⋆˚࿔ fucking you slow after overstimulating you ⋆˚࿔
ִֶָ🪽་༘ p in v, yes slow, deep penetration, creampie, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dex pinning you down with his body weight yayyy
dex’s got you crushed under him with his whole body heavy and hot, pinning you so deep into the mattress you can barely breathe right. his cock’s still buried so deep inside you, and when he starts moving it’s this slow, nasty drag that makes you feel every ridge, every swollen vein, the way he’s already so thick from wrecking you three times before this.
he pulls out until it’s just the fat head stretching your entrance. everything was leaking out, your slick and his cum sliding hot down your thighs in a sticky mess. then he sinks back in, inch by inch, shoving all that length right back inside you. your gasp punches out when he hits that spot again, the one that makes your toes curl and your nails dig hard into his biceps without you even realizing. dex stays right there, grinding his hips so his pelvis rubs your oversensitive clit, and the noise that rips out of you is broken, needy, almost embarrassing.
his mouth’s all over your neck, open and sloppy, sucking bruises you’ll definitely feel tomorrow. his grip on your hips is bruising, fingers trembling like he’s fighting the urge to just pound you senseless again. so before he fully loses control, he gives you another one of those slow, devastating thrusts that makes you clench around him like you’re trying to keep him there.
“come on,” he growls low against your ear, voice rough and strained, “just take a little more for me, yeah?”
he keeps going like that. slow, deep, deliberate. all you can focus on is the way his cock drags against every sensitive inch inside you. every thrust pushes more of that sticky mess deeper, fills you until you’re overflowing and the sheets are ruined beneath you.
when he finally comes again it’s with this low, guttural groan muffled against your shoulder as his cock pulsed hard while he pumps another thick load deep inside. yet, he doesn’t stop moving. just keeps fucking it back in, slow and deep, like he’s got all night to make sure every drop stays right where it belongs. and well... you know that he is not stopping anytime soon. poor you.
of course it was just a job at first , just a another person they asked him to keep tabs on but there was something that made you stand out to him . he’s never really had love , never felt it for anyone and he can’t even say for sure if this is what it is but it has to be something right ?
the obsession started small , just simple things like your daily routine , the steps you take everyday and the places you normally go to . then it’s the things you eat , the foods you like and the drinks you get to the t , the allergies you have and the foods you utterly despise . your friends , your families , of course things he needs to know for the job but it gets to the point where he starts to investigate them as well to find more information on you , things he doesn’t need to know that much . upbringing yea but baby pictures ? don’t think so
i mean he lets you go in the end , to ‘ soft ? ’ to bring you in even though you’re probably a threat , why would the fbi be looking for you in the first place . but he just can’t help it , if you’re in prison , or worse dead , how can he keep an eye on you ? he wouldn’t be able to watch you do things through your window all day , watch you sleep from the balcony , send you gifts from an admirer with things he knows you like . because dex would rather leave the fbi than lose this hold you have over him
and when you two ‘ randomly ’ met by some ‘ chance ’ it all felt right . in those days when you two would casually hang out , because why not have some fun , he seemed to know the exact things you like , you found this . . . charming per say . the way he’d court you with flowers and gifts and small things that matter . the way he’d get jealous whenever you went out with anyone but him , the snarling and the hidden frowns and the sudden footsteps in your humble abode at midnight . it was all part of the plan wasn’t it ???
to get dex head over heels , obsessive , crazy in love , a love only a willow tree can conjure type shit . . . it’s why you did all those things to get the fbi’s attention . dex isn’t the mastermind , it’s you :)
summary: the moral of the story is don’t let ben poindexter talk himself in or out of anything. the second moral is don’t let him figure out what you actually want. the thing is? you let him do both, and more.
warnings: 18 / Explicit NSFW. morally gray reader (i mean it), brief canon-typical violence, references to attempted murder (fisk had her shot, it comes up), smut: dirty talk, restraints/handcuffs, handjob, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, unprotected sex, situational power dynamic, dex being an unsettling smug bastard about all of it + a little subby.
wc: 4.1K | read it on ao3!
When you’d told Matt to call you if anything came up, you imagined anything but this: keeping an eye on Bullseye.
It turns out, as Matt puts it, that Karen wants the man gone, and by ‘gone’ it doesn’t mean gone from the safe house, it means gone from planet earth. Dead.
Which was conflicting to hear, because the Karen you know wouldn’t want to kill anyone, not with the way Wesley still haunts her, but also? Karen would absolutely want to avenge Foggy, so that’s the crossroad. And according to Matt, that isn’t the only conflict, because he had explicitly said
“I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever, but I also don’t want him free and roaming, I don’t want him killing Fisk and turning him into a fucking martyr.”
So here you are, keeping an eye on him.
And so far it’s been easy, because he went back to sleep. Or well, Matt knocked him out—to be honest— but the point remains, he’s not being an issue. All you have to do is keep things like this until Matt and Karen come back.
Shouldn’t be too hard.
You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.
You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.
To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.
But it’s not a matter of what you want.
With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.
His hand snapped up without warning.
Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.
“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”
He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”
“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”
“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”
You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.
Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.
You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.
You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.
“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”
His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.
“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”
The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”
“You know I could take him out.”
“You won’t.”
Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”
“Who told you about that?”
“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.
“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.
“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“
“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.
“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”
“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.
The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.
He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.
That made you draw the gun at him.
“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”
Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”
You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.
You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.
One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.
Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.
He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.
You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”
Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.
“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”
He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.
“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”
“Shut up.”
Oh, that got him smirking.
The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.
Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”
Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.
The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.
Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”
The words were simple. No hesitation.
You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.
The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.
You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.
When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.
“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.
You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.
Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.
Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”
He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.
“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”
You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.
The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.
He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.
But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.
Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.
You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.
“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.
You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.
The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”
You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.
His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.
You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.
That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.
Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.
“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”
His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.
You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.
“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.
Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.
The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.
When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.
Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.
The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.
You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.
Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.
“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”
You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.
But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.
He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.
And a dark, treacherous part of you was starting to wonder how long you could keep pretending you didn’t want that, too.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ
summary ⋮ Benjamin Poindexter x reader fiic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 2/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 4.5k
By the time you reached your Wednesday morning lecture, your coffee had long since gone cold.
You carried it into the theatre anyway, more out of habit than hope, weaving between rows of students already settling into their seats. The room smelled faintly of old carpet, paper and stale coffee—an unavoidable consequence of filling nearly a hundred university students into one space before nine o'clock. Conversations overlapped from every direction, some discussing coursework, others weekend plans, while the occasional burst of laughter echoed against the high ceiling.
You slipped into your usual seat three rows from the back, set your bag beneath the desk and opened your laptop. Your notebook followed, then a pen, arranged neatly beside it. The lecture hadn't begun yet, but you preferred having everything ready before Professor Carter arrived.
Across the aisle, two students were hurriedly comparing notes for an assignment due later that afternoon.
"I still don't understand the statistical analysis section," one admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "I swear I've read it six times."
His friend shrugged sympathetically.
"You're asking the wrong person. I barely survived last semester's statistics module."
"That's reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
You smiled faintly to yourself before taking another sip of your coffee. It had become lukewarm at best.
The chatter gradually quietened as Professor Evelyn Carter entered the lecture theatre carrying a worn leather folder beneath one arm. She was a woman in her early fifties with neatly pinned dark hair and an effortless confidence that meant she never needed to raise her voice to command a room.
She placed the folder on the lectern, adjusted the microphone and looked out across the theatre.
"Good morning."
A scattered chorus of greetings answered her.
"I know," she replied with a knowing smile. "It's half past eight. None of us is especially thrilled to be here."
A few students laughed.
"But criminals don't politely wait until midday to commit offences, so neither can we."
Another ripple of amusement travelled through the room.
She switched on the projector, revealing the title of the morning's lecture.
Behavioural Observation and Environmental Awareness.
Professor Carter rested one hand against the lectern.
"Observation is one of the most misunderstood skills in psychology."
She paused, allowing the room to settle.
"People often believe they're observant simply because they notice what's directly in front of them."
She shook her head.
"They're not."
The theatre fell silent.
"Observation isn't passive. It's intentional."
She stepped away from the lectern and began walking slowly along the front of the room.
"So, let's begin with something simple."
Her gaze swept across the students.
"Without turning around, tell me what the person sitting directly behind you is wearing."
Several people instinctively twisted in their seats.
Professor Carter raised an eyebrow.
"I did say without turning around."
More laughter followed.
"I've already caught half of you."
She folded her arms.
"Well?"
A student near the front frowned.
"I... think it's a grey jumper?"
"You think?"
"I'm not sure."
"Exactly."
Professor Carter nodded.
"We convince ourselves we're paying attention because we recognise people. Recognition isn't the same as observation."
She picked up a marker and wrote two words across the whiteboard.
LOOKING
Beneath it, she wrote:
SEEING
"Looking is automatic," she said, placing the marker down. "Seeing requires effort."
The next slide appeared.
A crowded railway platform filled the projector screen.
"Imagine you're asked to assess this environment."
She looked around the lecture theatre.
"Who appears confident?"
"Who's distracted?"
"Who's deliberately trying not to attract attention?"
Hands gradually began to rise as students offered their thoughts.
Professor Carter listened to each answer before asking the same question.
"What evidence supports that conclusion?"
The discussion continued for several minutes.
One student suggested a man near the platform edge looked anxious because he was standing rigidly with his hands buried in his pockets.
Another argued he simply looked cold.
Professor Carter smiled.
"Good. Already we're seeing why context matters."
You found yourself writing almost everything she said.
Observation first.
Interpretation second.
Never the other way around.
As your pen moved across the page, your thoughts wandered unexpectedly.
Not because you had lost interest in the lecture.
Because Professor Carter's examples reminded you of someone.
Agent Benjamin Poindexter.
You realised, somewhat to your own surprise, that if someone had asked you to describe him, you wouldn't have started with his appearance.
You remembered his habits instead.
The way he always paused just inside the café before moving any further, as though instinctively taking in the room.
The way his eyes travelled briefly across every table without lingering.
The way he stood perfectly still while waiting in the queue, never checking his phone, never shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.
Even his coffee order never changed.
Large black.
No room.
You stopped writing for a moment.
It wasn't unusual to notice patterns.
After all, that was precisely what your degree was training you to do.
Still, it struck you as mildly amusing that your mind had apparently selected the quiet FBI agent from your local coffee shop as an unofficial case study.
"Miss Hawthorne?"
You looked up.
Professor Carter was watching you expectantly.
A few students turned in your direction.
"I'm sorry?"
Professor Carter smiled.
"I asked whether you agreed with Daniel's assessment."
You glanced back towards the projected photograph.
"The man by the ticket machine?"
"Yes."
You considered it for a moment before answering.
"I think he's drawing a conclusion too quickly."
Professor Carter gestured for you to continue.
"Standing rigidly with his hands in his pockets could suggest anxiety," you said, "but it isn't enough on its own. He could be cold. He could simply be waiting for someone. Without context, posture alone doesn't tell us very much."
Professor Carter nodded approvingly.
"Exactly."
She turned back towards the rest of the class.
"One of the easiest mistakes to make in behavioural analysis is mistaking possibility for certainty."
She glanced back at you.
"Very good, Miss Hawthorne."
As the lecture continued, you couldn't help thinking about that distinction.
Observe first.
Interpret later.
It sounded simple enough.
Yet people rarely afforded one another that patience.
Most decided who someone was within moments of meeting them.
You had no intention of making that mistake.
Not with strangers.
And certainly not with Agent Benjamin Poindexter.
—
The library was usually where you went when you needed silence.
Not complete silence—universities rarely offered that luxury—but the kind of quiet where the occasional turning of a page or the distant tapping of a keyboard became background noise rather than a distraction.
Today, however, it wasn't working.
You had been staring at the same paragraph for nearly ten minutes.
The words were there.
You could read them.
You understood each individual sentence.
Yet somehow, when you reached the end of the page, none of it had actually stayed in your mind.
You sighed quietly and highlighted another line you knew you would have to read again later.
Across the table, Pamela looked up from her laptop.
She had been watching you for longer than you realised.
"You know you've highlighted the same sentence three times, right?"
You stopped.
Slowly, you looked down.
The sentence was, in fact, highlighted three separate times.
You closed your eyes.
"Have I?"
Pamela leaned back in her chair.
"Yes."
"That's embarrassing."
"It's only embarrassing if you're pretending you're not distracted."
You looked at her.
"I'm not distracted."
Pamela raised an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at the same page since I sat down."
"I've been reading."
"You've been staring."
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped because she was right.
Pamela smiled slightly.
"I know that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else."
You shut your textbook.
"Am I that obvious?"
"To me? Yes."
Pamela had known you long enough to tell the difference between normal university exhaustion and when something was genuinely occupying your thoughts.
She took a sip of her coffee.
"What's going on?"
You hesitated.
"Nothing, really."
"Y/n."
You laughed softly.
"Okay, maybe something."
"I knew it."
You rolled your eyes.
"You always say that."
"Because I'm usually right."
The library continued around you. Students moved between shelves, printers hummed in the corner, and somewhere nearby someone was quietly whispering about an upcoming exam.
Normally, it would have been comforting.
Today, it felt like you were fighting against your own thoughts.
Pamela glanced at your untouched notes.
"How long have you been trying to study?"
"About two hours."
"And how much have you done?"
You looked down.
"...Not much."
She closed her laptop.
"Then we're leaving."
You frowned.
"What?"
"We're leaving."
"Pamela, I have work to do."
"And you aren't doing it."
"I could."
"You could also spend another three hours here convincing yourself you're studying."
You couldn't help but smile.
"You're very supportive."
"I am supportive. I'm supporting you leaving this building before you start arguing with your textbook."
You packed your things, knowing she was right.
Sometimes forcing yourself to continue wasn't discipline. Sometimes it was just stubbornness
—
By the time you left the university grounds, rain had begun falling.
Not heavily.
Just enough to coat the pavements in a reflective sheen and make the city lights blur against the wet streets.
You opened your umbrella while Pamela did the same beside you.
New York looked different in the rain.
The usual sharp edges softened. Buildings reflected in puddles. Taxi lights stretched across the road like ribbons of colour, and people hurried beneath umbrellas, shoulders raised against the cold.
You and Pamela walked without any particular destination.
That was the nice thing about being friends with someone for years.
Sometimes you didn't need plans. You just needed time.
"So," Pamela said, glancing at you. "How's everything?"
You smiled.
"That's a very broad question."
"I know."
"University?"
"Mm-hm."
"Stressful."
"Obviously."
"Money?"
"Also stressful."
She nodded.
"Adult life sounds terrible."
"It is."
"Good. Glad we're both suffering."
You laughed.
The conversation moved naturally after that.
Assignments.
Lecturers.
Work.
The tiny frustrations that made up everyday life.
Eventually, as you passed a row of closed shops with rain tapping against your umbrellas, Pamela looked over.
"What about your love life?"
You immediately laughed.
"My what?"
"Your love life."
"Pamela, I barely have time to sleep."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer."
She shook her head.
"You cannot spend all your time studying and expect a relationship to magically appear."
"I know."
"Have you met anyone?"
You thought about it.
"No."
Then, after a moment:
"Well... sort of."
Pamela immediately looked interested.
"Sort of?"
You realised too late that you had given her information.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"The one where you act like you've just discovered something interesting.'
She smiled.
"I have discovered something interesting."
You sighed.
"There's this guy who comes into the coffee shop."
"A guy."
"Yes."
"Go on."
You looked ahead, watching rainwater run along the pavement.
"I don't know. He's just... there."
Pamela waited. You knew she wasn't going to let you get away with that.
"He's an FBI agent."
Her eyebrows lifted. "An FBI agent?"
"Apparently."
"Apparently?"
"I overheard someone call him Agent Benjamin Poindexter.... and the barista basically told me..."
Pamela looked amused.
"That is a very specific person to overhear."
"I didn't ask."
"I didn't say you did."
You gave her a look.
She laughed.
"Okay, okay. Tell me about him."
You thought for a moment. It was strange trying to describe Benjamin. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
"He comes into the café every morning."
"Every morning?"
"Pretty much."
"And you've spoken to him?"
"A little."
"Is he nice?"
You considered that.
"Yes."
"Charming?"
You laughed.
"No."
"Cold?"
"Not exactly."
You looked down at the pavement.
"He's just... quiet."
Pamela listened.
"He has the same order every day. Large black coffee. No room."
"No room?"
"Yeah."
She smiled.
"You've memorised his coffee order?"
You immediately looked defensive.
"No."
"Y/n."
"Okay, maybe."
Pamela laughed.
"I'm teasing."
You smiled despite yourself.
"He just has this routine. Everything about him is very controlled."
"You sound like you're analysing him."
You paused. The irony wasn't lost on you.
"Maybe I am."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
You adjusted your grip on your umbrella.
"I think I'm just curious."
"Curious?"
"Yeah."
You searched for the right words.
"He seems like someone who notices everything."
The rain continued falling around you.
"And I guess I'm curious about what he notices."
Pamela smiled slightly.
"That sounds very much like you."
"What does?"
"Being interested in the person everyone else overlooks."
You didn't answer immediately.
Because, annoyingly, she was right. Benjamin Poindexter was just a stranger.
A man who drank black coffee every morning.
A man you exchanged a few words with.
A man whose life you knew almost nothing about.
And yet...
Somehow, you had started noticing him.
—
You and Pamela continued walking long after the conversation about Benjamin had ended.
That was the thing about the two of you.
A simple walk was rarely just a walk.
There was always another topic waiting around the corner.
The conversation drifted from university to childhood memories, from embarrassing first jobs to the strange reality of becoming an adult and realising nobody actually knew what they were doing.
Pamela told you about a lecturer who had accidentally sent an unfinished email draft to an entire class.
You laughed so hard you had to stop walking for a moment.
"No way."
"I swear."
"An entire class?"
"Everyone received it."
"What did it say?"
Pamela grinned.
"Something about needing coffee before dealing with 'the chaos of today's youth'."
You covered your mouth to hide your laugh as rain tapped against your umbrella.
"That's actually kind of sweet."
"It was not sweet when we were the chaos of today's youth."
"You were twenty minutes late to a seminar once."
"That was one time."
"It was three times."
"Details."
You smiled.
The rain continued falling around you, steady and constant, turning the pavement into a mirror beneath your feet.
Eventually, the conversation moved towards relationships again.
Not seriously.
Just the usual questions friends asked each other.
People you had dated.
People Pamela had dated.
The terrible experiences that somehow became funny months later.
"I still think you need to get out more," Pamela said.
You looked over at her.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning your current routine is university, studying, your apartment, your cat and that coffee shop."
"That sounds like a perfectly acceptable routine."
"It sounds like the routine of an eighty-year-old woman."
You laughed.
"I like my life."
"I know you do."
Her tone softened.
"And that's a good thing. I'm just saying you should let people into it sometimes."
You looked ahead at the glowing shop windows reflecting in the wet pavement.
"I do."
"You let me in."
"Exactly."
"I'm the exception."
"You are."
Pamela smiled.
"See? That's what I mean."
You shook your head.
The two of you continued down the street, eventually turning towards the neighbourhood where the coffee shop sat.
The rain had made the city quieter somehow.
Not actually quiet—New York never was—but softer.
The constant noise of traffic became a distant hum beneath the rain. Headlights stretched across the wet roads, taxis moved through intersections in endless streams, and pedestrians hurried along beneath umbrellas, their faces briefly illuminated by passing streetlights.
Pamela glanced around.
"So this is where you get coffee every morning?"
"Almost every morning."
She smiled.
"Lead the way."
You guided her down the familiar street.
You knew this route without thinking.
The corner where the bakery always displayed fresh pastries in the morning.
The small bookshop that changed its window display every few weeks.
The little park where you ran before the city became too busy.
Everything felt familiar.
Then, halfway down the block, you saw him.
At first, it was only a familiar shape.
A dark navy jacket.
A tall figure standing beneath the glow of a streetlight.
You almost didn't register it.
Then he moved.
Your attention caught on the subtle shift before your mind had even registered why.
Across the road, beneath the white glow of a streetlamp, stood three FBI agents.
Dark navy jackets.
Protective vests.
Gold lettering catching the light whenever passing headlights swept over them.
One agent stood slightly apart from the others, his radio pressed to his shoulder as he listened to whoever was speaking on the other end. Every so often he answered with a clipped, professional response before returning his attention to the junction.
The second agent was saying something you couldn't make out over the rain and traffic.
The third...
You recognised him immediately.
Benjamin Poindexter.
He stood beneath a black umbrella, one hand wrapped around its handle while the other rested loosely by his side. His dark FBI jacket was damp across the shoulders despite the shelter, and beads of rain clung to the short strands of his hair where the wind had carried the water beneath the umbrella's edge. Droplets traced slowly down the side of his temple before disappearing beneath the collar of his jacket.
Even while listening to his colleague, he seemed quietly alert.
His posture remained as precise as ever.
Shoulders square.
Weight balanced evenly.
Nothing wasted
Nothing careless.
For a moment, everything else seemed to blur. The city continued moving around him. Cars passed between you, tyres cutting through rainwater and sending sprays of mist into the air. Yellow taxis rolled past in endless succession. Pedestrians moved around him without noticing him, each person caught inside their own world.
But you noticed.
You slowed to a stop without realising it.
Pamela, a pace ahead, turned back.
"You coming?"
Instead of answering, you reached out and lightly tapped the middle of her back.
"We should..." You hesitated, glancing across the road again. "Maybe we should go another way."
Pamela frowned.
"What?"
"It's nothing."
She looked at you suspiciously.
"Y/n."
"I just think—"
"Why?"
Before you could answer, Pamela followed your line of sight.
Her eyes settled on the opposite pavement.
On the three FBI agents standing beside the pedestrian crossing.
One speaking into his radio.
One chatting quietly.
And Benjamin Poindexter between them.
"...Oh," she said.
You gave an awkward nod.
"Yeah."
Pamela looked back at you, then across the street again.
"That's him?"
"The one with the smaller umbrella."
She studied him for a second.
"I can see why you noticed him."
You let out an exasperated laugh.
"Pamela."
"What?"
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything."
"You absolutely are."
She smiled to herself, still watching the opposite pavement.
"He certainly doesn't look like the friendliest person in New York."
"No," you admitted. "He doesn't."
"But?"
You watched Benjamin for another moment before answering.
"But I don't think he's unfriendly."
Pamela tilted her head.
"You've spoken to him, what, three times?"
"Something like that."
"And you've already decided he's misunderstood."
"I didn't say that."
"You were thinking it."
"I was not."
"You absolutely were."
You sighed, shaking your head.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Pamela's attention drifted back across the road. Benjamin had shifted slightly beneath his umbrella, listening as one of the other agents spoke. The third agent lowered his radio for a moment, exchanged a few words with the pair, then raised it back to his shoulder.
"Hm."
"What?"
"I want to get a better look at him."
Your head snapped towards her.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
Pamela blinked innocently.
"I didn't say I was going to marry him."
"You don't need a better look."
"I've only seen him from across the road."
"You'll survive."
She looked thoroughly unconvinced.
"What if we just..."
"No."
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"I know you."
Pamela grinned.
"You do."
She tapped a finger thoughtfully against the handle of her umbrella.
"Alright. New plan."
"There isn't a plan."
"There is now."
You gave her a look that should have been enough to end the conversation.
It wasn't.
"We cross the road," Pamela said matter-of-factly. "I ask them for directions."
You stared at her.
"They're FBI agents, y/n. If anyone knows the area, it'll be them."
"They're working."
"So?"
"So we're not interrupting three federal agents because you're curious."
"I'm not curious."
"You just said you wanted a better look."
"I did say that."
You let out a long sigh.
"Pamela..."
She held up a hand.
"Hear me out."
"I already don't like where this is going."
"You don't have to say a word."
"I wasn't planning to."
"You can stand there looking innocent."
"I always look innocent."
Pamela laughed.
"You can even pretend you haven't seen him."
"I have seen him."
"I know that. I mean... don't acknowledge him."
You frowned.
"That would be even stranger."
"Not if you're facing the other way."
You looked at her as though she'd lost her mind.
"So your plan is for me to stand with my back to him while you ask complete strangers for directions?"
"When you put it like that..."
"It sounds ridiculous."
She smiled sheepishly.
"...A little."
The rain drummed steadily against your umbrellas as people streamed past in both directions, eager to escape the weather.
You glanced towards the pedestrian crossing.
The signal was still red.
Cars continued rolling through the junction in an endless procession, their headlights streaking across the wet road.
"It's a bad idea," you said.
Pamela considered that for a moment before nodding.
"Maybe."
You raised an eyebrow. "Maybe?"
"But..."
She gestured towards the crossing.
"We have to go that way anyway."
You followed her gaze.
She was right.
The coffee shop sat just beyond the next block.
Unless you wanted to add another ten minutes to the walk by circling the area, you would have to cross at this junction.
Your shoulders dropped in reluctant defeat.
"I still think it's a bad idea."
Pamela smiled triumphantly.
"I never said it wasn't."The pedestrian signal clicked.
The red figure disappeared.
A white walking symbol illuminated above the crossing.
Around you, the waiting crowd began to move.
Umbrellas lifted against the rain, shoes splashed through shallow puddles and the steady rhythm of traffic gave way to the electronic chirp of the pedestrian crossing. Headlights crawled to a halt, their reflections stretching across the rain-slicked asphalt like ribbons of white and amber.
You tightened your grip on the handle of your umbrella.
"This is still a terrible idea," you muttered.
Pamela smiled without looking at you.
"I know."
The two of you stepped off the curb with everyone else.
As you reached the middle of the crossing, you resisted the urge to glance towards the opposite pavement.
Instead, you focused on the white lines beneath your feet.
On the rain tapping steadily against the umbrella above your head.
On the sound of tyres hissing over wet roads as impatient drivers waited for the lights to change again.
You were almost across when Pamela nudged your elbow.
"Don't look now."
You gave her a flat stare.
"You say that after we've already crossed?"
"I know."
"You are unbelievable."
"I've heard that."
You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth.
The three agents were only a few metres away now.
Up close, the gold FBI lettering across the backs of their jackets was unmistakable. Rain gathered along the edges of their shoulders, tiny droplets catching beneath the glow of the streetlights before falling silently onto the pavement.
One of the agents lowered his radio.
"...Copy that."
His voice was calm, businesslike.
Benjamin stood beside him, listening to the other agent speak in a low voice.
He gave a brief reply.
A single nod.
Nothing about his posture suggested distraction.
Even in conversation, his attention seemed divided between his colleagues and the movement around the junction.
It was subtle.
Almost impossible to notice unless someone was looking for it.
You supposed that was exactly the point.
As you and Pamela stepped onto the pavement, Dex's gaze swept instinctively across the pedestrians filtering through the crossing.
A routine scan.
Nothing more.
His eyes moved from one face to the next.
An elderly couple.
A cyclist wheeling his bike.
A woman pushing a pram.
Then...
You.
His gaze stopped.
Not for long.
A fraction longer than it had for anyone else.
Recognition settled across his expression so faintly that another person would likely have missed it altogether.
You didn't.
Nor did he look surprised.
It was simply the quiet acknowledgement of seeing someone familiar in an unexpected place.
His colleague continued speaking.
Benjamin listened, though his attention lingered for another heartbeat before returning to the conversation.
You felt oddly self-conscious.
Not because he was staring.
He wasn't.
Because you'd become aware that he recognised you just as easily as you recognised him.
Pamela leaned closer.
"He definitely knows who you are."
You kept your voice low.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm serious."
"He looked at everyone."
"He looked at you differently."
"You cannot tell that from ten feet away."
"I absolutely can."
You opened your mouth to argue.
Before you could, the agent with the radio stepped away from the group, speaking quietly into the microphone again.
The remaining agent said something to Benjamin that made him glance briefly towards the junction.
For the first time since you'd known him, a faint smile—so slight it barely existed—crossed his face at whatever had been said.
It vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
You blinked.
It was... strange.
Not because he'd smiled.
Because it reminded you that beneath the badge, the rigid posture and the measured voice, he was simply another person standing in the rain talking to his colleagues after a long day.
Benjamin looked back towards the pavement.
This time, his eyes met yours directly.
There was a brief pause.
Then, with the same restrained politeness he always seemed to carry, he inclined his head once.
It wasn't formal.
It wasn't distant.
Just... a greeting.
The sort exchanged between two people who happened to share the same corner of the city every morning.
Almost instinctively, you returned the gesture.
A small nod.
Nothing more.
Pamela watched the exchange from the corner of her eye.
"Oh," she murmured.
You looked at her.
"What?"
"He really does know you."
Before you had the chance to answer, Benjamin's colleague clapped him lightly on the shoulder and said something that drew his attention back to work.
The moment passed as quietly as it had begun.
The three agents resumed their conversation, the radio crackled again, and the city continued around them as though nothing at all had happened.
You and Pamela carried on down the pavement towards the café, leaving the junction—and Agent Benjamin Poindexter—behind.
Even so, you couldn't shake the feeling that, for the first time since your paths had begun crossing, the familiarity no longer belonged only to you.
He recognised you too.
—
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Taglist: @apenasandorinha @devilsfendi
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
wrote 2 chapters over the course of 2 days... time to retreat lol
summary ⋮ Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 1/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 3k
New York never really slept.
Even before dawn, the city breathed through the distant growl of traffic, the hiss of buses kneeling at empty stops, and the occasional wail of a siren somewhere beyond the rows of apartment buildings. From the fourth floor of your building, those sounds had become familiar enough that silence felt stranger than noise.
Your alarm sounded at six.
You reached across the bedside table and silenced it before it could ring again. A grey tabby immediately lifted his head from the pillow beside you, emerald eyes narrowed in quiet annoyance.
"You've got a harder life than I do," you murmured.
The cat answered with a slow blink before curling back into himself.
The apartment was modest, but it was yours.
Well—not yours. The landlord would certainly remind you of that if the rent was late—but it was home. A small kitchen with mismatched cupboards, a narrow living room dominated by second-hand furniture, shelves overflowing with university textbooks, and walls that desperately needed repainting. Nothing about it was glamorous.
You loved it anyway.
Every object had been bought with money you had earned. Every book had brought you one step closer to where you wanted to be.
Forensic psychology.
Less than two years remained until you graduated.
Sometimes that still surprised you.
There had been nights where assignments blurred into sunrise, mornings fuelled entirely by coffee, and weeks where your bank account looked frighteningly empty before your next pay cheque arrived from the university library. Yet somehow, despite everything, you had made it this far.
You intended to finish.
After showering, you pulled on running leggings, an old university sweatshirt, and trainers that had seen better days. You filled your cat's bowl before crouching beside him.
"I'll be back in half an hour."
He ignored you with complete dignity.
Outside, the cool morning air hit your face immediately.
The streets carried that peculiar quiet found only just before commuters flooded the pavements. A newspaper stand was being stocked on the corner. Delivery vans idled beside restaurants. Somewhere nearby, someone was dragging metal chairs across concrete to prepare for opening.
Your route never changed.
Three blocks east.
Across the small park.
Round the fountain.
Then back again.
Nothing ambitious. Just enough to clear your head before lectures.
Running had become less about fitness and more about routine. It gave your mind somewhere to organise itself before the day demanded your attention.
By the time you returned to the main street, your breathing had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Sweat clung lightly to the back of your neck, and your legs carried the pleasant ache that came from moving rather than sitting at a desk.
The familiar bell chimed as you stepped into the coffee shop.
Warm air wrapped around you immediately, carrying the rich smell of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries. Indie music drifted quietly through hidden speakers while an espresso machine hissed behind the counter.
"Morning," the barista called, already recognising you.
"Morning."
"The usual?"
You smiled.
"Please."
She nodded before reaching automatically for a paper cup.
You leaned against the collection counter, fishing your phone from your pocket while customers drifted in behind you.
Then the bell above the door rang again.
The man who entered looked as though he belonged somewhere quieter. He wore a dark jacket zipped neatly to his collar despite the mild weather. His hair was trimmed short, almost military in appearance, and his posture was impossibly straight. Every movement was economical, precise, as though unnecessary motion had been carefully removed from his life.
His eyes swept across the café.
Not casually.
Methodically.
Door.
Windows.
Customers.
Counter.
You noticed because you studied people. It had become instinct. Most people looked around a room. This man assessed it.
He joined the queue without touching his phone or glancing absentmindedly towards the menu. Instead, he stood perfectly still with his hands loosely folded in front of him.
No fidgeting.
No sighing.
No shifting his weight.
Nothing.
It wasn't normal.
Not unsettling.
Just... unusual.
"Large black coffee."
His voice carried easily across the café.
Calm.
Even.
Controlled.
The cashier smiled politely.
"Anything else?"
"No."
His answer came almost before she'd finished asking.
You collected your own drink as your order was called.
"Thanks."
"You have a good one."
"You too."
Turning towards the door, you adjusted your grip around the warm cup.
Someone stepped aside at exactly the same moment. You both moved to avoid one another. Then accidentally chose the same direction.
"Oh—"
You laughed softly.
"Sorry."
The man immediately shifted back, giving you enough room to pass.
"My mistake."
His voice remained perfectly level.
Not cold.
Simply factual.
Up close, you noticed faint shadows beneath his eyes, as though sleep was something he tolerated rather than enjoyed. There was a tiny scar near his jawline, almost hidden beneath the morning stubble, and another disappearing beneath the collar of his jacket.
He met your gaze for barely a second.
Long enough to acknowledge you.
Not long enough to invite conversation.
"No," you replied with an awkward smile. "I walked straight into your path."
He gave a single nod.
Neither apologetic nor dismissive. Merely accepting the information.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved.
Then the cashier called out, "Large black coffee."
The man inclined his head.
"Excuse me."
"Of course."
He stepped around you with surprising care, making certain not to brush your shoulder as he passed. There was something almost rehearsed about the movement—as though he'd consciously calculated exactly how much space to leave.
You watched him collect his coffee.
"No room?" the barista asked.
"No."
"No sugar?"
"No."
"Have a nice day."
He paused.
"You too."
Again, perfectly polite. Perfectly measured. Nothing about him stood out in the way people often imagined suspicious individuals would. If anything, he seemed exceptionally ordinary.
Quiet.
Reserved.
Disciplined.
The sort of man who kept to himself.
You pushed open the café door and stepped back into the cool morning air. Behind you, a few seconds later, the bell chimed again. You glanced back without really thinking. The same man emerged carrying his coffee.
He turned left.
You turned right.
Within moments, the crowds beginning to gather along the pavement swallowed him entirely.
You never learned his name.
Not that morning.
Not yet.
—
The days settled back into their familiar rhythm.
Lecture.
Library.
Work.
Sleep.
Run.
Coffee.
Repeat.
There was a certain comfort in routine. You had always found it easier to manage the chaos of university when each morning began the same way. It made New York feel smaller somehow, less overwhelming.
About a week after your brief encounter with the quiet stranger, you noticed him again.
He was already inside the café when you arrived.
Just as before, he stood in the queue without looking at his phone. While everyone else filled the silence by scrolling through messages or staring blankly out of the window, he simply waited.
Perfect posture.
Hands loosely clasped.
Eyes calmly taking in the room.
You joined the line a few places behind him.
"Large black coffee," he said when it was his turn.
The cashier smiled.
"No room?"
"No."
"No sugar?"
"No."
"You have a nice day."
"You too."
The exchange lasted no more than twenty seconds.
By the time you reached the counter, he was already walking out with the paper cup held securely in one hand.
You thought nothing more of it.
Until two mornings later.
Again.
The same jacket.
The same measured voice.
The same order.
"Large black coffee."
"No room?"
"No."
"No sugar?"
"No."
It happened often enough that you began to notice the details without meaning to. He arrived within roughly the same ten-minute window each weekday morning. Never looked rushed. Never lingered. Always thanked the staff. Always left.
His routine was almost as predictable as your own.
"You know him?"
The question came unexpectedly one Thursday morning.
You looked away from the door, finding the barista sealing your cup with its lid.
"Him?"
She nodded towards the window where the man was already disappearing into the crowd.
"The FBI guy."
You blinked.
"FBI?"
She laughed quietly.
"I thought everyone around here knew."
"I've only been coming here for..." You paused, trying to count it in your head. "About eight months."
"He flashes his badge sometimes if someone asks why he's carrying."
"Carrying?"
"The gun."
"Oh."
Your surprise must have shown because she smiled sympathetically.
"Scared me the first time too."
"I never noticed."
"He keeps it well hidden."
You accepted your coffee.
"I suppose I wasn't looking."
"He comes in nearly every weekday."
"I've noticed."
The words escaped before you realised you'd said them. The barista grinned knowingly.
"Hard not to."
You frowned.
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "He's memorable."
That was true. Not because he was loud or charismatic. Quite the opposite. There was something about him that made the room subtly rearrange itself around him. People instinctively gave him space without seeming to realise they were doing it. He wasn't intimidating exactly.
Just... composed.
Like someone who always knew exactly where they were standing.
—
Nearly three weeks passed.
Spring slowly crept further into the city. Trees lining the park began showing fresh green leaves, and people exchanged heavy winter coats for lighter jackets.
Your coursework became increasingly demanding.
Behavioural profiling.
Criminal cognition.
Risk assessment.
Some modules fascinated you so completely that hours vanished inside the university library without you noticing.
Others required considerably more caffeine.
It was after one particularly exhausting seminar that you found yourself wondering, entirely absentmindedly, whether the FBI agent would already have collected his coffee.
The thought surprised you.
Not because it mattered. Only because it had become familiar.
He was simply... there.
Like the newspaper stand outside. Or the elderly woman who walked the same dachshund every morning. Or the man who played saxophone outside the subway entrance every Friday afternoon.
Just another constant.
Except, unlike everyone else, he never seemed distracted.
One Monday morning, you arrived a little earlier than usual. To your mild surprise, so had he.
He stood near the collection counter rather than in the queue, his coffee already waiting beside him. Instead of immediately leaving, however, he remained where he was.
Not idle.
Watching.
His gaze drifted towards the front window.
A delivery cyclist almost collided with a taxi outside. A pedestrian stepped backwards into the road without looking. Someone shouted.
Within seconds, everything settled.
The man hadn't reacted dramatically.
He had simply... observed.
His eyes followed each movement with quiet precision before returning to the interior of the café.
Only then did he notice you.
For the briefest moment, recognition flickered across his face.
Not warmth.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
You had seen one another enough times now to become familiar.
He gave a small nod. The same restrained acknowledgement as before.
You returned it almost instinctively.
"Morning."
The word left your mouth before you'd decided to speak.
There was a pause.
Short enough that another person might not even have noticed.
Then he answered.
"Morning."
His voice remained level, controlled, almost careful.
No smile. No awkwardness.
Simply polite.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It merely... existed.
The barista broke it.
"Usual?"
You looked over.
"Please."
As she began preparing your drink, you became aware that the man hadn't yet left. He picked up his coffee, adjusted the lid by a fraction, then glanced towards the door.
"You come here every morning," he said.
It wasn't phrased as a question.
You looked back at him.
"So do you."
Another tiny pause.
"Yes."
Nothing more. No attempt at conversation. No introduction. Just an acknowledgement of a fact.
He inclined his head once more before walking towards the exit.
The bell above the café door chimed as he disappeared onto the pavement outside, swallowed once again by the flow of New Yorkers hurrying to work.
You watched him leave for only a second before collecting your own coffee.
It wasn't until you were halfway back to your apartment that you realised something.
You still didn't know his name.
But somehow, after nearly three weeks of passing one another almost every weekday morning, he no longer felt like a stranger.
—
Another week passed.
Mid-term assessments arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train.
Your dining table disappeared beneath open textbooks, highlighted journal articles, handwritten notes and empty mugs that you kept promising yourself you would wash. More than once, you fell asleep with your laptop still open, only to wake an hour later with a crick in your neck and a paragraph of keyboard imprints pressed into your cheek.
The coffee shop became less of a luxury and more of a necessity.
The staff no longer asked for your order.
"The usual?" was all they needed.
"The usual," you would answer.
By now, you recognised most of the regulars. The elderly man who spent an hour every morning completing crossword puzzles. Two paramedics who alternated buying breakfast depending on whose payday it was. A woman in a navy business suit who always left with three coffees balanced expertly in a cardboard carrier.
And, almost every weekday morning... Benjamin.
You still hadn't heard him introduce himself.
One Tuesday, however, another customer had held the door open as he was leaving.
"Morning, Agent Benjamin Poindexter."
He had paused just long enough to acknowledge him.
"Morning."
That was all.
No conversation followed.
The man continued on his way, and Benjamin disappeared into the crowd as he always did.
Benjamin Poindexter.
The name settled somewhere in the back of your mind. You weren't entirely sure why. Perhaps because names made people feel more real.
'The FBI guy' had become Agent Benjamin Poindexter.
It suited him.
—
Rain arrived without warning the following Friday.
The sky had been overcast during your run, but by the time you reached the café the heavens had opened.
People crowded just inside the entrance, shaking umbrellas and brushing rainwater from their coats.
You joined the queue, pushing damp strands of hair away from your face.
"Looks like everyone's had the same idea," the barista joked.
"No chance I'm surviving today's lecture without caffeine."
She laughed.
"That's the spirit."
The bell above the door rang.
You didn't need to look.
For reasons you couldn't quite explain, you already knew who had walked in.
Benjamin paused just inside the entrance, folding a black umbrella with careful efficiency before slipping it into a waterproof sleeve. His jacket was spotted with rain, though not nearly as soaked as everyone else's.
He must have anticipated the weather.
Of course he had.
He quietly joined the queue behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder.
"Morning."
His eyes met yours briefly.
"Morning."
The line moved slowly. Someone ahead was arguing over an incorrect order, while another customer struggled to decide between pastries.
Neither of you spoke.
It wasn't uncomfortable anymore.
Simply... quiet.
Eventually, the cashier called your name. You stepped forward, reaching into your bag for your purse.
Your stomach dropped.
You checked again.
The front pocket.
The inside compartment.
Nothing.
"...No."
You frowned to yourself.
"I've left my wallet at home."
The cashier offered an understanding smile.
"It happens."
"I can just—" You sighed. "I'll come back."
As you turned away, a calm voice spoke behind you.
"I've got it."
You looked around.
Benjamin was already holding out his card.
You blinked.
"Oh... no, honestly, you don't have to."
"It isn't a problem."
"I can come back."
"You could." His expression remained as composed as ever. "Or I can pay for your coffee."
You hesitated. It wasn't the amount. It was accepting something from someone you barely knew.
Perhaps he recognised the uncertainty because he added, in the same measured tone, "You can repay me another morning."
There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation. Simply a practical solution.
The cashier looked between the two of you.
"Should I...?"
Benjamin gave a single nod.
"Together."
The payment terminal beeped.
Transaction approved.
You stared for a moment before letting out a small, embarrassed laugh.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I really will pay you back."
"I believe you."
His coffee was placed beside yours.
"Large black coffee."
He picked it up.
You collected your own cup.
For a moment, the two of you stood near the door while rain hammered against the windows hard enough to blur the city beyond into streaks of grey.
"I appreciate it," you said again.
Benjamin nodded once.
"You said you're at university."
You looked at him, slightly surprised that he'd remembered.
"I am."
"What do you study?"
"Forensic psychology."
For the first time since you'd known him, something changed. It wasn't dramatic. Had you not spent years studying facial expressions, you might have missed it entirely.
His attention sharpened.
Not suspicion.
Interest.
"Genuinely?" he asked.
The question came just a fraction quicker than his previous replies.
You smiled.
"Genuinely."
"What made you choose that?"
You shifted your coffee into your other hand.
"I've always been interested in why people do what they do. Not in the crimes themselves..." You searched for the right words. "More the people behind them. Their behaviour. Their decision-making. How trauma changes someone. Things like that."
Benjamin listened without interrupting.
Completely.
The bustle of the café continued around you—the hiss of steaming milk, the scrape of chairs against the floor, customers weaving past on their way back into the rain—but his attention didn't drift once.
When you finished, he was silent for a moment.
"Interesting," he said simply.
You laughed softly.
"Most people think it's morbid."
"I don't."
The reply was immediate.
Matter-of-fact.
"I think it's useful."
Before you could answer, something buzzed inside his jacket.
Not a phone.
A sharp electronic tone.
He reached into an inside pocket and glanced down at what appeared to be a bureau-issued device.
His posture changed almost imperceptibly.
Duty.
He slipped it away.
"I have to go."
"Right. Of course."
There was a brief pause.
"I'll see you around."
Benjamin inclined his head.
"Yes."
Then, without another word, he opened the café door and stepped out into the rain, disappearing once more into the moving crowds.
You watched the door swing shut behind him.
Only then did you realise that, after more than a month of crossing paths, you'd finally had something resembling a conversation.
It hadn't been long. Perhaps three minutes.
Yet somehow, it felt as though the quiet distance between the two of you had become just a little smaller.
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness / addiction, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫
you didn’t know what was worse, the fact that you’d refused to go to the hospital for a bullet wound in your stomach, or that you’d been hunched over your corkboard for two hours and your spine felt like it had adopted a new, crooked shape.
in your defense, you had a rough history with hospitals.
you winced as a thumbtack bit into your finger, but gratefulness settled warm on your shoulders shortly after.
the puzzle was finally piecing together.
fisk. the mayor. the hit.
manila papers scattered the board. faces of people you’d never met stared back at you, and somewhere in the blur of it all was a picture; grainy, but true. countless smear campaigns against fisk, the satirical broadcasts, someone with media access trying to wake hell’s kitchen up.
that someone was your sister.
your stupid, stupid sister.
you’d never been more sure.
and from there it all clicked. this apartment was listed under PAGE per public record. fisk took a shot at silencing who he thought was karen. it was simpler than money, power. no, he had that already so it was even worse.
he was protecting himself. his name. his carefully constructed image. from what? you didn’t know. but you were certain it was more than karen’s whistleblowing.
you were just a loose thread he’d tried to pull. er— karen was.
you’d buried yourself in all of this, probably to avoid the more pressing reality which was that you’d been traumatized approximately forty eight hours ago and could very realistically go septic and die if you didn’t google how to properly tend to a bullet wound soon.
it could wait.
foggy’s face gazed back at you from beneath a green tack. the only photo you had of him. karen had dragged him along on the annual summer trip and you’d braced yourself for some insufferable lawyer who would spend the whole week mansplaining the ocean to you.
and then you’d met him. warm and ridiculous and the kind of person who could talk about a fucking marble until two in the morning and make it the most interesting conversation you’d ever had.
a once in a lifetime person. that’s who foggy nelson was.
it made sense why your sister had arrived on your doorstep in pieces only a week after his death. she’d loved him, and she’d carried his blood home with her.
and then there was matt.
you ground your teeth.
the insufferable prick who had all but emotionally abandoned your sister when her grief didn’t move at the speed of his caseload.
so it all tracked. karen running the broadcast, trying to shake hell’s kitchen awake with both hands. some elaborate chess game between her and fisk, one you were almost certain matt had walked her directly into. but why?
it was a game that could have cost her everything if you hadn’t been the one at the sauce pot.
and still, one question sat unanswered at the center of the board.
who shot me?
and more pressingly, why the hell had they stitched you up rather than left you in a ditch somewhere. you were fairly certain fisk’s reach allowed for ditches.
you pinched your brows together.
“i watch too much NCIS,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders and forcing your spine into something resembling upright.
you let your head fall back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. wondering if the curiosity was stupid. if you should just lock the door and wait for karen to handle it as per usual. but karen had matt, and matt had a habit of deciding who needed protecting and from what, and you had strong doubts that list included you.
so no. you didn’t feel like choice was something being offered.
a rattle.
soft. sudden.
your head snapped to the countertop.
what the f-
lilies. violet ones, in a slim glass vase, identical in color to the painting hung directly above your bed.
you swallowed.
you were ill, yes. possibly delirious, even. but not so far gone that you’d forgotten accepting a delivery. letting someone in. signing for anything. which meant —
“fuck.”
your phone rang and you nearly came out of your skin.
you were trembling, eyes refusing to leave the countertop, fingers moving on instinct as you pressed the phone to your ear.
“hello?”
“baby? heyyyy, it’s jess.”
a slow blink. the lilies blurred at the edges. realization struck you like a dagger to the chest.
someone had been in this apartment while you were hunched over your corkboard in a blissful, oblivious blur. standing at your counter.
watching you work.
the goosebumps came slow and deliberate up your arms.
“you’re out of rehab.” your voice came out steadier than you felt. low. careful.
“yeah, baby listen — can i crash at yours tonight? pops is on my ass again about the job stuff and— oh shit, kare? hey! babe, did you know your sister is here?”
the warmth that moved through you then was not a kind one. hot and feverish and immediate,
karen. fuck.
your eyes went wide and you dropped to your knees, dragging the corkboard beneath the couch, stuffing crumpled papers under the cushions with shaking hands.
“wh— just— tell her to leave—”
if it was him, the man in the mask, he still had a job to finish.
“we’re comin’ up now—”
“jesse. no—” he wouldn’t listen.
you slammed the phone face down on the carpet.
three minutes. maybe less, depending on ray at the buzzer. not enough time to sweep the whole studio. the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony; too many places for an assassin to strike.
trembling hands grabbed the vase and turned it slowly, checking the underside, the roots, the water. nothing. no bomb. no death. just— flowers.
and then a flash of blue between the stems. it slipped through your fingers twice before you got it. a little card. blue sky, a rainbow arching across the front. golden letters.
GET WELL SOON!
you unfolded it.
inside, in clean, perfect script:
whoops, wrong target ☹⌖
a juvenile sad face. and beneath it — a hand drawn bullseye.
your brows knit so hard they ached.
you flipped to the back. and there, in sharp block letters that looked like they’d been pressed hard enough to indent the cardstock:
LOCK YOUR WINDOWS, Y/N.
four knocks at the door.
“one second!”
you shoved the card into the bin, curled your hand around your midsection and hissed through your teeth as you limped toward the bedroom. you were not afraid to die, no. not yet. you’d watched enough true crime to understand exactly what this was.
a moth in a jar.
you were just something being played with before being snuffed out.
the bedroom was colder than it should have been.
your breath was short as you shoved the window down with both hands, the window you were certain had been closed, and flipped both locks. a sharp look into the bathroom. a painful glance under the bed.
nothing. no one.
more knocks.
you wiped your face with the back of your hand, sniffled once, and limped to the front door. you kept the chain on and opened it three inches.
“i’m contagious.”
karen’s steel blue eyes moved over what little of you she could see, and something in them shifted immediately. jesse’s face fell behind her with the disappointment of a man whose plans had just been fucked.
“y/n.” karen’s voice was careful. “are you alright?”
the note. the lilies. the window.
the man who had crouched over you on this very floor and tucked your hair back like you were the moon and it was his first time seeing it.
you swallowed all of it down.
“peachy keen, karen.”
she didn’t believe you. she had that page look in her eye, the one dad used to wear when karen would lie about being drunk despite reeking of liquor. the one karen gave you when you were dosing all the time.
“contagious with what, exactly?”
a gulp. nervous eyes snapping toward where jesse pinched the skin between his brows. karen didn’t give you a chance to answer, she knew it was bullshit anyway.
her steel eyes cut to jesse, then back to you. and whatever morphed across her face in that moment made your stomach ache worse than the wound sitting behind the door.
“are you both using again?”
you went rigid.
you understood, on surface level, why she’d go there. this was weird. you were acting weird. but that accusation still landed like an open palm across your cheek. you clenched your jaw tight.
“no, karen. i’m not using again.”
she pursed her lips, exhaled slow through her nose. white-knuckled on the strap of her purse. your next breath was shaky and smelled of smoke and heroine.
you started naming cities in your head.
“but you’re back with jesse.”
not a question. the way she said it made you sway on your feet. the throbbing in your midsection sharpened all at once.
“i found out he was here when you did, kare.” a beat. “but thanks — for the backhanded concern. i think you’d know if i was sticking the needle in again.”
something cracked across her features then. regret, quick and unmistakable. she frowned, pressed her lips together, and without a word dug through her purse and pressed a folded wad of cash into jesse’s hand. his brows jumped to his hairline.
“holy shit, kare — than—”
“don’t.” quiet. absolute. “go find somewhere to stay that is nowhere near my sister. and so help me god, jessie; i have connections. if any of them tell me you were buying, you’ll be prosecuted by morning.”
matt. some perk.
your ex nodded once, slow. his eyes flicked to the crack in the door, tongue dragging across his chapped lips.
“later, y/n.”
that shake. that particular tremble in the way he said your name, the sniffle as he turned and walked away. that was something even karen page couldn’t piece together. something only you knew intimately.
he’d lapse within the hour.
but you wouldn’t tell her that. more pressing matters at hand.
when she turned back to you, you shook your head gently. you should have shut the door, locked her out just in case he was still close. but he would have tried by now, wouldn’t he?
“i’m sorry.”
you forgave her. you didn’t say that, because opportunity had arrived.
“accusations, right? s’my turn.” you pulled the page look on for yourself — pursed lips, steady eyes. “you said the mayor put a hit out on you. tell me why.”
your sister didn’t crack.
“i misspoke.”
“you’re lying to me.”
“you’d know if he’d sent a hit out for you. you’d be dead.”
you almost laughed out loud. if only she knew about the wound you were nursing three inches behind this door. your jaw ticked.
“fine. don’t tell me. fuck if i care — i’ll find out my own way.”
karen shook her head immediately.
“no. you need to stay away from this, do you hear me—”
“so there is something.”
“no — yes — christ, just listen to me! i’ll tell you when the time is right. that time is not now.”
silence fell between you both. the long, tension laced kind. her hand wrapped around the edge of the door where you held it open. tears stung at her eyes, red blooming across her nose and cheeks. she licked her lips and smiled — dry, tired.
“i shouldn’t have accused you. i’m sorry.”
you bowed your head.
it was nothing you weren’t already used to. you kept that part to yourself.
you thought about matt then. the way he looks at you when you’re around. careful, measured, like you’re something that requires fragility.
and it made sense, in a way. you’d ruined their lives once. karen. matt. you. foggy.
but foggy… he never looked at you like that though.
foggy used to look at you like you were just a person.
you swallowed back the tears crawling up your throat and steadied your breath.
“s’fine.” smaller than you meant it. “just — please. as soon as you feel clear weather on this, tell me.”
a single nod.
“i promise.”
you watched her face when she said it.
you didn’t believe her.
𖦏₊ ⊹
it wasn’t planned. of course it wasn’t. none of this was.
his pretty little north star. messy and the opposite of uniform, the antithesis of everything he’d ever sought out in a fixed point. he hated her.
god, he couldn’t get enough of her.
depravity had settled into his chest like a splinter. two agonizing days of it. two days of fisk buzzing in his ear about the importance of eliminating karen page, and ben nodding along like a man whose attention was fully present.
it was far from that.
he didn’t tell fisk, of course. not about her. not after julie. he knew better than that.
but he could control this. right? this wasn’t like julie. he could still perform the hit, get the job done. how different this was, he’d even been apart from her for two whole days!
day one, morning — he meditated. twenty minutes. focused. good.
day one, night — he stalked every crumb of her the internet had to offer until 3am.
y/n, huh… it tasted good on his tongue.
day two, morning — exercise. discipline. structure.
day two, night — he mapped every entrance to her apartment. every window. every weak point in the lock.
east window will be most efficient to see all of her.
day three.
a dream.
her wide, teary eyes. the addictive softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. he’d leaned down in it, watched her tremble, licked the tears from her cheeks while she squirmed beneath him. that last part was his imagination’s finest work, and he woke up with the blanket tented high and every nerve in his body pulled toward her like a compass finding north. he wrapped his hand around himself but by the second stroke he winced, he wanted to wait for her.
the urges had officially outpaced the control.
he needed more. he needed to see more.
getting in was easier than it should have been. he clenched his teeth. did she not care about the risk of some psychopath crawling through her window? he pressed his command down on the cardstock so hard, it dented and bled.
he’d spent two hours watching her from the half wall separating her bedroom from the rest of the studio. she had absolutely no idea. it made him grin.
he was relieved to find the apartment tidy — save for that chaotic explosion she was piecing together on the corkboard. he’d watched her work it, head tilted. she was so close and so very far simultaneously, and every time something clicked behind her eyes he felt a toothy grin pull at the corner of his mouth.
that’s it. almost.
his breaths were loud in his own ears. the vase of lilies in his arms, heavier.
how could he not bring them? he was a gentleman. and they matched the painting above her bed; the bed he had gotten very well acquainted with in her absence.
he’d pressed his face into the sheets and breathed. sweet, indulgent, the kind of thing he could inhale for the rest of his life and never tire of. tobacco and vanilla threaded through silk with something bright underneath— neroli, no- clementine, maybe. soft and warm and entirely, perfectly her. it took everything he had to pry himself away from them.
when he tired of watching her fail to crack the case for the sixth time, he moved. quiet, measured steps toward the island. he set the vase down.
it rattled.
he found the nearest shadow and went still. then retreated to the bedroom doorway, and waited.
the freeze that moved through her was worth every second. every single hair raising on her skin, those wide eyes, that idiotic bravery that made something in him simultaneously want to shake her and bend her over his-
she pried herself up. she found his flowers.
so good.
but then, a voice. male. crackling through the receiver but unmistakably male, and she was speaking to it, and the familiarity in her voice was not the kind she’d been using for her sister.
he went very still.
oh no no no, little star. already?
he leaned closer anyway. just to be sure. the name came through clear enough.
jesse.
one name. that’s all he needed.
with one last look at her, finding his note, reading those four words with that particular shade of fear he was quickly developing a preference for; he crawled through the open window and dropped down the pole to the cobblestones below.
Credits to lizzieolsenfilm on tiktok for this edit!
Tags: DESPERATION, extreme stalking, toxic bond, obsessive behavior, eventual smut, dubcon to con, story takes place after julie, north star but worse, youre his sun, reader is referred to as very beautiful/charming so prepare for intense jealousy
Author's note: Guys. We're finally here! Dex is tweaking juuust a little but we signed up for it so it's okay. I had like a tattoo by sade in mind while writing this whole thing.
You stood there, fidgeting with your bikini straps as you waited for an answer from the man in front of you.
You'd been pacing around your room for about five minutes before this. Second-guessing if it was weird to ask your middle aged neighbor friend; who you probably had a small crush on, out for a day on the beach. Before you moved in you appreciated Dex a lot as a buddy. Someone who'd be there when you needed it, a mature friend. But the more you'd see him, in the hallways, outside the house, in the grocery store — the more you began thinking about him. It was just so coincidental for you two to bump into eachother so often that you genuinely started to debate if he was following you. Maybe you were making it a bigger deal than it was in your head? There was just something about it, about him— that made your thoughts linger on the possibility of it.
Then Dex started to bake you cookies.
Every Wednesday and Friday morning you'd get ready for work to the smell of chocolate chip cookies. It was so weird how that smell penetrated your wall— and you could swear the sounds had started to get a bit louder too— but you ignored it and just blamed it on some kind of crack or hole that formed somewhere. This building wasn't a sight for sore eyes to begin with, which is why the rent was so affordable.
When you'd sit down for breakfast, your bell would ring, every, single, time. Perfectly at the moment you sat down at the table. It was almost eerie how good the timing was because you wouldn't finish your morning routine at the same time every day. Sometimes your lipstick would be lost, and you'd search through your bags and jean pockets to find it. Sometimes your hair would be more tangled than usual, and you'd have to re-do the hairstyle multiple times before it actually "sat" nicely. In any case, the time it would take before you sat down was very scattered and still— that's when the bell would ring.
You'd open the door regardless. Looking up at your tall blonde neighbor holding a tray with seven warm cookies in front of you. At first his delivery was very awkward and nervous.
"Hey there, I—uh, made more than I needed to. Here you go."
You'd say thanks and he'd say thanks too— for whatever reason, before turning away and disappearing into his apartment. The more often he'd ring your bell, the more confident and sharp his delivery became.
"Morning (....). These are for you. Did you sleep okay?" He'd say, lingering on your doorstep with a look so very warm it made you itchy.
Dex was handsome. There was no way around that. He was an incredibly good looking man. Sharp smile, nice white teeth, broad shoulders and almond eyes. Pronounced cheekbones and a sharp jawline. You liked looking at him when he first set foot in the café, but you weren't the type to fall head over heels for looks alone.
But then he saved you from possible assault at that party, brought you home without doing anything weird— except that your heels were missing; which you waved away as needed forensic evidence. In the aftermath, when the world felt like it was crumbling after the fight with your friend Carin, he was there—texting back in seconds, guiding you through the labyrinth of evidence, fortifying your claim for reparations with a patience that bordered on saintly. At the café, he tipped like a man who didn’t count coins, sliding bills across the table with a generosity that left you stunned. You didn’t question it—hell, the pay for the job was abysmal, and every extra dollar felt like a lifeline.
Yet, despite the obvious wealth he could have flaunted, he never did. No designer labels, no flashy watches, no ostentatious displays of privilege—just a quiet, unassuming presence.
Then there was the beach store. You had worn that skimpy attire on purpose, a silent test for your own curiosity. What kind of man are you really? And when his reaction was one of flustered discomfort—nothing lascivious, nothing predatory—he excused himself with a haste that spoke volumes. It wasn’t the response you expected. And in that moment, your trust in him deepened.
Dex was almost too good to be true.
Which was precisely why you tried to friendzone him, to keep him at arm’s length. There was something about him—something elusive, something that didn’t quite fit. But then again, you’d encountered far stranger men in your life, and you’d learned to overlook the oddities in exchange for the rare moments of genuine connection. And, if you were honest, the exhaustion of work and the fallout in your friendgroup had left you hollow. Starved for the way he made you feel when the world wasn’t pressing down on your shoulders. Those kitchen nightmare dinner nights, those quiet mornings where you'd acknowledge eachother on the balcony—
At work you'd think about the cookies he made; something about them and... him made you want more and more. You also thought of how selfless he was. How much he did his best to make you comfortable when you'd ask him to talk— distancing himself from you and looking down. It was sweet. He was sweet. You felt sweet and warm thinking about him.
After that epiphany, you became a bit more antsy everytime he rang your bell. And everytime you opened the door and he'd stand there with that shy sharp smile of his you could just feel your body respond. You wanted to spend more time with him but didn't know if the feeling was mutual.
Dex would go hot and cold a lot. Sometimes very eager and willing to stick around, while other times he'd brush past you and quickly slam his door.
Such a paradox. I wonder what you struggle with so much...? You thought as you shook your head at the floor, volleyball tightening in your hand. "—I know you're busy Dex, but I figured I could ask."
"I'm not. I would like to go with you." He smiled and leaned on the doorframe. "Just wondering why you're asking me... all of a sudden."
"Well I thought I already said why." The nerves crawled into you shoulders, nearly making you shake. "My friends—"
"You're lying."
He said it without hesitation, eyes penetrating yours without blinking. Your heart began to pound quicker, and you felt off— but not sure in what way off.
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, that uh— didn't come out the way I intended. I meant, don't you just want to invite me for me?
You laughed away the silence and bit your lip. This was weird? Or were you making it weird? Maybe he knew you liked him, and didn't like that you were younger than him? Maybe this was his way of prodding at you before ultimately ending it all here; fair compared to what you pulled in that beach store.
Dex suddenly laughed, voice deep and gravelly.
"Scratch that. Why don't you come inside? I made some coffee and still have leftover cookies. My morning ritual is important to me, can't make any decisions without it."
You looked into his apartment and then back up at him before ultimately agreeing.
---------
Dex's POV
His heart roared when you stepped in his apartment. You'd been eating his nicotine laced cookies like the good girl he knew you were. Always finishing the tray before night-time; he concluded from the peeping hole.
You'd become more ignorant, more accepting and aloof to his behavior. After all, your brain had literally started to connect Dex and his cookies to the feel good chemicals he made you become hooked on.
The pills in his cabinet hadn't been cutting it anymore. He took twice the daily recommended but the obsessive craze over you still screamed louder than the pills. It made him mad, absolutely fucking crazed with want and desire— but now also paranoia and anger; the two feelings the antipsychotics muffled.
The days used to go by perfectly. Dex would see you in the hallways, watch you through his walls, talk to you and invite himself over for dinner whenever you had a free day. He'd make sure you wouldn't reject him by watching your mood when you entered the living room every morning. If you were grumpy and tired he would leave you alone for the day. Were you happy yet bored? That was perfect, and he'd immediately toss all his plans for the day in the garbage to attempt a visit. He'd brush his teeth until his gums nearly bled, wash himself so obsessively till his back turned pink. Ruffle his blonde hair, comb it back, mess up. Ruffle it again, comb it sloooowly— mess up. Ruffle, comb sloooowly— GOD DAMN IT!
Blood filled the sink and all his medication slowly disolved under the running tap. His fist had gone straight through the mirror, shards of glass distorting his face. Blood dripped from his hand, and he thought of taking a sharp shard to cut one finger off completely. This finger had come between him and looking good for you. He must cast it away—it was rotten. A fucking traitor.
Just wanted to look good for her... Dex slid down his bathroom wall, blood freckling the white sterile tiles as he fumbled around for the phone in his jeans. Need to hear my baby. I need to. The buzzing in his ears made him dizzy, dark urge telling him to cast his flesh away—
'Dex, can you maybe stay on the line for a bit?'
His breathing regulated, bloody finger smearing red streaks across the replay button on the screen.
Repeat.
'Dex, can you maybe stay on the line for a bit?'
The buzzing slowly faded alongside the violent thoughts.
Repeat.
'Dex, can you maybe stay on the line for a bit?'
He laid on the floor while saying your name, tears welling up in his eyes as he cradled himself into fetal position. "Thank you baby... my love... oh my everything... love you so much..."
Dex hated himself. Always had. Ever since his parents passed and he was stuck in that orphanage— he blamed himself for never being picked. Adults would stop by during play-time to watch the kids. They would pick the boys who seemed sweetest, the boys who would share toys without issue, who'd play with others and eagerly say hello to visitors. Dex however? Well he was always sitting by himself. Didn't know why cause he wanted to share his toys too. It's just that he didn't understand when he was supposed to share. By the time he was willing to hand them over the boy already started crying. Dr. Eileen Mercer, his psychologist, used to tell him it was because he had trouble with empathy. Empathy meant feeling pain for others and knowing when they're sad— right? The first part was very difficult, the second one even more. Dex had started to depend on logic to knit pick if he was supposed to act sad for someone. Try to read as many visual cues before a person was about to cry. Mirroring became a second tool. If he couldn't understand someone's pain with logic, he would simply mimic them. He'd subtly mouth the words the person was about to say, pulling down his eyebrows at the same time they did, with a little bit of delay so he wasn't freaking them out. But no matter how much he tried it never worked. His logical approach moved slower than someone's natural emotional response to pain, so those few miliseconds of delay made people feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortably meant uncanny. And uncanny meant fear. That kept him an outcast, all his life.
But then he met you and his body responded—real and raw—an emotional burst of love that he didn't have to fake. Something that just flowed through him, something unlogical, something new and old and normal and abnormal all at once.
It. Was. Everything.
Dex hated the idea of hurting you, but despised the idea of losing you even more. That was what set him apart from others. From normal people. To Dex, the ends justified the means. Anything to make you stay.
He couldn't afford you ditching him and finding someone else down the road. He'd know it wouldn't take long before you noticed he was, 'odd.' He was pretty sure you already did, with how sedated you were around him— like your brain was trying to turn off the alarm bells that would trigger around him just to have a casual conversation. Dex wondered how much longer you could numb yourself to his weird behavior. How much longer you could make yourself delusional to it all— and the time came where you began to stop. You'd ask him why he was in the grocery store at this time, ask him why he was always sorting mail in the hallway, asked about him coincidentally opening his door when you'd go out— ask him about weird rustling at his side of the wall.
No, no, no that wouldn't do and he fixed it before you would push him away further than that stupid fucking friendzone you put him in to keep him at a distance, before you'd dump him, leave him— and Dex had no choice, no control of his body because you had taken the reigns and spurred him on, he had to keep you close so he could breathe because the sun was his calling and he was Icarus. Forget about the stars, the north one the south one none of it fucking mattered without his sun to illuminate them—You were the bane of his existence; of the entire earth. Without you he'd have to take life away from every pathethic creature he shared air with on this godforsaken rock because if he couldn't enjoy the sun they shouldn't either!
So Dex thought of creating a magnetic field of sorts. The same way all the planets spun around the sun without flying out of line, he'd have to build something like that for you two to stay stuck together. Something that would make you come back, an itch you couldn't stop. An addictive substance.
He had browsed the internet for the safest one. Heroin, cocaine and methamphetamine where too much for his girl. He would rather chop his hands off than put that in your system— no it must be something strong but not too dangerous.
People who smoke cigarettes ignore the damage it does to their lungs, their teeth—shit their entire body. But they still pick it up and light it, inhaling it with the knowledge of how bad it is, just for that rush of satisfaction and calm, right?
Dex settled on nicotine and very high amounts of it mixed into his cookie dough batter. With this he'd make you ignore all of his shortcomings and problems. With this you'd stay blind to his quirks. You'd inhale knowing what he was and still come back for more.
Dex couldn't help but sob before he brought you your first platter the first time.
'Your moral compass isn't broken, Dex.'
'I killed them with rocks Ms. Mercer.'
'Are you going to kill me?'
'No, I—'
He didn't want to be the bad guy—he yearned to be like everyone else. Yearned to be normal so you'd love him. Wanted you to hold him because you cared. Didn't want you to be with him because of a nicotine addiction— but that dark urge reassured him that this was just the whistle to bring you over. Like how humans are lured in by the smell of good food, but then ultimately stick around at the taste of it.
Dex would give you the best taste. He'd tend to you like the goddess you were. He'd be good for you; best you've ever fucking had and best husband and father to the children you'd willingly grant him. He'd make it all worth it.
"So, how's your day been?" You asked, sitting down in the stiff wooden chair at his table.
"Pretty good. Coffee?" He poured it before you could say yes and plated you with two cookies. The ends justify the means. They justify it. I'm saving you.
"—Oh thanks. Hm, these are so addictive." You mused, dipping one in your cup and immediately consuming it.
"I don't think I can join you to the beach today." Dex wouldn't let you out in that outfit. No one should know what your body looks like in a bikini—No, this was only for him, his holy grail; only he could drink from it's chalice. "I have a lot of work to do. New case openings."
"Oh!" You shook your head and smiled. "Hey don't worry about it. I can just go myself."
"Hm. I don't think that's a good idea." His hand began to shake under the table and he squeezed into his thigh to calm down. He needed a higher dose, felt himself lose control. No, actually, you just had to stay here with him today. The only reason he was shaking was out of fear that you'd leave him behind. If you'd stay it would stop. Would it be smart to be honest and ask you to watch a movie? No, what if you denied? Then he couldn't lie and give you another reason to stay home. Maybe he should lie first and then ask for a movie? "There's been report of multiple stabbings and battery charged on that beach. Started a few days ago, probably some mob territory war." He finished pouring his coffee and put the kettle down, eyeing you up and down.
"Well I didn't hear anything about it on the news, that's strange..." You took another bite of the cookie and rested your chin on your palm. "Is it still a private case?"
"Yeah. We don't want to alert the suspects, gonna let them keep going until evidence is irrefutable. Not the most honorable way of handling it but we've lost cases due to lack of evidence before."
"Like with my attacker at the party..." You slid off your sunglasses and put them on the table. "Great world we live in."
I took care of him for you. I'll make this world better for you, Dex trailed in thought.
"Welp." You stood up and grabbed you bag. "I guess I'll just chill on my balcony for today. Don't want to disturb your work."
"—which I was planning on doing tonight. I'd still like to, uh. Hang with you. Maybe on my balcony this time?"
"Are you sure? It's really no problem."
"Yes." He watched your eyes trail over the empty cookie plate. "...want more?"
"No thank you, I ate so many already—I really shouldn't. I don't know what magic you put in those but they're better than the ones from the bakery... Kinda better than any I've tasted. Don't give them to anyone on a diet, kay? Cause you just keep eating them, it's mad."
Dex ran his hand through his blonde-greying hair, smile warm as he gathered the empty plates and cups from the table. With a green sponge in hand he began to scrub the plate, sound of water splashing through the sink. "It's just me. My magic touch."
You hummed in sarcastic acknowledgement before walking for the door.
"—hey hold up." He shut the water off and put the plates in the drying rack, wiping his wet hands on a grey handtowel. "I've got some clothing I don't wear anymore, been meaning to toss them out but thought of donating them to my helpless little neighbor instead. For a good cause." The joke landed out of balance, uncanny and strange yet still earning a subtle titter out of you.
"Aw that's really kind, thank you. Hm, maybe you can give them to me after I'm done changing in my apartment? I'll knock in a bit." You opened his door and softly closed it behind you with a satisfying click.
Silence.
As if possessed Dex darted to his closet and withdrew his nicest looking t-shirts and button ups from the rack. Four in total, he didn't have a lot of clothing— and scampered back into the living room. They were way too big for you, but the idea of you wearing them on the couch, eating ice cream or working from home on your laptop— it cradled his little heart with a fire so intense it made him jittery.
When you knocked he calmy walked to the door, opening it with a casual lop-sided smile before pointing to the shirts. "I already laid them out there. You can change here, treat my apartment as an H&M, it's uh, just as bland. Bathroom is—" Shit. The mirror was still broken. Need to make up an excuse... "Down the hall to the left. Don't mind the broken mirror, I shut it too hard on my way to work. Flimsy thing, you know how they can be. Alright." He clapped his hands together while looking outside. "I'm gonna set up the balcony so we can sit there. You want tea or anything else?"
"Ooh tea would be nice, thank you."
"Coming right up."
He watched you disappear into the bathroom with his shirts wrapped over your arms, and the question clawed at his ribs like a restless specter: How do you see me, (....)?
Was Dex, in your eyes, the kind of man whose presence lingered like a melody? With charm woven into his words, a gaze so warm it made you shiver and the quiet confidence of an ex-military who carried himself with purpose? Or did you dismiss him as little more than a hollow shell, a mannequin draped in the illusion of stability from being FBI, a dead eyed weirdo with a polished enough personality for you to give it a chance?
Dex exhaled sharply, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to dam the pressure building behind his eyes. He breathed out in one controlled steady stream, a reflex honed over years of practice with his psychologist.
Unshakable. That was the face he presented to the world—the man who never faltered, never wavered, never let a single crack mar the neutral face he wore daily. But you? You had seen past the facade once or twice. The way he'd come back home in shambles after a day of masking at work. The way he would stutter and stumble when you'd ask him about the chance of seeing eachother in the gorcery store so often. The constant thought of you unraveling him—of you realizing, with dawning clarity, that beneath the surface was a man worse than you believed him to be—sent tremors through the carefully constructed edifice of his control.
He supposed the chance of you viewing him as the first option; the charming one, was bigger than the latter. Why else would you still be here?
The warm summer breeze flattened itself on his face, clinging to the dab of moisture on his lip— green jasmine tea. Dex put your cup down on the small table. Even on a day like this; blue skies, no clouds, nice breeze— crime kept on rolling. The sound of sirens would appear every two minutes, and Dex wondered how much crime, murder and robbery was all happening at the same time across places, for that siren to roar up again. And again. Another man shot dead for ten dollars. Another woman chased in the street. Another shopkeeper held at gunpoint. Another kid left an orphan. Like he was.
Dex’s stomach twisted into a heavy knot at the mere thought of a future entwined with yours in a place like this—a city that killed, murdered and consumed hope like rust on steel. The specter of loss coiled around his ribs, squeezing until the thought of you, of your children, his blood—being torn from him clouded his mind. It was an inevitability he refused to entertain. Tonight, he would carve through the digital void, dissecting data until he unearthed the ten most impenetrable sanctuaries on Earth, places where fate itself would bend to his will, where he would be the only one out of many owning a gun. The spoon dragged through his coffee as his gaze lifted from the flickering lights of a police cruiser to the indifferent blue of the sky.
If you refused to see reason, if you didn’t yield to the inevitable and leave this place to move to another with him, he would have to persuade you. The question wasn’t if, but how. The worst of it wasn’t the resistance—the screaming, the flailing, the dawning horror as you pieced together the fragments of his slow design. That your assaulter was melting in a barrel of acid, or the poisoning of; what seemed to be your father figure, Earl. No the true nightmare was the moment you’d look at him and see what he truly was: a lovesick creature that wore skin and had no feigned empathy left to offer.
In such a state you'd run from him like the monster he knew he was— and then he'd have to subdue you— no. He didn't want to go there.
The darkness inside him hissed, a serpent coiled in his chest, its breath hot with temptation. Another option.
You carve pieces from yourself in the dead of night, feeding them to her drop by drop, hidden in meals until her blood runs thick with the presence of you. And when she discovers the truth—when she realizes the monster she’s bound to—she’ll hate you.
You'll take the M11 from the drawer, Dex. You'll sit still with the barrel below your chin, the trigger a whisper against the silence and when it pops you’ll bleed into the next life. Not as dust. Not as memory.
But as her.
A fragment of you, buried in the marrow of her bones. A ghost in her veins. And when the end comes for her, you’ll wait in the dark beside her, a shadow in the grave, bound together in the void where even time cannot pry you apart.
“Hey.”
Your voice wrapped around him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The wail of sirens dissolved into the rhythmic chorus of seals barking along the pier, their cries bouncing off the wooden planks like laughter. The city’s chaos muted into a distant hum, replaced by the carefree chatter of families weaving through crosswalks, their arms laden with shopping bags, their faces alight with the simple joy of ordinary life. Dex’s shoulders unknotted. He sank deeper into his chair, the weight of his thoughts no longer pressing him down.
You fixed him.
“Hey, sunshine.” The words slipped out before he could cage them, raw and unfiltered. He tried to mask the tremor in his voice with a smirk, squinting up at the shirt you wore—his shirt, swallowed by your frame, the fabric pooling around you like an oversized shroud. It should have looked ridiculous. Instead, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Your smile faltered, uncertain, but your eyes held something like curiosity. “Sunshine?” You laughed softly, the sound like wind chimes in a breeze, and settled into the chair beside him. “So we’re on nickname basis already, huh?”
Dex’s fingers twitched toward your untouched cup. “I—uh. There’s tea. For you.”
You cradled the cup in your palms, exhaling as you turned to the view. “Thank you… And thank you for the clothes.” Your voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “I mean, they don’t fit perfectly as you can see, but I was looking for something comfortable and these are way better than what I had. Are you sure you want to give them all away? Some of them look brand-new. I feel bad accepting them.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His gaze locked onto you, unblinking. “They weren’t doing anything useful in my closet. You look… r-really nice."
Shit.
His delivery was a disaster. A pathetic, stuttering mess. “I—mean, you always look nice. I just—” His stomach twisted, butterflies rioting beneath his ribs, his ears burning like brands pressed to flesh. "Uh, yeah."
You tilted your head, warmth radiating from you in waves. “Oh, thank you, Dex. I appreciate that.”
“Yeah. Of course.” He stirred his coffee with too much force, the spoon clinking against the ceramic like a metronome counting down to his humiliation. For a second, he imagined hurling it into the air, a perfect 360-degree arc before it impaled him mid-forehead. End the suffering.
“I think you look nice too.” You tilted your head, studying him with an intensity that made his pulse stutter. “I mean, you always do.”
Oh, don’t do that to me. Dex’s breath hitched. He lifted his cup with a trembling hand, his knuckles white around the porcelain.
You didn’t look away. And something in your gaze shifted—something fragile and luminous, like a flame flickering in the dark. His brain forgot how to work. Was that happiness? Fear? The two emotions bled together, indistinguishable, until all that remained was the clear realization that you were looking at him. Really looking. Longer than before. Your smile wasn’t just warmth—it was an invitation, a silent embrace.
His heart stuttered when you scooted your chair closer.
The gap vanished. Your knee nearly brushed his. The space between you was no longer air—it was a living thing, electric and alive, raising the fine blonde hairs on his arms. He could feel the heat of your body, the rhythm of your breath, the faint scent of the soap you’d used in the shower clinging to your skin. It was too much. Too intimate. A thread, invisible but unbreakable, stretched from his chest to yours, pulling taut.
“W—what are you—” His voice cracked. Hazel eyes darted away, feigning a laugh that died in his throat. “(…..)...”
You were flustered too. A woman like you, at a loss for words? It was intoxicating. It made him bold.
Dex took a breath. He let his gaze trail from the railing of the balcony to meet yours—slow, deliberate, like a hurt animal checking on it's hunter. When his eyes finally locked onto yours; confused and pleading, yours were shy and warm, and fuck— the effort it took to resist leaning in, to press his lips to yours, to be complete, nearly undid him.
Dex said your name. His voice was gravel and honey, a low rasp that vibrated through the space between you. Blonde eyelashes framed the worry in his gaze, a worry stemming from internal conflict. This was a feeling he hadn't felt before, it made him scared and confused and sad and happy— it was tranquility.
Like he’d stepped into a sanctuary. Like the world had stilled, and the only sounds were the soft strum of harps, the whisper of leaves in autumn, the quiet promise that everything—everything—would be okay. Violence was a time long forgotten and love was the only reality. And there you were. The pores of your skin, the flutter of your lashes, the softness of your expression—like feather-pillows cradling his fractured soul.
Dex's thoughts slowed, deliberate and weightless, like leaves drifting from the branches of an ancient tree, surrendering to you like humans surrender to gravity.
Best case scenario, a lighter voice in him began. She loves you and you love her and you fight for eachother and make it work and it will be serene.
A distant possibility. How to get there...
Dex slowly, uncertainly began to lean in. The air between you thickened, charged like a storm about to break. His pulse hammered in his throat, a wild, untamed thing, as he shifted infinitesimally closer. The world narrowed to the space between your breaths, to the way your chest rose and fell with each quiet inhale. His vision blurred, dazed, as he looked down at you through a haze of longing. This was the precipice—the moment where your sunflare would either annihilate him entirely or pass by with the mercy of a summer breeze. There was no in-between.
"(.....)..."
“Yes…?”
Your voice was a whisper, a plea, a surrender. Your eyes locked onto his, wide and searching, as you tilted your face up to meet him. The space between your lips shrank. He could feel the warmth of your exhalations, the way your breath mingled with his, and it twisted his heart into something fragile, something aching. Dex’s gaze dropped to your mouth—glossy, soft, parted just enough to make his stomach clench. He was going to kiss you. He had to. He would seal the two of you together, bind your souls in a way that could never be undone.
He leaned in.
Closer.
Closer.
His ears and cheeks burned crimson, the heat spreading like wildfire. Was it wrong that you were younger than him? The thought clawed at him, a jagged reminder of the lines he was crossing. Was it okay to kiss you here, in the apartment he had been spying on you through? The age gap loomed in his mind, a specter whispering doubts. Was he taking advantage? Oh god, but he wanted you. Needed you. His body betrayed him, refusing to move fast enough, slow enough, right enough.
“I— really..."
The words lodged in his throat, his heart tearing itself apart at the thought of you pulling away after this. He knew, with a certainty that bordered on terror, that the second his lips touched yours, he would never let you go. Never. You would be his—completely, irrevocably—and the weight of that promise, that responsibility, nearly crippled him. Please. Why wasn’t his body obeying him? Why was it betraying him like this?
Your eyes flickered open, studying him with a quiet worry. The concern in your gaze was a knife to his chest.
No. No, no, no, no, no—
He had freaked you out. He had ruined everything. The moment stretched, taut and fragile, and he braced for the rejection, the horror, the way you’d recoil from him like he was something monstrous.
Then—
Your hands found the sides of his face.
Palms warm against his skin, fingers curling just enough to anchor him in place. You looked at him—eyes searching—and Dex’s breath hitched. Permission. You were asking for permission. His eyebrows drew up, a silent prayer of need and anxiety, his eyes half-lidded in surrender. He gave you everything he had in that look. Yes. Always yes.
You leaned in.
The world held its breath.
Then—
The doorbell rang.
A shrill, jarring intrusion.
Dex and you both jerked back, the spell shattered like glass underfoot. He shot upright, his gaze ricocheting around the balcony like a trapped animal—anywhere but you. Shit. What now? The movies had never prepared him for this. The real moment had never been scripted.
His response had made you confused. Had made you pull away. Of course it had. What else could he have expected? He was a storm, and you were the quiet after, the stillness he didn’t deserve.
His chest ached. The moment had slipped through his fingers like smoke. With a mouth dry from regret and anger, he moved to the door. The person disturbing him would face his wrath.
"You."
"Agent Poindexter." The british man stood stiff, black hair gelled down and gaze knowing. Wilson Fisk's driver. The one who picked Dex up on the day of the bulletin slaughter. Fisk had ordered him to wear a red suit, belonging to the vigilante daredevil— Dex didn't know nor care about the logistics or reasoning. The agent was Fisk's sword at the time. Just carrying out an order. When he had murdered those journalists in cold blood, he forgot all about it. Fisk hadn't contacted him since. Now though...
His hands tightened on the doorpost. "What do you want."
“Follow me outside.” The agent’s voice was clipped, rehearsed. “The boss has asked for you.” He tried to peer past Dex, his fervor uncharacteristic. “Visitors?
Dex's eyes flicked to the side at the sound of the balcony chair rustling. "Sorry, this package isn't for me. Guy next door must've ordered." He said loud enough for you to hear, before lowering his voice to a venomous whisper. "Listen, I'm out. I did what he wanted, I'm done." He leaned in, gaze wild with murderous intent as he looked down. "You ever come here again. I'll kill you."
He slammed the door shut and took a deep breath. Fate wouldn't allow him rest, would it?
"Hey..."
He turned around at the feeling of your hand on his shoulder, his gaze still wild from anger.
"Oh, woah. Are you alright?"
The buzzing started then—a swarm of flies in his skull. She’s going to die. The thought clawed at him, shredding his sense of security like a plane torn from the sky. You’ll never be with her. Fate doesn’t favor you, Dex, it never did. You can pitch a thousand perfect games, and it won’t bring your parents back. Your compass... if I cant find one? then rely on structure... I need you to wear this suit... come with me... I killed them all with rocks ms. mercer... what kind of gun do you have, Craig? ... I'm familiar with the M11... did a couple years in the army.... got real cozy with the M11... wait, please, don't shoot me! this war... we're not enemi—
“Dex...?”
“Get out.”
“I—”
“I said get out!”
“—okay.”
It was inevitable. From the moment he’d seen you, all the restraint, all the fighting—it had to come undone now. That darkness inside him, the one he’d tried to bury beneath layers of control and repetition, had risen to the surface.
Dex couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
Before he knew it, you were pinned against the wall, his hands gripping your shoulders, his body looming over you. His eyes burned with an intensity that stole your voice, your breath, your thought.
Visions crashed over him like waves—his time in the army, the gunshots echoing in the desert, the way visitors had left him in the orphanage, Mercer’s cancer diagnosis, his baseball coach’s face twisted in disappointment. They blurred together, a montage of guilt and grief and violence. His hands trembled on your shoulders, but his mind replayed it all: the killing, the screaming, the soldier crawling away from him as he raised his gun.
'General Flores sends his regards.'
'We’re not enemie—'
BANG.
Over and over. The face. The gun. The diamonds of light from the barrel illuminating the dark desert floor. The young man’s eyes, wide with betrayal, hungry for life. Why did I do that. Why did I not feel your pain as I robbed you from going home...? Let me feel it. I want to be like you.
BANG.
The tremors in his hands worsened. The gun—no, you—was shaking. Oh god.
'I speak perfect english! We can talk— Gah! I'm bleeding out, please, brother!'
'General Flores sends his regards.'
'We're not enemi—'
BANG.
“You’re… you’re a good guy, Dex.” Your voice was a fragile thing, trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Good guy. Okay? I don’t blame you.”
The visions—like VR glasses taped to his face—began to splinter, to fade into the recesses of his mind. Distant echoes. He looked down at you.
Oh. You.
“There we go,” you whispered, voice steady despite the fear in your eyes. “Good job. You’re doing well, Dex. I’m— I’m here. You’re holding me pretty tight, okay? Uh, try to breathe.” Your body shook like a sapling in a hurricane, but your voice anchored him. “Yes. Yes, good.”
Your words became a shield, a barrier against the screaming and the crying dissolving into the back of his mind. And then he saw it. What he had done.
He stood there, shell-shocked, his hands releasing your shoulders as if burned. “I—”
“It’s okay.” Your chest heaved, but your voice was a lifeline. “I’m gonna wait here until you tell me to go. No sudden movements.”
Dex’s forehead fell against the wall above you, his breath hot against your ear as he fought to regulate himself. It was like waking from a nightmare, his legs weak, his back slick with sweat.
“Here.” You grabbed his arm, steadying his shaking hand on your shoulder. “There we go. Okay. Alright.”
He whispered your name, weak and broken. “G-go home. I—I need space.”
You shook your head, grunting as you steadied his weight against you, delirious and exhausted. “Not before I lay you into bed.” You twisted around him, still trembling from the adrenaline. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“T-thank you.” The words stumbled out, his voice raw. He clung to the wall, using it to hold himself upright as you dragged him forward.
His room was dark, the world tilting and spinning beyond his control. His body was lead, his mind a haze of shattered memories. He collapsed onto the bed, and you adjusted him with a grunt, your strength surprising. The sound of rustling blankets filled the room, distorted and surreal. A warm cloth pressed against his forehead, then silence. The door closed. Opened. A fluffy weight stuffed between his arms.
So tired…
Before he knew it, Dex was asleep.
------
2012, (???), Location: (???)
The golden sun bled into the horizon, painting the desert in hues of amber. The young blonde soldier polished his rifle with slow, methodical strokes, the rhythmic scrape of metal against cloth blending with the laughter and roughhousing of his squadmates. The air smelled of gun oil and sweat, the dry wind carrying whispers of distant gunfire like a ghostly prelude.
“So, Benjamin… don’t got a pretty gal waitin’ for you back home?”
Dex hurled a grease-stained rag at the ginger-haired Burns, his eyes rolling as he gazed out at the endless dunes. The tent sagged under the weight of the evening, its canvas flapping lazily in the breeze, sand sifting through the gaps like a slow, insidious rain.
“What you bettin’ on, Burns? I give five pre-filled magazines on that he’ll finally squeak. No man can shoot that good without a good piece of woman waitin’ back over yonder.”
The tent was a mess of maps and scattered ammunition, the table a warzone of crumpled papers and loose bullets. Sand clung to everything, grinding between teeth, stinging eyes, a constant reminder of the land’s indifference.
Dex sat perched on a folding chair, his AK-47 cradled in his lap like a restless pet, his camouflaged pants blending into the chaos around him. He watched the perimeter, fingers tapping absently against the rifle’s stock.
A younger soldier, his glasses slipping down his nose, rocked back and forth on his chair, elbows digging into his knees as he studied the blonde with something like awe. “Maybe he’s just that good at shootin’ though.”
“Ah, ride his dick harder, four eyes,” Burns sneered, a toothpick clamped between his cracked lips as he stroked his chin. “I’m bettin’ my last pack of Marlboro Reds against him speakin’. Dessert’s prolly gonna kill me ‘fore I finish these anyways.”
A low whistle cut through the tension. “Way to sweeten the deal, Burns.” The New Yorker flicked a pack of gum onto the table.
“What you fuckin’ twelve?”
“Oh, shut up, you’re the one with a bad mouth, Burns. Enemy’ll smell you comin’ from a mile away. This is a token of concern.”
“Fuck you!”
The tent fell silent at the shadow that stretched across the entrance—a towering figure, buzz-cut hair, a scar slicing down his cheek like a grotesque smile. General Flores. The name alone sent a chill through the room. His presence was a blade unsheathed, a storm gathering on the horizon.
Dex wiped the sand from his eyebrows and stood in one fluid motion, snapping a salute. The others followed, but too late. The general’s glare pinned them like insects.
“Only man with fuckin’ manners around here,” Flores growled, his voice a chainsaw cutting through silence. His gaze locked onto the young blonde. “At ease, soldier.”
Dex lowered his salute, his jaw tight, and followed the general to his tent. The moment the flap closed behind them, the world outside seemed to hold its breath.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of maps and old sweat, the radio crackling like a dying man’s last words. Flores sat heavily, his broad shoulders sagging as if the weight of command had finally crushed him. The tent fabric fluttered in the gathering wind, sand skittering across the floor like tiny, frantic footsteps.
“Sit down with me, kid,” the general muttered, his voice raw.
The wind outside howled, a chorus of ghosts wailing through the desert. Dex’s eyes flicked around the tent—sterile, organized, a place where death was dissected like a specimen. Maps pinned to a bulletin board, letters tucked into corners, the radio murmuring in a language Dex didn’t understand. Flores usually had a translator here, decoding the enemy’s chatter into something useful. But today, the radio was quiet. Too quiet.
Must’ve been a quiet day, Dex thought, lowering himself into the canvas chair.
The silence was suffocating. Flores stared at him, his eyes two chips of flint in the dim light. The general leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight, and let out a sound that was half laugh, half growl.
“Y’know what I like about you, son?” he rumbled, his voice like gravel under a boot. “Always on the straight and narrow path. Followin’ orders like they’re the only thing keepin’ you alive. You’re secure, kid. I need more people like that.”
Dex nodded, his throat tight. The wind outside picked up again, a low, mournful moan. The radio crackled to life, a voice screaming in a language Dex didn’t know—sharp, desperate, terrified.
General Flores hung his head, reaching out to turn the volume down.
“Sir—”
"I know. I know." The once proud and strong general now hung slumped over his chair, eyes down on the floor as he twirled a dog-tag over his fingers. "—Used to do this with coins. Calmed me down when shit hit the fan. Man, the way Klein's face got burned off in 'Nam... jungle smelled like rotten meat and fresh pork all at the same time..." The dog tag was tossed on the table, name in it faint but readable.
Joseph Klein.
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“It ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for. Dumb bastard knew what he signed up for.” He patted his breast pocket, a sad smile tugging at his lips when his fingers brushed against a bottle of rum. He pulled it out, followed by something small and silver. A coin. “Catch, son.”
Dex’s hand snapped up, catching the coin with a metallic clink. He turned it over in his fingers, the engravings worn smooth by time and touch.
"When them nasty thoughts start floodin' ya mind... focus on that stupid coin. Slip it around your knuckles, get real good at focusing on it. It'll keep you from descending down that rabbithole." The general took a swig of rum, breathing in through his nose as the alcohol burned down his throat. "Cheated on m'wife before this war. Told myself I was killin' the thoughts of Klein's death by doing it. A distraction I told her. She told me I was a dumb sack of shit." He chuckled, eyes burning into the nameplate. "Don't think she ever found out I was—what I was. I loved him. I loved Klein." Tears began to stream down his face. "We are who we are, Dex."
The radio began to pick up despite it's low volume, and the world outside the tent grew awfully quiet.
"They're comin, boy. You know that now, right?"
Dex's voice hitched, about to speak when the General put the barrel of his gun on his temple.
“Tell ‘em I send my regards from hell.”
“NO! WAIT—!”
The shot was deafening, a thunderclap in the confined space. Blood sprayed across the tan canvas, Flores’ head jerking back as if yanked by invisible strings. His body slumped forward, the pistol clattering to the floor.
Dex sat frozen, his breath shallow, the coin digging into his palms like a blade.
Then—
Gunfire.
The tent erupted in chaos, bullets tearing through the canvas like a swarm of wasps. Dex hit the sand, his helmet clattering beside him, grains filling his mouth as he gasped for air. His squadmates’ tent was already ablaze, shadows writhing in the flames, one of them—a man he recognized—flailing wildly, his body a torch against the night.
“Don’t kill us—!” Burns’ voice was cut short by a burst of gunfire.
“Fuck! Burns—you’ll pay for this—!”
Screams tore through the air as Dex crawled toward the tent flap, his hands shaking. When he tore it open, the world was a nightmare.
Fire roared in the distance, illuminating the desert in hellish orange. His friends—his brothers—were running, screaming, their silhouettes stark against the flames. One of them, engulfed in fire, staggered like a broken marionette before collapsing into the sand. The stench of burning flesh and gunpowder clawed its way into Dex’s throat. Just like Flores said; fresh pork and smoke.
The car’s engine growled like a beast satisfied with its hunt, its headlights carving through the thickening dark. Men in military fatigues leaned out of the windows, laughing as they picked off the last of Dex’s squad—one by one, like targets at a shooting range. The man on fire thrashed in the sand, his screams swallowed by the roar of gunfire. The laughter was sharp, cruel, a sound that would haunt Dex for the rest of his life.
His fingers trembled around the cold metal of his rifle. Too soon? Too soon.
He forced himself to move, crawling out of the tent’s entrance like a ghost, his body low to the ground. Every shift of sand sent a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. The cargo crate was his only salvation—a jagged, splintered shield against the storm of lead.
Behind it, he gasped for air, his lungs burning. His hands shook as he slotted a finger into his magazine. Jammed ammo? No. Check. Seven magazines in his chest rig. Dex did the math in his head, ignoring the gurgle of a dying man nearby, the final shot that silenced him for good. The laughter of the enemy was a knife twisting in his gut. Two hundred and ten shots. All of them he could make count.
Breathe in.
Out.
He rose like a specter from the sand, his rifle barking. One. Two. Three. The recoil dug into his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. He ducked behind cover as bullets chewed the ground where he’d stood. Footsteps crunched on either side of him, too close, too fast. The desert was turning against him, the sandstorm rising like a wall of teeth.
Breathe in.
Out.
As if possessed he shot left, twisting to shoot right before scrambling across the sand to avoid a ricocheting bullet— sand caked his fingers, grains sharp like rocks against the steel of the machine gun. Two men left, he wiped the sand off his eyes— shit. A sandstorm was beginning. He wasn't equipped for this. No men, no back-up. Footsteps at eleven o'clock.
He whipped his gun up and sprayed like a mad-man desperate for life— he needed to live, where was the other— Dex let out a wild groan as a stray bullet knicked into his shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound, red and bright.
"F-fuck...! Fuck!" He couldn't help but cry out as he held the wound, desperately trying to keep himself from bleeding out. He was twenty-two years old. Didn't want to die. Wanted to go home. His tan sleeve had turned dark red, streams of fresh oxygenated blood spurting out his wound and down his arm. Tonight he might die. Tonight, the desert might bury him alongside his friends.
He took a deep shuddery breath and laid down, eyes scanning under the jeep. There. He held his gun and aimed the best he could, gritting down his teeth as he lined up the shot.
The spray of his rifle was merciless — and it crippled the last man standing. He screamed and moaned on the floor, writhing around in pain as his eyes frantically scanned the bleeding american soldier walking up to him.
"Please— I have a wife. Children."
Dex stared at him, his face a mask of hollow indifference.
"Y—you want money? I have it. You Americans like pearls? O-or Gold and silver!?"
Silence.
The man looked up, eyebrows scrunching up in defeat. He dropped the tough act in defeat, shaking his head as tears welled up in his eyes. What could he be... no older than nineteen?
The smell of blood and burning flesh on the hot wind infused the young blonde with renewed hatred.
'"I'm like you! My friends, all dead because of this stupid war! No one wins. No one!"
But nothing moved in Dex's eyes.
"You're a slave to it just like I am! We're both victims, can't you see that?!" The dark haired boy grabbed at his legs; both were mangled beyond repair by bullets. "'I speak perfect english! We can talk— Gah! I'm bleeding out, please, brother!'
Dex’s AK-47 was empty. He tossed the rifle aside, and the man’s eyes flickered with a desperate hope.
He pulled out his M11, the pistol cold and heavy in his grip.
“General Flores sends his regards.”
“We’re not enemi—”
BANG.
Blood flecked Dex’s cheek. The fire behind him roared, casting long, writhing shadows over the sand. The enemy squad was dead. His teammates were dead. He watched the man bleed out, sand turning to rubies as it hungrily soaked up his liquid. Another soul usurped by the desert.
“Be happy you’re nothing like me.”
The young soldier slowly turned around, boots sinking into sand as he walked into the unknown. The sandstorm swallowed his walking shadow, drips of blood trailing behind.
Part of him would be kept here forever.
....
-----------------
Present day. Five hours later, 9PM.
Dex shot up from his bed, body covered in sweat. He inched back at the feeling of a ticklish ball against his arm.
A fluffy teddybear. Eyes too big and brown fur worn from holding. Dex grabbed the teddy by it's middle, eyes scrunching up in confusion. Was this yours...? He got up from the bed, tearing off his t-shirt with a nauseous groan as he tossed it on the bed. Where were you?
He held himself against the wall, low-iron making his head spin. God he was starving— how late was it? Where was his watch—? Oh. Tossed out the window at your old place cause it wouldn't stop buzzing with bpm reminders.
The living room was empty, and that's when the memories loaded in. He had you pressed against the wall? Shit. He had really let himself go this time... Dex rubbed the sleep out his eyes and turned on the kitchen sink, running his face with cold water.
So quiet and dark in his apartment...
The memories kept loading in like flashcards. Your shoulders shaking under his touch, the way you looked at him, fearfully yet desperate to help— spoken to him with the same calm he felt from his psychologist. You told him to breathe, nearly out of breath from how hard his body was leaning against your ribcage, and then you brought him to bed— he remembered the way you grunted as you tried to carry him.
The tap turned off and his fingers ran over his stubble, wiping off excess water from his jaw.
You saw him freak out... but you didn't leave without helping.
Because of the nicotine cookies. The dark urge snarled. You got her hooked.
Because she loves you. The lighter side spoke. She accepts you.
Dex shook his head and reached into his jean pocket. A silver coin. Flores' silver coin.
He rolled it over his knuckles, having perfected the move over the years just like the general said. The movement managed the storm inside him, making him able to focus on what to do next.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead as he steadied himself at the door. No weird tricks, no cookies, no faking.
This time Dex would come to you an honest man.
...
He stood at the door, fully aware of the sorry state he was in. Dex had looked into the mirror beforehand, accepting his pale skin, dishelved blonde hair and greying sideburns. He didn't look the way he used to, the scar of age written all over his face. His fingers grazed at the bullet in his shoulder. You should see him for what he really is. A scarred man, broken by the burden of his youth. Trauma imprinted on his skin.
'We are who we are, Dex.'
He exhaled, a shuddering breath that carried the weight of years, and lifted his hand. His knuckles grazed the wood, a hesitant knock—once, twice.
Silence. Then commotion on the other side.
The door flew open.
You stood there, framed in the golden halo of the hallway light, your eyes wide with a storm of worry. And in that instant, Dex forgot how to breathe. The years peeled away. The scars, the weight, the ghost of every mistake—none of it mattered. Let me be enough. Just this once.
His voice cracked when he spoke your name, a rasp of gravel and longing. “I’m sor—”
But you were already moving.
Your arms wrapped around him like a lifeline, your hands splaying against the ridged terrain of his back, fingers grazing the puckered skin where the bullet had torn through. No words. No questions. No demands. Just the desperate press of your body against his, as if you could fuse your very soul to his through sheer force of will. Dex’s breath left him in a rush, his arms banding around you like steel, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck as his heart—oh god, his heart—slowed its frantic drumming to the rhythm of your pulse. His left hand cradled the back of your head, tilting you closer, as if he could memorize the shape of you through touch alone. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words torn from his throat, raw and trembling. “Thank you for helping me.”
The hug broke as softly as it had begun. Your fingers laced with his, your grip firm and sure, pulling him across the threshold.
Dex’s breath hitched as he stepped inside. One step. Just one, and he was crossing into your sanctuary. His lashes fluttered, casting shadows over his hazel eyes, which flickered with the candlelight’s dance. The question hung unspoken between you: Are you certain?
You answered by tightening your hold on his hand, by nodding, by turning away just enough to guide him deeper into the room.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the warm, hushed glow of your living space, he had to bite back the plea clawing up his throat. Please. He wanted to beg you to let him collapse at your feet, to press his face into the softness of your belly, to feel your hands rake through his hair again. To be held. Just once more.
But you were already moving away, your fingers twisting together in that nervous habit he’d come to recognize. The space between you was a chasm—close enough to taste the heat of your skin, far enough to drive him mad with the agony of restraint. The candlelight painted your profile in molten gold, your lashes casting delicate shadows, your lips parted as if you, too, were holding your breath.
The Manhattan apartment hummed with the quiet chaos of a life just beginning to settle. Boxes—some still taped shut, others gaping open like forgotten mouths—dotted the hardwood floors. The late moon bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, blue fingers across the room. Flickering candles scattered across every surface. Their flames danced, casting shifting shadows that made the air feel thick, charged, like the space itself was holding its breath.
“So… do you uh, want me to make you some evening tea?”
His response was a shuddering exhale, his body betraying him by inching closer, drawn by an invisible thread. The unspoken desire coiled between you, thick and electric, louder than any confession. “Oh, yeah.” His voice was a low rumble, thick with want. “Can I… help?”
You shook your head, already turning toward the kitchen. The cabinet doors opened, your fingers closing around two mugs, then the drawer for the spoons. Dex watched you, his gaze a physical caress, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist—small enough to be cradled against him on nights when the cold seeped into his bones. He should have stayed where he was. Should have let the distance be his shield. But the need was a living thing, writhing in his chest, and it won. His feet carried him forward before his mind could protest, his arm stretching past your head to close the cabinet above you. You flinched, caught off guard by the sudden nearness, by the way his body caged you against the counter. His arm was a bar of iron, his bicep flexing as he braced himself, and when he looked down at you, his gaze was a storm—nervous, burning, hungry.
The cup in your hand trembled. Dex didn’t miss a thing. His smirk was slow, knowing, as he curled his larger hand around yours, his veins standing out against the golden hue of his skin. His fingers were rough, calloused, a stark contrast to the delicate bones of your wrist. He held your gaze as he guided your hand—and the cup—down to the counter, pressing you into the hard surface. Your breath hitched. A flush bloomed across your cheeks, and you looked away, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as a nervous laugh escaped you. The air between you thickened, saturated with something electric, something alive. The apartment itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence so heavy with tension it could have been cut with a knife.
Then Dex leaned in.
A strand of his hair fell across his temple, catching the light like spun silk. His eyes narrowed, pupils blown wide with desire, and in that moment, he decided he would never let this end. Never let you pull away. Never let the world remind him, ever again, that he didn’t deserve this.
“Are you feeling… better?” Your voice was a whisper, barely audible, but it might as well have been a shout in the hush. You looked up at him, your body swaying closer without your permission, as if pulled by an unseen force. “I was worried about you…”
“Oh yeah?” His smile was slow, wicked, his nose brushing against yours, a risky tease. “Have you… been thinking about me?”
You swallowed, your throat working, and for a heartbeat, your gaze flickered downward—just as his fingers found your chin. He tipped it back up, his touch firm, possessive, needy.
“Cuz’ I have.” His breath hitched, a ragged sound that betrayed his restraint. His hands dropped to your shirt—his shirt, and his fists clenched in the black cotton, twisting, pulling you closer until the space between you vanished entirely. The fabric around your waist grew taut, the ridges of his knuckles pressing into the softness of your stomach as he dragged you against him. “I’ve been thinking about you.” His voice was a growl, rough with need. “A lot.”
“Dex…” Your voice was a plea, your brows knitting together as you searched his face. The sparkle in your eyes told him everything he needed to know. “Me too.”
“R-really?” His voice shook before settling down into a velvet murmur, low and smooth. His chest ached. “That’s real good.” His eyes burned, welling with tears he refused to let fall, darting left and right as if searching for any sign of retreat before settling back on you. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna try something, okay?”
You nodded, slow and eager, your lashes fluttering shut as his palms cradled your face, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair. Dex memorized the moment—your parted lips, the flush on your skin, the way your breath hitched—before he let himself drown.
You sure?
Yes?
Then his mouth pressed onto yours.
It was wild. Uncontrolled. A collision of desperation and fire, molten lava surging through his veins, searing him from the inside out until his vision whited out with stars. He moaned against your lips, his hands anchoring you to him—one fisted in your hair, the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The sound of your lips meeting his was wet, messy, perfect. A symphony of need. He opened for you, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting the sweetness of you, the heat, the rightness of it. It was better than he’d ever imagined. Better than fantasy. Better than hope.
And when you moaned—oh god, when you moaned—it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, a melody that unraveled him completely. The effort it took to resist you, to resist this, nearly shattered him. His hands flexed against your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as if he could anchor himself to you, as if he could fuse your souls together right there on the counter. The thought of taking you, right then and there, of bending you over and losing himself in the heat of you, nearly undid him.
Dex tore his mouth from yours with a wet, obscene sound, a thread of saliva stretching between your lips like a silver cord—proof of what you'd just shared, proof of his desperation. Your eyes were wide, shocked, and he didn’t give a damn if it was because he was a terrible kisser or the best thing you’d ever tasted. You were his now. His baby. His sweetheart. His love.
His arms banded around you again, steel cables of want and need, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed back into yours. The kiss was fire. A conflagration. His head bobbed with the force of it, his lips moving hungrily, desperately, as if he could consume you whole. His hands mapped the terrain of your body—down your neck, tracing the delicate pulse point, down your spine, his fingers splaying possessively before tangling with yours, squeezing tight as if he feared you might slip away. Tears burned his eyes, spilling over in hot, silent rivulets, and the world dissolved into a haze of sensation—your scent, the taste of you on his tongue, the way your body melted against his. It was too much. Too good. Too right.
“I—” His voice broke, raw and trembling, his face flushed, his pupils swallowed by darkness. “I want you...” The words tore from his throat, a plea wrapped in a growl. “Want you to be mine tonight… please…” His mouth found yours again, wet and sloppy and hungry, his tongue delving deep as if he could memorize the shape of you. “Let me make you feel good.” His lips trailed down your throat, peppering you with kisses, his stubble scraping against your skin, marking you. “Wanna make you feel so good…”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form a single coherent thought. His sudden confidence had stolen your breath, left you drowning in the storm of him. All you could do was nod, your body betraying you by arching into his touch, silently begging for more.
Dex didn’t need words. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the couch. The fabric of your clothes was a barrier he ached to remove, but he laid you down with infinite care, his eyes half-lidded with adoration as he hovered over you, his breath ragged against your lips.
“Dex, I—”
He silenced you with another kiss, this one sloppy and desperate, his stubble grazing your cheek as his tongue traced the shell of your ear before diving back to claim your mouth. His hands roamed, possessive and reverent, mapping the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the way your body fit against his like a missing puzzle piece.
The bulge in his jeans was a torment, pressing insistently against the zipper, demanding release. He imagined it—oh god, he imagined it—unzipping himself, shucking off his jeans and boxers, freeing himself to you. He pictured slipping your panties aside, the first brush of his cock against your wet pussy, teasing you both before finally, finally sinking into you. Stretching you. Filling you. His length would be a revelation for you, too tight at first, too much, and you’d arch beneath him, a whine torn from your throat as you fought against his size. And he’d whimper, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, his hips trembling as he bottomed out, his vision whiting out with the sheer perfection of it.
The image was too vivid. Too real. His eyes rolled back, his breath hitching as he fought to push it away. That would be the final gate. The point of no return. And once he crossed it, there was no going back. No pretending. No undoing what would happen.
His voice was a rasp, torn from the depths of his want. “Tell me to stop.” The words were a prayer, a plea, a warning. “Tell me to stop before we go past the point of no return. Tell me to stop before I change things between us forever. Tell me to stop before you regret having me.”
He needed you to say it. Even if it killed him. Even if it meant walking away. Even if it meant he’d spend the rest of his life with the ghost of this moment haunting him.
"—I want you." Your hands curled around his hair. "I'm, uhm also on the pill so we don't need to—" You looked away, smiling and excited and nervous. "Yeah."
The blonde gave you a nod before suddenly picking you up, slotting your legs around his torso as he ground you into him. A broken sound toar from his throat at the hard ridge of his erection grinding into your jeans. "Mmm... are you sure? I don't know if I can stop when—mmph...!" Dex was silenced by your kiss, groaning as you latched his belt open and pulled his zipper down. He was already hard enough to break steel, his cock aching behind the confines of his boxers, and the way you touched him—like you were starving for him—was almost more than he could bear. The once hesitant features on his face twisted into ones more predatory, now fed by the confidence that you really wanted this. "Oh, fuck. I'm gonna do so many things to you baby, so many dirty fuckin' things." His arm snaked around your waist, other arm pulling your jeans off before perfectly tossing them into the laundry basket across the room.
"Hey—" you chuckled, "how'd you do that—" a high pitched whine escaped your throat, his fingers already working you.
"Good aim, sweetheart. I'll show you all about that later. Mmm..." Dex rubbed you through your panties, confidence lacing his voice as he hit that special angle on your clit over and over and over and over again. “Like that?” he murmured, his voice a dark purr, his breath hot against your ear. “Am I doing a good job?”
Your body shook from the intense pleasure, your eyes fluttering shut.
He lifted you briefly, fingers taking your panties off and tossing them before working you again. “Look at me.” The command was a growl, his voice rough with tension and something softer, something almost reverent. Hazel eyes burned into yours—sleazy and hungry and ravenous, his breathing ragged, like he was barely holding on. “I love you, y’know that? I’ve loved you—fuck, so wet—for a long time.” His free hand tilted your head up so he could kiss you again, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. But his fingers never stopped moving, never stopped teasing, never stopped driving you wild. “Ever since I first laid eyes on you— baby, I... I’m gonna show you how much I care for you,” he promised, his voice rough with sincerity and pupils blown out. “But you need to help me. This is… new to me.”
Your eyes widened in suprise from both confessions; yet you only inquired on the latter. "You've never—?"
"Waited for the right girl,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper as his thumb kept circling and rubbing your clit, quick and accurate. “And here you are.” His tongue slipped into your mouth again, exploring, tasting, kissing you like a man starved. “Want you to give it to me,” he growled between kisses, his hands sliding up your shirt, pushing the fabric up in one swift motion. “And I’ll give it to you…” The sight of you—bare, flushed, your breasts perfect for him—made his breath catch. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat and he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You whimpered, your back arching, your fingers tightening in his hair, and the sound of your pleasure sent a jolt of electricity straight to his cock. Dex groaned around you, his teeth grazing lightly against your skin—a reminder that he was still a novice at this, that he was still learning; your body his sacred text. When you hissed he sloppily apologized, mouth still closed around you as his other hand accompanied your left breast; squeezing and groping you while his tongue kept working.
It all seemed to be too much for you, and Dex didn't understand. This was just the beginning, he'd just started but you were already writhing and crying in his grip like he was torturing you.
"D—dex! Please, miss the spot for once I— you're gonna make me cum!"
He removed his mouth from your nipple with a wet pop, the tissue now covered in spit. Just a little more of this and you'd pass out, he was sure. But making you whine, the sounds of you, the heat from your skin— all of it was more addictive than anything he'd ever had—how could he stop hitting your spot? He never missed. Your cries made his head spin from overload.
Desperate to stop his relentless attacks of pleasure, you moved off him, fingers trailing over the white fabric. Your hands dropped to the waistband of his boxers, and Dex's cock twitched, desperate to be freed, his mind a whirlwind of panic and desire. He cut the low whine off in his throat when you pulled his boxers off; making his throbbing cock fling out against his taut stomach.
Based on the pause in movement and broken gasp he figured you were worried.
He shot forward, no longer reclined on the couch, his eyes searching yours in a frenzy.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice cracking. His hand cradled your face with tenderness. “D-do you maybe, uh, want to stop? W-was I too much—”
“No!” you rushed out, your voice breathless, your cheeks flushed. You straddled his lap again, your thighs trembling slightly as you settled over him. “No, I just. You’re… really big, Dex. I’m not sure I can fit that.” A choked laugh escaped you, nervous and sweet, and Dex’s heart stopped. "But I want to try.... 'cause I want you."
“O-okay.” The word was a relieved gasp, his hands gripping your waist, helping you rise just enough to align yourselves. “I just… wanna make you feel good.”
With lidded eyes and bated breath, he watched as you slowly, so slowly, lowered yourself onto him. Your wet entrance met his tip, and Dex’s entire body tensed, his breath hitching as you took him inch by inch. His fingers dug into your hips, his knuckles white, his entire being focused on the way you felt—God, you felt incredible—so tight, so hot, so willing. His tip breached your entrance, and a broken sound tore from his throat. Excitement, fear, and desire all bled together, his eyebrows drawing up from the sheer overload of sensation. “B-baby, I— I’m not ready—haahh, ohh fuck…!” His head fell back, his vision blurring as you sank deeper, your body stretching to take him, your heat enveloping him completely. A guttural moan tore from him, his hips jerking up involuntarily, burying him further inside you.
"Wait—" you whimpered.
“Nnngh! O-okay…” His voice was a ragged cry, his vision swimming as you took even more of him, your body finally flush against his, your hips meeting his in a way that felt like coming home.
You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders, your breath coming in sharp, needy gasps as you struggled with his size but just as hungry as he was. You paused every once in a while, your body trembling, before letting yourself sink further, your walls fluttering around him, driving him wild. Dex’s hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs—holding you steady, guiding you, worshipping you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was trying to crawl inside, like he needed your air to breathe.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he groaned against your lips, his voice rough with awe. “Never thought it would feel s-so fucking good...!” His hips began to jerk from overstimulation, slow at first, then harder, deeper, his cock sliding in and out of you with a slick, wet sound that filled the room. His arms wrapped around you tightly, taking over control to make you ride on him harder. You hissed and whined from his eagerness, your pussy not yet stretched out enough to accommodate the way his cock slid back and forth, wet with slick and precum and throbbing wildly. Every ragged drag had your breath coming in desperate needy gasps.
The usually shy and composed agent was a sweaty whimpering mess below you, speaking gibberish as he fucked into your wet pussy like it had replaced his need to breathe. Your body was tight against him like he might die if he were torn apart. His fingers dug into your back and ass, hair messy and he couldn't help but throw his head back on the couch. Cock repeatedly sliding into you with haste and hunger.
Dex watched you through half-lidded eyes, unblinking, black pupils nearly taking up all of the green-brownish colour. His eyes looked pitch black, two dots of charcoal framed by blonde lashes. You cried out when he went extra deep, big cock finally bottoming out inside you as he worked himself in, again, and again, and again, and again, and again and a-fucking-gain. The squelching was lewd, his thighs wet from your fluid. "Fucking love you." He said softly, grip on your hips tightening as he bucked up. His eyes rolled back from pleasure, but slowly flicked back onto you. He was obsessed with watching you, watching you take his big cock, watching you struggle and squeal. "I fucking love you." He spoke again, tone laced in intensity. Was it too soon for you to say it back? Or did you just not want to? With a swift angle change he hit a spongey spot inside that made you see stars, your eyes fluttered shut and you started to whine everytime he hit it. "Say it back." Dex demanded, angling you down harder to ground into that area over and over and over and over and over and over. The sticky wet liquid on his thighs had increased, now covering your leather couch. "Why the fuck are you not saying it back—ah!" He whined, moaning when your walls constricted around his cock impossibly tight.
The squelching filled the room along with ragged moans and stuttered gasps.
His hand instinctively wrapped around your throat, fingers relishing the control of the moment, tightening ever so slowly. "Mmm..." Your pussy tightened around his dragging cock, so tight it nearly halted it. "Fuck...! oh, y'like that baby...?" You couldn't get a word out, going limp in his hands from the pleasure. "Tell me you love me." Dex murmured, not stopping the way his tip prodded at your special spot. "Tell me y'fucking love me."
"—can't s-speak...!" You cried out, limp and slick with sweat.
The pieces puzzled together. Oh, of course. He hadn't stopped hitting the spot like you asked him to... but he couldn't miss, ever. A hung smile appeared on his face and he bucked you along to match his rhythm, your body rising and falling over him, your breasts bouncing with each movement, your breath coming in desperate, needy gasps. "It's okay... just try to say it back."
"I— mmm, l-love you."
That. Three words were enough. His cock twitched and his mind melted, everything dissolving into that single contact point between you. "That's it baby, fuck, love you m-more...!" You loved him, you did and he loved you back and this was perfect and he was losing his damn mind at it all. Everything was too much and too little and his face scrunched up from pleasure because it was all too loud and quiet and his body tensed because the blood rushing through his veins was too hot and cold and—
"Fuck!" Dex’s control was slipping, his movements growing erratic, his kisses frantic. "I love you, I love, I love you, you, I fucking— haah...!" His hips grew more desperate, hair stuck to his forehead as you arched and writhed in his firm grip. He could feel himself getting closer, his balls drawing up, his body tensing as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside him.
"I'm— I'm gonna—"
"Fuck, please no you're going to make me—"
Your walls tightened around and you sobbed from intense pleasure, face scrunching up and mouth a paused jutter of cries as you fell limp onto his muscled chest.
“Baby, I— I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm, his cock swelling inside you. “Fuck, fuck—!”
Everything went white.
He came with a guttural groan, his release spilling inside you in thick, scalding ropes that filled you completely. His body convulsed, every muscle locking tight as pleasure wracked him in violent waves. His face twisted—jaw clenched, teeth bared—before a broken sob tore from his throat. His fingers dug into your hips, yanking you down onto him as he emptied himself, his breath tearing through his lungs in ragged, shuddering gasps. His vision swam, stars bursting behind his eyelids as he filled you, over and over, until you could feel him dripping down your thighs.
The two of you lay there, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat, trembling in the aftermath.
Then you flinched as he lifted you off the couch. “Dex—what—?”
“Not fucking done with you, baby.” His voice was rough, possessive, as he cradled your exhausted body against his chest and carried you down the hallway, his steps sure despite the way his own legs shook.
Dex was high on this. High on the taste of you, the feel of you, the way your body had clenched around him. He needed more. Needed you like an addiction.
“I don’t know if I can take it,” you whimpered, squirming in his arms as he shouldered your bedroom door open and dropped you onto the mattress. “Dex, please—”
“Can I be your boyfriend?” His voice cracked, raw with desperation, as he already crawled over your shuddering body, caging you beneath him. “I swear I’ll make it worth it. I’ll do anything.”
You scrambled back on the bed, instinctively wary—like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. Your eyes widened as his hands gripped your hips, dragging you back into position. “Boyfriend? Yes, of course—I like you, Dex. I—” Your voice hitched, still thick with the remnants of your orgasm. “I love you.”
There was a flicker of hesitation in your last words, and it killed him.
His eyebrows shot up. “Do you really love me?”
"I do. I love you. It's just, it all went so fast and I was so caught up in my work-stress and living situation and—" You sighed, looking up at him. "I knew I felt things for you. I always found you attractive. Suppose I didn't notice I had feelings for you— or if you'd be willing to reciprocate them. I didn't want to ruin our connection. I valued it so much."
“I loved you the moment I first laid eyes on you.” His voice was soft, almost shy, but his eyes burned with sincerity. A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips as his fingers traced lazy circles over your stomach, sending shivers rippling through you. “I’m sorry if I acted… off. Some of my days on the job aren’t exactly pleasant.”
Your fingers slotted around his big hands, bringing them to your soft lips as you placed soft kisses on them. Dex figured you understood, the way you'd been eyeing his body, full of scars; and the big dent on his shoulder— you had noticed and understood he'd been through things. Probably pieced together his odd behavior was from field-trauma or other stuff.
The silence between you was thick, charged with something deeper than lust—something almost sacred—before it melted into something hotter.
“Can you… handle one more?” His voice was barely a whisper, his eyes wide and puppyish, his lips tugging into a bashful smirk.
You nodded.
The moment you did, he was moving—flipping you onto your stomach with ease, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled your hips up until you were flush against him. You gasped as his thighs bracketed yours, his cock already hard again, already aching for you.
“Good… so good…” His palm slid up your arched back, savoring the curve of your spine beneath his touch. “I wanna fuck you again. Real slow this time.” His chest settled over your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips cradled yours. He was everywhere—the heat of him, the rough scrape of his stubble against your ear, the way his breath hitched when he spoke. “Gonna put my mouth right here…” His lips grazed the shell of your ear, his voice a dark, velvety promise. “And fuck into you, sweetheart.”
You shivered, your body already responding, already needy for him.
“I—I thought you were inexperienced,” you stuttered, arching into him as his fingers slipped between your legs, testing your readiness.
“I am.” His smile was wicked as he pulled his hand back, bringing his slick fingers to his lips. He groaned, low and deep, as he tasted you—both of you—on his skin, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I’m gonna learn from you.”
“There’s not much to learn—” You squealed as his hands clamped around your waist, pinning you down. “You’re better than—”
“Shhh…” His smirk was downright sinful, his voice a rough purr. “Don’t make me jealous, baby.”
The first press of his tip against your entrance made you both moan. He was thick, stretching you open inch by inch, your walls clenching around him in resistance. Dex’s breath hitched, his vision whiting out for a second as pleasure ripped through him. A choked sound tore from his throat, and he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing himself to think, to breathe—anything but lose control.
His nails dug into your skin, his grip bruising as he held you still, his cock buried halfway inside you. The control it took to hold back was impossible. He was wild for you—drool slipping from his lips onto your back, his hips twitching with the effort of restraint.
“Are you ready to take me deeper…?” His voice was a growl, his cock twitching inside you.
You hummed, and that was all the answer he needed.
He pushed deeper.
You cried out—part pleasure, part pain—your back arching, your body craving more, addicted to the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him.
He groaned, his hips moving on their own now, rocking forward before slamming into you in one brutal thrust. His cock buried to the hilt, your body taking him completely. He pulled back just enough to drag a whimper from you before slamming home again, his hands tightening on your hips as your ass jiggled with every relentless pound.
The sight destroyed him.
His beautiful girl, flushed and trembling— now arched below him with her face down in the mattress as her older neighbor fucked her brains out. The reality of it turned Dex on even more. The age gap, the fact your skin was still so supple compared to his more rugged feel—
It felt controlling... possessive...
You whined when his arms curled around yours, pulling you upright. Dex's left arm hooked between yours behind your back, locking you in place as his right hand snaked over your stomach, dipping down to your clit, and rubbing that perfect spot again, and again, and again.
The dragging of his cock, filling the room with lewd squelching as he moved in and out of your tight pussy— the way he held your arms behind your back, impossibly tight in his grip— the way his finger circled and rubbed and pressed onto that sensitive bundle of nerves—
It didn't take long until you were a whimpering crying mess in his hands, growing more and more limp by the second— exhausted from the torturous pleasure he was mercilessly subjecting you to.
Dex's eyebrows drew up, so close to cumming already but forcing himself to last. This was a moment he had to capture in his mind, a dream come true that he should always be capable of replaying.
"F-fuck!" He groaned. You constricted around him in that specific way and he knew you were about to become undone. "Give it to me..."
The merciless pounding, the way he buried himself deep inside again, and again, and again, and again—
You were a stammering mess before every muscle in your body stood at rapt attention, silently crying before the final buck of his hips sent you over the edge. Dex shushed and cooed, telling you how good you were, how sweet.
His eyes fluttered shut from the wetness following your orgasm, making his hips buck and stutter, balls tightening and vision swirling.
You fell limp in his arms, and he held you tightly, burying himself as close as possible, hitting your cervix, desperate to get as close to your uterus— the idea of it.
"Mm! Fuck, I—" Drool dripped out, the blonde completely lost in pleasure as the filthiest fantasies ran rampant in his brain. "Wanna breed you...! Gonna fucking fill you up with my kids..."
You were too out of it to respond, half conscious and covered in sweat.
Everything went white and he lost track of what he was saying, crying and sobbing as his seed filled you up the second time, coating your walls in thick cum as his hips shuddered to a halt.
....
The room was quiet except for the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing—deep, slow, the kind of sleep that only comes after being used just right. Your body was a map of him: flushed skin, the faint red marks of his fingers on your hips, the slick evidence of what he’d done to you still glistening between your thighs.
Dex lay there for a long moment, just watching you.
This happened.
The thought hit him like a physical blow. He exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, his chest tight. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to touch you again, to prove this was real. That you were real.
You were his.
And he was never letting go.
Carefully, so as not to jostle you, he reached for the tissue box on your nightstand. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as he pulled a few sheets free. He didn’t want to wake you—not yet. Not when you looked so peaceful, so undone in the way that made his chest ache.
His thumb brushed against your inner thigh as he cleaned you, and you stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips. His breath hitched. God, even your noises belong to me now.
The tissue came away damp with a mix of him and you, and Dex’s grip tightened around the box. He swallowed hard, his mind racing.
How did I get so lucky?
He’d loved you from the moment he saw you—had lusted after you, craved you, but this? This was more. This was all and consuming. This was the kind of irrational, feral, horridly disgusting need that made his fingers curl into fists just thinking about it.
You were his.
And he was going to skin anyone who tried to take you from him.
His free hand hovered over your hip, not quite touching, as if afraid you’d disappear if he pressed too hard. His thumb grazed the curve of your waist, just once, before he forced himself to pull back.
I need to be better.
Better for you. Stronger. Worthy.
But even as the thought formed, his gaze darkened, his jaw tightening.
hey horndogs we're back with one i had so much fcking fun writing (if u couldn't tell). anyhoo, enjoy!
tags: graphic depictions of violence (obligatory), attempted m*rder, stalking, angst, explicit sexual content, service-switch!dex, dry humping, choking (f receiving), gun play (pistol held to reader's head for one scene), oral, fingering, and edging (f receiving), handjob (m receiving), unprotected p-in-v (pls wrap it up), praise/degradation (both receiving bc i'm freaked out), dex being a desperate p*rv returns, dacryphilia (low key p*rv reader too), c0ckwarming, a dash of fluff
requested by cielmrain. original request linked here! thank you so so so much for requesting!!!! i had an absolute blast writing this :)
summary: benjamin poindexter had been sent to kill you, the reader, years ago, but daredevil had saved you. during prison-enforced reflection for his crimes in relation to wilson fisk, you grew to haunt his obsessive thoughts. when he escapes rikers' island, he seeks you out first, his north star. ✪
benjamin poindexter, former fbi agent, veteran, and scarily-expert sniper, was in prison, said the TV. your heart stuttered in your chest when his picture filled the screen. blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a chiseled, scarred face. your hand snaked up to your neck, where the bruises had long faded from his strong fingers keeping you pinned against your bedroom floor. he had pressed a pistol gently to the side of your head, snugly in the spot just below your ear that dex refused to admit he wanted to mouth at. you could nearly feel the cool metal on your skin through his empty gaze in the mugshot.
you smirked at the sight of one particular scar on his neck, where you'd gotten him good. the TV switched to video of his arrest and your smirk got wider. you hadn't pressed charges against him after the incident, but this was satisfying enough.
you owed your life to matt murdock. you knew that. he jumped in at the last second, after having tracked dex across the city that night, and got the gun away from dex, away from you, and away from harm.
yet for some reason, when you really thought back to that moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that you weren't in any mortal danger in dex's hold.
you had put up a good fight — you really had — but he took you down in seconds. despite his hand gripping your throat hard enough to bruise, and the obvious threat of the firearm, there was something akin to curiosity in his eyes when you batted your pretty eyelashes up at him. rays of moonlight peeked through the blinds, casting harsh diagonal lines across his ruggedly handsome face. a face you'd seen a few times on the street or the subway, watching from afar, now that you thought about it. when the initial surprise wore off, you willed your wild heartbeat to slow, but it rejected this request at the starved twinkle in his stunning eyes.
"it's you," you gasped.
you...recognized him? dex short-circuited. his mind spun like a top.
your breath caught as his hold tightened on you. you remember the fear that shocked you at the question of whether he had a finger on the trigger. why even bother asking? the answer was yes, of course.
what you didn't know was that benjamin poindexter was doing his absolute best impression of a person holding it together. you, with your minty breath fanning over him, coming from between your soft, parted lips, with your favorite lip balm on them. he was there to kill you after stalking you for weeks, and now you were there, in his arms, pressed against him and the carpet. he should be pulling the trigger. but here he was, wondering what the lip balm tasted like on your sweet lips. dex let out a measured breath. and was that...desire? just there, in the flecks of green in his eyes?
"'s me," he spoke. you thought his voice would be confident, but it rasped, grating the way a gravel driveway might. desperate.
your fear seeped through you. it only emphasized your intoxicating scent: the salt from the sweat beading on your forehead; the layered notes of your perfume; the pheromones stirring beneath your soft skin. the fear mixed slowly with shame as you found your eyes flickering down to his lips.
dex inhaled sharply, tracking your movements. he should just do it. it's simple. pull the fucking trigger and be done with the mission, dex.
you made the situation oh-so-much worse when you drew one of your full lips between your teeth. he took a ragged breath and tried not to calculate the exact distance between your bodies: mere millimeters, if that. everything about you was warm and intoxicating. when was the last time dex was warm? he got lightheaded at the thought.
"what's your name?" you ask, voice shaking, not at all expecting an answer.
a beat passed as he considered you the way a predator would. a dangerous gleam reflected in his his haunting gaze.
"dex."
"you've been watching me," you realized.
"i have," dex answered steadily, carefully, like he was walking on eggshells, terrified of saying the wrong thing. as if this entire ordeal wasn't way past "the wrong thing" at this point.
"you're here to kill me."
"i am," he answered with that same guilty calm. he wouldn't meet your eye, but studied your face.
your stomach churned. you knew your work would get you in this type of trouble someday. you pissed off wilson fisk? this is what you got.
the clock on your night stand ticked the seconds away. otherwise, the charged silence and dex's clean, musky scent in the room suffocated everything else. this stranger was here to kill you and yet, his brows were pulled together, forming a crease on his forehead, like he was reconsidering. you were floored by the overwhelming urge to kiss him on the wrinkled, slightly damp skin...god, you were sick for that, right?
dex warily watched you swallow. he was nearly vibrating with the need to let out a single one of the tormenting emotions he was feeling, especially with how things were now that julie had left. the buzzing in his brain was building. he felt like a dog about to whine, begging to be pet.
without making any sudden movements, you engaged your core and lifted your hips just so, to grind with him gently. his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, cheeks turning pink when he couldn't stifle the erotic moan that you pulled from him. the barrel of the gun had nodded off, no longer pressed directly to your skull. you grinned wickedly.
"already, baby?" you teased, of course, referring to the quivering erection dex was sporting.
for the life of him, he didn't know what to do. dex was so mortified, he wanted to crawl inside himself and never show his face ever again. the tips of his ears were a shade of deep maroon. equally shameful was how fucking turned on he was by the whole endeavor, down to simply finding you beautiful in the early days, now to this. it took every ounce of self control in his body to wrestle back his appetites before they slipped free from his grasp.
"fuck you," he spat. anything to cool the burn of your rejection. you brushed it off with a chuckle and it only infuriated him more. the corners of your mouth curved upward in a knowing smirk.
"yeah?" you mocked, tilting your head to the side. "you wanna?"
"knock it off, you fucking brat." dex thrust his hips forward, pinning you both to the floor beneath. he stole the wind from your lungs and tore a moan from deep within your chest. humiliation flared instantly.
and then the motherfucker had the audacity to laugh. your nostrils flared in irritation. "sorry, sweetheart. you make fun of me for getting desperate but i get you down here and its..." he took a grounding breath. "well, it's the pot calling the kettle black, here, angel, isn't it?"
"shut the fuck up," you sighed, digging your fingernails deeper into the jumpsuit fabric covering his bicep as punishment. dex sighed too, trying his damnedest to mirror your movements as to not spook you away. he invited the pain from your nails — found it familiar — as something to tie himself to.
he bound himself to your degrading words. he bound himself to the gasp you let out when he rolled into you again; to the feeling of your warm body against him; to the view of you beneath him. dex felt himself becoming obsessed in real-time. it was intoxicating.
you were dizzy for a similar reason, but you'd never admit it, quite literally with a gun pointed at your head. shame cooked low and slow in your core. you had only intended to tease him, to knock him off his game. never did you think you'd like it. heaven forbid. nor did you think he'd be so responsive and...big against you.
you got the distinct impression that if you were to ask, dex would gladly manhandle you in this position onto the bed. to even consider it was horrible...right? to want it was...
"are you gonna kill me tonight, dex?" your voice was barely above a whisper.
dex groaned like he was in pain, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek. "'m still thinking about it, honey, mkay? it's complicated. just...just let me think a second, hold on."
you nodded fervently. he was weighing his options. at this time, you had to weigh yours, too. was it clinical? to want to fuck your stalker? had to be. he's threatening your life, you fucking idiot.
dex's breath came in hot pants against you, his strong nose pressing into the soft skin of your face. yes, this was reckless. dumb, perhaps. if you didn't have so much damning evidence that he wanted you, maybe you could have just acted like a normal person and cried and begged for your life.
by the time matt — a dear friend — had swooped in and saved the day, you were certain that dex wouldn't kill you. he'd thrown something haphazardly after you once matt got him a safe distance away, but you couldn't tell anyone that, least of all matt. by god, how could you begin to explain?
"no, matt, he wasn't going to kill me. what was he doing here? he was here to kill me. but don't worry! he changed his mind!" is that what your line was?
as for exactly how dex changed his mind, you'd blame it all on the lack of oxygen getting to your brain from being choked.
years went by and benjamin poindexter wondered if you were the same. he wondered if your smile lines had deepened; if you had changed your hairstyle; if you still smelled like an autumn evening. his leg bounced up and down in anticipation. the bus was nearly there.
calm and collected, dex got off the bus and went into the nearest thrift store he could find. after ditching the prison guard outfit in the nearest garbage bin, dex popped the tags off his new hoodie and sweatpants. thank you, goodwill.
in no time, he was off with a spring in his step, headed uptown to the cafe you spent most of your saturdays in. sometimes when he had a particularly awful saturday, he daydreamt of sitting beside you here.
despite being the most wanted person in new york city, dex passed through midtown without issue, with his head down, weaving in and out of people, like any other annoyed, overstimulated new yorker. because of course it was raining. he'd memorized the map to this cafe so many times that his feet took him there without much thought, even after all this time. the thought brought a rusty smile to his lips.
the cafe sign came into view and dex's steps slowed. he clenched his fists repeatedly, trying to keep his breathing steady. he could do this. he could talk to you.
he spotted you instantly: in the back corner as always, nose deep in a book, leg swung over the side of an armchair like a cat. you cradled a mug against your chest, cuddling against its warmth. you looked so cozy. dex let some very specific memories wash over him as he stood there, pretending to read the menu.
"fuck it," he said to himself. dex took a breath and steeled his reinforced spine, eyeing the armchair next to yours. he sat himself in it and grinned wildly at you.
"oh, um, hi," you greeted without looking, a smile on your eternally-pretty face, nose still in your book.
this stranger said your name in a voice that haunted your dreams and you froze. your blood ran cold. your eyes peeked over the edge of your book while your heartbeat was a stereo in your ear, and you met a set of fierce hazel eyes that you'd remembered all too well.
"hear me out," dex begged your name. it was quite the pleasant sound, you had to admit. he must have seen the horror on your face. "jus' wanted to let you know that i'm gonna be coming by tonight at eleven. want to apologize…for what i've done. gonna knock three times on the window, mkay?"
your stomach dropped, and your mug almost did as well.
"w-what?"
"'m home now." ben's cheek scars flexed as he smirked devilishly. "thought i'd come pay you a visit."
"you've already paid me enough visits," you spat with disdain.
"ouch, sweetheart, that hurts," dex softly mocked as he fake-cradled his arm. he leaned in low, lips right next to your ear. "i know you remember what happened last time."
you sat up abruptly, closing your book with a thump. dex caught your drink before it spilled, setting it down on the table beside you gently. you didn't have time to be grateful, instead doing your best not to look panicked to everyone else.
"really not tryna hurt you," he murmured. "i swear."
and with that, dex stood up and strolled to the door, exiting left and disappearing into the manhattan crowd outside.
by the time eleven o'clock had rolled around, your stomach was in anxious knots. you picked at the skin by your fingernails as you tried anything and everything to distract you: your favorite TV show, that book from earlier, etc. none of it could keep your mind from racing.
could you trust his word? probably not.
but something about the earnestness in his eyes was haunting. and he had chosen to spare your life before.
you were not entirely surprised when the tri-knock came at exactly 11:00:00 PM. it was your bedroom window, as you knew it would be. the same one he used to break into your home the night he tried to kill you all those years ago. the knock sent a thrill down your spine. you were frozen in place by it and its implications.
only after you took a shaky breath, and dex knocked thrice again, you scurried over to the window to unlock it. dex stepped into your bedroom and exhaled, smiling. he caught your watchful eye and clamped down his slight display of emotion. but he had to admit that it was nice to be back here again, surrounded by you.
shutting the window and blinds, you sat on your bed criss-cross applesauce, and so dex did the same beside you. your posture was razor-straight, rigid. he liked that about you. among many other things, now that he let his gaze drift over you.
he met your glare. "i'm so sorry…for trying to kill you. fisk made me."
your jaw dropped. "that's it?"
dex straightened, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. your hand landed on his knee. "w-what are you doing?"
you chuckled, inching closer to him with your hand resting softly on his thigh now. "i think i deserve a better apology than that, benjamin."
"you want me to beg?" dex asked lowly, pressing his nose to your neck, inhaling your perfume. part of you ached at the thought. "i'll beg for you, baby. i'll do anything for you."
your fingers gripped his thigh with authority, or maybe it was desperation. "tell me how sorry you are."
"fuck," dex panted. "'m so sorry, sweetheart, i never really wanted to hurt you. you're so good. too good for me."
"you purposely missed at the end — when you threw those pens — didn't you?"
a smirk slid across his pink lips. "i plead the fifth."
you laughed. you actually belly-laughed, and knowing he'd been the source, seeing the twinkle in your eye, ben poindexter could die a happy man.
"just wish i could make it up to you," he whispered, eyes pleading, like a sad retriever.
"dex—" you inhaled sharply when his lips gently attached to the delicate spot of your neck and began suckling. on instinct, your hand on his thigh began to move higher and desire began to pool in your core. dex swatted your hand away and moved to lay between your legs.
your mind was spinning with the wrongness of it all. never mind if he hadn't wanted to hurt you, what about all of the other things he'd done? what about—
dex's quest began with taking off your fuzzy socks and sensually kissing up the insides of your calves. you could think of nothing else with his lips on your skin, leaving trails of fire in his wake. he relished in the taste of the scented lotions and oils that were part of your nighttime routine — they hadn't changed. he reached your pajama shorts and hesitated, looking up at you.
permission? you could have laughed at the absurdity, but you found yourself nodding with anticipation instead.
dex made quick work of your bottoms, exposing your lower half to the cool air of your room and his greedy gaze. with no time to waste, dex's lips teased your inner thighs and vulva for an unbearably long time before he pressed a sloppy kiss to your leaking pussy. the whine that ripped out of your chest was pornographic in nature, and dex giggled like a kid at christmas.
"yeah, you like that, pretty girl?" he teased, tongue swiping your juices off his lips like it was sacred.
"dex, please," you begged. for friction, for some kind of release, for anything at this point. shame tinted your cheeks a shade darker.
he groaned into your pussy, tongue working on your lips, until he finally paid some mind to your aching clit. you weren't shocked that he found it so easily: he was bullseye after all. but the pleasure from his lips wrapping around it was euphoric. your back arched away from the bed, so dex's arm slid beneath you. a smile touched your lips when you realized this was his attempt at closeness.
"so fucking wet…just for me," dex muttered to himself, possession taking root.
his tongue prodded your clit with perfect precision. oh yes, he noted each and every one of your honeyed sighs and rolling shudders. dex learned your body language so well he had you coming undone on his tongue in seconds. your legs shook as you rode your way through it, moaning and mewling.
dex thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
your fingernails scratched his scalp just right when you ran your fingers through his hair like that. he purred like a cat beneath your touch.
dex left open-mouthed kisses along your sensitive cunt, lazily lapping up your cum. "pussy tastes so good, baby. i knew it would."
you whined at the praise. "yeah? you think about me?"
a wicked grin appeared on his frustratingly handsome features. a thick finger pressed at your entrance. he gazed up at you, light-headed, waiting for your permission again. but you wanted an answer first.
dex whimpered, avoidant. "think about you every fucking day, alright?"
a beat of silence passed between you two.
"you're the only good thing i have."
your heart broke at his admission. there weren't any sort of words to convey what you were feeling. you reached down for him, your kind hand cupping his trembling jaw. you beckoned dex to settle between your legs at eye-level, and you laid a soothing kiss on his horizontal cheek scar.
next, you kissed his swollen lips. they were just as soft as you thought they'd be. he tasted of mint and you. your tongue dipped into his damned mouth and dex moaned as you explored him, grinding his clothed erection into your pussy. you kissed him hungrily, pulling at his hoodie, anything to get him closer.
dex nearly ripped his sweatshirt off, and you decided to take your top off too. he choked on air at the sight of you, eyebrows raised. you tugged his pants down so you were both naked and he could have died on the spot.
"please," he croaked.
"i know, baby," you cooed, cradling his cheek. you brushed your lips over his and he sighed in contentment, gripping your waist for stability. dex sat down, hand held out to you in invitation to join in his lap, and you accepted.
he kissed you like a man starved, with feverish, hungry lips and too much teeth. you didn't mind. he reached down between your bodies once again in question, fingers just barely dancing over your dripping cunt, before you were nodding and dex was slipping them in. the stretch of his calloused digits was delicious. dex's head fell like a dead weight against your neck and laid kisses there.
"f-fuck, dex, just like that, please," you insisted, voice high and sharp.
he had two fingers pumping in you while his ruthless thumb worked your clit, already nearing you to orgasm once more. his fingers curled toward him, reaching that spongy part of your insides. your breath hitched as you clenched tighter on him.
"mm, right there, honey?" he teased, gaining confidence now that your moans had become considerably louder. dex increased the pressure on your clit, drawing flawless circles.
"yes, please!" you were putty in his hands and you both knew it.
he chuckled erotically beneath your earlobe, occasionally biting it. "want me to make you cum again, pretty girl?"
you nodded, embarrassed, chewing your lower lip.
dex tsk-ed in disapproval. "words, baby."
"please make me cum again, dex," you sobbed.
the words made dex pause, bathing in the feeling of being needed, his eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure. he grinned like a maniac against your smooth skin.
"don't worry, doll, i will." he peppered tender kisses to your throat as he resumed fingering you. the relief almost made your knees go out and you subconsciously leaned further into his large frame.
"feels so good," you whispered. "don't stop. please don't stop, oh god."
dex grunted, nodding slightly. he kept his pace, pushing his long fingers in and out as you made a mess all over his hand. it was a mess benjamin poindexter sincerely didn't mind.
"'m gonna…" the muscles in your core pulled taut as orgasm washed over you once again. you collapsed against dex, who caught and cradled you as your legs continued to ruthlessly shake.
"that's it, good girl," he grumbled, planting a kiss on top of your head as you lay on his chest.
it took you a few moments to recover from the aftershocks before you lifted your head enough to catch his eye. your saccharine smile made dex melt on the spot. you traced his jaw absentmindedly, admiring his handsome, scarred face.
"thank you," you said bashfully, smothering your shame by capturing dex's lips in a lingering kiss.
"you are very fucking welcome," dex replied with a laugh, kissing you passionately. his fingers slipped out of you and you took an interrupting sharp breath, wincing slightly. "i know, baby, 'm sorry."
"'s okay," you reassured, readjusting your position on his lap. his erection brushed your soaked core and you both sighed.
dex smirked like the devil, bringing his juicy fingers up to your pouty, puffy lips. you opened wide for him, sucking his digits with hollowed cheeks. you tasted your syrupy coating on him and moaned, looking dex square in the eye as you did so. his mouth fell open as you licked his fingers clean, big eyes staring up at him, straight out of one of his fantasies.
when you were finished, you released him with an exaggerated pop! of your sinful lips. but your mercy ended there as you started to kiss along the side of his neck. dex was lightheaded.
you reached between you and gathered some slick from your pussy onto your fingers, then wrapped them around dex's girthy, veiny cock. he threw his head back and let out a choked moan of your name. he throbbed in your hand, length growing as you stroked him with each flick of your pretty wrist.
but as much fun as it would have been to tease him all night, that wasn't what you wanted right now.
you released your grip, positioning him against your cunt instead. dex couldn't breathe.
"not gonna last long, honey," dex confessed honestly, eyes flickering over you in hunger and insecurity. you nodded in understanding. he was in prison for nearly a decade.
you leaned forward and kissed dex slow and sweet, as you gradually sank onto his length, inch-by-inch. his leaky cock stretched you open to perfection as you swallowed each others' moans.
"hng, fuck, s-sweetheart, so fucking wet 'n tight for me."
you nodded with fervor, whines slipping from your beautiful lips, desperate to please him. "just for you."
dex shuddered, cock throbbing inside you. he wanted to scream that you couldn't just say things like that to someone like him, but he lost the willpower when he bottomed out inside you. your gorgeous eyes rolled back as his tip kissed your cervix. you steadied a warm hand on dex's left cheek and he nuzzled into your touch, as you began to build a fixed rhythm of your hips. his hazel eyes bore into yours with intensity and he rocked his hips against yours in tandem. he truly never wanted to leave this moment.
the only sounds that filled the room were the obscene schlucks of your pussy as you rode dex and the feral moans that the two of you coaxed from each other. your unoccupied hand ended up intertwined with dex's much larger one, fingers interlaced.
he took one of your nipples into his mouth, biting and suckling. the pain-pleasure mix sent a fresh wave of heat down to your core and you moaned uncontrollably with your bottom lip sucked between your teeth. the noise encouraged dex, who was a mess of his own, to continue mouthing at your tits and fucking up into you. his breathing was ragged now, as he snaked his precise fingers down to your clit once more.
"yes!" you whined. "fuck me, baby, please. just like that."
dex grunted. "yeah, you like that, beautiful? like having me deep inside you like that?"
"mhm!"
"mm, 's what i thought. look so pretty taking me nice 'n fucking slutty."
you gasped, preening at his explicit praise. he smiled up at you like you were the sun in the sky, sweat beading on his temple.
the familiar knot of tension in your abdomen was building. you could feel yourself getting wetter, the glide of his cock having so little resistance it should have been blasphemy. dex's cheeks were flushed, his intertwined fingers sweaty, his legs trembling.
you maintained your steady pace, licking a stripe of sweat from the base of his throat to just below his ear. dex whimpered and it's the sexiest sound you'd ever heard.
"f-fuck, baby, 'm close," he warned, trying to compose himself. "pussy just feels t-too fucking good. so fucking good."
"it's okay, dex," you said, laying another sweet kiss to his lips. "it's okay."
and something about your tone of voice, coating the "it's okay"s like honey, told him he was safe in your arms, and sent dex straight over the edge in hysterics. he crashed his lips into yours like a desperate teenager. you found it oddly charming, smiling against him. he moaned pathetically into your mouth, murmuring nonsense praise, while his cum spilled deep into you. his cock pulsed as your overstimulated pussy milked him dry.
your climax hit you violently at the sight of dex's red-rimmed, teary eyes. you wondered just how long his body had been deprived of that. you clung to him, trembling, as you rode out your high, leaving a juicy white ring around his cock that dripped onto his balls below. you were still holding hands — the grip suffocating.
you turned dex's gaze to yours and languidly licked up his tears. it almost made dex cry more — your kindness — but he methodically slowed his breathing with every bit of will power he had. and then you were kissing him and his cock was twitching inside you and he was dizzy all over again, but he was exactly where he wanted to be. his mind was dead silent.
you would figure out the mechanics of this tomorrow. for now, you were falling asleep with dex buried balls-deep inside you.
a/n: hello again from the ether!! my goodness this was fun to write. sry it took so long to my lovely requester, since i wanted to give it my all, i took my time! i would suck this man dry à la capri sun. like mouth is actively watering. ugh. every day i wake up and thank god for wilson bethel.
i've decided to make this an ethel cain series because i think that fits dex horrifically well sometimes lolll
as always, pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennnnn!
xoxo, b
poindextergirl™ 2026. do not feed my work into ai, repost, or translate my work. reblogs are very much appreciated! ♱
