crow

“and i dream too much and i don’t write enough and i’m trying to find god everywhere”

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

i’m crow :)

let’s be mutuals i promise i’m nice

[gawdland]

what doesnt kill you makes you go out walking on sunny days until you end up on a tree-lined street where you can look up at the gaps of sunlight and realise you miss them more than anything

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

I Am Lonely (I Cannot Be A Saint)

CHAPTER 3

FEATURING: Dex (Bullseye) x fem!reader

Someone is watching her, and that's the least of her problems. No matter. He will provide.

WARNINGS: NSFW, MDNI, stalking, possessive behavior, kidnapping, religious psychosis, smut

A/N: Baby's first Tumblr fic (on this blog). This is cross-posted on AO3 as well :)

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

Dex goes to prison on a Monday afternoon. It’s sunny and warm in the city. The DA rushed his trial, putting him on the stand as soon as he was out of the hospital, eager to make an example of him. Fisk gets to go back to his mansion, gets to pin everything on Agent Nadeem, gets to live, and Dex gets to rot in a cell. Bullseye, they call him now. The man who doesn’t miss. 

The first few months, she thinks it might kill her. To be that close to divinity and have it ripped away. She’s not even allowed to visit. No one is, it’s like they’re trying to wipe his very existence from the collective memory.  His slaughter at the newspaper, in particular, hangs over the city like a fog. There’s no understanding, no sympathy for him, but how could there be? She and Fisk are the only people that know what it took to push him that far and neither of them can exactly come forward with it. She’s not even assured he’ll let her live now that Dex is indisposed. He doesn’t like loose ends. If she pulled the thread his entire organization could crumble, though she doubts her testimony would make it to a judge before she found herself in a terrible “accident.” 

So she’s on her best behavior. She goes to work, she comes home, she stays in her lane. She gets a cat just to have something to care for. She buys a handgun and keeps it in her nightstand. She goes to church on Sundays, unfulfilling as it has become. She takes low-profile targets, and she goes after them much less frequently than she used to. She doesn’t talk about Fisk. She doesn’t talk about Dex. She barely sleeps, tortured with nightmares of Fisk’s masked, faceless men kidnapping her, killing her. She’s reeling, drowning, but there’s nothing she can do. She is entirely, absolutely out of control. Her kills get messier, more violent. It scares her sometimes, the haze she goes into only to come out covered in blood. 

Tonight is one of those nights. Her target is almost unrecognizable. His intestines spilled out onto her feet, his skull crushed into fragments, crimson blood spattered on every surface in his room. She wipes some of it out of her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Her breathing evens out slowly, her muscles burning from the exertion. The relief this provides her gets less and less every day. Her job grates on her, speaking to these criminals like nothing’s wrong, and now she doesn’t even have the consolation prize of making real change. She doesn’t feel powerful, helpful, like a savior. She feels nothing. 

She trudges into the man’s bathroom, leaving bloody footprints in her wake. The faucet lets out a pathetic trickle, making her sigh. As best she can, she splashes the cool water on her face, watching it run pink down the drain as she rinses off the evidence of her slaughter. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Damn. She looks rough. Heavy purple bags hang under her dead eyes. Her skin is tinged almost gray, pallid and sweaty. A shell, a ghost maybe. Wracked with loss until all the life has drained out of her. She’s almost glad Dex isn’t here to see her like this.

She creeps back home, riding the shadows to keep her concealed. Her cat greets her at the door, yowling her head off. 

“Hey, Esther,” she murmurs, leaving down to scratch her head. Esther preens, rubbing her head into her hand. Unwittingly, she’s become very fond of the animal. She only got her so she wouldn’t be rattling around her apartment alone. 

“Hello, doctor.”

She leaps back, scrabbling for her sword. Her heart races, adrenaline pouring into her veins like a flood. 

Vanessa Fisk stands in her kitchen. She recognizes her from news articles and TV segments. A practiced air of elegance hangs around her, the picture of a criminal first lady. 

She re-adjusts her grip on the blade, subconsciously scans the room for any other exits, tries and fails not to look scared.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, wishing her voice sounded a little stronger. Vanessa smiles like she’s just told her a joke.

“I came here for your professional services.” Vanessa nods at the sword. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“You know.” Not a question. Of course she does, Fisk’s probably had eyes on her since Dex let her out of that cell. Her extracurriculars are pretty attention-drawing. 

“Yes,” Vanessa answers anyway. “I’m not here to hurt you, doctor. If I was, I wouldn’t be here at all, I’d send someone else. I’m here for your counsel.”

“Counsel?” she asks, sarcasm dripping from the word. Vanessa’s pleasant smile doesn’t even flicker. 

“I need a job done. I plan to release Agent Poindexter from prison.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes must be wide as dinner plates, her fingers twitching. A hot ball of anger begins to burn in her stomach. How dare she come here, swank around her apartment like she owns the place, and dangle Dex in front of her like live bait?

“Your husband agreed to this?” she grits out. Dex took a shot at him and he hit harder than most do. She can’t imagine a world where Fisk lets that slide. 

Vanessa finally falters, a small frown passing across her face. “I haven’t seen my husband in a while,” she says. “I’m here for your opinion.”

“On what? If he’ll go for it, do your dirty work for you?” she spits. “Kill someone, I assume?”

“Yes,” Vanessa says again. Simple. Even. “I’m aware of the… nature of your relationship with him. You partake in the same activities.” She gestures vaguely at the sword. “Your job is to understand sickened minds, I imagine you’re familiar with his.”

“He’s not sick,” she shoots back too quickly. Vanessa smiles again, entertained by her defense. 

“Of course. I apologize.” She rounds the counter, moving in closer, settling on the couch. “Will you answer my questions?”

“Why shouldn’t I just kill you right here?” She flips the sword in her hands. Itching to do it. “You said your husband is out of the picture anyway. Who would stop me?”

Vanessa goes serious but no fear is evident on her face. “Because if you kill me, you will never see your Agent Poindexter again. He will live and die in a cell, and you will live and die separated from him.” She cocks her head. “Is that something you can live with?” 

She has her and they both know it.

“What do you want to know?”

Vanessa grins, more predatory than pleasant this time. Just like that, she’s sold her soul. Tentatively, she sets down her sword, shucks off her bloodstained boots, and takes a seat on the couch opposite Vanessa, stiff and as far away as she can be. 

“I want your assessment of his… stability,” Vanessa says carefully. “He is the very best at what I require, but I need to know the consequences before I unleash him on the city.” Her phrasing is sickening, like he’s some sort of beast that needs to be contained. 

“He’s not crazy,” she answers quietly. “He’s… confused. He gets turned around.” Fisk’s words in the cell flash through her mind. “He needs direction.”

“And would he accept direction from me?” Vanessa asks.

“If you’re smart,” she shrugs. Truth be told, she has no idea what Dex’s mental state is right now, how prison is affecting him. Maybe he’ll leap across the table and choke the life out of Vanessa as soon as she shows her face. That wouldn’t be so bad, honestly. 

Vanessa studies her, eyes scanning her face. “Alright,” she says finally. She stands up, grabs her purse. That’s it. No pleasantries. Two simple questions and she’s ready to weigh a man’s life and the safety of a city in her hands. 

“Vanessa?” she says right as the woman reaches the door. “If anything happens to him, I will kill you. I don’t care if your husband is here or not. I’ll kill you.”

Vanessa smiles again. “Good night, doctor.” She slips out the door, her heels clicking down the hallway and out of earshot. 

It’s quiet for two days after that. Every time she comes home she half-expects to find someone else in her apartment, Vanessa or Fisk himself or one of their minions doing their bidding. It puts her on edge like you would not believe, jumping out of her skin every time the cat knocks something over. There’s a small fiery hope, though, underneath the anxiety, that one day it will be Dex. He promised he would come back to her and he doesn’t seem the type to break an oath. It doesn’t quell her fear though. Every little sound sends her flying for the pistol in her nightstand. 

The sound of wind whistling through her apartment wakes her from a restless sleep on the third day. She sits bolt upright, pushing the blanket off her legs. It sounds like a window open, something she’s positive was not the case when she laid down. Painstakingly slowly, she slides the drawer of her nightstand open, wincing when her bed frame creaks under the motion, and grabs the gun. It’s cold in her hands and she tries to let it steady her. Whoever opened her window, whoever’s in her living room right now, they probably aren’t expecting her to come out shooting. She can survive this. Hopefully. 

Padding across the floor silently, she eases her bedroom door open, handgun raised in front of her. She steels herself and steps out, giving her a view of the kitchen and living room. 

A dark figure is hunched over by her couch. She squints, can’t quite understand the scene. He’s petting her cat. Kneeling on the ground, completely at ease, petting her damn cat. She cocks the gun, the click echoing through the apartment. The figure straightens slightly but doesn’t turn around. 

“Who the hell are you?” she demands. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move. 

“Answer me or I’ll shoot you right here and let the police identify your body.” 

He does respond to that one. He stands up, turns to face her. The meager rays of moonlight catch his face. His exceedingly, devastatingly handsome face.

“Dex?” It comes out a whisper. It’s unbelievable, unreal, impossible. She’s been pining for him, dying for him all this time and here he is sitting on her floor petting her cat. 

“Hey, baby.” A slow smirk spreads across his face. Cocky in a way she hasn’t seen from him before. She steps towards him, slowly lowering the gun. 

“You broke into my apartment,” she says shakily. 

He shrugs. “Door was locked.” Right. Obviously that’s the next course of action, breaking and entering. 

“You left.” Her voice cracks, tears threatening to spill over. “You left me alone.” She was so consumed with missing him she didn’t realize until now how much anger she’s been holding, how much grief. His face falls.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.” He goes to her, slips the gun out of her hand, tosses it on the couch without a glance. It lands square in the center of the cushions. With the imminent threat out of the way he wraps his arms around her. Pulls her into his chest, combs his fingers through her hair. She breathes him in greedily, the thrill of his hands on her running through her like electricity. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A mantra murmured into her skin. His lips run across her forehead, on her cheekbone, down her neck. The action sends a pang of heat between her thighs. She feels her resolve crumbling already, her pathetic display of resistance being melted away by the feel of his lips as he kisses over her throat. He’s barely touched her and she’s practically panting, lips falling open slightly. He mouths back up to her jaw, pauses over her mouth. They breathe in each other’s air, centimeters apart, eyes locked onto each other. There’s a sanctity to it, being this close, the religion they pass back and forth with each shaking breath. 

“Can I make it up to you?” It sounds like a genuine question. “I’ll make you feel good, please baby, let me make you feel good, let me make it up.” A string of pleas into her mouth. She whines at the sound of him, at the thought of what he’s proposing, a low noise ripping out of her throat. Dex fucking loves it. He grins and presses forward, catching her lips. Kissing him is better than she remembers somehow. She opens like a flower, letting him in with no fight. He runs his tongue along her lower lip, stoking the fire building in her core. Another soft noise escapes her and she tangles her fingers in his soft hair. Pinning him where he stands, refusing to let him pull away. 

“Dex,” she whispers. She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, what she wants. Just… more. More of whatever he’ll give her.

“Tell me,” he answers. “Anything you want.” He studies her face like scripture. 

“Make it up to me.”

He lets out a crazed, delighted laugh and moves so quickly it takes her brain a second to catch up. He grabs her thighs, scoops her up effortlessly, slides one hand under her ass and the other around her waist to hold her up as she wraps her legs around him. A man on a mission, he carries her directly back to her bedroom and deposits her on the bed, gentle, like she’s some priceless artifact. Her head tips back on the pillows and he’s on her again, grabbing at her hips and kissing her breathless. All she can do is react to him, too addled to do much of anything on her own accord. He pulls at the hem of her shirt, prompting her to sit up just enough for him to slip it over her head. 

He freezes. Eyes locked onto her body. She shifts a little under his gaze, but she can’t bring herself to be self-conscious when the look in his eyes is comparable to a disciple. He lifts his hand tentatively to cup one of her tits. Brushes his thumb over her nipple and she keens, arching into his touch desperately. 

“Dex, please,” she gasps. That seems to snap him out of it, his eyes flicking back up to her face. Whatever he sees spurs him on even more. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, pulling wildly at his own shirt, tearing it over his head. “Yeah, I’ll take care of you, baby. So pretty when you say my name like that.” The words alone are enough to make her moan, but the sight of him shirtless above her makes her want to scream. Prison has done wonders for him. He’s more filled out, less lean muscle and more bulk. She wishes she could sculpt, wants to study every inch of him and chisel it into granite. It feels like a sin that she can’t just look at him forever. 

Every one of those thoughts is wiped out of her mind when he shuffles down the bed and starts tugging at her waistband, hooking his finger in both her shorts and panties and sliding them down her legs. He tracks her face the whole time, maybe watching for any sign of dissent, but he finds none as he slips them off her ankles and, adorably, folds them neatly and sets them on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he runs his hands back up her legs, leaving goosebumps in his wake, sucking in a deep breath when he digs his fingers into the plush of her thighs. The way he holds them makes it impossible for her to close her legs, hide from him. Not that she wants to. This is the most turned on she’s ever been in her life. She’s soaking wet, she knows, and all she wants is for him to fucking touch her. 

He must read her mind because without warning, he leans in and licks a stripe up her pussy, curling the tip of his tongue over her clit. She moans like a dying animal, her hands shooting out to tug at his hair. He echoes her with a groan that vibrates against her sensitive skin and her hips buck up wildly of their own accord at the sensation. Then he starts licking into her for real and she’s barely touching the bed at all, her entire lower back arched up against his face. He momentarily releases his hold on her thighs just to clasp his hands over her hips instead, slamming her back down onto the mattress and pinning her there. Now unable to get away, she’s subject to the relentless onslaught of his tongue overwhelming every bit of her body. It’s heavenly, in a very real sense of the word. The man who doesn’t miss, she thinks to herself. Seems an increasingly more fitting title as he latches onto her clit with an accuracy that makes her head spin. 

“Holy shit, Dex,” she gasps out, fingers tightening in his hair. He glows under the praise, a drunken smile crossing his face as he laps at her. Maintaining his hold on her with one hand, he dips the other down and deftly slips two fingers inside her. A flush of heat explodes across her body. When he crooks them slightly and hits his target on the first try (that damn accuracy), she feels like she might actually combust. 

“How’s that, baby?” he mumbles against her, still working her with his mouth as he hooks his fingers into her over and over again. 

“Good, s’ so good, Dex, please,” she babbles. A few tears roll down her cheeks from the pure pleasure he’s giving her. She’s careening uncontrollably towards her orgasm, chasing it desperately while Dex moans and whines into her pussy like this is the best day of his life. He picks up the pace with his fingers, fucking into her hard and fast, and she’s done for. Her entire body seizes up, every muscle taut like a live wire as she cums, twitching in his grasp. It’s more intense than anything she’s ever experienced. She might be sobbing. She might be screaming. The only thing she’s truly aware of is Dex, his fingers, his mouth. He only pulls away when her body relaxes fully and her thighs start twitching on either side of his head. 

He looks beautiful. Still poised between her legs, the entire bottom half of his face glinting with evidence of her orgasm, his eyes bright and unfocused. She sits up shakily and grabs his face in both hands, hauling him up the bed. He comes eagerly and meets her in the middle where she kisses him, hard and fast and messy. She tastes herself on him. The thought makes her whimper and she bites down on his bottom lip. Coppery blood hits her tongue, she broke skin. She’s about to apologize when Dex groans wantonly and she realizes that he liked it, likes spilling blood for her. She licks it all off him, laves her tongue over the cut. There she is, coated in the smell of sex and sweat, lapping up his blood like a dog. It’s sick and it’s twisted and it’s perfect and she wants to fuck him until he can’t see straight.

So she does.

She scrabbles at his pants, clumsily undoing the button and shoving them down his hips. He picks up on her urgency and helps her, standing up at the foot of the bed and pulling them the rest of the way down to his ankles. His boxers are next. He doesn’t fold his own clothes, either too far gone to care or maybe he just cares about hers more. It doesn’t really matter because now he stands in front of her fully exposed, his cock thick and throbbing with want. He wastes no time getting back on top of her, the warm weight of him pressing her down deliciously into the pillows. His eyes stay fixed on hers as he lines himself up, studying every little reaction. 

He presses into her a bit at a time, savoring the feel of her opening up for him. The first contact makes them both moan, hers drawn out longer as the stretch of him seems to go on forever. She digs her nails into his back to steady herself. When he finally bottoms out he drops his head into the crook of her neck, sucking in deep breaths that sound almost pained. For the first time they are fully connected, they know each other inside and out in every way imaginable. This is religion. Nothing she’s every felt before can come close, not church, not a kill, not God himself. She’d burn in hell for eternity just for one more second of this. 

“You’re so perfect,” Dex grits out like it’s taking every ounce of his strength. “So fucking perfect, you’re like an angel, like you’re made for me.” 

If she wasn’t desperate before, she certainly is now.

“Dex,” she pleads. “Move.”

And he does. God help her, he does. The first snap of his hips hits like a freight train, a blast of pleasure going off in her stomach. Then he finds his tempo, quick, rough movements that have her biting into his shoulder to keep from screaming. 

“So. Fucking. Perfect,” he repeats, accentuating every word with a deep thrust. His voice, gruff with exertion and lust, goes straight to her core.

“Keep talking,” she begs. Such a simple request, he’d give her the air in his lungs if she asked right now.

“Knew it from the moment I saw you,” he mumbles into her hair, lips just barely brushing her ear. “So beautiful, so lost, I knew you would understand, knew you would need me. You need me, huh? Say it.” It sounds like an order but it’s undercut with a tone of pleading for her, for reassurance that she’s just as sick about him as he is about her.

“I need you,” she gasps out as he keeps pounding her into the mattress. “I need you. I need you.” 

And it’s true. He worked his way into the cavern of her soul and made a home there, occupying her body like a vessel, turning her into a patron saint of desire and stray dogs. But she had tamed him, hadn’t she? Took him in off the street and turned him docile, a lover that hung off her words like gospel. 

She’s rapidly approaching another orgasm, her body fighting through overstimulation and turning it to pleasure. He sees it, feels it maybe, and speeds up impossibly faster, playing her body like an instrument to bring her right to the edge. 

“Give it to me,” he demands before catching her in another searing kiss. And she does. Her hips buck wildly against him as she cums, her mouth falling open in a silent scream. He keeps kissing her, licking and biting at her lips, his thrusts getting sloppy and untamed as he follows her to his own orgasm. She can feel him throbbing inside her as he finishes and the sensation makes her shiver. He just manages to roll to the side as he collapses so he doesn’t crush her, not even bothering to pull out of her. He lays still for only a moment before he’s reaching for her again, wrapping his arms around her back and pulling her into his chest. They’re both sticky and warm and panting as they catch their breath. He dips his head down and kisses her again, gentle, soft lips sliding on hers and nothing more. When he pulls away, she looks up into his eyes, sparkling with adoration.

“Don’t ever leave me again, you understand?” she says quietly. He nods, brushing her hair out of her face with the reverence of a priest. 

“I promise,” he murmurs, tucking her head back down into his chest.

And she believes him. She has faith.

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

I Am Lonely (I Cannot Be A Saint)

CHAPTER 2

FEATURING: Dex (Bullseye) x fem!reader

Someone is watching her, and that's the least of her problems. No matter. He will provide.

WARNINGS: NSFW, MDNI, stalking, possessive behavior, kidnapping, religious psychosis, smut

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

The cathedral on Clinton Street is one of the most beautiful places she’s ever seen. She finds herself there a lot, stumbling in after a particularly brutal target or going to lighten her heart after a bad session. Most memorably, a murderer she was interviewing slipped his cuffs and strangled her until the guards came. She had bruises on her neck for weeks. The moment she was discharged from the hospital, she went to her cathedral and sat in the pew for hours, staring at the crucifix statue until her eyes went blurry. 

Today is no different. When she gets out of dinner with Dex, he hails her a taxi and she goes directly to the church. The lead that had been flowing through her veins ever since she realized Dex’s secret gets lighter and lighter as she walks up the steps. It’s a sense of belonging, she thinks, that drew her here in the first place, and it’s her desire for devotion that keeps her coming back. There is no facade needed here, no angle for her to abuse. How can you hide from someone omnipotent, who sees everything you do whether you know it or not? How could you want to? 

She slips into the cathedral, quiet as a cat. The stained glass casts refractions of the setting sun onto her face. Mother Mary bathes her in blue, Archangel Gabriel paints her skin white and gold. The pews are empty, not out of the ordinary for her odd hours here. The crucifix towers over her, poised above the center aisle on which she walks. It’s humbling in a way nothing else has managed so far. She crosses herself as she slides into her favorite pew.

“Father,” she begins shakily. “I confess to you that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do. I have… indulged in temptations of the flesh. I have let my focus falter in the name of earthly pleasure. I ask for the strength to deny myself, Father, I ask that you forget and forgive what I have been.” 

She says the words but she cannot concentrate on them. Her mind is clouded, even from her prayer, with images of him. The curve of his jaw, the line of his neck, the twitch in his hands. They flash through her mind more the harder she tries to push them out. She wonders if he’s watching right now. Stationed outside the church like a guard. A mortal tie from her otherwise holy priorities. She huffs in frustration, giving up on prayer. It certainly doesn’t feel like God is giving her the strength she’s asking for anyway. 

She needs a different way to clear her head. She needs a target.

It’s easy enough to find one. A lot of bad people go free every day. She scans the news for only a couple minutes before landing on one, a robbery turned homicide when the homeowner woke up at the wrong time. She doesn’t even want to know how his lawyers spun this, how they possibly talked a jury out of conviction. It doesn’t matter. She’ll send him up to the infallible jury in the sky and see what He does with him. 

She’s vibrating as she makes her way to the target’s apartment in the dead of night. It’s been weeks now without this. She wonders for a moment if the break will make the buzz better after the kill. 

First floor apartment. What a treat. No lying or climbing necessary, just a lockpick jammed into his window latch. It pops easily and she’s inside within minutes. 

The apartment looks almost deserted. There’s a ragged couch but no other furniture. A single, flickering lamp in the corner is the only thing fending off the darkness. There’s no interior doors, just a short hallway leading to the bedroom and evidently no other rooms at all. She pulls her sword and leisurely wanders down the hallway. The man is asleep, passed out on a dirty mattress laying on the floor. Her nose wrinkles at the smell of the room, all sweat and liquor. The man stirs as she approaches, sensing the imminent danger. He sits up blearily and she watches his eyes focus in real time. 

“What the hell?” he mutters, maybe not believing she’s real yet.

“Glory be to the Father,” she responds, towering over his body on the bed. 

“Oh, no,” the man starts to panic. “Not you. I know who you are, please don’t.”

“And to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.” Monotone like a mantra, going through the movements. The words stick in her throat. They don’t provide the relief she has come to expect from them. Her hand shakes as she presses the blade to his throat. 

This is wrong. This isn’t how she’s supposed to feel. She should be in control, relaxed, but a growing anxiety creeps over her. She doesn’t feel strong anymore. 

With a yell she doesn’t mean to releases, she drives her sword into the man’s chest as hard as she can. His sternum snaps with a sickening crunch. It isn’t enough. She rips the blade out and slams it in again, lower this time, in his gut. The blood is everywhere. It spatters on her legs. She stabs again. Again. Again. The man’s torso is an unrecognizable mess of organs and blood and bone. 

She finally stumbles back, haphazardly pushing hair out of her face and trying to catch her breath. There is no God in this room, she’s certain. No religion in what she just did. She’s lost her way somewhere, left it on the table in that restaurant with Dex. Blood drips from her sword onto her shoes. She wipes it off on the man’s mattress. She wants to pray. She wants to talk to Dex. The line between the two gets thinner every day. 

She sits motionless on her couch and stares at the wall. She scrubbed all the blood off as soon as she got home, put her “suit” away in the safe. A knock on the door scares the shit out of her and she almost falls off the couch. Stupid. She curses herself as she walks over and slips the chain off.

“Doctor?” says a deep voice as soon as she opens the door. A monster of a man stands in front of her, dressed in all black with tattoos poking out of his sleeves and neckline.

“Um, yes, how can I help you?”

She barely gets the sentence out before he’s on her. One enormous hand grabs the back of her head, fisting in her hair painfully while the other slams into her face. He’s pressing some sort of cloth to her mouth. It’s wet with something. The smell, sickly sweet and overpowering, makes her gag. She pushes uselessly at his chest, kicks at his shins, but he holds her just far enough away to render all her efforts useless. She screams as best she can into the makeshift gag but the muffled sound barely carries into the hallway. Her throat burns with whatever he’s forcing her to inhale. Her head starts to spin, a wave of dizziness washing over her. She starts to lose control of her arms as she shoves at him. His face is hard and grizzled as he watches her fade, eyes drifting closed and her body progressively going limp. Her legs give out and she’s gone, dead to the world.

She wakes up in terror. Clawing at her mouth and throat before her eyes are even open, desperate to pull the nonexistent rag away from her airway. It’s only after a moment she realizes there’s nobody on her anymore. Whoever had her drugged and kidnapped is nowhere to be seen. She’s alone in a barren grey room, laid on a cot. There’s a metal toilet and a sink on the opposite wall, a few feet down from the one enormous door. Her fear is temporarily overcome by pure bewilderment. What on Earth is happening? 

The door creaks and she jumps, immediately shoving her body as far into the corner as she can. Look small. Look scared. Don’t pose a threat.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

She knows that voice. Fisk.

“Where am I?” she asks quietly. Her throat is still scratchy and irritated. The words sound painful leaving her mouth.

“Underneath the Presidential Hotel,” he says casually, like this is a completely normal conversation.

“Why?” It’s all she can think to say. Fisk steps fully into the room. No more grey jumpsuit, somehow. He has an expensive-looking white suit now, reminiscent of his glory days before prison. He stops in the center of the cell.

“Unfortunately, Doctor, you are an innocent casualty in a much larger plan,” he says matter-of-factly. “I am sorry, though I don’t think my condolences with provide you any comfort.”

“It’s Dex, isn’t it?” she asks. No use pulling any punches anymore. “It’s been all about him. It’s why I got this job in the first place. Just to mess with him.”

Fisk smiles like a proud father. “Clever,” he praises. “Agent Poindexter is a very complicated man. But, like you, I like to understand. And to understand a man like him is to control him. You are the key to both.”

“So what, isolate him? Manipulate him? Give him no other options but doing whatever you say?” She scoffs. “Dex is stronger than that.”

“I suppose we will see.” Fisk’s tone sends a chill down her spine. Completely, totally self-assured. 

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks dully.

Fisk sighs. “In time, yes. I am.” He does look regretful, which doesn’t come as a surprise. She’s good at her job after all. He likes her. She should be scared, screaming and crying and begging, but she finds she’s more worried about Dex.

“What are you going to do to him?” 

Fisk smiles. Amused by her in some way.

“Agent Poindexter needs direction. I am going to lead him.”

“Lead him where?”

“Wherever I need him.” There’s a finality to it. This is a man with such power that his words all turn to immutable truth as they leave his mouth. He wants Dex, so he gets him. Just the facts. 

A faceless guard drops off food and water a few hours later. At least she thinks it’s a few hours. It’s impossible to tell under the blank, fluorescent light. Maybe she’ll go crazy before Fisk kills her. That’d be winning, maybe. Beating him in a small, irrelevant way.

She grimaces at the meal. Grey rice, grey chicken, grey vegetables. She eats anyway. The next morning, she assumes, the guard brings another tray. Hours later he brings another, and so on and so forth. On the fourth day she starts to get breakfast and dinner mixed up and loses track of day and night entirely. Not that it matters, she only sleeps for a couple hours at a time when she can’t keep her eyes open anymore. One day she finds a rosary on her food tray. A gift from Fisk. She flushes it down the toilet. In her waking time she stares at the wall, walks circles around the room, and thinks about Dex. 

Dex. 

Dex standing guard during her sessions, the feeling of his eyes on her providing a safety she had been yet unfamiliar with.

Dex cracking a joke for the first time, the look on his face when she laughed, like he’d been looking for that sound all his life.

Dex outside her apartment. She’s getting into dangerous territory. But the more she thinks about him, the more acceptable it becomes, the more comfort it provides. He had been there, watching her. Worshipping her. A permanence she had only subconsciously been aware of. There is something seriously wrong with her, she knows, but she can’t find it in herself to care. She’s tired of being a saint, of being a weapon. She likes what Dex has made her instead. So when she prays for deliverance, she knows they’re going to him. That she is no longer reaching God, or maybe that He has become something else. 

The sound of the fight wakes her up from one of her bouts of tensed sleep. It’s the first thud that gets her attention, the following three that make her scared. The distinctive sound of bodies hitting the ground. She’s familiar. She shrinks herself in the corner again, just like with Fisk, hoping whatever comes through that door will react the way he did. 

A loud bang on the metal door echoes through the cell. She flinches. Another one, then a pause. The sound of keys scraping in a lock. She braces herself. The door creaks open.

She must be dreaming. The madness of solitude has taken over and she’s hallucinating. Dex stands in the doorway, breathing heavy, disheveled, spattered with blood. He looks like a reckoning. The guard that dropped off her meals is dead on the floor behind him. There’s something sticking out of his neck. It looks like a handgun magazine.

“Dex?” she asks shakily, slowing making her way out of her corner. His eyes settle on her but no recognition passes behind them. Maybe he doesn’t think she’s real either. He blinks away his disbelief after a moment, taking a pained step towards her. That’s enough for her. She surges forward and flings her arms around his neck, hands gripping into his shirt like he might disappear if she doesn’t hold him down. His whole body tenses like he’s been electrocuted. She breathes in his cologne, tightens her hold on him, presses closer to his chest. Gingerly, he wraps his arms around her, encasing her torso. A shiver runs down her spine when he presses his face into her neck. 

“How did you find me?” she asks softly, still not releasing him. 

“I got a tip from a friend.” He picks his head up, leaning back just enough to look her in the face. His hand shakes as he brushes a strand of hair off her forehead, cups her cheek gently. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. A lump forms in her throat, heat pricks at her eyes. He came. He came for her, killed for her. She looks into his handsome face and it’s more of a religion than she’s ever known. 

 “Of course,” he murmurs earnestly, thumb beginning to stroke her cheek. “I knew it, I knew you wouldn’t leave me. I had to get you back.” The possessive bite in the words makes her stomach flip. In excitement, in anxiety, but with an undertone of arousal that makes her legs shake. 

“Can I… can I take you home?” he asks. She nods quickly. He smiles. It’s brighter than the fluorescents.

Dex’s hands don’t leave her until she’s in the car, and even then he leans over and buckles her seatbelt for her, pressing their chests together. She wants to shove him into the backseat then and there. He drives her home with a hand on her thigh. She lays her hand over his, traces nonsense patterns over his knuckles. His breathing picks up. His fingers grip tighter, nails digging into her skin lightly with a delightful sting. He doesn’t ask her address. She knows he doesn’t have to.

He pauses in the doorway of her apartment. There’s a reverence to it, the way he scans her living room from outside like he’s not sure he’s allowed in. He only moves in when he sees her tense, eyes locked onto her couch. She was sitting there when it happened. When Fisk sent a kidnapper to her doorstep and turned her into a pawn. It begins to feel like there isn’t enough air in the room. Dex crowds into her space, sliding an arm low around her waist. Now that she’s given him permission to touch her he never wants to stop.

“Hey, hey,” he frowns, tipping her chin up to look at him. Whatever he sees, the fear in her eyes, has his face falling into a desperate sadness.

“He came to my home.” Her voice cracks. “Knocked on my door and I just… let him in. So stupid.” Tears sting at her eyes again and this time she can’t fight them back. Her face flushes as they begin to stream hot down her cheeks. Dex crumbles. He pulls her in like the tide, pushes her head into his shoulder, sets her on the couch and lets her cling to him. His touch wanders, skating across her back, combing through her hair. 

“Shh, please baby, don’t cry,” he murmurs into her hair, brushing his lips across the top of her head. “He can’t hurt you again, no one can. You… you’re very special to me. Do you understand?” 

She does. She understands him better than he knows. They’re the same, in a way, and she understands. She looks up at him, their faces inches apart, her face wet with tears, and she understands. 

“You’re so pretty.” His voice is almost pained with want. “So pretty, so good.”

“Dex,” she breathes, brushing her knuckles along his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed, mouth falling open slightly as he leans into her caress. She sucks in a shaky breath at the sight. It’s intoxicating to be so blatantly desired. 

“Kiss me,” she demands, voice stronger than it’s been all night. His eyes fly back open. Wide-eyed and frozen, just like that first day at the hotel. 

“Please,” she adds. Tinged in need. 

He obliges her. Of course he does. How could he say no when she’s begging and looking at him like that?

He kisses like an animal, all teeth and tongue. He fists a hand in her hair, grabs at her waist, invades all of her senses. He was made to kiss her, she thinks. A divine gift for her to enjoy. An angelic being right here in her hands with the sole mission of sinking his teeth into her. She pushes in, straddling his hips. He groans, raspy and strung-out, and it’s the prettiest sound she’s ever heard. 

“Dex,” she sighs against his lips. He makes a pleased sound and doubles down his efforts, licking into her mouth like a man starved. 

When he pulls away, he winces like it physically pains him. Her head is fuzzy and floaty and warm. His thumb rubs circles in her hip. She doesn’t want him to ever stop touching her. She’s positive there is nothing on heaven or Earth better than kissing her Dex. His eyes are fixed on her kiss-bitten lips when he speaks.

“Baby, I…” he hesitates, tongue darting out to lick his lips. She finds herself jealous. That should be her. “I have to go do something. I need to… balance the scales. But I promise, I swear on my life, I will come back to you.”

She deflates a little bit, shoulders falling and eyebrows knitting together. The idea of him leaving her right now is unbearable. The idea of just getting off his lap is unbearable, if she’s honest. 

“Where?” she asks, almost petulant. Like a child having a tantrum. He pinches a strand of her hair, fiddles with it, twirls it between his slender fingers. She tracks the movement, entranced by the movement, almost hypnotized. 

“I’m going to kill Wilson Fisk.”

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

I Am Lonely (I Cannot Be A Saint)

CHAPTER 1

FEATURING: Dex (Bullseye) x fem!reader

Someone is watching her, and that's the least of her problems. No matter. He will provide.

WARNINGS: NSFW, MDNI, stalking, possessive behavior, kidnapping, religious psychosis, smut

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

She feels his eyes on her, of course she does. It’s hard to ignore. She just chalked it up to general paranoia for a while. Can you blame a girl? Plenty of people want her dead, it’s not exactly unlikely one of them had her tailed. In the grocery store, at the coffee shop, walking to work, sometimes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and she knows. He’s there, and he’s watching.

He’s not watching tonight. She knows this for a fact because she left her apartment through the fire escape and has been under the cover of shadows ever since, ducking through alleyways and avoiding the street lights. Her face is obscured anyway, everything below her eyes hidden under a balaclava. 

She had seen the news this morning, a high-profile murder case dismissed on technicality. It disgusted her. Such complete dedication to man-made laws. She prefers a more Almighty judgement.

The man’s apartment is on the third story of a ivy-covered brownstone. She’s considering different ways in, maybe posing as someone from the courthouse with a forgotten bit of paperwork, before deciding the street is empty enough and the ivy is thick enough to avoid a ruse at all. She grabs onto the sturdiest vine she can find and begins to climb, hooking her feet in some of the tangles. It’s easy enough to scale the building. A night breeze washes over her as she ascends, cooling the hot adrenaline coursing through her. She tells herself it’s anticipation, not excitement. This is not something to enjoy. She’s an executioner and she has a job to do.

So many people forget to lock their windows. It’s dangerous, really, especially in a city like New York. Someone could come in. Someone could get hurt. She slides the pane open with one hand. 

The man, the murderer, doesn’t see her at first when she clambers into his living room. She never bothered to learn his name. It won’t matter in the end. He’s on the couch, facing away from her, watching the news. The casualness of the scene makes her blood boil. This man had taken lives, murdered two people in cold blood, and here he sits on his comfy couch in his nice apartment watching television. She pulls her sword unconsciously, the action becoming instinct over time. The weapon of angels. Soldiers of God. It’s only fitting. The murderer hears the sharp shing of metal on metal and whips around, his face contorting first into surprise, then recognition, and finally fear.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, horrified, shooting up from the couch and backing away from her, slowly, like she’s a feral dog. At least he’s not running. She hates running. 

“Don’t take His name in vain,” she chides, advancing on him casually, rounding the arm of the couch. He backs into the corner, his hands scrabbling along the drywall, desperately looking for something to steady him and finding nothing. He falls to his knees.

“I didn’t do it,” he pleads. “I know, I know why you’re here, but I’m innocent, please don’t,” he begs. 

He starts to cry. Most of them do. She doesn’t dignify him with a response. 

“Glory be to the Father,” she murmurs, pressing her blade against his throat. Her free hand grips her rosary, the cross digging into her palm with a grounding sting. 

He shuts his eyes hard, whimpering. She wonders if his victims did the same. If they tried to block him out or if they held his gaze, made him watch what he was doing to them

“And to the Son,” she continues, running the tip of the sword across his jaw, gentle like a lover. “And to the Holy Spirit.” 

The gash is deep and crimson and beautiful. She slashes his throat ear to ear. The blood pours down his chest like a flood. She denies the rush it gives her, the jolt of delight when his eyes go glassy. She doesn’t linger, dipping back out his window just as she came in.

The call comes in late. She’s reviewing notes from a case, too jittery from her latest target to sleep, when her phone rings. Not incredibly uncommon for a criminal psychologist but certainly less than welcome. Her boss delivers the news with his grating, droning monotone as if he isn’t ruining her life. An FBI contract. They had requested her specifically. A big fish usually, something her coworkers would vie for, but practically a death sentence for her. 

Fisk. Of course she got Fisk. She’s one of the best in her field, responsible for some of the most helpful interviews the FBI has ever acted on. Unfortunately, she suspects that specific skillset is not what got her this job. It was Fisk himself, intent on punishing her for her part in putting him in jail and for the countless number of his men she had sent to an early judgement day. In his endless reach, he had figured out it was her, and now she’ll pay. 

The next morning, she receives the files. Eight flimsy cardboard boxes filled to the brim with information on the Fisk case, most of it probably redacted. The FBI relishes in their secrets, after all. These boxes will haunt the corner of her office for months, she knows, a physical reminder of the grip Fisk has on her now. She crosses herself before even opening the first box.

The assignment has two parts. The first is forming a relationship with Fisk, a notion she throws out the window before even starting. The second is using that relationship to get him talking, to spill every dirty little secret about his criminal underworld. That one is a little harder to dismiss since it’s pretty much the only reason they’ve hired her. Luckily, she’s very, very good at her job. She has a knack for the facade, the drama of it all. Figuring out exactly what a person needs and performing it flawlessly. She’s sat across from some of the most dangerous men the world has to offer and played friend, played mother, played fawn. Without fail they grew to love her, care for her, lust for her, whatever she wanted of them. And they talked. She was quite an easy person to talk to, however hard she may be to know.

Fisk would be no different, she told herself. He clearly already cared enough to go to all this trouble, all she had to do was point him in a different direction. She reads through the transcripts of all the interviews the FBI has already done, scoffing at the way they speak to him. All authority and posturing. Nothing that would ever work on a man like that, one so obsessed with power he had gone to prison for it. 

She scans through all the files, catching pieces of important information and filing it away. Her brain is still addled from the thrill of her night job but she gets tidbits here and there. Special Agent Rahul Nadeem, head agent on the case. The Albanian gang, Fisk had given them up as a sign of goodwill for further negotiation. Most recently, a shanking, some random kid taking a shot at him. Must be why they moved him to that swanky hotel. It was all over the news, the shootout during his prison transfer and now the mob of protestors outside every day. New York is not fond of criminals getting off easy, it would seem. Even the agents must despise him, especially after losing some of their own during said shootout. 

As she reads, she finds her mind wandering. Fantasies of killing Fisk in various, brutal ways flash through her imagination. He was a true white whale for someone like her. Completely, undeniably evil and now getting to live the high life in exchange for something as petty as information. Was that worth the lives of everyone who died under his fist? 

She has some semblance of a plan on the day of her first interview. Play to his narcissism, allow him to feel in control enough to let his guard down, to reveal a chink in his armor she can worm her way into. The Presidential Hotel looms over her like a titan when she steps out of the taxi. She’s not sure what to expect and that’s unsettling. She always knows what to expect. Maybe he’ll confront her the second she walks in, pull her mask off in front of the FBI and present them with one of the most wanted vigilantes in the city. Or maybe he’s playing a long game, which would follow his pattern, setting her up for some inconceivable punishment that she’ll walk into blindly. 

A tall, handsome agent greets her in the lobby. Deep brown skin, black hair, an innate charisma in the way he carries himself. The very picture of a respectable federal agent. He reaches out to shake her hand as she approaches.

“I’m Special Agent Nadeem, nice to meet you,” he smiles. Perfect white teeth. She introduces herself with a practiced warmth and it works immediately. His smile grows.

“We’re excited to have you on the team,” he says sincerely, starting to guide her towards the gold-plated elevators. She nods politely but her gaze is fixed on the hotel. The entire building is garishly ornate, a display of wealth in its very existence. Along with the elevators, the walls, ceilings, banisters, and furniture are all dripping in gold. The ceiling of the lobby alone is taller than her entire apartment building. Black and white clad staff bustle around, taking drink orders from already too-drunk rich people and carrying their too-fancy luggage to their too-big rooms. 

Nadeem gives her the ground rules in the elevator.

“You will be searched before you enter the inmate’s room,” he says. “You will not bring anything into the room that I have not personally approved. You will not touch the inmate. You will stay in the approved areas unless escorted by an agent. You will check in at the command center when you arrive and you will check out when you leave. You will provide copies of any notes, recordings, or other information from your sessions to the bureau. You will not share that information with anyone else unless you are directed by an agent. Do you understand these rules as I have explained them?” It’s clearly rehearsed, something he memorized for the sole purpose of regurgitating it to someone like her. 

They ride the elevator to the penthouse. The damn penthouse. When the doors slide open, she finds herself facing a thin hallway, carpeted with a rich red pattern and lit by crystal chandeliers. Nadeem leads her down, through a metal detector, to what she assumes is the command center, a room they’ve taken over with desks and computers and files. She signs in on a clipboard as they pat her down and rifle through her bag. She’s more or less unphased. Interviews in actual prisons are ten times worse than this. 

“Sir, we’re ready for her,” comes a voice in from the hallway. She looks up to locate its source. Another agent, making his way to Nadeem. A rather good-looking agent. Dirty blonde hair falling over his forehead, sharp, chiseled face, clearly muscled and lean even under his t-shirt. What gets her is his eyes. Dark brown and captivating and hungry for something. And fixed on her like a deer in headlights. He looks petrified. His mouth drops open slightly and he stares. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. 

They’re in a deadlock for a few seconds, wide-eyed and frozen. Nadeem glances between them like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Uh, Dex?” he asks cautiously. Dex. She turns the word over in her mind like a prize. Nadeem’s curiosity seems to snap the blonde man out of it. He tears his eyes away from her and puts on a shaky, unconvincing smile.

“Sorry, sir,” he says sheepishly. “I, um, I didn’t get much sleep, I’m a little out of it.” That’s more unbelievable than his smile but Nadeem either doesn’t notice or decides to let it slide as he introduces his new star psychologist. Dex repeats her name and it sounds a little too much like a prayer. When she sticks her hand out to shake, he stares at it like a stray dog being given a T-bone. He takes the offering gently, his large, calloused hand enveloping hers. He’s trembling. The contact floods her senses, warms her entire body. 

She is, to say the least, fascinated. Not many people surprise her but this man, this agent, has completely confounded her in about ten seconds. It’s exciting like a kill. It’s intoxicating like God. She wants to know him. She wants to understand. She wants to strap him to a table and pick his brain apart, figure out exactly where she lives in it to make him react that way. She wants to touch him again, more than just his hand, and see what other reactions she can elicit. 

She scolds herself for those thoughts. Impure. Allowing desire to the forefront, the downfall of every sinner. At the very least, she needs her mind fully present on the mob boss she’s about to attempt to charm. The study of Dex can wait. For now. 

Nadeem takes her to Fisk’s room. She can’t resist a look back at Dex. To her delight, he’s watching her leave, though he averts his eyes when she catches him. 

The room she enters is much different than the rest of the hotel. Mostly bare, definitely no gold. Empty white walls and spotless white floors and there, in the center of the living room, a plain white table and chair serving as Fisk’s throne. He’s wearing an ugly grey jumpsuit and a neutral expression. He could kill her right here and right now. She steels herself and settles into her chosen facade, smiling warm and soft and just enough as she approaches him like any other client. Her crucifix is cool against her sternum and she pleads to it for strength. The door creaks open again and Dex slips inside, taking position at the staircase behind her. Guarding her. She wonders what it would take for him to pull the trigger on Fisk. She wonders what he’d do to protect her. 

“Hello, Mr. Fisk,” she says as she sits down, setting her notepad between them. “Have they told you why I’m here?” 

They. Establishing the FBI as an ‘other.’ She’s already begun.

“They have, doctor,” Fish replies, his voice deep and without emotion. He’s given no indication that he recognizes her or even cares that she’s here at all. In fact, he’s looking past her at Dex. Maybe she’s wrong about how she got this job, but she doubts it.

“Wonderful, that saves me my spiel,” she says lightly. “Do you mind if I take notes during our conversation?” She taps her nails on the notepad.

“Of course, doctor.”

“I appreciate that,” she smiles and uncaps her pen. “Your transfer here has been big news, although I’m sure you’re used to that.” Affirming his need for attention. She watches him intently to see if it works. Dex’s eyes burning into her back make it hard to concentrate.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Still just as even and empty. She needs to bump it up.

“I heard about the shootout on the way here,” she says, cocking her head slightly. “That must have been very frightening.” 

“Are you Catholic, doctor?” he asks, ignoring her completely. She raises an eyebrow and he nods at her necklace, the silver cross hanging between her collarbones.

“Oh,” she realizes, her hand moving to touch the cross on instinct. “Yes, I am. Are you?”

Fisk smiles. A monumental win.

“I’m not a religious man,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Faith, it’s never been one of my strengths.” 

“Ah, I see,” she smiles back, sitting back in her chair, performing relaxation. “A man of science then.”

“A man of facts,” he corrects, leaning in conspiratorily. “But you, you don’t deal in facts. You deal in emotion, feelings, fickle things. I imagine faith is what you rely on.” 

Her stomach flip-flops. She hates this. She’d take a prolific serial killer over this any day. Because as many pieces as she has on this chess board, Fisk has more. He always has more. 

“I deal in understanding, Mr. Fisk.” She mirrors him, leaning forward. “That’s the job. I’d like to understand you, if you’ll let me.” She holds her breath waiting for his response. Maybe that was too strong, too much.

“By all means, doctor.”

She doesn’t get much out of him that first session, but she’s not really trying to. What she’s aiming for takes time. He needs to like her, and if that’s not possible, he needs to at least trust her. She checks herself out on that clipboard in the command center. Dex is sitting at a computer and doing a very bad job of pretending to ignore her. The unease of her proximity to Fisk is momentarily replaced by that same deep sense of intrigue. She decides to press the matter, because of course she does. She saunters over to him, stands behind his chair, feigns interest in the security footage on his computer. His entire body tenses, his back going ramrod straight and palms pressed flat to the desk. 

“Can I help you with anything, doctor?” he almost wheezes, every syllable catching in his throat like they’re fighting to stay inside. She glances down, finds him steadfastly avoiding looking at her. Well, that won’t do. 

“Oh, no, sorry,” she says, hastily stepping back like she’s embarrassed, as if she doesn’t have every move planned out. “Just too curious for my own good.”

He tracks her movement subconsciously, his body leaning towards the space she just occupied. Following her. She resists a smile. 

“You, uh, you were great. In there. With Fisk.” He stumbles over the words, clunky and endearing. He finally works up the strength to meet her eyes again. She fixates on the bob of his Adam’s apple when he gulps.

“Thank you, agent,” she says, sickly sweet. His shoulders relax a degree at her positive reaction. 

“I can… walk you out. If you’d like,” he offers eagerly. Brave of him. She rewards him with a smile, the soft, clever one that typically gets her whatever she wants. 

“Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you, agent,” she protests with no real intent to turn him away. She just wants to see how far he’ll bend when she pushes.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says frantically, shooting to his feet. “These guys have it handled.” He gestures vaguely at a couple other agents. Like an overeager puppy. Bright-eyed and desperate to please. Fascinating. Perfect.

“Well, if you’re sure…” Her final act of “hesitation.” She shoulders her bag and walks back to the elevators, unable to suppress the smile this time when she hears Dex fall in a pace behind her. Ex-military, she assumes, after seeing how he stands at parade rest in the elevator and synchronizes their steps automatically. 

He maintains an exact distance behind her as she makes her way down to the street. Calculated. Regaining some of his self-control, apparently. She wants to spin around and demand to know why he looked at her like that, why he’s so obviously both entranced and terrified by her, but she resists. She’ll have to treat him like a patient for now, let him build comfortability and spill everything when he trusts her. At least with him she doesn’t have to feign the relationship. At least with him she wants it. 

Over the next few weeks, she fights a dual-front war. Sitting across that cold, sterile table with Wilson Fisk and attempting to humanize him. Afterwards, Dex leaving his post keeping an eye on her and opening the door, stepping back into the warm light of the hallway with her. One of those is going significantly better than the other. Dex gets more comfortable with her every day. Fisk, on the other hand, is slower going, especially when the two fronts begin to merge. Whatever Dex feels about her, it’s blatantly obvious to everyone that looks at him, and Fisk seems to take a particular interest. He pushes, during their session, asks her questions about her dating life, her friends, her family, and watches Dex’s reactions when she answers. It’s unsettling, like everything Fisk does, but it keeps him talking so she indulges him.

She’s been so occupied with this new assignment that she hasn’t had a target in weeks. The pent-up energy is bad for her, stress with nowhere to go. She’s jittery, paranoid, and the feeling of being watched still isn’t helping. She’s pretty sure about it being Fisk’s doing but there’s not a lot she can do about it now, when her whole life is in his hands. One wrong move and he might give up on his little game and just send an assassin knocking. She needs to work through this internal pressure. She needs something exciting.

She’s signing out from a session when she decides on exactly what that will be.

“Hey,” she smiles at Dex, who’s hovering as always. “You look tired. Long day?” It’s not a lie. His skin is pallid, accentuating the deep purple bags drooped under his eyes. 

“No more than usual,” he answers, cracking a small smile himself. 

Here she goes. 

“If you need a break, I’m sure Agent Nadeem would let you slip away for a bit. Maybe get some food?”

A beat. That deer-in-headlights stare, like he’s forgotten how to speak for a moment.

“With you?” he asks, almost in wonder, daring to let himself hope. She lets out a short laugh, innocent and impossible to mistake for something mocking.

“Yeah, if that’s not weird.”

“Not weird,” he proclaims too quickly, tripping over himself to capitalize off this. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go talk to Ray, let him know.”

She gifts him another encouraging smile. “Alright, I have to finish up my notes from today anyway. Meet you outside in ten?”

He nods so hard she’s worried he might get whiplash. She slips into one of the desks, pulling out her notepad and pretending to be absorbed while covertly watching him nearly run out of the room. 

Exactly ten minutes later, she walks down the concrete steps of the hotel. Dex is waiting on the curb, all anxious movement. It’s cute. She strides up to him and watches his whole body shift, shoulders straightening and face relaxing as he looks at her.

“Hey,” she says lightly, intentionally brushing her shoulder against his just to see him chase the contact. “Any recommendations? I’m not picky.”

His brows knit together as he thinks. He wants to do a good job for her.

“There’s, uh, a Thai place a couple blocks away?” 

Eager. Bated breath. Waiting for approval.

Thai. Her favorite. 

“Perfect.”

It’s a nice little restaurant. Tucked in between an ice cream shop and a bodega, warm yellow light melting through the windows onto the street. A deliciously warm, spiced scent hangs over the sidewalk.

Dex opens the door for her and her heart does a backflip in her chest. 

Dex waits patiently while she orders at the counter, pays for them both without a second glance, and she wonders how he takes his morning coffee.

Dex pulls out her chair and positions himself to face the door, scanning the restaurant for any conceivable threat to her. She wants to leap across the table and kiss him senseless. 

She really needs to get it together. 

“So, I’ve got to know,” she says as their food arrives. “What branch were you in?” He blinks, obviously taken by surprise, then gives a sheepish smile.

“Army. That obvious, huh?”

She laughs. “Mm, just a little.”

He’s spurred on by her response. Wants to make her laugh again. 

“I was in for a few years,” he explains. “In a… classified capacity.”

She does laugh again. He beams like the sun.

“How’d you become a G-man?” she asks. 

“I got scouted, actually,” he shrugs. “Applicable skillset.”

That particular detail gets her. What “skillset” could he have that would get him recruited directly into the FBI? Some kind of special ops, she assumes, but the question lingers.

“What about you?” Dex asks. “Criminal psychology, that’s gotta be a difficult job.” He tries to keep a neutral expression but his eyes betray him, studying her every move. 

She hums, leaning back in her chair. “It can be,” she concedes. “But it’s… fascinating, in a morbid way. My whole job is putting myself in the shoes of killers, understanding them. The difficult part is when it gets too easy.” 

A startling piece of vulnerability she’s dropped on the table. Dex snatches it up and turns it over in his mind. 

“That sounds hard,” he says. “Really, really hard. Especially doing that, talking to those people, for ten years, it’s gotta grate on you.”

A zap of electricity goes through her. Her ten year anniversary at her practice was a month ago.

“How’d you know it’s been ten years?” she asks cautiously. Dex’s eyes go wide for a split second. He shifts in his seat, refuses to make eye contact with her.

“You, uh, you’ve mentioned it before,” he mutters. 

She’s positive she hasn’t. The warmth of the restaurant starts to feel a little suffocating. She pastes on a pleasant smile.  Dex relaxes ever so slightly, starting to believe his ruse has worked.

Her brain moves a million miles a minute. Pieces are beginning to fall into place. The eyes on her. Being put on the Fisk case. Dex’s reactions to her. His knowledge of her preferences, her history. Fisk’s interest in him, pressing his thumb into the wound just to see what makes him flinch. She’s unwittingly become the nerve. There’s something very, very wrong with Dex, something Fisk finds useful, and she’s just a pawn to manipulate him. 

Oh.

Oh no. 

She should be petrified, running for her life. Tell her boss she can’t handle the Fisk case and turn her back on it forever. Call the police that night and watch them find Dex outside her apartment. But she knows, right there in that moment, that she won’t. She wants more. She wants to know what’s so special about him that Fisk would go to all this trouble. She wants Dex to tell her everything he’s seen, what he thought of it all, why he keeps coming back. Wants him to kneel at the altar he’s made of her. 

She is so, so unbelievably fucked.

[decathecter]

dudes over on reddit consuming hbowar in a "woah the military is so cool. guns go pew pew. killing people is based" way. trite. boring. us on tumblr however? "woah these men were put in situations difficult beyond their wildest dreams and coped via being homoerotically close with one another in ways they would never dare to be under regular circumstances". enlightened. woke.

[bloodonvellum]

“ i want to fix him “ ok well i’m joining him in his insanity

[bullseyegoon]

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

every time i talk to somebody about dating in 2025 i feel like me and my fiance caught the last chopper out of saigon

[insomniacirl]

Episode 3 of Peacemaker electrocuting Adrian Chase vs my epic sadomasochism Saturday

[butchdogs-md]

you need to understand that i have two sets of headcanons. there's the set of realistic headcanons based on my genuine reading of the show, and then there's me playing pretend with my dolls.

[sloasis]

Adrian canonically sows up and makes his own suits btw

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

so so so not normal about him. he’s going to thrift stores for material for his suit and sewing it himself okay okay okay

[djo]

FREDDIE STROMA as ADRIAN CHASE 2.03: Another Rick Up My Sleeve

[eatingdiceforfunandprofit]

might be reaching but keith calling chris “chrisper” in the parallel universe and CRISPR being genetic modification technology… and they’re in nazi eugenics universe… hmm

[chaseadrian]

neck hands wrist jaw wow Peacemaker 2.03, "Another Rick Up My Sleeve"

[lockedroompuzzle]

James Gunn in the studio getting me to watch superhero media by having freddie stroma slutting it up in his underwear getting beer poured on him

[sloasis]

Can they pleasepleasepleasepleaspelease PLEASEEEE cover Adrian up in blood in s2 PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE IM FUCKING BEGGGINGGGGGGGGGGGG PLEASE