing, and unmistakable. With a deliberate stomp, Dex plants himself in the doorway, filling the space with his presence. Golden light highlights his sharp features as the flames make his dark eyes glimmer with something unreadable.

Thunder rumbles over New York, as if the world outside senses the tension coiling in the room. Dex’s gaze lingers on you, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your shoulder beneath the towel, as if memorizing every detail. For a moment, he hesitates at the threshold, a gentle smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Dex’s voice finally cuts through the air. It’s thick, low, rough, and edged with something you can’t quite name.

“You going to run away from me again?”

“That depends.”

When he moves forward, it’s with an intention that stirs up arousal deep in your gut.

He sits rigid beside you on the bed, so close that your knees touch. For a heartbeat, you simply breathe together, locked onto each other's eyes. Then, with one calloused finger, he runs it along your collarbone, feather-light. The sensation prickles your heated skin and instantly pebbles your towel-covered nipples.

“Are you done acting like you don’t want me? Done with pretending like just being around me doesn’t turn you on?” His finger traces swirls around the exposed skin as he speaks. You nod at his words, but selfishly, Dex needs more.

“Say it.”

“I want you, Dex. All I’ve been thinking about lately has been you.” Your hands reach out. One resting on his knee, while the other wraps around the arm he’s petting you with.

“That was pretty harsh this morning, shoving me out like I was a one-night stand that overstayed their welcome.” His hand comes to rest at the spot where your jaw and neck meet.

“Did I hurt your feelings, Dexy?”

His jaw clenches at the nickname, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

Your hand travels higher, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his thigh. His arousal is unmistakable now, straining beneath the tight fabric of his boxers. Dex leans in, his grip tightening on your neck as he draws you in until there’s no space left between you.

His lips crash into yours, urgent and desperate. Chapped lips scrape against yours as he claims your mouth, swallowing down your moan. His palm finds the knot of your towel and slowly tugs, giving you the chance to stop him, but your fingers are already threading through his hair, urging him on. The towel loosens and slips, baring your flushed skin to the cool air, to Dex’s heated gaze.

He breaks the kiss to look at you, chest heaving. “Fuck, I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me,” he rasps, voice hoarse with restraint. His fingers trail from your collarbone down to your hardened nipples. Between his thumb and index finger, he tweaks them, making you arch in response to the slight pain. Placing wet, open-mouthed kisses across your chest, Dex revels in the desperate noises that leave your mouth. A throaty moan leaves your parted lips as his warm mouth wraps around one of the buds. His grip on your chest grows harsh as his tongue swirls around the area. The air hits the spit-soaked trail, cooling your heated skin.

Pulling your knees onto the bed, you shuffle onto his lap. His thick legs stretch yours further apart as you place your pulsing, hot, sopping core against his fully hardened length. Grinding down on him as he continues toying with your chest. Your fingers thread and tug through his hair. With an obscene wet pop, he releases a nipple from his mouth. A string of spit follows his mouth as he does.

“Harder.”

Thinking he’s talking about your grinding, you press down harder against him.

“No,” Dex’s hands find yours in his hair. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and tugs harshly. “Pull my hair harder.”

You do as told, yanking hard at the blonde roots. A satisfied groan leaves him as his eyes flutter shut. “Yeah, that's it, baby. Fucking rip it out.”

Depraved desire ignites in your belly so aggressively that it makes your head spin. Soon, the crotch of Dex’s pants is completely soaked from both of your arousal.

“I want your pants off. Actually, I want it all off.” Standing in front of him, you use all your strength to shove him back onto the mattress harshly. The frame shakes from the force, and a hefty breath is expelled from Dex’s lungs.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he looks at you, the perfect image of a man ravenous. He kicks his boots off as you work on getting his pants down. As he pulls his shirt off, you stop to admire the rippling muscles of his torso. Before pulling off the only remaining article of his clothing, you scratch at the skin above the waistband.

“Don’t tease. Go ahead and take me out.”

“Do you always talk this much when you’re getting laid, or do I just make you nervous?”

Dex huffs out a laugh as he helps to get his boxers off. And there he lies, all bare and exposed for your eyes. Between his legs, his pinkish cock stands proudly for you. Thicker and longer than you had expected, with a slight curve to the right, and a long throbbing vein that runs down the underside. The tip has a glossy sheen from the steady stream of precum leaking out.

“Come here.”

When you crawl onto the bed, Dex manhandles you so you’re facing away from him and swings your leg over his torso for you. Big hands spread you apart, getting a better look at your soaking wet cunt, and a low moan rumbles through him. “Goddamn, what a view.”

A sharp hiss escapes Dex as your warm palm wraps around his length. The heavy, warm weight of him in your palm pulls a delighted sigh from you. With the tip of your tongue, you lick from base to tip, enjoying the salted, heady taste of his skin in your mouth. Flicking your tongue against the slick-covered slit, you overwhelm your taste buds with the taste of Dex, and you can’t stop your moan as your licking rewards you with more cum coating your tongue.

Dex's hips jerk violently as the intoxicating heat of your mouth engulfs him. Dex’s mind fragments, every coherent thought slipping away, leaving only raw sensation as your tongue hungrily glides along his length. His guttural moans erupt, echoing with desperation, as you quicken your pace and hollow your cheeks, creating a relentless, tight suction that sends electric shockwaves through his body. Dex feels every nerve ablaze with overwhelming pleasure, teetering on the edge of losing himself completely.

Dex's rough hands seize your hips, dragging you down so your soaked core crashes onto his waiting mouth. His tongue assaults you with wild, hungry strokes devouring every inch, every trembling fold, until you’re writhing above him. His tongue zeroes in, flicking your clit with ruthless precision and feverish speed, each stroke fueling the crescendo of your pleasure. Your moans spill out, long and uncontrollable, filling the air as he consumes every sound and sensation you give him.

Breaking away, your slick follows his lips in sticky strings, “Is that good?” You whine out in response. “I want to know how good I’m making you feel. Tell me how good my mouth feels making out with your pretty pussy.”

Your strangled cry is muffled around his length, still being deep in your throat.

He doesn’t relent when he feels the legs around him begin to shake. Instead, Dex locks his arms tighter around your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth. His tongue strokes become impossibly faster, relentless, coaxing your climax closer with each maddening flick and swirl. Your cries grow as loud as they can with your mouth still wrapped around his cock. His hips buck harder and quicker the louder you moan. Not being able to keep up the sucking anymore, you switch to working him up with your hand.

Using the extra thick saliva that’s pooled at the base of his shaft for lubricant, you begin jerking him off. Tightening your fist and tugging extra hard at the tip, you get more hearty moans from Dex. You alternate between fast, aggressive jerks and slow teasing strokes, the contrast making Dex lose his mind. As your entire body trembles above him with every muscle tightening in anticipation. Dex groans against you, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through you, and you realize you’re right on the precipice, teetering helplessly over the edge. When you warn Dex of your quickly approaching orgasm, he moans into your hole, coaxing it out, needing you to coat his tongue in your sweet release.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, Dex. Don’t-don’t stop, I’m gonna-” You’re interrupted by your own whimpering, tearing through you. Turning his head to the side so he can still lick you up as he speaks, Dex encourages you, “Yeah, that’s it, cum on my tongue. Give me what I want.”

With arms and legs made of jello, you crash onto the bed beside Dex. Chest still heaving as you recover from the blinding pleasure Dex just gave you. He braces himself on top of you. His pulsating length rests against the seam of your cunt. While the post orgasm bliss calms the raging desire for a few moments, you wrap weak arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. It’s gentle and full of emotions you're both not ready to speak about just yet. Dex tries to, but can’t control the urge to grind his desperate cock against you as the kiss deepens. The feeling of your soft, plump mouth open for his tongue and breathing against his mouth is too much.

Lacing your fingers through his hair, you pull his head back. You stare deep in his eyes, “Dex, I want you inside of me. I need to feel your pretty cock deep inside of me. Please?”

Dex's eyes roll back, his chest trembling with a guttural groan. Heat surges through him, sharper and more consuming as your compliment lingers in his mind. Your words make him twitch, flushed and needy, the reddening tip glistening with anticipation. A thick, glossy stream of slick pulses from him, pooling against your skin as his hips jerk involuntarily, instinctively seeking more of your praise and attention.

“You don’t need to ask. I’ll give it to you, fuck, I’ll always give you what you want.” He mumbles, eyes glazed over as he lines himself with your entrance. Tenderly, the flared head of his cock pushes past the tight notch of your entrance. Your spasming walls welcome him eagerly, already attempting to milk him dry. A gasp is shared at the feeling of him being fully sheathed inside you, his length so great you feel the pressure in your lower abdomen. A hand rests on your hip as the other holds himself up, and yours dig into the scarred muscles of his back. Dex has to take a moment to concentrate on not cumming instantly. It’s been forever since he’s been with anyone, and your tight cunt feels heavenly enough for him to explode without even thrusting. Soon, the air is filled with rhythmic, wet slaps of flesh as his hips snap against the fat of your ass. Heavy breaths mingle in the heat as his thrusts quicken.

Dex’s intense gaze holds you captive as waves of pleasure surge through your body, bringing tears to your eyes. He notices instantly, and a rush of emotion crashes over him. Your moans are achingly sweet to his ears, the sight of your flawless, unscarred body beneath his own battered flesh sparks a raw, deep shame, and the fiery emotion he sees deep in your eyes overwhelms him. Thoughts tumble through his mind of unworthiness, unworthy of you, and sick for even wanting it. Frustration quickly ignites, turning inward. Soft, broken whimpers escape Dex, and humiliation flushes his cheeks at the sounds he makes, only feeding his anger. Overwhelmed by your gaze, he pulls his hand from your hip, grips your jaw, and turns your head away, unable to bear your eyes on him.

You feel the roughness of his hand, the tension in his grip betraying the storm inside him. For a moment, silence hangs between you, thick with conflicting needs. Dex’s breath comes in ragged bursts against your cheek as he tries to compose himself. Shame and longing wage war beneath his skin. He hovers there, torn between retreat and surrender.

Slowly, his touch gentles. His thumb traces your jaw, a silent apology. You sense his hesitation, the ache in his movements, the vulnerability he hides behind anger. You turn your head back, searching for his eyes, but he lowers them, unable to meet your gaze.

A tremor ripples through him. "Don’t look at me," he whispers, voice ragged. The words aren’t a command, but a plea, a fragile shield against the emotions threatening to unravel him.

“It would be a crime not to look at you. You’re doing so well, Dex. I’ve never felt this good. You’re fucking me so perfectly, ruining me for anyone else.” You cup his jaw, grounding him as his emotions surge. “It’s okay to feel whatever you’re feeling. Just come back to me. I need you here.” He nods, tears pricking his eyes as he struggles between the praise and his vulnerability.

“Are you going to let me hear you now? I want to hear you whimper for me again.”

He grunts out a tight, “Jesus Christ. You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You grin wickedly, clenching tightly around him. “Come on, Dex, baby, take what you need. Give me what we both want.”

“I’m going to make you forget your own name.” He grits out, his thrust becoming brutal. Your breath stutters, heat boiling deep in your gut as his pace grows wild. His hands are everywhere. Tight at your waist, sliding up your back, holding you together even as he threatens to pull you apart. You arch into him, meeting every thrust with equal desperation, lost in the heat and the chaos.

“Don’t stop,” you rasp, nails digging harshly into his shoulders, leaving red indents behind. The sting of your nails makes him whine lowly deep in his throat. He buries his face in your neck, voice breaking. “Tell me how it feels. Want to hear how good I’m fucking you.”

Words catch in your throat as Dex’s cock pounds relentlessly against your cervix. The sheer size of him steals your breath, making you feel stretched and raw, as though he’s driving up into your very core. Fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your gaze downward. Now, you’re transfixed by the place your bodies join, the sight almost obscene. Whatever thoughts you had vanish as you watch a thick ring of creamy slick gather at his base. He withdraws until only the head lingers inside, then sinks back in with a slow, devastating thrust, filling you completely. He establishes a relentless rhythm, and soon you’re helplessly babbling praise. Raw, involuntary sounds of pleasure spilling from your lips, torn straight from the haze of your fucked-out mind.

“Dex, mmm fuck. ‘M so close, please, please-”

Dex shushes you softly, a crooked grin uptilting his mouth, “I know, I know, it feels too good. This sweet pussy is begging for me to fill her up.” A ragged cry of his name interrupts him.

“I’m going to cover you in me. Fucking cum so hard you’ll be full of me for days. Fuck, fuck,” his words push you both closer to the edge. “You want that? You want to walk around with me leaking out of you, reminding you who you belong to?”

You cry out, pleading for it, while your cunt tightens around him. The coil winds tightly for you both as your pleasure becomes too much. Blinding euphoria crashes through you, leaving you unable to hold back. Your nails rake down his back, sharp and desperate, as your legs tighten around his waist, anchoring him to you. Dex gazes at you in awe, captivated by the way your face contorts in ecstasy, your eyes rolling back, and your mouth parting in a silent cry. With a final arch of your back and roll of your hips, the tight confines of your pink, gummy walls coax his release out of him.

The pleasure is too intense. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, biting into your skin with trembling desperation, his breath hot and erratic against your flesh. His hands clutch your hips, fingertips digging in hard enough to leave marks as his entire body shudders above you. You feel the heat of his release pulse in deep, heavy waves. There’s too much seed for your cunt to hold, and it quickly begins spilling out of you and across your slick thighs. He thrusts through the throes of his orgasm, muscles straining and chest pressed to yours, his voice breaking into choked whimpers as he surrenders completely to the afterwave of pleasure.

Minutes pass by before either decides to disrupt the afterglow of the moment. With a voice that sounds as rough as desert sand, Dex speaks. “My back is bleeding.”

You huff a weak laugh, “It’s payback from years ago. Don’t act like you didn’t attempt to break skin with that bite.”

Dex, with a sharp smile and chuckle, responds, “What can I say, I just want to eat you up.”

The low inflection of his tone has your overworked cunt clenching around his softening member. He jerks at the overstimulation, “You’re insatiable, huh?”

After another shower and wrapped in comfortable pajamas, you lie back on the freshly made bed. Dex lingers like a ghost by the doorway, unsure of what comes next.

“Dex, you can sleep wherever you want. If that's with me or on the couch, do whatever makes you comfortable.”

A war rages in his mind. One part aches to know what it would be like to finally hold you. To feel your soft, sleepy warmth pressed to him, to let you be the last thing he sees before sleep and the first thing greeting him in the morning. The thought is almost unbearable. It feels more intimate, more vulnerable, than the sex you just shared. Still, he lets the longing win, brushing aside the anxious voice insisting it’s too much. He selfishly tells himself you deserve this closeness, that he deserves the solace of crawling into bed beside you, desperate and worshipful, like a faithful dog at its master’s feet.

With the same warmth you’d get from hugging a mannequin, Dex lies on his side of the bed. Rigid and unmoving. You scoot closer, the bed slightly rocking as you do so. Not to scare him off, you rest your forehead against his bicep, hands tucked into your chest.

“Sorry if this isn’t the post sex pillowtalk you were imagining.” He gruffly says, and you know the combativeness is him protecting himself, even after the intimate moment you shared less than an hour ago.

Sluggishly, you reply, “Is okay. Just glad you’re here.”

Sleep calls to you both, but while you surrender easily, Dex remains restless. He lies awake, tangled in thoughts, anxious about where all this leads. What does this mean for him? He’s never learned how to be an adult in a relationship, to truly enjoy someone’s company, to care for someone else. Yet, he knows one thing for certain: he wants to try for you. He’ll give you everything you need and more. He’ll make sure you’re treated better than you’ve ever been. Selfishly, he thinks, he’ll make you forget all about Matt Murdock and anyone else who isn’t Benjamin Poindexter. He’s a new man, fighting for redemption, and you’ll be the one to reap the benefits of his new nature.

Craning his head, he peers down at your sleeping form. Your face the embodiment of peace. No furrowed brow, no disgruntled creases, just soft features and rhythmic, steady breathing. Dex can’t stop himself from leaning closer to steal a smell from you. The fragrant aftermath of your shower eases his mental load and further aids him in surrendering to sleep.

In the morning, the first thing you notice is the heavy furnace that covers you. On top of your chest lies a sleeping Dex, his long blonde eyelashes resting on the top of his cheeks, and tiny soft snores fall from his parted lips. He almost looks like a different man when he’s not goading anybody on or responding sarcastically to everything. Gently, you try to pry yourself free; his hold laxes slightly, but right as you're almost free, he speaks. Voice heavy and muddy with sleep, “Where’re you goin’?”

“Just need to pee.”

He huffs petulantly before allowing you to move. When you’re up, you decide to begin the ritual of breakfast making. Soon, footsteps thud behind you as Dex makes his way to the kitchen. Stepping in, he moves with you, helping you complete the final steps needed to finish the food.

“How did it feel last night?”

“Which part? You need to be a bit more specific.” Dex smirks over the rim of his coffee mug, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Poindexter. Sleeping in the bed with me?” you counter, giving him a pointed look.

“Do you think I’ve never slept in a bed?” Dex shoots back, feigning offense.

“You’ve never slept in one with me.” You deadpan, tiring of his teasing.

“Not that you know of anyway-”

“Dex! Don’t be unbearable this early in the morning,” you groan, shooting him a playful glare.

His hands splay out in front of his chest in surrender, and a small laugh leaves him. “I…enjoyed it. It was nice,” he says, his tone softer than usual.

A beaming smile lights up your face at the simple statement. “I enjoyed you being in my bed too,” your face warms at the sincerity in your admission.

Dex rubs a circle on the back of your hand, you quickly realize he’s drawing his symbol against the soft flesh there.

“Marking me again?” Bright eyes peer into his clouded ones.

“As much as I can.”

​

Later that day, while you’re sitting at a cafe table across from Dex, your phone buzzes. A simple question from Foggy that makes your smile drop for half a second. The movement does not go unnoticed under the dutiful watchful eyes of Dex.

“What is it?”

"I forgot that Foggy wanted me to join him and the others at Josie’s tonight." You return your gaze to the man in front of you. "He was just telling me when to be there."

“But you don’t want to go.” It was a statement, not a question. You shrug in response.

“Why are you worried about it?”

“I’m afraid that everything will be different, and if I go there and everything has changed, then I can’t ignore it anymore. I’m worried that I’ve lost my friends.” You roll the straw’s wrapping paper between your fingers, thinking about all the years spent with Foggy, Karen, and even Matt, how their laughter and bickering filled up the quiet spaces in your life, how it once felt impossible to imagine New York without them. The thought of that circle splintering leaves a hollow ache in your chest. Even now, after all the mess and mistakes and heartbreak, you can't stop hoping you might find your way back to them, or at least to some new version of what you once had together. The possibility of losing that, or having to rebuild from scratch, is what scares you most.

Dex almost hesitates to ask, “Is Matt included in that?”

"No. Whatever happened with Matt and me, I’ve accepted. But I don’t see it working if we’re not all friends. It worries me that Matt might make things harder." You reach for Dex’s hand. "Don’t worry about me around Matt. There’s nothing between us anymore."

“But there was. What if he’s still holding on to you?” The thought unsettles Dex; the idea that Matt might still hope for something more with you stirs a jealousy he tries to suppress. He doesn’t like feeling threatened, especially when it comes to you. You see Dex’s distress immediately by the tension in his shoulders and the tight set of his jaw.

“That would be unfortunate for Matt, and yes, there was once something between us, but turns out, he wasn’t the one for me. He didn’t deserve me, and he showed me that.”

“He’s a fucking moron.” It’s a low growl as Dex clenches his jaw.

“Yeah, but thanks to him, we found each other again.”

“You know, that's an awfully nice thing to say to the guy that’s physically stabbed you in the back?”

Your smile at him, “Not nearly nice enough for the guy that’s saved my life twice.”

As you approach Josie’s, a knot of dread grows in your stomach, tightening with every step. It bursts the moment you open the door. All three faces turn toward you in perfect synchrony. There’s no chance to retreat; you’ve been spotted. (Un)Surprisingly, Karen greets you first, her signature wide, welcoming smile lighting up her features.

“I’m so happy you came! I’ve missed you.” Karen’s long arms wrap around you, squeezing tightly as she rocks you back and forth. You rub her back.

“I take it you guys won the case?”

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason we’re in good spirits.” Foggy boasts, already thrusting a beer into your hand. “It’s also because you’re here.”

“Yeah, but what's the percentage of the excitement for me and the excitement for winning the trial?”

Matt laughs, and for the first time tonight, you really notice how he looks.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re here now, and the party has officially begun. Follow me.” Foggy leads you to the dimly lit, dingy pool table that’s already set up and waiting. A few rounds in, you’ve got Foggy exactly where you want him. You call your shot, crack the cue ball, and watch as it sinks cleanly into the pocket. Foggy downs the rest of his beer in defeat, while you raise yours in triumph. As you approach the bar to get another drink for yourself and Foggy, Matt joins you. For a moment, you both stand facing each other, the air thick with uncertainty. You offer a tentative, "Hey," your voice betraying your hesitation. Matt returns the greeting with a faint, uncertain smile.

Then Matt stands for a moment, unmoving and silent, head tilted in that way like he knows something. Like he’s discovered a secret before anyone else has.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Matt says, letting out a huff of humorless laughter. “Have you seriously been with Poindexter?”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you drop your head onto your folded arms on the sticky counter. "Matt, it’s none of your business what I’m doing. Even if it’s coming from a place of misguided love," you reply, already exhausted by the conversation.

“I-I just can’t believe you’d give someone like him a chance. He’s a killer. He-he tried to kill you. He tried to kill Karen and me.” Matt continues, forcing a lighthearted smile so Karen and Foggy don’t notice his real feelings. You mirror him, masking your true emotions with a sugary sweetness.

You lean in, lowering your voice so only Matt can hear. "I know exactly who he is, Matt. But at least he’s honest about it."

Matt’s jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration shining through. "Honest? That’s what you’re calling it now?"

You shrug, trying to keep your tone light. "Better than pretending to be someone you’re not."

Matt’s composure cracks, his forced smile collapsing as he leans in, voice lowered to a raw whisper. "You deserve so much better than him."

Your laugh is sharp, almost bitter. "Maybe. But I get to decide what I deserve."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the bar fills the silence between you, heavy with everything left unsaid.

"And when he turns on you? What's your plan then?"

Of course, that's where Matt’s mind would lead him. Not ‘what if’ but ‘when’ as if he already knows how this all plays out.

You glare directly into his glasses, your words cutting through the tension. "Are you trying to protect me, Matt, or are you just waiting for me to fail?"

"I’m not some helpless idiot, Matt. I make my own choices, even when they’re messy. You never once tried to talk me out of dating you. Why is Dex different?"

"Maybe I should have. Maybe I should’ve saved you from both of us."

"Dex isn’t the weapon he was. He’s trying, fighting for redemption, even when it’s ugly. Remind you of anyone? Because it should."

Matt’s voice is brittle with revulsion. "Don’t. Don’t compare me to him. We’re nothing alike."

"You’re right, you’re nothing alike. Dex isn’t pretending to be something he’s not. He knows exactly who he is. Can you say the same?"

You take the beers off the counter. The chilled, sweating glass provides some relief from the anger boiling inside of you. Returning to Foggy and Karen, you plant a bright, wide smile on your face, “Who's ready for more?”

After the brief fight between you and Matt, the tension melts away, and the night resumes with an easy camaraderie. You and Matt share a round of pool, laughing and joking like how it used to be. A couple of hours in, when Karen becomes a giggling mess, and Foggy’s missing both his tie and button-up shirt, you know it’s time to call it a night.

As the four of you spill onto the sidewalk, the cool night air brushes your flushed cheeks. Freed from the bar’s warmth and noise, the full weight of the night and the drinks settle in. You all cling to each other, laughter bubbling over as you stumble toward the curb. Matt raises his hand, summoning a taxi. When the yellow cab arrives, you help him guide a tipsy Karen and a disheveled Foggy inside. Matt rattles off the addresses, pressing more cash than necessary into the driver’s hand.

With Karen and Foggy gone, you and Matt are left facing each other beneath the streetlight, suspended in a silence that feels fragile—neither quite uncomfortable nor reassuring.

“Want me to walk you home?” he asks, an easy, familiar smile curving his lips as he leans against the lamppost, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Nah, I’ll be alright. What about you? A blind man wandering New York at this hour could be asking for trouble.”

He echoes your earlier words, “I’ll be alright.”

You nod, murmur a quiet goodnight, and turn to walk away.

“Wait—”

You pause. He takes a breath. “I’m sorry,”

His apology is gentle, almost lost to the night, but it stops you in your tracks. Matt continues.

“I’ve been borderline cruel recently, and I’m sorry. I know after everything, I don’t have the right to, but I still care about you. I still love you, and I know that it’s all different now, because of me. We’ll never be as close as we used to be, even before we were together. I’m angry with myself and at the situation that I put us in. I hurt you deeply, and I’ll never be able to fix it. I just don’t want you to get hurt again because of me. I’ve let that happen too many times. I can’t promise to be normal around Dex, but if that’s what you choose to do and it makes you happy, I should support that. It’s what a good friend would do in our crazy world of normalcy. I just want us to be friends again.”

Facing him now, you step closer. “Matt, it’s going to take a long time for everything to return to how it was. I appreciate the apology and you taking accountability, but it’s not going to solve it all overnight. I’m not looking for approval from you or anyone else. We both just need to make peace with what happened and where we’re at.”

“I know, and again I’m sorry.” He takes a brave step forward. As he does, a familiar silhouette catches the corner of your eye from the dip between two buildings.

“Thank you for that, Matt.” Your hand rests on his shoulder, “Goodnight, be safe.”

You slip a few blocks down the street before ducking beside an unlit building, feeling the pulse of adrenaline in your veins. When Dex nears, you bite your lip, anticipation curling in your stomach. As he moves to pass your hiding spot, you call out, “You just couldn’t stop yourself from following me, huh?”

He turns, striding into the shadowy alcove with you. Up close, his eyes linger on the flushed heat of your cheeks, a smirk tugging at his lips as he draws closer than necessary. The air between you thickens with unspoken challenge. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You hum, eyes alight with mischief, letting your gaze drift down his frame before meeting his eyes again. “And it had absolutely nothing to do with me being around Matt, right?”

A low, displeased sound escapes him at the mention of Matt. His gaze bores into yours. “Seemed like everything was good between you two.”

In a twisted way, your heart skips a beat at the jealousy dripping from Dex’s voice, your pulse fluttering beneath his stare. “Oh yeah, more than good, practically back to normal.”

You shift your weight, letting your knee brush his leg as Dex grows uncomfortable with your words, his resolve beginning to dissipate. Heat blooms low in your stomach as you watch him battle with his restraint, a dark thrill coiling in your gut as you push him closer to unraveling.

“Really?”

“Yeah, we’re actually planning on having lunch next week at his apartment. Just the two of us.”

Dex’s usually nonchalant eyes widen at the idea of you being back in Murdock's apartment. Surrounded by everything Matt, nothing even remotely close to Dex. Your core throbs at the crazed glint that takes over Dex’s irises. He steps in, the heat from his body pressing you back until your spine meets the wall, his hand braced beside your head.

“I don’t think so.” His words are low, edged with a possessive darkness. His breath ghosts over your lips, close enough to taste the tension.

“Why not? Are you worried?”

“I don’t like sharing. Especially hate having to share you.” He nuzzles into the hollow of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. Sharp teeth graze the faded bite mark, and his hand slides down your side, gripping your hip possessively. The pinch of pain makes you gasp, your back arching off the wall, pressing your body flush to his, every inch alight with want.

“Guess I’ll need to get that point across to you.” His hand bunches up your shirt, knuckles grazing heated skin, the simple touch sending sparks racing down your spine. His mouth wastes no time, teeth scraping and tongue lavishing the exposed skin of your neck and jaw. He makes a low, hungry sound in his throat, his fingers curling around your breast, squeezing and teasing until your breath catches.

“Not in the alley, Dex!” You chastise breathlessly.

“Yes, right here, right now. In this nasty alley.” He grinds his cock against your lower stomach, hard and insistent, making you acutely aware of just how badly he wants you. “Do you feel that? That’s because of your teasing, and now you get to fix it.” You moan, already desperate, at the blunt pressure and the heat radiating between you.

His deft fingers make quick work of your jeans, shoving them down in a heated frenzy. Your lace panties are left stretched across your hips, teasingly in place, and for a moment, you’re left exposed and aching. Dex drops to his knees without hesitation and begins nuzzling his nose against the soft dip of your mound. He inhales deeply, his eyes rolling back as he loses himself in the scent of you. Heat races to your face at the perverse sight of him on his knees, burying his face into your clothed, sopping cunt and moaning. Slick gushes out of you at the shameless devotion in his face. Between ragged breaths, Dex murmurs into the soaked fabric, each word a promise.

“I haven’t thought about anything but you and your cunt since last night. The second I woke up, you were all I could think about. Even when I was plotting how to kill Murdock, all I wanted was to taste you, to hear you fall apart for me.” His words drive you wild, your hips bucking forward, desperate for his mouth.

His chuckle is low and rough. “Isn’t that just fucked up? I’m talking about offing your friend, and you’re grinding your wet, needy pussy against my mouth, like you can’t help yourself.”

“God, you’re so fucking gross. Just shut up and do your job already, Dex.” Your voice is wrecked with need, and his cock twitches in his jeans, a fresh pulse of arousal soaking his boxers.

“Oh, I will,” he rasps, voice thick with hunger. “But I want to savor you first, baby.”

With one last inhale, Dex’s tongue flicks out, tracing the seam of your panties with agonizing slowness. The barely-there touch sends a jolt of electricity through your nerves, your thighs trembling as you fight the urge to grind down for more. He teases you mercilessly. He makes a show of tracing where the lace presses against your thighs and waist, his teeth nipping while his tongue soothes. Large hands rest on the fatty part of your hips, keeping you in place as he has his fun. Dex shifts his attention back to your heated core. His long pink tongue extends out, and he presses the warm muscle flat against the whole of your cunt. His eyes fixed on yours the whole time. The fabric grows sticky and wet from the amalgamation of arousal and saliva. You can’t help but finally writhe, desperate for him to rip the barrier away and give you what you crave.

The sinful thrill of doing this in a filthy alley, combined with the exquisite torment of Dex’s featherlight tongue, has your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. Heat floods your face as you realize, with a mix of shame and wild excitement, that you’ve never been pushed so close to the edge by nothing but teasing and petting.

Thick calloused fingers skim along the inside of your thighs. One hand pushes you open while the other hooks a finger into the gusset of your lace. In a slow, almost too gentle manner, Dex pulls the soaking lace to the side. Cool air shocks your puffy, hot skin, and you hiss as it chills you.

“Oh, fuck that’s perfect. You’re weeping for me.” A fingertip swipes from your crying hole and through your folds before Dex is holding up the glistening digit to his eyes. He inspects his finger like he’s found something precious. As the digit runs along his taste buds, his eyes instantly glaze over. You choke out a cry of his name, hips jutting forward, begging for more. He ignores you, dipping his fingers back against the wet flesh of your core. Desperately, like a man dying of thirst, he hastily collects more of your nectar.

The hands you had previously been resting on the wall find their purchase in his hair. Tugging his face closer as you beg him for his mouth.

“Do you really want my gross mouth on your perfectly pure cunt?”

You hum, raising your hips, trying to get him closer to where you want him. With a tsk, Dex leans further away. “I want to hear you say. Tell me where you want me and what you want me to do.”

“I want your nasty, filthy mouth on my-” He looks expectantly at you, making sure you get your line correct. “On my perfectly pure cunt. I want to hump your face while you eat me out in this disgusting alley, where anyone could see us.”

“That was really good, baby. How could I say no to that?”

His lips finally close around your clit, and a deep, shuddering sigh slips from you. The thick, hot muscle of his tongue circles your cunt, tormenting you with slow, deliberate strokes before plunging inside. The sudden intrusion makes your head swim; you groan, your head thumping back against the wall. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider, forcing you open for him until you’re utterly exposed to his hunger. Dex buries his face between your legs, tongue flattening and shaking side to side, making you slicker, messier, until you’re writhing for more. When he finally sucks your clit into his mouth, he’s rough, nothing gentle or teasing. His teeth graze, then clamp down, sending a bolt of stinging pleasure straight through your nerves. You cry out, all control lost as he devours you with raw, primal intent.

“Dex—ow, fuck!” Your hands tangle in his hair, desperate for something to save you, but he’s relentless. Utterly unmoved by your squirming. You’re completely pinned, helpless beneath the force of his want. It’s like being caught in the jaws of something feral and unstoppable, left to thrash in the grip of a predator whose only goal is to consume you, body and soul.

Your legs quake and toes curl, every nerve raw and exposed. Dex groans against you, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open and helpless as he devours you, the alley fading away until there’s nothing but his mouth and your shattered breath. Your body bows off the wall, hips bucking desperately into his face, chasing the sharp edge that’s building inside you. You’re babbling his name, half a plea and half a warning, but Dex doesn’t let up. He doubles down, tongue flicking, sucking, then plunging deep as your orgasm crashes over you, ripping a ragged scream from your throat. Your vision goes white, the world spinning wildly as you ride out the waves, Dex’s mouth never leaving you, drawing every last tremor from your body until you finally go limp, trembling and spent.

Dex doesn’t stop, not even when your body tries to twist away from the relentless stimulation. His mouth is merciless, tongue and lips coaxing fresh sparks of pleasure from nerves already raw and burning. You whimper, your thighs twitching with every flick and suck, oversensitive and helpless, lost in the haze of sensation.

Then you realize he’s moving with a strange, deliberate rhythm as his tongue is tracing something over and over against your clit, not random patterns but careful, almost ritualistic strokes. It’s maddening, your mind swimming between raw sensation and desperate curiosity. It takes a moment, but then it clicks: Dex is drawing his symbol onto you, branding you with each swirling pass, imprinting himself on your skin and soul. The knowledge is a spark in gasoline, and you gasp, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming, aching need. The realization tears through you, and suddenly, another blinding orgasm erupts, fiercer and more consuming than the last. You double over him, body wracked with shudders, thighs clamped tight around his head as if you could keep him there forever. Your voice breaks with a sob, Dex’s name a desperate prayer as you’re left trembling, marked, and utterly undone.

When Dex pulls away, his lips and chin glisten, slick with your release. His green, nearly black eyes flicker with untamed hunger and the urge to give you more. Rising to his full height, he looms over your trembling form. With gentle fingers, he brushes your face, wiping away tears and the beads of sweat gathering at your brow.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your lips, his tongue slipping into your yielding mouth. The taste of yourself on him sparks a fresh wave of longing. As you kiss, your hands find the waistband of his jeans, unclasping them and pushing them down his thighs. You wrap your hand around his cock, still trapped beneath damp fabric.

You break the kiss with a gasp, your palm closing around the soaked material. Dex shudders at the heat of your hand against the cool, sticky cloth.

“Is this from eating me out?”

“Yeah, you taste too good. I couldn’t help it.”

“Oh, Dex, my pretty boy. You get your face buried in a wet pussy and lose all control?”

A broken moan escapes him as your grip tightens around his throbbing length through the clingy boxers.

“I should make you stay in these, wait until later to take them off. Punishment for wasting your cum like that.”

His hips jerk at your words. “Oh, f-fuck.”

“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve made.” As you tug his boxers down, his cock springs free, smacking wetly against the dark patch of hair on his lower abdomen. It’s his turn to hiss as the cool night air kisses his painfully hard, dripping wet length.

You watch, entranced, as a thick bead of precum wells at his slit, stretching before it drops in a pearlescent ribbon to the floor. With a teasing finger, you gather the sticky strand and swirl it over the flushed, aching tip of his cock. The way he throbs in your hand, leaking even more, is a wordless plea for your attention. Bending closer, you stroke him slowly, addressing not Dex, but his eager cock.

“Poor thing’s been trapped in those jeans all alone, haven’t you, baby?” Dex’s eyes squeeze shut, his face twisting in bliss as you speak directly to his cock. His brain short-circuits at this discovery about himself.

You spit, warm and heavy, letting it coat the sensitive tip before sliding down his length. “I’m sorry for neglecting you, sweetheart. I think you’ve earned a reward for being so patient and generous. Don’t you agree, Dex?” You stare up at him with big, wet doe eyes, expecting an answer.

Dex’s breath comes in shallow, hungry pants as he stares down at you, his cock slick in your grip. The atmosphere crackles with anticipation, every movement deliberate and drawn out. You hold his gaze, letting your hand work him with slow, teasing strokes, savoring the way his composure threatens to shatter beneath your touch.

“Please,” he whispers, the word barely audible, almost desperate. The vulnerability in his voice sends a jolt of power through you, and you answer by tightening your grip, letting your thumb sweep over his sensitive tip, spreading the mixture of spit and precum. Dex’s hips jerk, his need undeniable.

You shift, kneeling, eye to eye with his cock standing proud and flushed. Dragging your tongue slowly along his length, tasting salt, heat, and the raw ache of his desire. Dex moans, his head falling back, fingers tangling in your hair while the other hand braces against the wall.

As you take him deeper, he trembles, every muscle taut, every sound torn straight from his chest. You set a languid rhythm, letting him feel the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth, the relentless swirl of your tongue. Every glance upward, every approving hum, pulls him closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he chokes out, voice rough with adoration and need. You glance up, lips stretched around him, and see the flush blooming across his cheeks, the way his body bows toward you, helpless and wanting. You slow, letting him slip from your mouth with a wet pop, meeting his gaze.

“Not yet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his slick tip. He nods, utterly at your mercy. You drag your nails lightly up his thighs, watching him shudder, before he’s ushering you up and turning you to face the wall. His cock presses hot and heavy against your slick entrance.

“Are you going to take what you want?”

“Yes,” he whispers, dazed at the feeling of your slicks mixing.

“Dex, are you going to take what you want?” You demand, voice low and commanding.

His fingers dig bruises into your hips. “Fuck yes. I am. I’m going to take everything I want.”

“Yeah? That’s it. That’s my good boy,” you purr, breathless. He thrusts into you, slow but unrelenting, both of you moaning at the delicious stretch and fullness that leaves you shaking.

“Say it again.” Each word is punctuated by a deep, claiming thrust. The world shrinks to the heat of your bodies, the slap of skin, the filthy praise that tumbles from your lips. “You’re my good, pretty boy, Dex. So good for me, so perfect.” Tears glimmer in his eyes, a ragged sob catching in his throat, undone by the pleasure and the way you claim him.

The angle Dex has you pressed in leaves you breathless, every thrust knocking the air from your lungs. You reach behind, fingers slipping over the sweat-slicked skin of his neck, grounding yourself in his heat. One of his massive hands spreads across your lower stomach, holding you steady as his leaking tip stretches you, relentless and deep. His other hand braces against the wall, thick fingers scraping at the rough brick.

“If I’d known you’d fall apart for me like this, I would’ve taken you years ago.” His voice is a low growl, breath hot against your ear. “Should’ve bent you over behind that church.”

You clench around him, his words sending a rush of chills up your spine. "When you were dressed as Daredevil and planning to kill me?" Your voice is barely more than a gasp, memories of that night flooding your mind.

He grunts, a deep, rough laugh spilling from his chest. “Yeah, bet you would’ve let me. God, that’s all I could think about.”

“Yeah, but instead, you stabbed me.” You hiss, but there’s no real anger behind your words. Too fucked out to care about your past self.

“I sure did.” His finger traces the scar on your lower back, lingering. “Right here.” He pushes deeper into your skin, making you arch into him. “I left my mark before anyone else could.”

His words push you too far, your body clenching tighter, struggling to take all of him as sensation threatens to overwhelm you. “Don’t fight me, baby. Please, just feel it.”

“God, Dex. You’re such a fucking pervert.”

He slams harder into you, your filthy praise fueling him. “A pervert you’re letting ruin you in a dark alley. What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a poor judge of character.” The words tumble out between your moans.

He shifts the angle of his thrusts, never pulling out, grinding deep as he ruts against you, keeping his full weight pressed inside. Every slow drag of his heavy tip finds that perfect spot, relentless and unyielding. You’ve never felt so thoroughly filled, your slick pools thick around his base and slides messily down his thighs.

Dex’s breath stutters, coming out in hot, broken huffs, letting you know he’s close.

“I want you to let go for me, Dex,” you plead breathlessly. “Give me everything. Please, cum in me, please, baby.”

“Shit, shit.” His hips freeze for a heartbeat, then he surges back into you, rougher, more desperate. His voice is low and guttural. “Oh fuck, I’m cumming. You’re taking it so good—fuck, you’re taking my cum so good.”

The hot rush of him spilling inside you tips you over the edge again, your third orgasm tearing through you in a wave that leaves you gasping, gushing around his pulsing cock. Pins and needles spark down your legs, the world going hazy and distant as you let go completely, nails digging into the back of his neck. Shallow, ragged breaths rack through you as you collapse back into his chest, spent and trembling. Dex remains upright behind you, his length still buried within your slick heat. One hand rests on your hip while the other presses firmly on your sternum, pinning you in place, a grounding force that makes you feel claimed. Dex's hips roll in a final, desperate push that sends aftershocks through you both. A loud squelching echoes through the alley as he shoves the mix of spend back into your cunt as it runs down your legs.

After confining him back in his boxers, Dex tugs your lace against your skin. A surge of pride and sadistic satisfaction hits him, knowing you'll have to walk around with him dripping out of you. You fix each other's clothes in silence, sharing gentle kisses in the quiet.

Dex notices your shaky legs, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You good to walk back home?”

You stare at him for a moment before a slow smile lights up your face. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”

“I’ll be just fine. But your legs do look a bit unsteady. Maybe I should carry you.”

“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, Poindexter?”

taglist: @cecehersworld @insecthorse @bullseyefuck3r @allcheesemelts @silentmarry21 @gildedfawn @reesespieces0610 @k-6196 @medeia-themaiden @cielmrain @isabellaswayer-blog @saltea-coffee @pomme-meadow @lazyreadergirl @rporter19 @anti-heroesanonymous @starlitflora @mylcvemineallmine @futuremrscameron @lmg-stilinski24 @bittergomez @isabellaswayer-blog @bat1212 @bpanchor @lambse7en @zoegrimess @basicanti-socialb-tch @homiesexual-or-homosexual @sam--sara @cvp-noodlez @boygirlrevolution @bkhscar @slashersbabes @iamanonimo08 @unflavorednoodle @bunny4babydoll @i-shall-be-the-possum1 @manunitedgotbruno @kiwikrro @becksmoonly @gutlesscatherine @flimsysquid @allusive-minx @scrumptiouslyangrystarfish @yyiikes @papitas-con-sal @artandpunishment @inkninja-4 @luvlyluxx @visionbones

[fag-mac]

they’re so real for this one

[flowersforchar]

can’t believe they made a character who needs to worship something and a character who needs to feel like a god and then made them roommates

[onthecrosslook]

I don’t smoke

[mikesbasementbeets]

Do you want to be friends?

[lost-in-golden-light]

Given the dangerous and deeply false stereotype that children are unsafe around queer and black people (because they’re viewed as predators), I thought it was so heartwarming how Mike, Will, Lucas, and Robin were the main ones who were protecting the kids, and how gentle they were

[noodles-and-tea]

The world needs you please draw season 5 Byler

Alright, alright, for old times sake

[nozommo]

OUR SORCERER!!!

and bonus mike doodle❤️

[gayofthefae]

No seriously how gay has this mf been acting to take him

To THIS

Mike has been laying it ON

Will Byers. Will. Byers.

Asked someone how to signal to Mike that he was interested. Because he had belief that Mike would take it as something. That that knowledge had a chance of being valuable to Mike.

How. goddamn. gay. Has this motherfucker been acting.

Because in 5x3 I thought Will was asking "how do I tell if he likes me" which is already insanely more comfortable than where I thought he was at.

And then in the NEXT episode he was like "oh, no, I meant, how do I make him tell that I like him back"

WHAT

Will Byers confidence out the gate is NOT what I was expecting to see here. Mike Wheeler how gay. have you been acting.

To not only redeem yourself from 'you don't like girls' 'we're friends' AND 'I love you' but OVERSHOOT IT so hard that Will Byers noticed and DIDN'T convince himself out of it.

[miwiheroes]

me at #them

[thai-09]

This scene has been living rent free in my head 🧍🏻

[asraindarkness]

bayboy no.1&2

[lokutofu]

He’s just happy to be there

[sourkreem]

tomfoolery brothers :)