I’m Your Biggest Fan, I’ll Follow You Until You Love Me
Synopsis: What happens when a stalker meets a paranoid woman in New York? Well he first rationalizes it as him just protecting you, he’s doing you a favor. It was a dangerous world out there and he just wanted to look out for a pretty thing like you. You were so good, so so so good for him. You kept him sane, his North Star. But he failed to realize that you had a routine he was unaware of. One that would expose himself.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x f! reader
Warning: Stalking | Fluff | Breaking n Entering | Meet Cute turns to Obsession | Panty stealing Dex (because I can) | Mention of Masturbation (male)
Word Count: 2k
A/n: Already had the idea but my god does Lady Gaga’s Paparazzi go with him so well. Just got an edit of him with that song. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen, the account is peachl13 on tt. It should be the second video. Also isn’t edited, I’m writing this on my phone, I’m too lazy to get my laptop.
His therapist told him he needed a routine. He needed structure, he needed stability. So that’s what he’s been doing, day after day. Structure.
Wake up, breakfast, work out, work. Then he’d come home, make dinner, shower, read, listen to his tape and then sleep if he could.
Today on his day off though, he realized he needed more food for the week. He made a list, grabbed his wallet, keys and headed out.
He put on his fake persona, smiled at people when needed.
He was done with almost everything, all that was left was the produce. It was the one thing he hated, he always felt like he was bad at picking the better options. Always feeling like he picked the worst ones.
Dex stood there for a second looking at the avocados wondering which ones he should get. Wondering which were ripe enough, was it the firm ones? Or were they the soft ones? No not that one. Those are too soft right? He couldn’t remember which.
Just as he was about to reach for another one someone bumped into him.
He felt irritation creeping up on him. He turned to look at the ass who touched him. Who disturbed his peace, who interrupted his thoughts. His focus.
His eyes glaring down before they reached your eyes. Eyes that were wide, eyes that were soft. Your eyebrows frowned as your mouth moved. Words he could not hear as he was focused on your face. But the words slowly came through.
“Oh my god I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. My friend bumped into and I tried to avoid her. I didn’t realize my ankle would give out for a moment. I’m really sorry.”
What he didn’t know while he watched you ramble on and on was how you had been eyeing him. Whispering to your friend how hot he was. He didn’t see how they nudged you closer to him, accidentally pushing you a little harder than expected that resulted in this interaction.
Even if he knew that, it wouldn’t stop the switch that flipped within him. He didn’t know what it was, god, but maybe it was the way your eyes looked up at him in worry. How they had the sweetest apologetic look to them. So doe like.
So innocent. So pure. So good. Good.
You were good. You had to be good. Could you be his good? Could you be his North Star?
You had to have been, just look at you. Look at how much you worried about him. If he ever could show empathy, well he’d hope it was as well as you.
How he watched how you made a look at your friend as they giggled and made their way far from the both of you.
“I really am sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you or anything.”
Dex chuckled lightly, his lip lifting just slightly in a half smile.
“You’re good. Don’t worry about it, it takes a lot more to hurt me than a love tap.”
His gaze shifted between your eyes to your lips and then back up. He watched how you tried hiding your smile, but it reached your eyes. Oh how he felt like he could get lost in them.
“Oh a love tap? Is that right? That’s a good one.” You then raised a hand hesitantly but decided to push forward. Your hand touched his bicep just lightly.
Oh how he felt electricity shoot through his body. It coursed through him as if he were a live wire. Even if your skin didn’t touch his, he could feel the heat radiating off onto his body. It was intoxicating.
He watched you, how you checked for him to pull back. For him to reject you. But how could he. No. No not you. It was all he wanted now. A little taste that he now desperately craved for more.
“But you’re right. With arms like these I doubt I’d do much damage to you.”
But you have. Somewhere in his sick twisted mind you did. Just the simple fact that you touched him, looked at him, spoke to him. You peaked his interest, and he felt himself wanting more.
“Hey uh-” his eyes shifting, your eyes, your lips, your hand. Eyes, lips, hand. Eyes, lips, hand. Eyes, lips, hands. He felt his mind racing, trying to find the right words. “Would you like to go get-”
Ring-ring
He felt himself holding back, feeling a whimper almost slip through his lips when your hand retracted.
You smiled at him and pointed to his pocket, “Aren’t you gonna get that?”
“No.” His response was too quick for his liking.
Vrrrr-vrrrr
“You sure? It seems like it’s really important.”
He pulled out his phone reluctantly, he looked at the called id before giving you a fake apologetic look. If he could he would give you an irritated one. But he didn’t want to scare you away.
He turned away slightly, answering the call with professionalism.
Dex shifted again just slightly, trying to get a peak at you.
But his heart dropped, you disappeared. Slipped from his line of sight. He fought the urge to yell at his colleague.
No no no no. He just found you. He just found his star.
His eyes scanned around, but you were no where near. Now how was he going to find you? How was he going to take you out? To let you be the one that helps him be the good person he desperately wanted to be.
He felt his irritation growing. He wanted nothing more than to yell over the phone and then hang up. Better yet he’d make sure to punch the man over the phone the next time he saw him.
His body tensed slightly, feeling a presence beside him again.
But it was you. Looking down at you he watched you smirk up at him. Focused intensely on your eyes, your hands. The pen that was in your perfect carved hands.
Hands that were sculpted for him. Hands that were sculptured to mold him. Mold him into becoming a better person.
He memorized your movements, memorized the sweet scent of your perfume as you stepped closer to him. Much closer than you had before. Your shoulder almost bumping into his chest as you grabbed his arm.
His gaze burned into your skin as he watched you in silence. Phone still to his ear as he let you do whatever you wanted. Let you pull up the sleeve of his quarter zip sweater. Letting you press the pen against his skin, letting you mark him with your number. As if it belonged engraved on his skin.
He felt himself smile when you looked back up at him. You softly pulled down his sleeve before waving goodbye.
He tried looking for you after his phone call. He really did. But to his dismay you were long gone. Just as sudden as you appeared in his life you were gone. He was glad he at least had your number right?
His day was ruined when he got home. Just as it began it quickly left. As he looked down at the last two numbers smudged he began to feel himself spiral.
No. Now he wouldn’t let this ruin it. No he had ways. He’s figure it out.
And he did.
How? Well working for the fbi had its perks.
He jumped through hoops for it. But he’d do anything for you. Anything to see you again. Anything to see you smile again.
Anything. Anything to feel your warmth, to be the kind of person you were. Good.
And he knew you were good. So good, he saw it in how you kept your apartment. Clean and organized. It felt like home, it felt like it could be his home. It invited him.
It felt like it wanted him to be there.
He could still remember the first time he watched you. He watched your routine just before you left. Watched how long it took for you to shower, to get ready, eat breakfast. How you closed the curtains, walked out the door, walked to work.
He wanted to see how you lived. In your own little world, but he noticed on occasion you’d look back. How sometimes you’d be on guard.
That was enough for him. He knew he had to keep doing this. He’d walk you to work. He’d keep you save from this distance. He’d be your protector.
Even if a man looked at you wrong in the slightest. He’d take care of it. It’s a dangerous world, he can’t have his North Star hurt. He couldn’t handle that.
And after, after he’d walk you to work he’d go back. Back to your apartment, back to his safe space. Your warmth. He’d always look how warm it felt after you felt.
How your cat had gotten accustomed to him. Always rubbing up against him.
Always lingering when he’d always go through your apartment. Looking at your bookshelf to see what book you were reading this week.
Looking through your fridge to see what meals you were eating this week. Sometimes he’d match his fridge to yours, wanting to taste the same foods you were eating. As if you cooked them together.
And some days. Some days he’d feel his temptation growing. He’d go through your drawers.
There it was. Calling his name. Screaming Dex Dex Dex Dex Dex over and over. Wondering how you’d sound screaming his name.
They were the prettiest panties he’d ever seen. He could just imagine you in them. Oh all the ways he’d want to have you in them. He stashed the black pair into his pants, knowing that later he’d use them. He’d rub them against his pink pretty tip until he cums on them. Until he’s groaning your name like a mantra.
When he’s feeling bold. He’ll do it in your apartment. He grabs your pillow, presses it against his face. Smelling your sweet shampoo lingering, the smell of your delicious lotion. Just you. All of you. He’s surrounded by you while he’s fisting his cock so hard.
He shakes, feeling himself rutting against his palm. Making sure he cums against his stomach so he doesn’t dirty your pretty sheets.
That day. That day in particular, was the day he felt like you’d know. All because he left at the wrong time. He didn’t time it correctly. That and because you changed your routine.
Just two minutes after he left your apartment. You found him. If you had come any sooner you’d see him walking out of your apartment complex. But this was easier, easier to explain that he just so happened that to be outside of your complex.
“Hey.” You smiled up at him. Oh he hadn’t felt that smile directly at him in months.
But there was something in your eyes. He could see it. What was it?
He smiled back, “Hey.”
Still panicking. He tried masking it, he hoped he’d do it well. He couldn’t lose you, he couldn’t have you find out.
“You never called.”
There it was. Disappointment.
You were disappointed in him. Oh he desperately wanted to tell you the truth. That he was there, the whole time. For months, watching you, protecting you. He just had to make sure, that you’d love him. Want him, want the good man he was molding himself to be.
So he lied as best he could. Really it was half lie.
“I know. I’m sorry. When I got home the number was smudged. So I couldn’t really call even if I wanted to.”
You hummed, as if you didn’t believe him.
“Let me make it up to you. Let me take you out to dinner.”
“I’ll have to see. I might be busy this week.”
Oh he knew weren’t. But he’d let you flirt, let you think you weren’t desperate for him. He’d indulge in your antics.
“What about next week?”
“Maybe.” He could see the smile you were trying to force down. “Here, give me your phone. I’ll put it in there this time. This way you don’t lose it.”
And he does. He’ll do anything you tell him.
You want him to kill somebody? He’ll do it. You want him to fix something? Say less. You want him to fuck you? Don’t need to ask him twice.
After that day he had to pretend. Pretend like he didn’t know where everything was in your apartment. Like he didn’t know your cat. A cat that wasn’t particularly warm to strangers at all.
And you’d pretend too. Pretend that that day you found him outside of your apartment complex you didn’t notice the tissue in the trash. The white substance that wasn’t there when you left. That your sheets were freshly washed, the strong fabric softener giving it away.
Pretend that your favorite pair of panties weren’t missing. Pretend that your pillows weren’t out of place by just centimeters.
That when you’d invited him in that same night, your all man hating cat was in love with him after seeing him once.
Pretend like your controller wasn’t just a few places off. Or how your room door was closed just slightly. You hadn’t left it that way.
Or how the book you were currently reading was sticking out just slightly. Not noticeable by anyone other than you.
You’d keep it a secret from him, even after a couple years of dating. You wouldn’t tell him that you knew. How you had an inkling the moment you’d found him that day.
How the scent suddenly showed up in your apartment. A hint of something.
Of him. The day of the supermarket it was there. And it lingers in your home. It lingered of him. Of musk, sandalwood and amber.
Something in you told you to be scared. The right part of you told you to run. But how could you.
You felt safe.
He made you feel safe, like home.
So you’d keep it a secret. Because you’d forgive this man, how could you not? He loved you. So so so so much. And you loved him.
How could you ever be mad at him? No not him. Not your sweet Dex.
DEX’S ARMS are so muscular and veiny you’re forced to develop an arm kink because just look at them ! during sex, his meaty biceps are your favourite thing to grip on because they’re just so hard to the touch. you figure that dex also enjoys when you stroke your fingernails up and down his arm or dig into his skin as you notice a sexy smirk plaster on his lips. he’d have to be completely brainless not to catch onto your eyes linger at the size of his arms, so he does his part and flexes whenever you grab onto them. sometimes — when dex’s feeling extra and hitting it from behind — he’ll have you rest your back against his chest with a bicep wrapped around your neck. then ever so nicely, he applies pressure; choking you till you’re left breathless and begging for more…
Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:
Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.
You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.
When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.
A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)
Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)
The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.
Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.
Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.
As someone who spent over a decade catering luxury events, let me add some back of house info:
These events are almost always open bar. They're not trying to make their money back on alcohol. They want you to drink and eat and donate generously.
If there are cocktails, there will be at most two on offer, pre-made in large tubs. You cannot order a different version, it is what it is.
There are two types of events: cocktail style or seated. The first includes roaming hors d'oeuvres or a fancy buffet with tiny plates called a grazing station. For a long night, the roaming food will get a little bigger throughout the evening and have a 'main' at some point based around a protein.
A seated event will usually be more structured and may include multiple courses. Silver service is not in vogue anymore. You are likely to get either alternating meals brought to you like at a wedding, or served banquet style. A good caterer can get a plate to everyone in a 300 person event in about three minutes.
Drunk people are the same no matter how expensive their suits. They still laugh too loud, spill their drinks and slip on the dance floor. They are usually less embarrassed about doing coke in the bathrooms.
A full scale event that starts at 6pm will have staff arriving at noon to begin setup. Earlier if there's a light show or pyrotechnics. Typically venues don't just have 30 tables and three hundred chairs lying around, let alone table cloths, chair covers, etc. It's all rented and brought in on the day. Bands and DJs will be running audio tests in the background throughout.
Most heritage buildings that host these things, like museums and manor houses, aren't really designed for them. They might put down mats so you're not walking in stilettos over two hundred year old wooden floors, the kitchens are weirdly far away, and there are not enough taps. There is never anywhere for staff to sit, so if you open the wrong door you might find half a dozen waiters sitting on upturned milk crates in a room full of million dollar paintings, eating the left over bread.
Really old buildings don't have enough bathrooms, which means the staff will be sharing with the guests.
Clean up starts the second the event ends, if not sooner. Unattended glasses will start to disappear first, then table decorations. When the timer ticks over, the lights come back on and exhausted staff strip the tables, pack up dirty glasses and unopened wine bottles and have to Tetris it all into the back of a van. The venue is booked for that day only, so everything has to be gone before anyone can go home. A large event that finishes at midnight might take until 3am to be cleared away.
These are very long and physically demanding nights for anyone working them. The staff all get to know each other, and will absolutely notice someone trying to sneak in wearing a borrowed uniform. They are not being paid enough to care.
word count: 6.4k
warnings: canon typical violence, toxic relationships, implied stalking, murder, guns, angst/fluff, canon typical ben poindexter
The four times Dex gives you a token of his affection, and the one time you give him one back.
1
God, this job was eating you alive.
Most would consider working for the FBI to be a privilege – highly sought after, competitive. You’d beaten out hundreds of hopefuls for just the opportunity to work your way up in the Bureau.
Luckily for them, they hadn’t learned the hard way that the most important part of your day was stacking coffee cups and ferrying paperwork from one agent to the next. What was supposed to be a hands-on learning experience had quickly turned you into a lackey for anyone who could be bothered to pull seniority and couldn’t be bothered to show you the ropes. It was exhausting.
This morning had been a whole new beast. Moving the entire Fisk operation to the Presidential Hotel had been a monumental task from the moment Agent Nadeem entered the office to announce the transfer; trudging countless boxes, files and equipment from the office in New York traffic was practically a prison sentence. A 7am start running back and forth – you were certain that you’d need to buy a new pair of shoes with the way you could feel the sidewalk grating against the balls of your feet, worn thin. And then there was that asshole, you didn’t even know his name, who’d snapped his fingers at you and demanded to know where his latest latte macchiato was.
So, yeah, you’d snipped at him. Told him to fuck off and exactly where he could find it along with the rest of his manners. That had been swiftly followed be a deafening silence across the room, every agent within earshot craning round to catch a glimpse of the drama. Agent whatever had only kissed his teeth and ticked his head to the side, told you to take the rest of the day off since the pressure was clearly getting to you.
The red-hot blush that rises on your cheeks is instant as you begin to shove belongings into your bag, doing your utmost to avoid catching the stare of anyone in the room as you slip away. The sensation of eyes boring into your skin doesn’t even begin to cease until you shove your way through the lobby and out onto the street.
It’s only then that you allow your eyes to glaze over, sucking in a sharp breath in an attempt to quell the tears that threaten to burst over the seams.
A clatter of footsteps stops them from falling.
“Hey, uh, I saw what happened in there. That wasn’t cool.”
You whip around to find the culprit, and to your surprise, it’s a man you only vaguely recognise.
Special Agent Poindexter – but all the others call him Dex. You’d never breathed a word to him, only ever witnessed him in passing moments in hallways, in one room and out of the next. People seemed to like him, he was personable enough, if not with a bit of a snarky disposition. It came with the territory, you supposed, elite SWAT sniper was bound to have something about him. He was handsome though, tall with a collection of sharp edges that contrasted starkly with his warm, brown eyes.
How embarrassing to be called out by someone of such high standing.
“I know,” you sniffed, fixing your eyes on a piece of gum smashed into the concrete, not quite able to meet his eyes, “it won’t happen again, I promise. I know it was unprofessional. It’s just been a long day.”
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say its shock that he draws back in, “Oh no, I didn’t mean you. That guy’s an asshole. He’d been snapping at you all day – only got what was coming to him.”
It’s then that you flick your eyes up to meet his, only to find them filled with something so deeply genuine it’s as though his face can’t contain it. Tender. That’s the word for it. Caring. You can’t seem to drag yourself away from his stare, not that you particularly want to.
“Oh, thank you,” it comes out as nothing more than a breath, but you’re certain he catches it anyway. You pause before adding, “Agent Poindexter.”
It’s his turn to blush then; you spy the way it shifts from the tips of his ears to lightly colour his cheeks. He seemed shy, an emotion ill-befitting of a man so notorious for his sharp attitude.
“You know my name?” There’s a reverence in the way he says it, like its tinged with awe. You’re not certain anyone has ever spoken to you with such veneration.
You bite back a laugh, “Everyone knows your name. Especially after you kicked ass with the Albanians.”
Something shifts in his expression briefly, the shine in his eyes seems to dull for just an instant before returning again. It’s practically undetectable, and quite frankly you only catch it because of your sheer inability to shift your gaze from his own.
He breaks the spell quickly with a cough, thrusting a cup forward in your direction, “You said you’d had a long day. That sounds hard, really hard. I, uh, think I got your order right.”
Wordlessly, you collect the cup in your hands a take a sip. Probably not particularly good vetting for an FBI agent; you’d be terribly easy to poison. But it’s perfect. Exactly how you’d order it yourself. It’s impossible to stop the smile that splits its way onto your cheeks.
“How did you know?”
“Oh,” his eyes dot around a tad frantically. It’s endearing, particularly when his hand comes up to scratch his temple, “I’ve done the coffee run a few times.”
You don’t think you’ve ever ordered coffee with the group, preferring to get it from the cart in front of the hotel rather than the bar. It’s nicer there and the man pouring it always pays you a compliment. Poindexter’s observant, then.
“Well, thank you, Agent Poindexter. I should probably be heading home but,” you pause, offering him one final grin, “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah. 7am sharp, right?” The exhale that leaves him seems to rattle, something of an ease settling over his features as you nod back.
It’s a tad awkward as you spin on your heel to leave, tucking the coffee cup closer to your chest.
“Oh, one last thing,” he calls out, grin stretching wider now.
“Yeah?”
“Call me Dex.”
2
There’s always something disorienting about cracking your eyes open in a bed that isn’t your own; different scents clinging to your skin, the sun slipping through the curtains at a different angle. The sheets feel starchier, crisper, lacking the worn in feel that you’d associate with home.
But home can very quickly become a person rather than a place, and it was by no means a hardship to get used to waking up in Ben Poindexter’s apartment.
It had been no surprise to find that his place was absolutely pristine the first time you’d stayed over, everything had its place – some of it purely logical, other parts an order that existed only in the walls of his mind but mattered just as much regardless. It was conscious, you knew that, a choice to dedicate himself to a life of order, but despite his best efforts there were smatterings of himself throughout the place.
It lingered in the carefully folded civvies that sat somewhere amongst the countless pressed suits and tactical gear. Or the baseball paraphernalia tuckered away behind the door that would make him blush and bury his face into the pillow if questioned on it. The specific brands of coffee that he’d claim didn’t matter because he’d drink anything, but you could see the ease on his features when it was one he particularly liked.
You’d long since given up on him lingering in bed in the mornings, he was a stickler for routine that not even the allure of a lazy wake-up could shift. The telltale tinker of pots and pans rings out from the kitchen, the smell of breakfast loitering through the apartment. 9:18. He’d go for a run at 9:30.
It’s a herculean effort to tear yourself from the sheets, consciousness hastened by the biting cold that nips at your skin. Fucking aircon. He always does run hot. It’s soundless as you slip his shirt from the previous day around your shoulders, and act in an of itself that would set his teeth on edge. He liked to see it on you, though. The panelling is freezing against your bare feet, but all of it’s worth it to catch just a glimpse of him.
Naturally, he’s already kitted out in his running gear, headphones nestled in a mop of grey flecked blond as he moves about the kitchen without a sound. There’s a precision in every twitch of muscle, no movement unaccounted for even when swanning around his home. You’d never seen him in action, not truly, but you can imagine that it would be a sight to see.
You revel in the moment he clocks you, a soft grin splitting on his cheeks. The way the corner of his eyes crinkle, brim with a tenderness you’d like to believe was reserved only for you.
“Good morning,” his voice is still rough from disuse, quiet and croaky as he pulls his headphones round his neck. He doesn’t bother asking as he slips a plate in front of you, just slides the cutlery across the counter to slot exactly in your palm.
You’d never had to tell Dex what you liked, he always seemed to just know. He didn’t eat what you did, often opting for some bland, protein-based meal to keep him functional throughout the day. Yet, the first night you’d stayed over, the plate had appeared in front of you, exactly as you wanted.
And it had done every time since.
“Uh, god, I don’t know how you do it,” you yawn and stretch, beginning to stab at the plate with your fork, “I guess I’ll keep you around.”
He seems to preen at that, shoulders straightening out somewhat. Without fuss, he simply leans across the counter to press a quaint kiss your forehead, “I do anything for you, baby, you know that. Breakfast barely scratches the surface.”
“You’re too good to me,” you hum, shoving forkfuls in your mouth.
Something in his expression seems to flicker, his brows knit together in a quiet confusion. You can practically hear the mechanisms in his brain whirring, pupils darting from side to side. His shoulders drop again; the action being replaced with the grating of his jaw.
“Too good to you? Do you not like it?” It’s quiet, wavering, laden with insecurity. He looks hurt, confused even.
You practically lurch across the counter to take your hand in his own, “No, Dex, no. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re perfect. Everything is perfect.”
Your earnest outburst seems to settle him somewhat; but you can still see the tension taut across his temples. He sucks in a slow breath, quiet and self-soothing, only to plaster a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“What are you doing today? Any plans?”
“Oh, I’m meeting an old friend from high school. It’ll be nice, we haven’t had the chance to catch up in years,” you offer it as casually as possible, trying not to give away the concern wedged in the back of your throat.
He hums, strained, “That sounds like it will be really nice.”
“I know, he was so funny in school—”
“He?” It’s severe and instant, and Dex reels so quickly his back hits the other side of the kitchen, “It’s a guy?”
“Dex—”
“No.” He shakes his head, half disbelief, half determination. It’s as though you’ve slapped him, abject horror lacing every feature. You don’t think you’ve even seen him so distraught.
The clock ticks over. 9:31.
“Dex, sweetheart,” it comes out as a shaky laugh, “He’s gay. It’s not like that. He’s just an old friend.”
“He could just be telling you that,” he spits, all venom. It’s a twisted, small anger that worms its way forward, and you can see just how desperately he’s trying to keep himself together, “What if he’s just telling you that?”
You deadpan, “Dex, I’ve watched him make out with men at parties for as long as I can remember. We met because I walked in on him and another man. Trust me, you’re much more his type than me.”
Something in him quiets at that, anger dissipating into something more delicate, “You’re sure?”
“There’s only one thing I’m more certain of.”
He looks like a skittish dog as he stares around the room, desperately searching for any kind of indication of what you could be referencing. It comes out stuttered and broken, “What…what is it?”
It’s 9:34.
“How I feel about you, Dex. I love you. Only you,” you approach him slowly, bringing a hand up to cradle his jaw in the hopes of redirecting his intention to you and you alone. “I want you to trust me.”
He practically melts under your touch, doe eyes split wide, “I love you. I love you so much. I do trust you. Of course I trust you. I just don’t trust them.”
Your heart aches for him, sadness practically bleeding onto the linoleum. You haven’t been privy to the nuances of his upbringing, only bits and pieces here and there, but you can’t stifle the blazing hatred you feel for anyone who would have ever done him wrong.
It’s uncharacteristically violent, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s the price of loving so deeply.
You’re not quite sure how long passes until you finally pull back from the embrace, but you’re satisfied with the unknitting of his brow.
“Why don’t you go out on your run? It might make you feel better, hm?” you offer, tracing circles on his palm.
“Can’t now.” Clipped. “It’s too late.”
“Well…why don’t you come to lunch with me? James would like to meet you. It could be nice,” you rake a hand through his hair, “Take your mind off things.”
His lip quirks upwards, contained but there. His features begin to brighten, “Really? You want me to meet your friend?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want them to meet the most important person in my life?”
You’re not entirely convinced he won’t cry, eyes glazing over somewhat. The nod is barely a twitch of his head, and you offer him the brightest smile can you muster. He lets you slip your hand into his own tugging him forward and round the counter.
“C’mon then, sunshine. Let’s go get ready. I think you’ll like the coffee there.”
3
“Dex, I already have a gun. FBI, remember?”
“Nah, that’s some standard issue bullshit. This is a proper gun.”
You’d hadn’t questioned him on it when Dex had told you he wanted to go try out a new shooting range upstate, thought maybe it might snap him out of his slump, ignoring the perfectly good training facility the FBI provided free of charge. Maybe it was some fancy place that would make it a tad more challenging for him.
But no, it was some dump on the side of a random highway. The place was practically held together by sticks, it’s only patrons drunkards that you weren’t entirely convinced wouldn’t shoot your foot off by accident.
You fling your hands down at your sides in frustration, “I don’t know why we’re here. I can shoot well enough for the FBI.”
Dex only hummed, inspecting the new pistol he’d brought you over in his palms, testing the weight, “Not well enough for me.”
“Nobody can shoot well enough for you,” you huff, snatching it from him, “I hope that’s not what you’re expecting.”
“I’m not unreasonable, baby,” his smirk is coy, “Just wanted to give you some pointers s’all. Go on, give it a go.”
He nudges you forward into the booth with a soft tap on your ass, snapping the ear protectors over your head with a cheeky grin. But he looks tired in a way that no amount of laughing and giggling can mask.
You could just chalk it up to the situation with the Bureau – Dex had not long been reinstated after the drama with the Albanians, only after you’d had to watch him slip into a spiral for weeks. Fucking ridiculous shit. And the hours they’d had him working with Fisk since then. Of course, the asshole needed 24/7 security, but why it always had to be your boyfriend at all times of the night was beyond you.
It could be something more than that, but if there’s one thing you know about Dex, pressing him on it will not get you anywhere close to the answer.
“If I hit the target, will you tell me why we’re in the middle of nowhere?”
“I know you can hit the target,” his arms come to cross his chest, “I’ll tell you if you hit a bullseye.”
“Okay, asshole. What’s a bullseye? It’s a model of a person.”
Something inexplicably dark crosses his features, voice low and unwavering, “Killshot. Heart or Head. Dealer’s choice.”
Fucking hell. You begin to worry your lip between your teeth, raising up the pistol and getting into the correct stance awkwardly. The gun is different to the ones at Quantico, that’s for certain, and yeah, the FBI taught you to shoot, but it’s not exactly your bread and butter.
Exhaling slowly, you fire two shots, aiming for the head of the target. They’re a bit crooked, one missing entirely and the other landing slightly off centre. Better than not at all. You don’t bother swinging round to gauge his reaction, sensing the word before it comes. Curt and short.
“Again.”
With a sigh, you make an overexaggerated performance of getting into position in the hopes it will break some of the nauseating tension emanating from the man behind you. You fire again, both hitting the chest this time – but again, ever so slightly off centre.
You hear his quiet tut, practically whispering to himself, “Not good enough.”
“Oh, come on, Dex,” you swing around, glaring at him expectantly, “It’s not like he wouldn’t be fucking dead.”
Without a sound, he marches to your side, snatching the damn thing from between your fingers. His eyes remain locked with yours the entire time as he raises his arm, unloading the rest of the clip into the target. Dead fucking centre, every single one. You can hear his teeth grinding against each other as he reloads it with ease, slamming it back into your palm.
“That’s fucking dead.” You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so serious.
You’d always known who Dex was, what he’d done and what he was capable of, but to see it so up close was another matter entirely. You’d never been frightened of him, and you weren’t, but there was far too much mystery around this particular hissy fit to let it slide.
“Again.”
“Dex.”
“I said again.”
“This isn’t funny, Dex–”
“Don’t hear any laughing, do you? You should get that checked, baby.”
“Don’t be a fucking–” you slam the gun down against the booth, “–asshole. I’m going to sit in the car.”
‘No, you’re not,” it’s infuriating, the way he can use his whole frame to block your escape. All he has to do is lean against the pillar and you can’t even see the exit, obscured by your ridiculously giant, stubborn-ass boyfriend. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
You’re fucking livid, “I’m not doing anything until you tell me why we’re in the middle of nowhere and you’re training me to be the fucking Winter Soldier.”
He snaps at that, yanking a frantic hand through his hair, “I want to know– need to know that you can protect yourself.”
“You’ve been just fine with how well I can protect myself until now! What’s changed?” You can only stare at him expectantly, glaring as he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs with infuriating indifference.
“Things are different now.”
“What’s fucking different, Dex?”
“Everything!” He’s shouting, snapping even the drunkards from their daze to glare over at your little altercation. In an instant his voice drops dangerously low, “Things with Fisk are different now. It’s dangerous. And I need to know that you can protect yourself if I’m not there.”
You deflate a little at that, at least some of the tension draining away. Infuriating as he is, it was Dex 101. Overprotective and overzealous in making it known. In all likelihood, something small had ticked him off and he’d decided that it was a reason to kick off the next World War in the name of your safety. It probably shouldn’t endear you to him, it certainly doesn’t in the eyes of your friends, but it does you, nonetheless.
“C’mon Ben,” you sigh, poking his shoulder lightly, “Sweetheart. I can protect myself. You know that.”
It takes a second, but his jaw finally starts to slacken, hand coming up to massage his temple, “I know. I just don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you–”
Hooking your fingers into his shirt, you yank him down to press a kiss against his lips, revelling in the way his body jumps in surprise. A momentary flinch before he melts into it completely.
“Dex, you barely ever leave me alone. I can defend myself, yes, but I also have you around,” you slip your hand under his shirt just to feel the heat burning off him. It’s a dirty trick, knowing the skin-to-skin contact would turn him to little more than a pile of mush.
Of course, it does.
His response is barely even words, a jumble of noises that you can vaguely decipher as yes, baby. Offering him a pointed glance, you slide your hand across the hold the pistol again, shifting it from palm to palm until it feels comfortable.
“Let’s go then, hotshot, hit me with your pointers.”
A sly smile returns to his cheeks as he slots himself behind you, bringing his arms around to cage you in, tweaking your position slightly with murmured instruction. At his command, you fire two more shots. Bullseye. Naturally.
He’s beaming at you when you spin back around, swinging your arms around his neck in a cacophony of giggles while he whispers quiet praise in the shell of your ear.
You draw back, aiming the thing in dramatic poses. “Well, if the Daredevil tries to come for me, I’ll lay him flat.”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
4
You work. You pay your taxes. You always buy a sandwich for the guy sat outside the pharmacy on 9th Avenue on your way back home from work. You’d been found innocent in by a jury in the FBI-Fisk case, free and fit to carry on with your life without punishment.
There is absolutely no reason you should be summoned to Rikers Island.
It’s unnerving, and seemingly unnecessary. The Warden had claimed there was a ‘pressing matter that they would like to discuss in person’, only to clarify that you in fact had no choice in said matter as it concerned the Anti-Vigilante Task Force.
You have to choke down the bile rising in your throat as you recall the only vigilante you could be accused of knowing.
It had been a struggle to even get there, the journey adding another layer of complication to the affair. Just to rub salt in the wound, they kept you waiting for hours, watching aimlessly as the crowd in the waiting room dwindled down, filled up, and then dwindled down again before anyone called your name. At least they were making the day off work worth it.
The office is stifling, and before the Warden even opens his mouth, you know exactly the type. Smarmy and entitled, a power complex that could rival Fisk’s as he makes a point of standing over you perched in the seat in front of his desk. There’s another man there too, AVTF. Your FBI days may be far behind you, but your ability to read people had by no means faltered. He looked mean. Cocky in a way that’s only earned by those lording their power over others.
“We’re sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am,” the Warden folds his hands together in his lap, a disgusting grin plastered on his face, “you understand running a prison is a complicated and time-consuming affair.”
You only hum, unamused, “I can only imagine.”
“I know this may all seem rather unnecessary, but we do have a very important reason for calling you here today,” the man holds a finger up to your face, other hand fishing into his pockets for god only knows what.
He places a tooth on the desk next to him.
Shuffling uncomfortably, you offer him a tight smile, crossing your arms across your chest, “Warden, I don’t know if you’ve got me confused with someone else but I’m no dentist.”
“Well, it’s less a matter of the tooth itself and who it belongs to–”
“Ben Poindexter has escaped.”
Four words and your blood runs ice cold. It’s the AVTF officer who interrupts, barging his way in front of the warden to sit only inches away from your face, pure, unfiltered disgust glaring down at you.
Ben Poindexter has escaped.
You might be sick.
“What…what do you mean Ben Poindexter has escaped?”
The Warden barks out a laugh so jarring it makes your skin crawl, desperate to reinsert himself in the exchange. “We’ve avoided leaking information to the public for the time being – no use creating needless anxiety. He escaped last night after killing two guards and a prison doctor. We have reason to believe he took the staff bus into the city.”
Dex has escaped.
“I don’t understand,” your voice starts low, employing every attempt to steel yourself, “what Ben Poindexter escaping would have to do with me.”
The AVTF asshole leans forward, disgusting breath smothering your senses, “I think you know exactly what Ben Poindexter escaping would have to do with you.”
In a pinch, you muster together a faint laugh, desperately pleading that the men before you won’t peek through the façade, “Yes, me and Ben Poindexter dated a very long time ago. Before, he was found to be the fake Daredevil, institutionalised, murdered Foggy Nelson and got institutionalised, again. I haven’t seen him since before…that.”
“You seem to have a very extensive knowledge of Poindexter’s history, ma’am,” the AVTF officer snaps, laced with accusation. You’re not ignorant to the way his eyes narrow, peeling over every inch of you with pure distain.
It’s not an unfamiliar reaction to people finding out you had sex with Bullseye, regardless of the fact he had just been Dex back then. You’d have thought you murdered Father Lantom right alongside him.
“What can I say? Most girls like to keep tabs on their ex-boyfriends, Officer,” you shrug as nonchalantly as you can manage, ignoring the way it seems to grate your bones against each other.
Ben has escaped.
That gets the Warden howling, slapping his hand against his knee with an overexcited guffaw. AVTF seems less impressed, lips only barely twitching into what could be considered a smile.
“Harbouring anyone accused of vigilante crimes carries a sentence under the Safer Streets Act. You wouldn’t happen to have had any contact with Poindexter in the past 24-hours would you?”
“Do you really think that if Poindexter had paid me a visit in the past day, I would be sat here right now? Do you think he would’ve let me?” The rage is boiling now, and you can feel yourself spitting the words out. Probably not the wisest move, but it’s all you can do to detract from the churning sensation in your gut.
“Couldn’t say, ma’am, you’re much more,” AVTF pauses to rake his eyes across you, head-to-toe, “familiar with him than me.”
Dex would fucking kill you, is all you can manage to think.
You stand, pulling your coat tight across yourself, “No, I have not seen Poindexter in the past 24-hours. No, I do not expect to see Poindexter in the next 24-hours. I have not seen Ben Poindexter in nine years. Am I free to go or do you have something to charge me with, Officer?”
The Warden tuts, plucking the tooth up and inspecting it, “You are free to go, ma’am. Any time. However, we do have this to give you before you leave.”
It’s a feeling of vertigo that overcomes you, and you can only stare back in horror. He holds the thing out expectantly, shaking it in his palm until you open yours, dropping it into with a chuckle. You roll it between your fingers.
“I don’t understand,” you echo for the second time in far too short a time period, “Why are you giving this to me?”
“Poindexter left a note, you see, crazy bastard,” the Warden shrugs, “was very explicit. Said that we had to give it to you.”
Jesus Christ.
It was Dex’s fucking tooth.
You think you might pass out; it’s so miniscule yet so deeply, deeply disturbing. It makes you want to vomit, sit on the floor and wail, batten the hatches of your apartment and never leave to see the light of day again. It feels like a threat.
It’s borderline euphoric to touch a part of him again.
“How…” you can barely find the words, your throat seeming to fail under the pressure, “how did you get it?”
AVTF offers you a sick smile.
“He spat it at one of the guards. Killed them on the spot.”
+1
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The noise that crawls its way out your throat is guttural. You can barely find your way to your feet – blood is so much slipperier than the movies make it seem. It’s flooding every one of your senses, hot and metallic and rancid.
And the noise.
He lays flat on the floor, a horrible gurgling sound akin to a draining gutter pipe bubbling out of the wound in his neck. He has to be dead, he has to be, but every latent twitch of his fingertips sends you reeling backwards as far away as possible. All you can do is cry, heaving sobs that shake your whole body to its core. You can’t even wipe at your eyes, lest you get mouthful of another man’s blood congealing against your fingertips.
You’re not sure how long you sit there, crying sometimes, others just staring. Time seems both infinite and instant, the only soundtrack the protests raging on just outside your door.
You scream when the hand settles itself on your shoulders.
“Hey, stop it, it’s me.”
There’s no way.
“Dex?” you stutter out, barely able to form his name between your chattering teeth. It takes less than a second for another wail to tear through, “Dex.”
“I’m here.” He slots himself behind you, pulling you taut against his chest without hesitation; like it hasn’t been nine years or ninety bodies since the last time he held you so close.
You vaguely notice the whispers he presses into your ear, blurring together in one long slur – he sounds different to how he did all those years ago, gruffer, more tired, but blanker too. Like someone kept all of his words and sucked out the cadence.
Eventually you recognise, “I think you’re going to want me to sort that out.”
You scramble away slightly, finally twisting round to look at his face, “Dex, what are you doing here?”
He looks so much older. There’s more grey striping through his blonde. New scars that litter his cheekbones, the smile lines you’d once worshipped embedded into an expression that was so much more sinister than you remember him. Maybe he always looked like that.
“Watching you,” he offers lazily, “obviously.”
Like that’s supposed to be comforting.
“You can’t– you’re not supposed to be here, Dex.”
He only raises a brow, nodding to the corpse in the corner, “You don’t want me to sort that out then.”
You let out another whimper as you force yourself to glance over to the body, detesting the way his open eyes seem to follow you no matter where you move. You want to protest, want to tell Dex to get the fuck out of your apartment and never step foot in New York again. Not that he would oblige by either.
An almost bored huff whistles through his lips as he begins to heave himself off the floor, “Go have a shower. Leave your clothes outside the door. I’ll sort it.”
“Dex, I–”
“Shower.”
You don’t protest, opting to let autopilot take over. You can barely remember clambering into the shower until the water is scalding your skin, raw and tender. It takes you a second to come to, surveying the welts that litter your arms, shredded skin at your knees. Breaths come heavy, like each one requires you to lift the weight of the world with your lungs. Eventually, you muster up enough air to push yourself forward, flicking the water off with a twitching finger and letting the cold air hit as you rip the curtain back –
Dex is sat on the fucking toilet seat.
It’s an odd sight; he’s massive, so much bigger than he used to be, clad head to toe in tactical gear and knives as big as your forearm, poised languidly in the corner like a cat basking in the sun. He’s picking at his fingernails with your file.
“What the fuck, Dex?” you practically rip the holder out of the wall with the force at which you gather the towel around yourself, hair dripping wet onto the floor.
He doesn’t even spare a glance up, “Not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before.”
For an instant it’s so easy to pretend. To forget about the corpse on your kitchen floor and imagine that it was just a stupid domestic. That Dex does this all the time and it’s just some endearing honeymoon phase quirk that he never quite developed out of. So easy to imagine what it would have been like if he’d been there the whole time.
Instead, you let out a slow exhale, forcing yourself past his outstretched legs only to falter at the doorknob, “Is he–”
“It’s gone,” Dex lets out a low whistle, “Like it was never there.”
You don’t dare ask what he’s done with it. It’s better if you don’t know. That way when they come asking questions you can–
“You wanna tell me why there was a dead AVTF guy in your apartment?” There’s no hostility in it, just infuriatingly casual. He finally sets the file aside with a heavy sigh, hooking two of his gloved fingers in yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You wanna tell me why you’re in my apartment?” You watch as he lifts your hand steadily, eyes dropping down to your fingernails. He only tuts softly, reaching for the file again to chip away the blood left crusted there.
“Told you. Been watching you.”
“Dex.”
You watch his eyes roll, “You really think I’d get out of prison and not keep tabs on you. Especially after the Warden.”
You’re not sure you want to know the answer, “Is he–”
“Dead? Yeah. Other AVTF guy too.”
It’s silent for a bit after that, Dex chipping away at your hands while you stand and let him. At some point, he pulls his gloves off, skin brushing delicately against your own. It’s hard, mainly because you think you might cry. Mainly because nobody has touched you that delicately in nine years, and because it’s Dex who handles you so softly regardless of how many lives those same hands have snuffed out.
Satisfied, he eventually drops your hand and watches it swing at your side for a few moments before finally staring up at you, “Why was he here?”
“Since the Warden they were convinced that you were here, staying with me, or that I was helping you,” the words are wet and heavy in your mouth, “They’ve been by countless times, turn my apartment upside down looking for you.”
“I know. I keep killing them.”
You can’t help the laugh that barks out, and you can only slap your hand across your face in horror, an attempt to stifle the borderline manic giggles, “Well, that’s probably why they keep coming.”
He laughs too at that, a deep rumble in the back of his throat. He may look a tad different to before, but there’s an occasional twinkle of warmth in his eye that reeks too much of a nostalgia you thought for certain you’d packaged away.
“I think with the protests, he thought he could slip in and take me out. Probably thought he’d save a lot of friends doing it.”
“He wouldn’t have,” there’s an unnerving certainty in Dex’s voice, “I would’ve killed them all.”
“Were you always this disturbed?” You hate the way there’s affection in your words, or the way that you seem to migrate to his touch without meaning to.
“Yes, and you’ve always been a shit shot. You’re lucky you severed his windpipe, because you missed every damn major artery,” the smirk plastered on his face is lethal, and for a second, he looks so handsome you can barely contain the feeling in your chest.
“Do you think they’ll come looking for him? The, uh, AVTF guy.”
“Nah,” he shrugs, “There’s going to be a lot of dead AVTF around tonight, and I made sure no one will be able to trace it back to here.”
For just a second, a sensation so overwhelming threatens to fight its way out of your throat, and you don’t manage to quell the urge to bring a hand up to cradle his jaw, featherlight, but enough.
“I never thought I’d say this,” you let out a breathy laugh, “it’s good to see you again. Thank you for helping me.”
His lip quirks ever so slightly, it’s not much, but it’s the closest thing to genuine you’ve seen written on Dex’s face all night.
“I told you a long time ago, sweetheart, breakfast barely scratches the surface.”
dex: who do you fink gave u the teef?
If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. if you don't like it, leave me alone.
word count: 4.9k
warnings: typical ben poindexter things, angst, suggestive, brief DV reference (nothing explicit), reader instead of julie
When Matt brings Dex back from the boxing match, Karen quickly decides they need a way to keep him in line. Fortunately, she has his ex-girlfriend's number.
It made Karen feel sick to her stomach to admit that they needed him. That he was worth anything more than fish food at the bottom of the port. No, the fish deserved far better than that.
No doubt he’d find a way to strip the life away from them too.
Benjamin Poindexter.
She was sick of it. Sick to the bone of the loss and the pain, it took all she could muster in her soul to even glance in his direction, chained flimsily to bed, let alone look him in the eye. There was no doubt he could probably have figured his way out if he so wished, instead of lazing around like a lion basking in the sun. His resignation meant only one thing; he was there and intended to stay. She couldn’t be sure which was worse, him fighting the bloody fight to freedom or having to sit there and will every rattling breath he took to die in his throat.
She didn’t trust him. Would never be able to trust him. But fucking Matthew and his grand ideas, delusions of peace and justice, had dragged him into her lap without a say in the matter. No, life had taught her well enough to not entertain men like Poindexter without a bargaining chip of her own.
It’s a gamble, to leave him alone in the room for a few minutes, but one she feels more than inclined to take.
“Hello? Yeah, ha, it’s me. I know it’s been a while, but I need a favour.”
It had thrown you. The call from Karen.
Hers was one of those numbers sat neglected in the bottom of your contacts, an old friend that occasionally made your heart stutter as you scrolled aimlessly past it to reach another.
Not that you would’ve expected her to remain close, not after what had happened.
It had been an odd place to find a friend like Karen, while you were working for the FBI. The two seemed fundamentally opposed. You’d clocked that she was using you almost immediately, you couldn’t have stumbled into public relations for a federal agency without having your wits about you. At the time, you’d figured maybe she could be of use too, it was plain to see she held a better hand than anyone bargained for.
What you hadn’t foreseen was just how much you’d actually begin to like her. She was sharp, witty, exuded an aura of certainty that most would be envious of. You felt yourself mirrored in her teeth-baring ways, both familiar with holding your own in a room full of people who thought they held the wheel.
There was something effortlessly charming about her and her companions: Nelson and Murdock always trailing somewhere not far behind. You’d always had the sense that they didn’t quite trust you the way she did.
Your heart told you that maybe it was something you’d done, your mind told you it was Ben.
Your boyfriend, at the time, Benjamin Poindexter.
Sure, you’d known that he could be abrasive, harsh even. Most would describe him as an acquired taste. But back then he’d just been Ben. It had been difficult to bite your tongue those days, when the whispers around the back of the room rang all too clearly in your ears: He’s crazy, haven’t you heard what he did to the Albanians? Do you think he hurts her? I don’t know what she sees in him.
They couldn’t have been further from the truth. Ben had his problems: you weren’t blind to the holes in his apartment walls, speckles of shattered glass that sometimes clipped your heels when you were getting water from the tap. Yes, I saw what he did to the Albanians. No, I don’t agree, but it was him or them. No, he’s never laid a finger on me. What does she see in him? Everything.
The inner mechanisms of Ben Poindexter hadn’t been a burden to bear, but a privilege to be privy to. Difficult at times. Challenging, yes. But it was all worth it to slink into his arms at the end of a long day.
Back then, you had wanted to scream the truth from the rooftops. Would’ve pleaded with anyone that would have listened. You wanted to tell them how he always brought you coffee without asking. That your clothes were always clean, pressed, and folded before you’d even known he’d put them in the laundry. That he used to trace your skin on lazy mornings, pressing kisses down the nape of your neck, staring up at you with a reverence typically reserved for deities and fanatics.
Sure, he had his quirks. He was a tad possessive; you knew that maybe he’d been a bit too into you before you’d started dating. It wasn’t unsurprising for him to appear in front of you at any given moment, no reason why or how he should’ve known you were there. Some people would’ve found it creepy, but fuck it, you liked it. You’d run into his arms screaming gleefully every fucking time.
Instead, you’d screamed when Fisk’s men had dragged you off the street into the back of a van with a gun to your head, swallowed by darkness and nothing but the earthy taste of the salt in your tears to keep you grounded. Keep you sane. You’d stayed there while most of the action took place, only reemerging when the damage was done.
Not only was Poindexter untrustworthy. Worse, he was Daredevil. He was a murderer, simple as.
Any fantasy you’d had of the man had shattered rather quickly after that.
Karen had been there in the wake of it all, at your side, a steady weight in what would otherwise be considered a freefall. She’d wiped your tears, sat with you and a bottle of wine of the floor of your apartment as all you could do was mourn a man who never really existed. Not in the way you thought he had. Nelson, Murdock and Page could do with some PR, you know, she’d shouldered you with a coy grin splitting ear to ear.
Somewhere down the line, Murdock had become Matt, Nelson had become Foggy, and you had become a friend. Somewhere down the line, Matt Murdock became Daredevil. Sometimes it felt religious, like atonement, the work you did with them: penance for time spent advocating for lesser men with violent minds. There were some bad days speckled in there, but most were good, laughing and throwing peanuts at Josie’s with a smile plastered on your lips.
The day Foggy Nelson died was a very bad day.
You could never have been certain of it, but you knew you’d caught his eye that night. Nothing more than a brief flicker of recognition slatted between a ski mask; but you’d be a liar if you’d said it didn’t make you feel just as wounded as poor Foggy. Then Matt had thrown Bullseye from the roof, and you’d had to lurch away from Foggy’s corpse to stop yourself desecrating it with vomit.
You had moved without thinking about. It had been nothing more than a split second, a single footstep in his direction. Ben’s direction. The ember of flame long snuffed out reigniting in the pit of your stomach, the want, the need to know that he was still breathing as his neck lay snapped at that godforsaken angle.
It had been a mistake, but it had been enough for Karen.
You’d seen it in that very moment, the flicker of betrayal in her eyes – years’ worth of retribution flattened in a single motion. She’d believed you were better, but apparently you were just as sick as before. It churned your stomach to think that maybe you’d caught that sickness from Ben Poindexter all those years ago.
Her and Matt had been civil to you at the funeral, but they had left without you, and each other. Not a nod in your direction. You knew why they couldn’t stand it; you couldn’t stand it yourself, the knowledge that his hands had ever slipped into your own, that your breath and body and mind had ever mingled with the man who had used his to rip one of their oldest friends from the world.
This was all to say that when Karen called, you came.
It was against your better judgement: she’d omitted any information about why she wanted your help, what for, only offering an address and the simple fact that she needed you there. It wasn’t going to be what it seemed, you knew that much, Karen would only have avoided telling you something that she knew would’ve prevented you from coming.
It made your chest ache, to be oh so aware of an act of manipulation and to fall into it willingly, letting guilt and shame move your body before reason could take over. If she’d called, you knew it must be desperate, and your list of friends was short enough that Karen and Matt still topped it despite not hearing a whisper from them for over two years.
It makes you jump when Matt, clad in Daredevil regalia, peels the door open before you can rap your knuckles against the wood, fucking heartbeats. You jolt even more when he lurches into a bone crushing hug, pulling your body tight against his own.
“Fuck, it’s good to see you,” the smile that quirks on his lips as he pulls back is barely there, but you don’t need to hear his heart to know its genuine. Tired. His head dips, and it all too quickly morphs into something more of a grimace, “I want you to know that this wasn’t my idea. And that I’m sorry for putting you through this.”
Your jaw hinges open slightly, questions bubbling in your throat, but Karen appears beside Matt before you can wrap your tongue around the words.
She’s quieter, more resolute, and you’re not sure if the light in her eyes is fire or warmth, “Hey, thanks for showing up.”
“Of course,” you mutter, barely audible, and a tad choked, “I put my coat on the moment I picked up the phone.”
Something of a smile ghosts her lips then, and she slots an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into the apartment, “I called you because I needed your help.”
The door swings shut behind you, and it’s at that moment that she steps to the side.
She steps to the side and you see him.
The first thing you notice is his hair: it’s cut differently to way it was when you were together, a tad more clipped and shaggier on the top, a mop of blond flecked with grey. He’s covered head-to-toe in blood and gauze, head lolled to the side at an angle all too reminiscent of a night best forgotten. He’s shirtless, body an ode to damage that can be inflicted by knives and guns and god knows what – he’s bigger than he ever was when you were together.
You’re not sure if its tears welling in your eyes or vomit in your throat as you whisper into the silence, “Fuck.”
His eyes crack open almost instantly.
And then he starts fucking laughing. It’s nothing more than a breathy chuckle to begin with, mingled in with sharp inhales, but it quickly morphs into raucous laughter, throwing his head back against the bedframe in tandem with the jangle of the handcuffs shackling him down.
Karen and Matt at least have the decency to look ashamed, averting their entire bodies from your sight. You can still make out Karen worrying her lip between her teeth, her fingers clenching and unclenching in her palm. You think you hear her murmur something along the lines of fucking psycho.
“Well,” Poindexter begins with one final sardonic huff, eyes steeling into something more resolute, “aren’t you just as beautiful as they day I met you?”
It’s white and hot and instant. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you spit, “you don’t get to talk to me like that. Not you. Anyone but fucking you.”
You feel Matt’s hand rest tenderly on your shoulder, you can practically feel all that guilt emanating off him, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have done this. It was a bad idea.”
The feeling in your body is horrifying, a sensation that can only be described as being sick to your very soul. If the prickling of tears behind your eyes was anything to go by, you were unravelling fast. Falling to pieces in a way that had specifically been reserved for the man now sat less than three strides away.
“How could you do this?” You spin on your heel, pushing him back with as much force as you could muster, “why would you do this to me?”
It’s Karen who flitters into your eyeline then, slotting herself between you and Poindexter, and you hate the way you want to shove her out of the way for blocking your view.
“We brought you here because we can’t trust him,” her words are a slow whisper, as if she were placating some kind of animal. “We need something that we can use to keep him in line.”
“You know, Karen,” Poindexter begins casually from behind, splitting into a grin once again, “When you’re making a grand plan to control your enemies, it helps if you don’t say it while they’re in the room.”
Karen zips around in an instant, the click of a chamber echoing in the otherwise silent apartment, “Another word and I’ll put a bullet in your fucking skull, do we understand each other?”
You don’t miss the way darkness swirls in his irises as his smirk falters into something a tad more muted, and he makes no sound other than the groan of mattress springs as he reclines against the headboard. His eyes never leave you, and if you didn’t know any better you would say he was fighting to urge to blink and miss anything.
It sickened you that you felt the same way. You could only pray that it was morbid curiosity.
An exhaustion settles itself in your bones, an uncomfortable acceptance, and you can’t be bothered to whisper, “What exactly is it that you expect me to do with this?”
“We don’t expect you to do anything,” Matt interjects, pragmatic as ever, “you being here should be enough of an incentive.”
“An incentive for what exactly?”
“An incentive for him to behave,” Karen whispers, and it hits you all at once.
You’d practically walked into your own kidnapping. They wanted to keep you here as leverage. That nearly sends your tears spilling over, that you were here not as a friend but as a pawn in some grand design. The next question only aches deeper in your chest: How far would they go? Would they threaten to hurt you if Ben – Poindexter – failed to fall in line?
You wonder if Matt can read minds as he wraps you into a hug for the second time in half an hour, “I’m sorry that we’re meeting again like this. We won’t make you stay, but – we need this. It’s bigger than us now. Bigger than him. It’s Fisk.”
Glancing over his shoulder, you can make out Karen’s guilt riddled form, hunched over in a way ill-befitting of her nature. Her laugh is short and curt, laced with exhaustion, “Is now a bad time to add that I’ve missed you?”
Something wet and tight pulls at your throat, and you push away from Matt lightly with a tired chuckle, “Yes, Kare, now would be a bad time to tell me that.”
It’s silent for a few moments after that, you eventually slot into a chair across the room, hands clasped in front of you not unlike a prayer. Matt and Karen hover around, at least having the wherewithal to act busy while you grapple with the situation at hand. The cogs turning in your brain is grating, it makes your teeth ache.
And Poindexter. He’s shameless as ever. Not grinning any longer but making no effort to hide his stare. There’s a blankness in his expression, a dismissive lilt to his gaze that would fool you if not for the way his pupils flickered over every inch of you, head to toe. Like a predator sizing up its prey. Or someone trying to commit an image to memory.
Your harsh inhale draws a stare from everyone in the room, and you steel yourself, “I’ll stay on one condition.”
Matt’s brow quirks, “What condition?”
“Let me speak to him. Alone.”
The silence becomes instantly heavier.
“Uncuffed.”
And all of a sudden, its loud. Poindexter grins.
“Absolutely not. Are you insane?”
“Yeah, no. No way that’s happening.”
You stand firm, planting your feet on the ground, “Those are my conditions. If not, I’m leaving. I deserve closure,” you falter, attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, “And how else will you know that I’m enough to keep him in line? If he hurts me, then you never had control over him anyway.”
The fight seems to draw out of the opposition at that point, both slinking down somewhat, air hissing out of their lungs. They really did need this. Karen’s mouth opens momentarily to argue before clamping shut again, running a hand through her hair in frustration. You let it run its course, determined to remain strong, and after pacing for a few moments, Matt finally relents.
“Five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” you nod, crossing your arms across your chest, “and your promise.”
His head quirks, “My promise to what?”
“Your promise not to listen to what we say in this room.”
Something of a smirk plays on Matt’s lips briefly, a knowing tell from years locked in an office together. He nods wordlessly, slowly approaching Poindexter with the key for the cuffs, “I don’t need to tell you what I’ll do to you if you hurt her.”
Karen, uncharacteristically quiet, only forces her pistol into your hands as she passes, her eyes meeting yours and saying more than words ever could. Be safe. Be smart.
Moments later, they’re gone. You can’t tell if you’re about to burst of deflate. Poindexter isn’t staring at you any longer, merely fiddling with his own hands in his lap, and if you didn’t know him any better, you would say he seemed almost nervous.
“So,” he begins casually, voice hoarse and low, “you and the Devil are friendly.”
You have to bark out a laugh, dragging a hand across your face, marching towards him, dragging a chair to sit dangerously close. Within touching distance. “You are fucking unbelievable. Nine fucking years, Poindexter, and that’s all you have to say to me?”
You watch as his body shifts, leaning in somewhat. You should lean back, they don’t teach you to approach dangerous things, after all. But it’s practically gravitational. Unintentional and unavoidable.
You can barely hear the words he exhales.
‘What? Speak up, Poindexter, it’s not like you’re quiet.”
“Please.”
That throws you for a loop, stuttering every thought to a resounding halt. You can’t help the way your head quirks to the side, finger tracing anxiously over the ridged handle of the pistol – a pathetic attempt to self-soothe.
“Please? Please what?”
“Please don’t call me that,” it’s only at that moment that he finally looks up, pupils so blown wide they could be black holes, “you used to call me Ben.”
You have to look away, bring your fist to your mouth and bite on it to stifle down the scream threatening to fight its way out of your chest. “You’re right. I used to call you that. I wonder what happened to change that? Huh? What about that, Ben?”
His whole being shudders as your mouth forms the final syllable, as though the unseen string holding everything in his body taut has been snapped loose in an instant. His expression is practically pained, teeth grinding down against each other.
“You have to know that’s not how I intended for that to happened.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not how you intended it to happen,” you bite back, looking anywhere but him, “I’m sure you and most murderers don’t intend to go down for it.”
Something of a laugh trickles out his throat, but its painfully unnatural, “It doesn’t really matter what I did anymore, does it? I say it was Fisk, everyone else says I’m insane. I kill people, but here I am, hiding out in the same back alley as the Daredevil. In the end, it all means nothing.”
You recognise the shift in his disposition, the deadly slip between his actions and feelings. The grey area where his mind can’t quiet reconcile his thoughts with the way his body moves. There’s not a doubt in your mind that he believes it whole-heartedly; when it came to action, he’d never been anything other than unwavering.
It comes out in a shaky timbre, “It meant something to me, Ben. It always meant something to me.”
You see it before you feel it, the warmth of his palm against your knee. Every saint between here and heaven tells you to lurch back, to slap his hand away and press the gun to his temple without remorse. To scream and cuss him out without mercy.
You let him.
“I never meant for you to be involved,” his words are disjointed, brow furrowed, like he can’t quite make them fit in the sentence together, “I was trying to… protect you.”
That makes you recoil, jolt back as the sensation of a hot poker drives its way through your stomach. His touch remains, however, persistent in the face of all opposition. His fingers whiten against your knee in a way that you’re sure means they’ll bruise. Holding on like he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll cease to exist in front of him.
“Don’t put that on me,” you mumble faintly, “you can’t put that on me. You weren’t protecting me, Ben.”
The tether snaps, and he rises to his feet like a whip, practically stood between your legs, staring down, “I was trying to protect you. Fisk got into my head – I’m not too proud to admit that – but then he took you, and I couldn’t see straight. I did what I thought I had to do. And yeah, I wanted to kill Fisk, but that was just the icing on the cake.”
Your hands bat out instinctually to steady him as he falls to his knees, slotting between your legs with a practiced familiarity. The position places your hand a slither away from his jaw, hand ghosting the skin but too fearful to move any closer. He’s wrecked staring back up at you.
“They put me in the hospital, and I barely fucking remember most of it. But that woman, she offered me a way out and I had to. I needed my mind back. You have to understand– I never knew that he was your friend,” his gaze flitters to the ground in the closest thing to shame you imagine a man like him could muster, before finishing quietly, “you know the rest.”
You can only bring that hand up across your mouth in horror, attempting to swallow whatever sob is threatening to tear its way out of your body. Speechless. That’s all. You’re not sure you could wrap your mouth around the words if you tried. You must begin to lean, because you feel his palms connect with the dips of your waist to steady you and part of it makes you feel sick and the other part of you has never longed for touch more. It burns and freezes all at once, soothing every ache and rubbing salt into every wound.
“I am,” he fumbles hesitantly, words laden with uncertainty, “good now. The scales, I’m going to balance them. Retribution. I’m going to make things right.”
Your mind whirls at his words, so riddled with delusion but so deeply heartfelt that you can’t discern where the truth lies. He’s not a good person, and you’re not sure he ever can or wants to be, but there’s a resolve written in his features saved only for when he fixes on a target.
You only notice in that moment how much older he looks, the litany of scars painted into his skin.
“Do you believe that, Ben?” your hand finally comes up to bracket his jaw, a step between a loving touch and strangulation, but he keens into your palm nonetheless.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” it’s a breathless whisper, barely there, “okay, Ben.”
His stare is unwavering, “But… I will do… anything that you tell me to.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
If anyone had asked you, you could’ve sworn up and down that the words never left your lips. No recollection of those words ever twisting around your tongue. You can’t taste them, but you can hear them, and surely it can’t be true? It’s your voice, your cadence – but you couldn’t have said it.
But the moment you hear the final syllable, his teeth clash against yours.
Kiss me.
And he does.
It’s not sweet, or tender, or anything under the sun remotely close to the sort. It’s harsh and punishing, forcing back against you like he’d thrown a punch as opposed to pressed his lips against your own. It’s intoxicating. It makes you feel vile and dirty and just a little bit evil, but selfishly you’d let him do the prison time again if it meant that he would kiss you like that.
Your Ben had always been nervous, flighty when it came to affection; it had been on you to initiate, to remind him that you weren’t a vase about to shatter at the slightest pressure. This Ben has no such qualms, pressing forward like he’s trying to break you. Like he wants to watch the vase shatter just so he has an excuse to cut himself on the pieces.
It takes reality crashing down for you to pull back, but only just. This was so deeply wrong.
It only takes nine words for it to feel right again.
“I never thought I’d get to do that again.”
In spite of it all, you laugh. You laugh and you have to cover your mouth to stifle the sound, fearful that if you’re any louder Matt won’t have to use his senses to hear you through the door. He chuckles too, low and throaty, reclining back on his heels with a new ease.
What the fuck was happening?
It’s sobering, as your choked giggles filter out into a breathless nothing. A reminder that Matt and Karen only sit behind the door, and that sooner rather than later they’ll come bursting through – no doubt desperate to know the nature of your conversation.
Ben makes no move to disrupt your thoughts, instead opting to study you up close, savouring every inch his eyes will permit for as long as you will let him.
“This isn’t over, Ben. I don’t forgive you. I don’t know how to feel about you. But they will…” you falter, “keep us apart if they find out about this.”
He only smirks lazily, “Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?”
A thought crosses your mind, and it’s at that moment that you flick the chamber back on the gun, pressing it square into his forehead with enough force to leave a dent. You think his eyes roll back in his head – of course he likes it, the bastard.
“I don’t forgive you, Ben,” you pause, drinking in his wide-eyed amazement, “but this isn’t over.”
He only nods, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, only pushing his head harder against the muzzle.
“Karen! Daredevil!” you shout, and not a moment passes before the pair come barrelling through the door.
Their faces are riddled with surprise as they take in the sight before them. Poindexter, on his knees. You, with Karen’s gun pressed cleanly against his skull.
Matt’s moving forward in an instant, placing himself between you and Ben with that fearless vigilante attitude that suits him so. Karen instead goes to you, pulling you back and slipping the gun from your clenched fingers.
“Did he hurt you?” Matt seethes, turning to Ben, “Did you touch her?”
Ben’s always been better at steeling his expression than you, it’s a fight to maintain your composure. To stifle the grin. “Me and Dex were just making it clear where we stand with each other, isn’t that right?”
The man in question just nods wordlessly, and you wonder for a second if your friends are mistaking the awe written on his features for fear. You hope so.
Karen seems off kilter as she stares between the pair of you, ever the journalist, employing every inch of her skill to get a read of the room.
“Is he going to help? Do what we say?”
“Yes,” Ben replies gruffly with a flick of his hand, as though batting away the words, “One good deed.”
Instead of celebration, you’re met with silence. Maybe they didn’t expect that. Maybe they put you in the belly of the beast in the hopes you’d take him out. It’s a heavy quiet over the room, but you feel Karen relax against you, and Matt drops his guard, wandering slowly to perch against the window frame.
Minutes go by before anyone opens their mouths, but it’s Matt who breaks first.
“What did you talk about?”
Your eyes meet Ben’s. It’s only for a second, brief enough that you hope your friends don’t notice.
“Retribution."
my first fic in over a year. thank you Ben Poindexter we all say in unison. i really hope i did this right, i feel like everyone kind of characterises him differently but i tried my best! side note: if Karen comes across bad in this that is NOT intentional i LOVE Karen Page with my whole heart she is a complex female character
if you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. if you don't like it, leave me alone.
If you were to ask most sane people, a relationship between a hacker with a penchant for breaking the law and an FBI agent shouldn’t work. And yet, you and Benjamin Poindexter just seem to…well, work. You get each other. You love each other. In fact, it doesn’t take much to see that your boyfriend is completely and utterly obsessed with you.
Unfortunately, Wilson Fisk sees this too, and it isn’t long before it becomes clear just how far Dex is willing to go to keep you with him. And, after tragedy strikes, how far he’ll go to get you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Murder (I mean, it's Bullseye), Blood, Dex is down so bad guys, Smut!!, Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), Slight knife play, Slight gun play, Reader matches Dex’s freak, Vague mentions of mental illness (it's Dex), Angst, Canon-compliant character death, Please please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: And here we have the longest fic I've ever written! I loved writing these two so much that I'm almost sad to post it because I don't get to work on it anymore. Be warned that this fic is going to follow the events of Daredevil season 3 through Born Again season 2, so there will definitely be spoilers! As always, let me know what you guys think!! Your feeback brings me joy and keeps me writing!!
Word Count: 22k
-
It’s almost painfully cliche, how he meets you.
You slam into him, head banging against his shoulder so hard that it might bruise. So hard that your phone clatters to the ground in a chaotic little cacophony of plastic on pavement.
“Shit!” Your voice is a sharp cry in the crowded street, but no one really turns around for this kind of thing in New York. No one offers much more than a backwards glance and a raised eyebrow. He just wanted a damn coffee, and now his shoulder is aching and he’s about to whip around to snap at you for-
Your palm is pressed against your forehead, and your eyes are squeezed shut. You’re in a sweatshirt and jeans. There are subtle bags under your eyes from what he can only assume is a lack of sleep. Your sneakers are worn. There is almost nothing about you that should be in any way memorable.
One eye peeks open, and his heart…stutters.
“I’m sorry. Shit. You okay?”
His heart stops.
He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.
He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.
“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.
“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.
“Not that I know of.”
A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.
“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”
He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.
The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.
His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.
“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.
He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.
Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”
“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-
But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.
He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.
The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.
He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.
-
“Yikes, what happened to you?”
You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.
“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?
You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”
“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.
“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”
“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”
“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.
“So, speaking of which…”
“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”
“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”
“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”
Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.
Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.
“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”
You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”
“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”
“Hm.”
“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”
You raise an eyebrow again.
“Okay, the east coast.”
Your eyebrow climbs higher.
“America?”
You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.
“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”
“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”
You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.
“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”
Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”
And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”
Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?
“Wilson Fisk?”
“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”
Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”
“Foggy.”
He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”
“I haven’t been caught.”
“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”
“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.
So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.
Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.
Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”
“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”
“You said two.”
You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”
-
Watching you work is…fascinating.
It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.
You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.
The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.
When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.
He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.
Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.
But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.
-
It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.
You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.
So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.
And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.
Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.
“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.
Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.
Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.
You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.
“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”
“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”
“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”
“Dex.”
“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”
“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-
You snort. His heart bursts into flames.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-
“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”
-
“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.
“Not really.”
“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”
Actually, yeah. “I have one.”
You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”
“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”
“Aw, come on. Please?”
Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”
You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”
“Letter.”
“What?”
“Pick a letter.”
Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”
The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.
There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.
“Holy shit.”
Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.
“Can you do it again?”
Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.
You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.
But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.
Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.
-
He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.
He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.
He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.
Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-
“You have ice cream on your nose.”
He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.
“What?”
You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.
“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“
You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-
“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”
Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.
So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.
And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.
You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.
When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.
“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.
“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”
-
When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.
“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.
“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.
“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”
“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”
“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”
“But he knows?”
“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”
Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”
Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.
Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.
You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.
When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.
“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”
“Then why did you get them?”
He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”
You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”
Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”
You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”
He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.
Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.
You get him. And he gets you.
You just…work.
-
The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.
You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.
And then the suspension came.
“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.
“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.
“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.
“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.
You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”
He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”
Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.
“Three things you can feel?”
He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”
“Your shirt, technically.”
He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.
“Three things you can hear.”
“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”
You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”
He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.
“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.
“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”
“I know.”
“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”
“Hell of a compliment.”
“I mean it.”
“Me too.”
You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.
“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.
“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”
“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.
“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”
-
“One more.”
The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.
You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.
“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”
“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”
“We have gone all night.”
It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.
Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?
“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.
“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”
How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?
You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.
One more turns into three more.
-
You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.
Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.
You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.
Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.
“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.
What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-
“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.
His hands tighten on you. Fast.
“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.
“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.
He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”
“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”
“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”
You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.
“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”
“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.
“Say it. Please.”
You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”
He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.
You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.
So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.
“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.
“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.
You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.
The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.
Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.
“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.
His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.
“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.
He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”
You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.
He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.
It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.
He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.
“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.
You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.
“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”
He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”
And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.
-
“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”
“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“
“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”
That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”
You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”
Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“
“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”
“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“
“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”
Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.
“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”
You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”
“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“
“No.”
“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”
“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”
And yet…
No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.
Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.
You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…
Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.
-
He killed Ray tonight.
It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.
“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”
“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.
“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”
Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.
If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.
And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.
The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.
-
You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.
So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.
Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.
“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.
You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.
“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”
He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.
You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.
“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”
You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.
“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.
He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.
When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.
His brow furrows, and he pulls back.
You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.
“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.
But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.
That’s all.
-
The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.
And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.
“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”
You would recognize that voice anywhere.
It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.
It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.
You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.
And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.
You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.
Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”
You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.
You nod.
-
“What are you-“
You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-
Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.
That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.
You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.
His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.
He reaches for you, and you step back.
“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”
“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”
Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”
“Dex.”
“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“
You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.
“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”
Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.
“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“
“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”
You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.
“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.
You turn, and walk away.
You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.
You keep walking.
-
He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.
He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.
He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.
It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.
But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.
You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.
And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
-
It’s a nice, normal Friday night.
Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.
You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.
Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.
The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…
Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.
You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”
“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.
“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”
“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.
“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.
“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”
His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.
And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.
“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.
“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-
“Hey, you okay?”
Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”
“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”
Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.
“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.
Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.
Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.
A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.
You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-
“Hey, baby.”
A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.
Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.
He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.
“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.
And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.
He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.
The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.
The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.
The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.
Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.
And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.
And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.
And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.
You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.
You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.
Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-
Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.
“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”
-
ONE YEAR LATER
There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.
You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.
But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.
So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.
The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.
He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.
They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.
-
“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”
Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.
“No.”
“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”
“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”
“They moved him to gen pop.”
You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.
“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.
“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“
“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”
Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.
But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.
-
“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.
You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.
“You killed Foggy Nelson.”
“Your hair is longer.”
“You killed Foggy.”
“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”
“Shut up.”
“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”
You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.
“Do it again.”
“Fuck you.”
“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”
“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”
His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”
“You still love me.”
“No. I don’t.”
“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”
“Fuck. You.”
His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”
“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”
“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”
“You’re trying to get in my head.”
“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”
“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”
He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”
“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”
He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do. I already have.”
“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”
That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”
“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”
“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”
“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”
His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”
And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.
They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.
One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.
The security camera light flickers off.
Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.
You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.
You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.
“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”
For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.
And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.
Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.
The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.
You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.
“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”
“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.
“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”
And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.
There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.
And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.
It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.
It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.
“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”
They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.
-
“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”
Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.
“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”
No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.
And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“I did it for you.”
“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.
“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.
“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?
Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”
For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.
“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”
And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?
“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”
Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.
“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.
“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”
Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”
He’s right. He did. But-
“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.
Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.
“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.
Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.
“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“
But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.
“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”
The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.
Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-
“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”
Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-
You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.
“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.
And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.
Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.
You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.
A bullseye.
-
Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.
You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.
Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.
The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.
Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.
There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.
You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.
“You moved.”
“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”
“I don’t really fall under that definition.”
You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.
“You look tired.”
“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”
“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”
“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.
“You still can.”
You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”
“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.
“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”
“That sounds hard. Really-“
“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”
“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”
You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.
“Was that a fucking knife?”
“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”
“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.
“I would never in a million fucking years-“
“You. Killed. Foggy.”
“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.
“You’re delusional.”
“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.
You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.
In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.
He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.
“I should kill you.”
“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”
“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”
“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”
“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.
You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.
“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”
“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”
“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.
“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”
“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”
“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.
Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.
This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.
You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.
He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.
You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.
You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.
His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.
“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.
He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.
You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.
When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.
“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.
“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.
Kill. Kill.
All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.
Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.
You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.
“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-
“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.
Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.
He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.
Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.
And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.
Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.
“Stop it.” You try. You really do.
He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.
“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.
And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.
Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.
You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.
But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-
“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”
“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”
He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.
“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”
You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.
He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.
When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.
“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.
“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”
The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.
It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.
“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.
He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.
You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.
He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.
Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.
And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.
He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.
He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.
And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.
You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.
He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.
When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.
“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.
You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.
“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.
“What?”
“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“
Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.
“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”
He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.
He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.
“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.
You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.
It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.
“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”
“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.
“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”
He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”
Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.
“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”
“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”
You frown. “It-“
“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”
“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.
Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.
You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.
“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.
He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.
“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”
“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”
-
“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”
“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.
“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.
“I didn’t.”
“You just called me ‘the missus’.”
He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”
You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.
But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.
Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.
You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.
You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.
“You two ready to order?”
The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.
“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”
You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”
His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.
“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.
“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.
He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.
Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?
You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.
Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.
You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.
You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.
You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”
He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.
“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.
“Everybody get on the ground!”
You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.
His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.
“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.
A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.
You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.
“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.
You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.
“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.
Dex turns, and tilts his head.
“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”
He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.
You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.
“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.
“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.
“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”
You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.
-
ONE YEAR EARLIER
“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”
Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.
But you’re still there. You. You. You.
He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.
Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”
And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.
And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.
“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.
Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.
Of you.
His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.
“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.
And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.
You. You. You.
You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.
You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.
His fingers curl against the picture.
“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”
He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.
His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.
“They talk to her about you.”
His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.
“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”
His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.
Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.
“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”
You. You. You.
Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”
Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-
“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”
You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.
“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”
Back to you.
He signs the contract.
-
One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.
Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…
And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.
You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.
You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.
But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…
One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.
No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.
So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.
-
He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.
It was easy. Almost too easy.
But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.
He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.
But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.
-
“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”
She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.
Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.
Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.
There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.
Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.
You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.
You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.
And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.
-
He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.
He misses you. He wishes you were here.
The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.
“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”
“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.
“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.
Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.
The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.
Judgement day ticks ever-closer.
“Dex!”
His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…
There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”
“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….
“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.
“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.
“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”
“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”
Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.
“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”
“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“
The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.
And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.
The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.
“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“
…
-
You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.
Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.
Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.
And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.
“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.
“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.
“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.
“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”
Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.
“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.
“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.
“He killed Foggy.”
“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”
-
He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.
He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.
“Hey, baby.”
He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.
He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.
“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages.
He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”
You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.
“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.
“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.
He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.
“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”
“Balancing the scales.”
“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”
“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.
“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.
“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.
“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.
You pull back, and push it in harder.
“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”
Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.
“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”
“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.
“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”
You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”
He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.
“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”
You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.
He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.
“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.
“Feels better.”
“Liar.”
He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”
“You are touching me.”
“Let me touch you more.”
You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.
He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.
“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.
“No.”
He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”
“I could cuff your other hand.”
He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.
“Off.”
You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.
“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.
“Doesn’t hurt.”
It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.
“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.
“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”
You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.
You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.
One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.
And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.
“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.
You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.
“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.
“No. Don’t move.”
“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”
He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.
“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.
“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”
Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”
“Both cuffs, and no touching.”
He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”
-
When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.
You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.
“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.
You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.
“Uncuff me.”
“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.
He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.
“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”
“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.
“Your shirt is on inside out.”
You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.
“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”
“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.
“Shut up.”
“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.
He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.
But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.
He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.
And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”
Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.
“What do you need me to do?”
-
The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.
Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…
And then lowered out of pure confusion.
A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.
“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”
Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-
“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.
Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.
He goes down.
She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.
And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.
Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.
And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.
The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.
“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.
Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.
The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.
He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.
-
“Holy shit.”
“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.
Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.
“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”
Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”
“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”
Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”
“Says the guy who broke out of it.”
“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”
You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.
He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.
The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.
You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.
A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.
“What’re you up to?”
Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.
“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”
“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.
“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”
“Never.”
“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.
“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.
“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”
You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.
That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.
And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…
It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.
Home, to him.
You smile back, and meet his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
-
Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.
The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying - but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.
Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.
Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.
He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.
“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-
He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.
And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.
No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.
He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.
But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.
“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”
The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.
Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.
"things i find extremely attractive" trend with dex
"c'mere" and pulls you towards him and tucks his face into your neck
it doesn't matter if you're in public or not for dex to do this. when he wants you near, when he needs to be close to you, he'll whisper "c'mere," sweetly to you as he's already yarding you towards him. dex'll tuck his face into you neck and inhale, softly kissing your hair/neck and hum.
fixing/playing with your hair
it started with dex tucking your hair out of your face to see more of you. over time he got more bold, running his fingers through your hair before gently tucking it behind your ear. when he noticed you shiver as he ran both hands through your hair as he made a makeshift ponytail is what decided dex to experiment. he loves listening to your little 'mm's as he played with the hair at the nape of your neck, and just simply adores how soft your hair is.
leaning down and the little "hm?" to talk to you
he is so tall, it's like second nature to dex to lean down a bit when he wants to focus his attention on you. when you mutter something, especially in public, he'll lean down into your space and hum softly, pretty head tilted to the side.
long eye contact in crowded rooms
he doesn't want to lose sight of you across the room. he'll look at you whether you're looking back or not. when you catch his eye the corner of his mouth might twitch for just a second, and he feeds on the way you stare just as intently back at him, ignoring the people or things around you/him.
messy makeouts
dex lives for messy makeouts with you. kissing you softly and with intention and it derailing into you pinned against something, both hands cupping his jaw as his hands roam. he doesn't even care if it leads to anything more or not, and doesn't make a move unless you do, but he's always painfully hard.
popcorn kisses
he loves your face. sometimes, when you're talking, he'll become so overwhelmed by the sight and sound of you he'll grab your face and kiss your face all over. his heart swells when you giggle and he'll kiss your face a few more times before giving you a rough kiss to your mouth.
carefully observing you when you're doing something
yeah okay we all know dex, do i even need to elaborate? it's one of his favorite things to do. he could watch you for hours, he could watch you watch paint dry. he loves to witness all the little way your face contorts when you focus, when you're frustrated.. the way you fidget, your favorite ways to fidget. he stores it all away in his mind for safekeeping.
rubbing their thumb on your hand while holding hands
dex likes to move his hands, he likes to fidget. when holding hands with you, it translates to rubbing soft circles on your skin. it comforts him, being able to gently squeeze your hand and feel your warm skin on his.
smiling as you do small things for them (tying their shoes, picking off lint, etc)
he loves when you pick a small piece of lint of his shirt mindlessly, as if you were almost unaware you did so until you see him smiling down at you. when you gently fix his hair and are slow to look back at him, making sure his hair looks just right.
standing close behind you
it's important to dex that everyone around you acknowledges that you are his, and his alone. he is so big and broad and warm it's impossible to not notice him standing so close behind you.
when they correct someone's perception of you or what you prefer "no she's allergic to that" / "her favorite color is green, not pink"
it irks dex when someone who claims to know you says something totally wrong. he keeps his anger in check, monotonal as he supplies the person with your actual favorite color, your proper pronouns. he also can't stand when someone is just so blatantly wrong about you. "what did you call her? hard to speak to? they're an introvert, and anyway i've always found them easy to speak with. you just don't know how to, i'd guess you're the harder one to converse with."
knees touching but not moving away
grrr ruff ruff.. he has to be touching you. it doesn't matter how. he will deliberately manspread to touch his large knee to your quaint one. it calms him.
scolding you but not stopping you
it's no secret dex is a brat tamer. he could easily get off on scolding you, making you pay, restraining you to stop you... but sometimes he likes to let you play, just a bit. you want to test your luck with him? okay, he'll scold and warn you but wants to see how far you'll really go.
lying for you
lies roll of his tongue for you easily. he doesn't even need an inkling of idea of why he needs to, he just simply does it. late for something and a friend is upset? 'they lost track of time studying for an important exam.' bruise(s) on your knee and embarrassed about it? 'slammed into the bedframe pretty hard, heard it from the living room.'
replying to you when you call their name with your name
his mouth curls upwards when you call for him. he'll call back to you with the same infliction and your own name on his lips while he makes his way towards where your sweet voice came from.
when they acknowledge it's wrong but they're too far in to stop
"baby, sweetheart..." he's breathing hard, fingers digging into your waist. "fuck, hun, we really shouldn't be doing this," but he can't help himself. "tell me to stop, baby." he can't stop, even if your soft voice begged him to.
Hi! I was wondering if i could request a soldier boy fic!
It would be Soldier boy fell for a modern girl during the time he was in hiding. When he returned after being frozen again. He finds out the girl was put into one of Homelander camps because she got upset and spoke the truth.
When he finds out, he gets angry and immediately makes it his mission to make sure she is still alive and then get revenge when reader is safe
loved this idea so much that i wrote it all down in one sitting, hope it's to ur liking🙂↕️🫡
THE MOUTH ON YOU
wordcount: 4784
summary: Soldier Boy promised he’d come back– he just didn’t know it would take two years, a prison camp and nearly losing the only person he ever called home.
warnings: fem!reader x soldier boy, hurt/comfort, they pretty quickly become an established couple, ben softening up for his girl, broken promises, cursing, violence, homelander freedom camps and the trauma they left on people, ben is a total wife guy (even if they technically aren’t married) nobody can convince me otherwise– think that’s all for now !!!
The first thing Soldier Boy learned about you was that you talked too damn much. The second was that you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. “Y’know” You said, arms crossed as he stood in front of the motel vending machine he’d just punched open. “Most people just use money”
He scoffed, not even looking up from the mountain of spilled food and drinks. “Well sweetheart, most people aren’t me” His voice was gruff, dismissive and sarcastic.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You raised an eyebrow, eyeing the crushed metal hanging from the vending machine. He finally looked at you then– really looked. Young, mouthy, absolutely zero fear in your eyes despite the fact he’d just punched through solid metal like it was cardboard. Most people backed off. Instead? You crossed your arms harder.
“Y’know” You repeated. “Usually when giant, random men get caught destroying private property they at least pretend to feel bad”
“Giant?” He echoed in a scoff, almost offended.
“Okay, normal-sized”
His jaw ticked. “Y’always this annoyin’?”
“Only around criminals” You retort, though it lacked any real heat.
He let out a humorless laugh, grabbing a bag of chips from the mess at his feet. “Lady, if I was a criminal, trust me” He pointed at the shattered machine with the chip bag. “You’d know”
“Pretty sure I can already for my assumptions” You huff, pointedly looking at the shattered machine. For a second, neither of you moved– then he tossed a candy bar at your chest, which you caught instinctively.
“Congratulations” He muttered through a mouthful of food. “Now you’re ‘n accomplice”
You stared at it. “…Did you just bribe me with chocolate?”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
Three months later, Soldier Boy learned one final thing about you– you were his fucking favorite person in this whole weird, shitty, modern world.
“You forgot eggs”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t forget to buy the goddamn eggs”
“You absolutely forgot eggs”
He dropped the grocery bag onto the tiny motel counter with a heavy thud, already looking annoyed despite slowly realizing he most definitely did forget the eggs. Even after you’d told him around three hundred times, plus left him a little note by the fridge. “There are eggs” He doubles down with a gruff grumble.
You reached into the bag– silence. Then slowly pulled out a six-pack of beer. “…Benjamin” It’s almost funny the way you call his name like a disappointed mother despite him being a man-sized war machine.
His jaw tightened instantly. “Don’t start”
“You said you were going to the store for groceries”
“That’s groceries” He huffs defensively, grabbing one of the beers and using it to gesture vaguely at the bags.
“That is begging for cirrhosis”
“S’called dinner”
You stared at him, to which he simply stared back. Somehow, despite being one of the most terrifying men alive, Soldier Boy had developed the unfortunate habit of looking vaguely guilty whenever you gave him that look. The one with your arms crossed– the one that said ‘you’re being an idiot’ without the need for any words to actually leave your mouth.
“You forgot actual food” You deadpanned, a reluctant hint of amusement stubbornly tugging at the corners of your mouth.
He huffed, already digging through the bags again. “Relax, sweetheart” A loaf of bread hit the counter, then peanut butter, cereal, takeout containers. (Huh, so that’s what you smelled when he stepped in) And–after a second of suspicious hesitation– your favorite snacks.
You blinked. “…You got these for me?”
Ben shrugged too quickly. “Were there” He replies gruffly, taking a sip of the beer on his hand to try and busy himself with anything other than making eye contact with you.
“Ben”
“What?” The smile tugging at your mouth only made his eyes narrow further. “Don’t make a thing outta it” You walked over anyway, slipping your arms around his middle before he could complain. At first, he went stiff– not because he disliked it. But because three months later, getting your honest affection for these small, simple things still caught him off-guard.
“You’re secretly sweet” You mumbled into his shirt.
“Watch your mouth” He scoffs as if you’d just personally insulted him instead of calling your boyfriend sweet.
“You love me”
He scoffed automatically once more. “Debatable”
“Grumpy old man” You chuckle softly into his chest– already knowing him and the fact that despite his gruff words, he really did care deeply for you. His rough hands settled on the small of your back, pulling you even closer to him and placing a kiss to the top of your head.
The thing about loving Soldier Boy was that trouble had a habit of finding him. Sometimes it looked small– a busted nose, blood on his knuckles that didn’t belong to him, the occasional bruised rib he’d wave off with a muttered. “M’fine” Which you only accepted as an answer because he’d heal in a couple hours. Though sometimes it looked bigger– long nights spent staring too hard out the window, phone calls he wouldn’t/couldn’t explain (those were especially weird given his relationship with technology) that familiar tension in his shoulders– the kind that made him look like he was waiting for something ugly to happen.
You noticed, of course you noticed, Ben wasn’t exactly subtle after all. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Your boyfriend barely looked up from where he sat at the edge of the bed, cleaning dried blood from his hands. “Nothin’ ” He replied in a low grunt.
“Benjamin”
His jaw tightened. God, he hated when you used that tone– the one that said ‘I know you’re lying’ and you weren’t willing to play along right now.
“Just business”
You stared at his broad back, shoulders taught and fabric stretching over his muscles. “Your business usually involves property damage ‘n at least a couple deaths”
“Yeah?” He finally looked over at you. “And?”
“And I live here too, asshole” Sure, the words were harsh– but he knew it came from your love and care for him. So it made something in him soften, just for a second. Because somehow– despite all the reasons you shouldn’t– you still said we when talking about y’all’s future. Like this shitty little motel room was home. Like he was a part of it. Ben stood with a quiet sigh, moving toward you until his hands settled on the sides of your face automatically.
“Sweetheart–” He muttered, rough thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with far too much tenderness from a man like him. “ –just gotta handle somethin’ ”
Your stomach sank instantly. “How long?” He hesitated. He hesitated and that was enough of an answer– too long. “Ben…”
“I’ll be back” Quiet, quick, rehearsed. The same tone that showed he’d been practicing the speech, just as much to convince himself as to reassure you. And for the first time in months, something heavy squeezed your chest.
“You promise?”
His expression shifted. Tiny, almost unreadable– but enough. Enough to make your chest tighten even more, because Soldier Boy wasn’t a liar but he wasn’t good at promises either.
Still: “Yeah” He said finally, voice rough. “Promise” Then, softer– smaller. “C’mon, doll” A kiss to your forehead. His warm hands still cradling your face. “Really think m’gon let some bullshit keep me from comin’ back to you?”
Ben never came back.
At first, that didn’t mean much– not really. Because Soldier Boy disappeared sometimes, a couple hours here, a few days there. Coming back with bruised knuckles, blood on his clothes and some gruff excuse about business before collapsing into bed beside you like nothing happened. So the first week? You waited– kept the motel lamp on, ignored the knot in your stomach every time headlights passed outside, half expected the door to swing open and for him to walk in smelling like smoke and beer, muttering something about traffic before stealing half your dinner like he owned the place. The second week hurt more. The third made you angry, because if there was one thing Ben had never done, one thing– was break a promise to you of all people.
By the time a month struck, the people from your motel started giving you pity-looks. It almost drove you crazy, frustration and hurt mixing inside your chest. Because they didn’t know him. They didn’t know the way he’d started sleeping in bed instead of the couch just to be closer to you, they didn’t know he remembered your coffee order despite saying it was ‘modern bullshit, coffee's coffee’ under his breath, they didn’t know the stupid habit he had of picking you up at random times. They didn’t know the way he’d looked at you before he left– like he meant it. Like he fully intended to come home.
So you waited.
Until waiting started feeling stupid. Then embarrassing. Then downright painful.
Eventually, life moved anyway– bills still had to be paid, groceries still had to be bought and things still had to be done. The shitty motel still smelled vaguely like cigarette smoke and something distinctly Ben no matter how much time passed.
Time kept passing. But forgetting him? That never happened. You still bought his stupid brand of booze without thinking, kept it in the fridge ‘just in case’, still caught yourself reaching for his side of the bed during bad nights, still paused whenever someone on the street laughed too loud or walked too heavy. Still looked up. Just in case, even when you knew better, that it’d been almost two years.
What you never learned– could have never learned– was that Ben had tried to keep his promise until the last moment. Right up until they put him back in that fucking box.
The first thing Soldier Boy thought about after getting out– after the smoke, after the blood, after the betrayal, after waking up to another version of a world that somehow looked even uglier than before– was you.
Not revenge or Butcher, not even the fucked-up mess of family drama they’d suddenly dumped onto him.
You.
Because somewhere between motel vending machines, shitty takeout dinners, somewhere between your smart mouth and your habit of stealing his shirts– you’d become his home. And if there was one thing Ben had learned in his unfairly long life? It was that home didn’t come around twice. So the second he had enough breathing room, he left. Didn’t tell anyone– couldn’t be bothered to explain himself. He remembered the motel by mere muscle memory. Three left turns off the highway and he could already see that shitty flickering sign, the vending machine out front they’d replaced after the first one was ‘mysteriously wrecked’.
You were gonna be pissed. Probably yell at him, call him an asshole. Maybe throw something at him. Nah, you wouldn’t go that far. Though honestly? It would’ve been fair because you’d waited. He knew you waited. And yeah, the whole promise thing sat ugly in his chest. But he was here now– that counted for something, didn’t it?
A stranger stood behind the front desk, younger than the last guy who used to work there. “Lookin’ for somebody” The kid barely glanced up, clearly bored from this awful job.
“Room number?”
His jaw ticked instantly before replying a gruff: “31”
The teenager looked up, finally facing him. “What’s the name?” Ben hesitated, but when he said it, the kid behind the counter went quiet. Too quiet. “Oh…” Ben stilled at his tone. The kid shifted awkwardly. “You knew her?”
Ben’s stomach turned, weak enough to annoy him. “Yeah” He replied slowly, jaw tight. “Knew her”
The kid hesitated. “Like… recently?”
“What kinda stupid fuckin’ question is that?”
The teenager shifted awkwardly. “No, I just–” He stopped and glanced toward the front windows like someone might be listening. Huh, weird kid. “She used to stay in room 31–” The kid said carefully. “ –she was there for a long time”
“Still does” He corrects him gruffly.
Something uncomfortable flickered across the clerk’s face. “No” He replied quietly. “I mean, not anymore”
Ben frowned. “Listen kid, I ain’t got time for all this cryptic bullshit– what the Hell’s that supposed to mean?”
The worker shifts awkwardly under Soldier Boy’s scrutiny. (To be fair, it was a pretty intimidating presence…)
“She was waiting for somebody” The kid pauses, searching for the right words. “She talked about him sometimes–” He continued awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “ –big guy, an asshole apparently” A beat. “But like…” He hesitated. “Kind of in a fond way?” Ben almost scoffed. Almost. “She stayed here a long time, wouldn’t leave just in case the guy came back”
Something ugly twisted in Ben’s chest. “How long?” The kid named all the months you’d been there– too many, way too fucking many. Long enough to make his stomach drop, long enough to make the guilt hit all at once. Because you waited. Christ on a cross– you actually waited. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “Where’s she now?”
The kid went quiet again. Once again, too quiet. “She…” He started carefully– another glance toward the windows, toward the cameras. “You probably shouldn’t ask too many questions”
That got Ben’s attention instantly. “The Hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“She said some stuff”
“What fuckin’ stuff?” He insisted, the gruffness of his voice only increasing by the second. This conversation was quickly burning through whatever little patience he had.
The clerk swallowed. “Y’know… About him” Pause. “Homelander” Something cold settled beneath Ben’s ribs at the name– of course it got something to do with that pathetic excuse of a human being. “She got angry one day–” The kid said quietly. “ –some rally thing on the news, people cheering and all” He shifted again. “Guess she just… snapped” Ben didn’t move, his jaw was hurting by now– he always knew you talked too damn much and it would eventually get you in trouble. “She said everybody needed to stop pretending he was a God” The kid laughed nervously, humorless. “Said people were stupid for cheering while everything kept getting worse right in front of our faces” Another pause. “She got loud” Ben already hated where this was going. “Somebody reported it, they were probably scared, y’know?”
The room felt drastically smaller. “What happened?”
The kid hesitated, before whispering a nervous: “They took her”
Ben blinked once, slow– completely and utterly confused. “Took her where?”
The clerk looked visibly uncomfortable now. “You really don’t know?” No answer, just that terrifying stillness, the kind that came before a storm. “There are camps…?” He pauses to check if Ben’s following the conversation. “For people who…” He trailed off. “People who say the wrong thing”
Ben always used to say your mouth would get you into trouble– usually after you’d mouthed off to somebody twice your size, started an argument you absolutely didn’t need to be having, or corrected him when he was being particularly insufferable. “One day, sweetheart” He’d mutter, cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. “That smart mouth’s gonna get ya killed” To which you’d always replied: “Worth it” Turns out he’d been half right.
The camp had taught you many things. How to sleep through shouting, how to eat food without tasting it, how to keep your head down, how to stay quiet. That one still felt cruel, because if there was one thing you’d always been– it was loud. Loud opinions, loud laughter. Loud enough to annoy Soldier Boy into rolling his eyes while secretly smiling into his beer. Now? Barely spoke unless necessary. Funny what survival could beat out of a person. You hated that the most– how easy it had become. Eyes down “Yes, sir” or “No, ma’am” Move when told, stand where instructed, don’t complain about the Homelander mandatory merch-uniform, eat what they gave you, ignore the screaming when somebody disappears, ignore the whispers, ignore the fear– just survive. That was the rule, survival over dignity. Even if some days you weren’t entirely sure there was much of a difference anymore.
The kitchen was quieter than usual, nobody wanted to draw attention over to them. You scrubbed absentmindedly at a pan, mind somewhere else. (Again) It happened more often lately– thinking too much. Mostly thinking about him. Stupid. Almost two years of no explanation, no proper goodbye, no nothing. And somehow– you still caught yourself going back to those memories more often than not, out of habit– like he’d walk through the door any second and scoff something about how ‘you’re gettin’ all sappy n’me now?’ in that gravelly voice of his.
God that still stung. Because grief would’ve been easier, grief meant certainty, it meant closure. This? This was just waiting with no ending in sight.
“You” The sharp voice cut through your thoughts like a bucket of ice water– guard. You straightened automatically.
“Sorry” The apology left before you could stop it. Fuck everything– you used to hate apologizing.
“You’re late”
You glanced at the clock– thirty seconds. They were calling you out for a mere thirty fucking seconds. “Won’t happen again” Somewhere deep down, you swore you could hear Ben’s voice in your head– low, gruff and fond– mock offended per usual: Jesus Christ, doll. Since when d’you let people talk to ya like that?
The address came from the kid behind the counter, secret like saying it too loud might get him in trouble too. Ben barely remembered leaving the motel, barely remembered the drive, didn’t even remember half the roads– just the sound of that teenager’s stupid sentence looping in his head: ‘People who say the wrong thing’
Christ. He always told you that mouth of yours was gonna get you in trouble. But he never thought the trouble would look like this– miles outside the city. Middle of bumfuck nowhere, fences too tall, barbed wire, watchtowers– the whole shabang. The kind of place meant to make people feel small before they even stepped a foot inside. The place looked wrong– wrong in a way he couldn’t immediately explain. And for Soldier Boy to give a fuck? It had to be one awful shitshow. Places packed with this many people weren’t supposed to be quiet, even prison yards made noise for God’s sake. Fights, arguments, people bitching just to hear themselves talk. But here? Nothing. Just silence, heavy silence, the kind that sat ugly in your chest.
Everybody moved the same. Eyes down, quick, stay small. Like taking up space was synonymous to signing a death sentence. Ben hated it instantly because fear smelled familiar. And this place? Reeked of it. He walked closer. Nobody stopped him. (Probably because no one in their right mind stopped Soldier Boy) Much less when he looked like this, all broad shoulders and expression carved from stone– that particular look in his eyes that screamed 'bad idea’ without the need for words.
A whistle sounded somewhere across the compound, sharp and immediate. People moved fast– lines forming with the kind of speed that only came from familiar punishment. Christ on a cross. Even soldiers bitched more than this, Ben’s jaw ticked.
One guy stumbled near the mess hall– couldn’t have been older than twenty. Guard shoved him hard enough to send him crashing into a wall without a single glance. “Move” He barked.
The kid apologized instantly. Instantly for God’s sake. “Sorry, sir” Didn’t even sound angry, just tired. Ben felt something unpleasant crawl up his spine, because apologies like that? Didn’t happen naturally– they got taught– beaten in. Nearby, somebody coughed. Bad, wet, concerning and still nobody looked over nor reacted. Like helping people wasn’t worth the risk and they already weighed out their options– surviving mattered more. The realization pissed him off more than it should’ve. What kind of place taught people to stop caring?
He hadn’t noticed the uniforms. Gray and Homelanders ugly mug plastered across the front, the American flag on the back. (That last part he could get behind– the whole ego stroking merchandise? No fucking way) Everyone was dressed the same, stripped down until individuality barely existed.
He was snapped out of it when another guard near the kitchen barked something– making a worker freeze, their head dropping instantly. “Sorry” They’d replied– quiet, automatic. Ben barely looked at first, thinking it was just another exhausted person in a line of exhausted people.
Then something in him stopped– hard and dramatic in his ridiculously large frame. No. No fucking way. Because you… You weren’t supposed to look like that. Not quiet, not small, not– The guard said something else, too fast to hear. You just nodded. “Won’t happen again” Soft, careful, obedient.
Ben went completely still– because somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still hear your laugh, could still see your arms crossed, mouth running.
“Most people use money”
“Grumpy old man”
“Worth it”
And now? Now you looked down when people talked to you. His chest rumbled and squeezed with guilt, frustration and hurt. It wasn’t one of his full blown chest-blasts, but it was pretty goddamn close. Nobody should have you looking like that– not even him for fuck’s sake. For a second– a terrifying, unfamiliar second– Ben couldn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he genuinely didn’t know what the fuck to do.
You looked thinner.
Christ.
Not dramatically– not enough for somebody who didn’t know you to notice. But he knew you. Knew the softness that used to sit in your cheeks, knew the way your face scrunched when you laughed too hard, knew the stubborn set of your shoulders whenever you were about to argue over something stupid. This version of you looked tired– like the world had been chewing on you for too damn long. And the worst fucking part? You looked alone. Not the normal kind either– not the kind fixed by a hug or an evening of bad television. No. It was the kind that settled into your bones. The kind people were forced to learn to live with. Something ugly shifted in his chest because this? This wasn’t the girl who used to steal cigarettes from his pack just to hide them around his stuff, wasn’t the girl who’d laughed loud enough to make motel neighbors write noise complaints– wasn’t the girl who’d stood in front of a six-foot-plus superhuman and called him a criminal to his face the first time they met. This version of you apologized, that alone was enough to me his jaw clench so hard it hurt.
The guard stepped closer. “You deaf?” He snapped. “Move faster”
You nodded, gaze still lost on the task you were busy with. “Sorry”
Sorry? Again? Ben felt something hot crawl up his spine.
But then the guard grabbed your arm– not hard enough to leave damage, but rough enough. Possessive enough. Like he could, like he thought nobody would stop him. “C’mon” The man barked. “Quit standing around looking stupid”
Something inside Soldier Boy went violently still. Because there aren’t many things Ben tolerates just from principle alone. Assholes? Thin line. Power trips? Try to ignore them. People being cruel because deep down they were weak and pathetic? Seen it before. But touching what was his? After two years? After you waited for him? After somebody turned you into– no. Absolutely fucking not.
The guard barely had time to blink before a hand wrapped around the back of his collar and yanked up into the air, pulling him away from you and crowding him into the opposite wall instead. “What the–”
Ben looked down at him, jaw tight and gaze sharp enough to make grown, adult men piss themselves. “Lemme ask you somethin’ ” His voice came low, dangerously calm. “The fuck makes you think y’get to put your lanky fuckin’ hands’n her?” The guard sputtered uselessly in the supe’s grip, boots kicking helplessly in an attempt to touch the floor. “You deaf or stupid?” Ben asked flatly, echoing the guard’s earlier words to you while crowding him harder into the wall. “Wasn’t a rhetorical question”
You froze too– not because of the yelling– that was more than normal inside these cursed fucking walls. Because… No. No fucking way– that voice. Low, gravelly, rough around the edges like cigarettes, bad decisions and wrapped in something heavy, deep. Your stomach dropped so fast it hurt.
The guard finally found his words, choking out a pathetic: “Let go–”
“Think m’good right here” The man’s feet barely touched the floor.
You still hadn’t looked up. Correction, couldn’t. Because grief did ugly things to people. Sometimes it made you hear familiar voices in crowds, made strangers laugh like somebody you missed, made hope feel cruel. And you learned– painfully, not to trust cruel things.
“Please” The guard snapped, trying to regain whatever pathetic authority he thought he had despite the pathetic little kicks of his legs, dangling in the air.
Ben laughed once– humorless and mean. “Kid, I can do whatever the fuck I want”
Now that definitely wasn’t grief. That wasn’t just a ‘kinda similar voice’ that was actually, one hundred percent your man. Only he could be this smug and full of himself while inside a literal, violence ridden camp.
“Ben?”
The sound of your voice was enough for him to let the guard fall back to the ground, the man stumbling to regain his composure before scurrying off. Ben’s muscle memory already responding to your presence, even after all this time. “Doll” He muttered, voice rough but somehow still impossibly soft in that way he always saved just for talking to you. “M’sorry m’late” You don’t even listen to his apology, simply crashing into him– your face finding its place in his broad chest, arms wrapping around him as if to anchor yourself into this moment. Solid, warm, real. Your fingers curled harder into the fabric of his suit, tight enough to wrinkle it like if you loosened your hold even a little? He’d disappear again.
Ben barely got his arms around you before something in his chest caved clean in.
Christ.
You were shaking.
Not dramatic movie scene sobbing– worse, small, quiet– the kind of shaking that came from holding themselves together for too damn long. “Hey” His voice dropped automatically, rough hands cradling your face, pulling you back just enough to look at your eyes. “Easy, doll…”
That almost did it all over again.
Because easy?
Easy used to mean motel beds and stolen shirts. Grocery store arguments over eggs and ‘real food’ comments. Him chomping down on whatever food you didn’t finish.
Easy used to mean him.
And suddenly your throat hurt with two years worth of unshed tears and unsaid words. “You said–” The words came out broken, embarrassingly small. “ –you said you were coming back”
Ben went still. Fuck. Out of all the things he expected– yelling, crying, maybe hitting him if you felt particularly brave. This? This had never been an option in his mind– not your voice sounding like it physically hurt to say it. “I know, sweetheart, I know” Three stupid words were too small to make up for the past two years. “Tried” His words were quiet and honest, rough around the edges in that way he sounded when trying to be vulnerable. “Sweetheart, swear t’God I tried”
When your eyes finally cleared out enough to look at him– he was still broad, still impossible, still looked like he belonged in old war posters– still Ben. But then your gaze dropped instinctively when shouting came from nearby. A guard. Shit. You stepped back automatically, months of this living Hell already woven into your reactions. “Sorry” You blurted before you could stop yourself.
Ben frowned instantly. “What the Hell’re y’apologizing for?”
Silence.
Your shoulders shrugged inward without thinking– not even sure of the answer yourself. Something dark crossed his face.
Because there it was again– that thing this place had done to you– the way you folded into yourself, the way your eyes had dropped, the way sorry kept coming out of your mouth as natural as breathing. Someone had taught you that, beaten it into you. Ben’s hand moved back to your jaw before he even thought about it– thumb tilting your face up, gentle despite the rage already simmering beneath his ribs. “Nah” His voice came quieter now, careful not to spook you now that he’d seen just how deep the wounds went. “We ain’t doin’ that anymore”
When more noise came from the halls– shouts and whistles mixing alike– Ben didn’t even glance away from you. “C’mon, doll” His hand settled against the small of your back like it belonged there, stubble brushing your skin as he kissed your forehead. “M’takin’ you home”
dex is such a freak that he makes you share a straw for your milkshakes because he thinks of it as indirect kissing :( suggestive, mdni. pre relationship dex.
he’ll swat your hand away when you go to put a second straw in, or he’ll take your straw out. or, he’ll just grab your face in his big calloused hand to keep you still for him, making your lips pucker, and shove his straw in your mouth after he’s taken a good sip.
“see? there, not so hard.” it’s almost crooned condescendingly before he gives your cheek a final squeeze.
leaving him to just stare at your lips as they finally wrap around where his mouth just was, ignoring the way you glare at him. because all he could think about was that your saliva was mixing with his.
your saliva was touching his. your saliva was touching his. your mouth your mouth your mouth. he swallows his own saliva that’s pooled in his mouth at the thought.
Bratty feminine reader x Dex 🧎♀️ Dex kissing her thighs after fucking the absolute attitude out of her
🫧 brat tamer!dex fucking the attitude out of you.
oh this is so hot. if you have any brat tamer!dex x brat!reader requests send them my way, i love writing brat x brat tamer ! ! ! ! ! ! !
you'd grated on dex's nerves all day. and he loved it, of course. it was a game to him; a game of how far you could push him until he snapped, and then how much you could take before you were a tearful mess beneath him.
he let you defy him, folding your arms when he told you to get dressed to go for breakfast, having to be thrown over his shoulder to get out of bed. it was only when he promised to buy you the newly released pink macbook you had your eye on, that you actually obeyed him.
"can we go to the store today and buy it, dex?" you squealed, skipping alongside him on the sidewalk. the sun was out, providing little shade no matter where you walked. and with the heat, came your attitude.
"no, got some stuff i gotta do today, sweetheart." he reasoned, taking firm hold of your wrist to pull you out the way of a barrage of runners. "we can get it on the weekend."
"but it is the weekend."
"yeah, next weekend."
you huffed, loudly. "so i have to wait a whole week for it? that's not fair!"
"you've waited this long, sweetheart." his tone was firm and final, and you knew you'd succeeded enough in getting the macbook, but you weren't satisfied in waiting for it. and the heat brought out the worst in you.
the cafe had almost no air conditioning, and dex had chosen a spot in the corner where the sun made the wooden table burn with your elbows pressed into it. even your icy drink hadn't cooled the heat of your skin. you were grumpy, dex could see it. your frown and incessant sighs made him smirk, because he knew what was coming.
"can we go home now?"
"we haven't even eaten yet, sweetheart." he took your hands in his, smoothing your fidgeting fingers with his own. "wait just a little longer for me."
dex was torturing you, after breakfast he had dragged you around the hardware store. for your gain, he would reason with your protests. your vanity drawer handle had snapped off, so he promised to fix it up for you. and decided you must be with him to buy everything needed for this home project.
"dex." you sighed, forehead against his back as he compared handles. "let me go home."
"not yet." he laughed. "now which one do you like the look of more?"
"i'm going home." you declared, ignorant to his suggestion of stupid drawer handles.
"oh yeah?" he dared. "you gonna run all the way home? in this heat?"
no, of course you weren't. your skirt was too tight to let you walk properly, let alone run in it. and the heat. dex would find you melted on the sidewalk. so you were stuck trailing after him until he decided on a stupid handle.
"the left one."
and once you had finally gotten home, just as you wanted. you were as stubborn as you'd ever been. you wouldn't do a single thing dex asked, you would turn away every promise of every gift, every temptation, because you were mad at him.
you locked yourself in the bathroom the moment you got home, hearing him chuckle as you stormed off. you showered the sweat away, applied all your favourite products, and sat on the bed to lotion your skin, when dex had walked in.
"need you to empty your vanity if i'm gonna fix it." he spoke, his tone so soft with you as it always had been. dex had never raised his voice at you, why would he? he took such good care of you.
"no." you simply responded, eyebrows raised as you finished applying your lotion.
"what?"
"you heard me, no." you repeated, arms folded over your naked body. only a robe draped over your lap.
dex's tongue poked his cheek, slight smirk remaining as you defied him. again. usually when you'd gotten what you wanted, you were willing and able to listen. at least for a while. but the shower hadn't washed away your stubbornness, it seemed.
"no?" he folded his arms as you so casually carried on with your routine. swiping your fingers across your face to apply your moisturiser, the fancy one dex bought you for not complaining as he brought you to a car dealership for hours on end.
he moved to stand in front of you, your knees touching his shins as he towered over you. you loved seeing him like this, so domineering over you, his mind running wild with filthy words and ways to have you begging forgiveness beneath him. he didn't say a word, only opened your legs with his knee and knelt on the bed before you.
"such a brat." he sighed, his fingers trailing down your body until the sunk between your folds. the contact made you shiver, and pull away for a moment. "don't get all spooked on me now."
he tapped his shoulder twice, urging you to rest your legs atop them. and you had done so almost instantly, your plan of stubbornness and defiance quickly crumbling. because the moment he sunk into you, it was over. any control you thought you had, dex had taken back. a reminder with every thrust, every whimper escaping your lips, that he held the control here.
"acting like such a damn brat all day." he hissed, slamming into you relentlessly, with little care for the way tears fell from your eyes. "that ain't how you get what you want, is it?"
it felt so good, but so intense. the way he drove into you, hitting your cervix so deliciously. his gruff voice was near sending you over the edge.
"is it?" he repeated, taking grip of your jaw.
"no." you whimpered.
"good girl." he grunted into you, leaning further to press his lips to your jaw. folding your legs even tighter against your body, hitting an angle you thought impossible.
you were dazed with the sheer force of his cock slamming into you, that you hadn't anticipated your climax when it happened. it just hit you like a truck, eyes blinded as your back arched off the mattress.
"that's it, that's my good girl." dex sighed, caressing your cheek whilst you quivered beneath him. he hadn't even come, saw no need as this was purely to fuck the attitude out of you.
he pulled out of you so slowly, to kneel at the edge of the bed. pressing kisses at your thighs as your quivers had calmed.
"gonna stop being such a brat, hm?" he asked, voice silky smooth against your skin. "gonna do as i say?"
he only looked up to see you nod, eyebrows still knotted together as you came down from your high.
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: after cutting Dex out of your life, his spiraling desperation leads you to make your first real choice for yourself instead of everyone else.
𝙬𝙝𝙤: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader
𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 2.5k
𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: soulmate au, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, Dex has a mental spiral. If I have missed any please let me know!
𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙮: @uzmacchiato
𝗮/𝗻: Part 4 of this series! Like before feedback is welcome!
Glitch Series Masterlist
Next Chapter: Sparks Fly
Previous Chapter: The Great War
“They’re gonna crucify me anyway… “ — Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swift
The silence became unbearable on the fourth day.
It wasn’t Matt’s silence, nor was it Karen’s. Those you could survive because you knew that your brother loved you more than anything, and Karen had never stayed angry at you for long.
You knew that eventually the three of you would have a conversation or another argument or more tears to break the silence and fix this situation.
But what you hadn’t expected was how much Dex’s absence would ache. How the lack of gifts and him not breaking in through your window at night would hurt so much.
You stood in your kitchen staring at your phone while rain hit hard against the windows, exhaustion heavy on your body. Your apartment felt colder now and empty in a way it hadn’t been for a while.
Like something else had quietly left when you told him to leave.
Your fingers brushed unconsciously against your mark again, a gesture that once brought you a small bit of comfort now made tears well up in your eyes.
Sighing softly, you unlocked your phone again despite knowing what you’d see.
23 unread messages.
14 missed calls.
9 voicemails.
All from Dex.
You hadn’t answered a single call, hadn’t listened to a single voicemail, and hadn’t opened a single message.
Tapping the messages app, you saw that they had started normal the messages had gradually got less coherent as the days passed.
Dex: Are you okay?
Dex: Please answer.
Dex: I’m sorry.
Dex: I’m trying.
Dex: You said leave you alone.
Dex: I’m trying to do that.
Dex: Please answer the phone.
The last message had arrived nearly seven hours ago, and the lack of anything else since has left you feeling more unsettled than relieved. But the ache in your chest still deepened as you locked your phone again and tossed it onto the counter.
Leaning heavily against the counter, you closed your eyes to try to stop the tears from coming because this was what they wanted, wasn’t it?
Distance. Space. No Dex.
So why did it feel like something was broken and bleeding inside you now that he was gone?
Because he had noticed you. You thought to yourself.
Because Dex had noticed everything about you.
He had noticed when your shoulder hurt, when you skipped meals, when you were exhausted, when your smile wasn’t real.
How he looked at you like you mattered, like you were something precious.
And now the silence he’d left behind haunted your apartment like a trapped ghost.
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Your phone ringing loudly on your bedside drawer startled you awake hard enough that your heart jumped painfully.
Grabbing it with a groan, the brightness of it blinded you before the name flashing on the screen made your stomach twist immediately.
Dex.
Glancing at the numbers on the top of the screen, you felt your heart begin to race again.
2:17 AM.
Dex never called this late. He knew your schedule too well and knew how little sleep you got between the apothecary and the clinic. Your stomach clenched again as the ringtone ended and a ping indicating a voicemail came through a few moments later.
But what made your chest tighten was the notification that showed he had already called four times before this one had finally woken you up.
You knew that you had been tired last night, but tired enough to miss four phone calls? You bit your lip with worry.
Then your phone rang again, and before you could think yourself out of it, you answered.
“Dex?” You asked into the phone.
He didn’t answer, but the sound of heavy, uneven breathing came through the phone.
But it was the sound of something falling somewhere made you worry instantly.
“Dex?” You asked again.
A long pause.
Then finally he spoke quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes closed briefly as your stomach settled, but hearing those words from him made your chest ache.
“What happened?” you asked softly.
More silence.
“You told me to leave you alone.” His voice sounded wrong. “I was trying to.”
The words hit painfully as you swallowed hard.
“Dex—”
“I can’t think when it’s quiet.” His voice was frustrated now as something crashed faintly in the background.
You straightened up immediately. “Are you hurt?”
Another pause.
“… No.”
A lie, and you could hear it instantly.
“Where are you?” You asked as your fingers tightened around the phone.
“At home.” His breathing stuttered unevenly again. “Baby, I’m trying very hard not to come see you.”
You felt a tear slip down your cheek at his words. Because he had listened, even if it was destroying him.
You stared out at the rain streaking your apartment windows before moving out of bed and through the apartment.
“I’m coming over.” You said sliding on your shoes and then grabbing your coat and keys.
The silence on the other end was immediate.
“You don’t have to.” He whispered.
“I know.”
Another long pause.
“Okay.”
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Dex’s apartment looked like a war zone.
The moment he opened the door, you immediately froze. Glass littered the floor, a lamp had been shattered against the wall, one of the dining chairs lay broken near the kitchen, there were dents in the drywall, and blood was smeared across the edge of the counter.
And standing in the middle of it all was Dex.
Barefoot, breathing unevenly with his knuckles split open and bloodied.
Your chest tightened sadly because now every unread message felt heavier. More desperate.
Dex’s eyes immediately found yours and stayed there as if he was checking you were real.
“You came.”
The words sounded almost uncertain as your gaze slowly swept over the apartment again.
“What happened?”
Dex looked away for the first time since opening the door.
“I got angry.”
Your eyes dropped to his bleeding hands.
“You punched the wall.”
“Yes.”
Apparently several times you thought to yourself.
You stepped carefully over shattered glass as you entered his apartment and shut the door behind you. The place smelled faintly of blood and something electrical from the broken lamp.
But Dex didn’t move. Didn’t come closer. He was still doing what you’d said that night.
Leave me alone.
“Sit down,” you said quietly, pointing to his sofa.
He obeyed immediately.
You grabbed the first aid kit from where it sat untouched under the kitchen sink before kneeling carefully in front of him.
His eyes never left your face. Not once.
The cuts across his knuckles were messy and swollen already as you gently took one of his hands in yours. The soulmate mark on your collarbone burned faintly at the contact.
Dex inhaled sharply.
You ignored it.
“Why didn’t you clean these?”
Dex watched your thumb brush carefully beneath his split knuckles.
“I couldn’t focus.”
Your chest ached at his words as you carefully soaked a gauze and gently cleaned the blood from his skin.
The apartment remained painfully quiet except for the sound of heavy rain against the windows.
Dex looked exhausted. Like something inside him had been wound too tightly for too long and finally snapped.
“You should’ve listened to the voicemails,” he said quietly after a while.
You glanced up briefly. “Were they coherent?”
“… No.”
Despite yourself, a small, tired laugh escaped you.
Dex’s mouth twitched faintly at the sound and then disappeared again.
“I tried,” he admitted softly.
Your hands stilled slightly against his skin. “I know.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”
His jaw tightened once. “I stayed away.”
Guilt twisted low in your stomach.
Not because his spiral was your fault. It wasn’t.
But because you suddenly understood how hard he’d actually tried.
“I know,” you repeated softer this time.
Dex finally looked away again. “I kept thinking about what you said.”
Leave me alone.
The memory made your chest tighten painfully.
“I didn’t mean forever, baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Dex’s eyes snapped back to yours immediately. Something desperate flickered there so quickly it almost hurt to look at.
You quickly focused back on healing his hands.
Your powers stirred faintly beneath your skin as you carefully brushed your fingers across his bruised knuckles. Warmth spread softly from your touch, easing some of the swelling before the wounds closed.
“All done.” Your hands faintly shook as you pulled them away from him.
Dex exhaled softly as the pain left his hands.
“You’re tired,” he murmured immediately.
Of course he noticed, you thought to yourself. “I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
You snorted quietly. “A little hypocritical coming from you.”
His mouth twitched again. A tiny, almost smile.
God, you had missed that.
The realisation settled heavily in your chest.
Carefully setting the supplies aside, you leaned back slightly against the sofa, Dex still watching you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.
“You destroyed your apartment,” you muttered softly.
“I know.” He whispered.
“You probably scared the neighbours.”
“I know.”
“You called me at two in the morning.”
At that, something conflicted crossed his expression.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
The honesty in his voice hit harder than anything else tonight.
You looked at him quietly for a long moment, then slowly reached out and touched his face.
Dex immediately went still beneath your hand. His eyes fluttered shut briefly as he leaned into your touch.
Your thumb brushed gently beneath the bruise near his cheekbone.
“You should’ve called earlier.”
Dex opened his eyes again slowly.
“You told me to leave you alone.”
God.
The fact he treated every word you said like they were sacrosanct made your chest ache.
You swallowed thickly. “I know.”
A softer silence settled this time as Dex leaned further into your touch almost unconsciously, like he needed it.
Your heartbeat stumbled painfully.
Because this right here felt dangerously close to the tenderness you had wanted for years, and maybe that was what scared you most. Not the violence, not the obsession, but this.
This softness.
“I missed you.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Dex froze completely as his eyes searched your face like he didn’t trust what he’d heard.
Then something inside him visibly unraveled.
His hand lifted slowly toward your face like he was afraid you might pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed your cheek carefully.
Reverently. Like you were something breakable.
“You did?” he asked softly.
Your chest tightened. “Yes.”
The confession settled heavily between you.
Dex stared at you for one long second before suddenly leaning forward and kissing you.
This kiss felt nothing like the last one.
It wasn’t desperate, wasn’t forceful, and there was no panic like before, just warmth and careful hesitancy in a way that almost hurt more.
Your breath caught sharply.
Then slowly you kissed him back.
The soulmate bond burned warmly beneath your skin as his other hand slid carefully to your jaw, thumbs caressing against both your cheeks like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were real.
And God, you wanted this, wanted him.
The realisation hit hard enough that you pulled back abruptly.
Dex immediately stiffened as panic flashed across his face so quickly it hurt to see.
“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I thought—”
“No.”
You cupped his face quickly before he could spiral again.
“No, that’s not—”
But his breathing had already started changing again, sharp and uneven.
You moved closer instinctively.
“I wanted that,” you admitted softly.
Dex stared at you. “But you’re upset.”
“No, baby, it’s—I liked it.”
His expression shifted into something stunned and painfully hopeful all at once.
You let out a shaky breath. “This is complicated.”
“I know.”
“You don’t actually.”
That nearly made him smile again as your thumb brushed carefully across his cheek.
“I just…” your voice softened, “I don’t want this to happen because you’re vulnerable right now.”
Understanding slowly crossed his face before it turned almost unbearably soft.
“You stayed anyway,” he whispered.
The vulnerability in his voice nearly wrecked you as your forehead gently rested against his.
“I’m still here.”
Dex went completely still beneath your touch. Then slowly his eyes closed. Like those words physically settled something broken inside him.
The apartment remained quiet around you, the rain still landing hard against the windows.
Your fingers slid gently through his hair as his breathing finally began to even out beneath your touch.
“You should sleep,” you murmured eventually.
Dex opened his eyes again immediately. “You’ll leave.”
The certainty in his voice hurt. You shook your head softly.
“Not tonight.”
Fragile relief crossed his face then.
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The apartment was less like a war zone come morning light after you spent the three hours that you couldn’t sleep tidying it up as best as you could.
You stood in Dex’s kitchen wearing one of his shirts while making coffee as the sun shone in through the windows. Behind you, Dex leaned silently against the counter watching you.
“You stare a lot,” you muttered softly.
“I like looking at you.”
Heat crawled faintly into your face as you turned toward him, holding out his coffee. Dex took it carefully, his knuckles looking significantly better this morning after your healing.
“You didn’t sleep much,” he observed immediately.
“Neither did you.”
“But I slept.”
You blinked slightly at the quiet honesty in his voice before you realised that he meant he slept because you stayed. The thought settled pleasantly deep in your chest as you leaned lightly against the counter beside him.
The silence this morning didn’t feel awkward.
Just…quiet.
“You’re not scared of me.”
The words came suddenly.
You looked at him carefully. “No.”
Dex studied your face closely. “You probably should be.”
You snorted softly. “There’s the self-awareness.”
His mouth twitched slightly, then faded. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache again. “I know.”
Silence stretched softly between you.
Then Dex spoke again. “What do you want?”
The question caught you off guard.
Not because of the question itself. But because no one had really asked you that through all of this.
What do you want?
Not what would Matt want? Or what would Karen think? Or what’s morally right?
Just…you.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug.
You. You thought to yourself.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
Dex nodded once like he understood.
“One date.” He said after a moment.
You looked at him.
His expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Something uncertain.
“I’m not asking for anything else,” he said quietly. “Just one date.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
Because this wasn’t fate demanding something from you, it wasn’t obsession, this was a choice. Your choice. And for the first time since all of this began, you let yourself think about what you actually wanted.
Not what everyone else feared.
Not what everyone else expected.
You thought about the warm takeout left on counters, the flowers at the apothecary, the eye-colored rocks, his gentle calloused hands against your skin, and someone who looked at you like you mattered.
Your lips parted softly “… Okay.”
The word barely left your mouth before something in Dex’s expression softened so completely it almost took your breath away. It wasn’t triumph, not total possession, but quiet happiness.
Real happiness.
Happiness that felt far more satisfying than anything else.
Summary: Dex becomes obsessed with one of the waitresses at his local diner. (3.5k)
Tags/warnings: smut (mdni), dry humping, oral (f!receiving), face riding, cumming untouched, pathetic dex, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, reader is morally grey and kind of a freak (affectionately)
A/N: First time writing for Dex!!! Heavily inspired by the song "She" by Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
masterlist
A routine, that's all you craved for when you skipped town a couple of months ago. That's what you try to remind yourself as another day, identical to the previous, begins.
You wake up tangled in your cheep sheets, glistening with sweat as the first rays of sunshine filter through your open window.
You paddle to the small kitchen of your new home, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet, and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then, you start to get ready for another shift at the diner.
It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.
After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.
As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.
"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.
After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.
But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.
He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.
"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"
You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.
"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.
There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.
But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.
Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.
His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.
After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.
In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?
Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.
Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.
He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.
You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.
After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.
Tonight, though, things are going to change.
At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.
"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.
Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.
"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."
You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.
He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.
"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.
In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.
As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.
The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.
Then, he freezes.
You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brown when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.
"What is it?"
"I think I saw something."
You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.
"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."
You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.
"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.
It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.
You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.
His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.
Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.
Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.
Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.
Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?
"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.
"Wait, let me help you."
You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.
"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.
"Was that one of your exes?"
The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.
"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"
You blame his rambling to the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.
It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.
As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.
He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.
When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.
Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.
There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.
And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.
The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.
Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.
You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.
Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.
Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.
The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.
A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.
You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.
Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.
Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.
Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.
Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.
You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.
You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.
"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.
"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.
You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.
His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.
The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.
The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.
Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.
Excitement, that's what it it.
Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.
So you walk inside your home.
Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.
"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"
Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.
"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"
For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.
"Benjamin."
"Hi, Benjamin."
You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.
"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.
"Ever since I first met you."
It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.
Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.
You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.
"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"
He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.
When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.
The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.
Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.
"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"
The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.
You can see his gloves hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.
"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.
You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.
"What? What was I doing?"
Silence.
"Touching yourself."
Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.
"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"
As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.
In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.
"P-Please..."
The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.
How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?
"Please, what?"
"Let me make you feel good."
His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.
"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.
He nods, looking so eager to please.
You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.
The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.
He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.
He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.
At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.
The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.
Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.
His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.
Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.
You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.
Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.
"Please, can I taste you?"
He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.
In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.
Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.
At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.
His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.
Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.
Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."
But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.
"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.
The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.
After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.
He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.
A moment of silence passes between the two of you.
"Benjamin?"
"Mhm?"
"What happened to Chris?"
"I killed him."
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
1. he loves neck kisses, loves when you get tired and helpless after fucking. the only energy you can summon up is used to scatter wet open mouthed kisses down his strong neck- as a show of gratitude for how well he pleased you.
feeling the dull pinch of his stubble on your soft lips is addicting as you inch closer and closer to his jaw followed by his face.
dex just sits there pliant, head resting against the headboard as you rest your body on his. he stares down at you through half-lidded eyes, saying your name in soft whispers that further sink you onto dex.
2. dex was needy af, especially at night after dinner. you were just washing the plates and utensils used to make dinner when you felt a pair of large hands snake around your waist, very often than not dex would also rest his chin on your shoulder as he watched you clean up for a bit before taking over.
just as long as you kept him company with your random conversations. you talk, he listens.
3. the first time you shared a kiss with dex, you were nervous to say the least. after months of pining over him, he was now in your vicinity looking at your lips as if they were candy.
“can i kiss you?” he asked gently, his eyes flickering between your lips and dilated eyes.
you nodded and dex slowly lowered himself to your level. he was tall and didn’t want you to crane your neck to reach him, dex wanted him to kiss you.
he inched closer and closer, definitely making you wait for it. dex tilted his head and parted his lips softly molding his lips on yours.
the both of you let out a shaky breath of relief before kissing for the next 20 minutes.
