summary: what had started out as a temporary agreement to get you through your intern year had turned into a chain reaction that you never could have imagined. one, you actually enjoyed living with frank langdon. two, you both wound up at the same emergency room. three, you both signed the lease for another year. and after that? you signed it again. it seemed like neither of you had any interest in moving out anytime soon. and three, you think he might be your best friend and the love of your life. chain reaction or chemical imbalance?
warnings: f!reader. bffs to lovers, roommates to lovers, eventual smut. tension tension tension. jealous langdon at one point. also jealous reader cuz abby will have a guest star appearance. no use of yn
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
Dex being his own warning, reader knows he is stalking her but acting none the wiser matter of fact she might be a little into it, suggestive?
Sometimes, when you concentrate hard enough, you can ignore his eyes on you.
You cannot exactly pinpoint the moment you became aware of him. He is not bad at it, stalking you, that is. It's just that you are very good at pattern recognition. It is part of why you will always have job security. It is also because that you are very rigid about your routine and the people that occupy your space on a regular basis. Still, it was a little jarring when he suddenly just... appeared in your periphery. You are sure he did not just spawn out of nowhere. The level of comfort that he operates at indicates a will oiled routine that was followed. But to you it was like he was not here one day and here the next.
You are not sure how to proceed with this whole thing. It's not like you can go to the police, he has not done anything to you nor approached you at all. No threatening messages, no weird gestures and no headless rats. He is just there. Sitting on the opposite side, out of your view at you favorite cafe. Down the street from your work place. And across the street from your window at your home. And side of a few things moving from their original place, He doesn't do anything so you leave him be.
It goes on like that for a while, you following your established routine of going out of your apartment, getting coffee, heading to work, clocking out of work, grocery shopping and heading home. All with the anonymous man following you around. If he was not actively stalking you, you would have been impressed that he is not bored at the fact that you do nothing at all. You even start to get a little comfortable at his presence. Finding comfort at the fact the he is always there and eventually he is part of your routine. You even say a little good morning to him in your head when you get out of your building and see him across the street. All is well in your little life.
That is until you see him in the elevator leading up to your apartment.
Up until now, you have not seen his face at all. he is always out of view, that is by design of course, so you don't know what he looks like. But you have familiarized yourself with him enough to recognize the way he stands, his height and built anywhere. The man that is stalking you is in the same elevator as you and he pressed the same button that you pressed. He is blond.
You give him a little nod and he smiles at you, all charming and sweet, he introduces himself as Benjamin, your new across the hall neighbor.
You ask him about what happened to the previous tenant. He tells you that he doesn't know. You nod and exit the elevator.
The thing is about the place you live is that it is in a remote area out of the city. You picked it that way because you get overstimulated by the sound of the city. The second thing is, it only has two apartments. You and your previous neighbors who kept to himself. Your landlord doesn't live on the property. You are in a building alone with your stalker. So that leaves you with quite the dilemma.
Oh well.
Benjamin is a very quiet person. Aside from the fact that he is stalking you, he is actually the perfect guy. Charming, intelligent, delightful. It is just that...you know.... he is a stalker. You haven't brought it up yet because, really, how to you bring that up?'thank you so much for helping me bring up by groceries, oh by the way, I know that you follow me everywhere.' You think that would put a damper on things so you just drop it. You also asked the landlord about your previous neighbor, he just tell you that the guy suddenly skipped town.
You also change in front of the open window now, when you know for a fact that he is there. So there is that. In your defense, you are a little bored and it not that you are fully nude. You bought curtains that are shear for this exact reason. You think that with all of the monotony in your life the guy kinda deserves some excitement.
You start noticing that his eyes linger on your frame more whenever the both of you cross paths in the elevator. Which is a lot. On your arms and your chest. A lot on your waist as well.
You don't think anything will come out of it. So you just settle on some light stripping and nothing else. And soon. It is also a routine.
☁︎⋅ (18+) rookie!leon eating you out and creaming his pants
“l-leon, I don’t know if I can go again,” you cried out, your voice catching in your throat as your hips twitched helplessly above him.
you weren’t sure many times you’d come. it was hard to keep track after the third orgasm. but leon wasn’t ready to let go, he kept going, his broad hands gripping your thighs tight to keep you anchored in place. he thrusted into the air, desperate for some sort of friction.
“you just taste so good,” leon groaned against your skin. his face buried itself back between your lips, his tongue dragging in thick, heavy strokes through your folds. he sucked down on your clit, letting your arousal drench his lips and coat his chin. “one more, please, just one more…”
you looked down, your hands trembling as you braced yourself against the headboard. your gaze met his soft blue eyes. they were wide, glassy, and so sweet they looked like they might spill over with tears at any second. his cheeks were flushed a crimson red and his damp hair stuck messily to his forehead. he was completely at your mercy.
“you’re so pretty like this,” you breathed out, your heart hammering against your ribs. you reached down to brush the damp hair out of his face.
leon let out a soft whine at the gentle touch, the vibration of it causing you to jolt. “my pretty boy,” you whispered.
“oh fuck-”
leon sucked down hard on your clit, his tongue swirling in a frantic, demanding rhythm. you gripped the headboard for dear life as the sudden sensation sent you crashing into another violent orgasm. your sweet release coated his lips and his tongue moved eagerly to catch every single drop.
as your body settled, you noticed that leon was panting incredibly hard. you shifted, looking behind you, only to see a very prominent dark wet spot across his gray sweats.
a soft gasp left your lips. “did you just…?” you giggled.
leon groaned, a pitiful sound escaping his lips as his ears turned bright pink. he pulled away from your lips to nudge his nose against your inner thigh.
“you taste really good,” he mumbled defensively, his voice muffled as he tried to hide his blushing face from view.
Warnings: fluff, implied smut, angst, hurt/comfort, makes you all tingly inside
Announcement: it’s been a while! I got sucked into some books and haven’t written in a few months, but I’m going to try to start being consistent again!
You wiped at your eyes for the dozenth time of the hour, snow clinging to your eyelashes and clouding your vision.
You and Azriel had been sent on a scouting mission, trudging through the snow for hours now. Your assigned target was a group of enchanted autumn court soldiers, but in the relentless weather you hadn’t even gotten a peak of the crazed men.
Stomping further forward, you tried to step into Azriel’s already sunken tracks, but it seemed that by the time you found your footing, the snow had already filled the once dug-out footprints.
“You good?” sounded from in front of you, the only sound to be heard over the roaring wind and snowfall. Azriel was stopped, turning to look at you over his shoulder. You almost recoiled at how unfazed he seemed, suddenly noticing the chattering of your teeth and numbness of your toes tenfold at his unbothered state.
“Just cold. Nothing serious” you waved off, stubbornly trudging forward another step. You suppressed the violent shivers your body had started half an hour ago, refusing to let the SpyMaster see just how miserable you were.
As you got closer to him, you stretched your foot out for a final step. When it made contact with the ground, instead of the fluffy crunch of snow, a shattering sound met your ears. Suddenly, your foot was no longer supported, sending your leg into a substance so cold it burned your skin at impact.
With nothing to grab onto, your body free fell instantly into the freezing water below the surface. Without so much of an “uh o-”, the world was disappearing from in front of you, your eyes being met with nothing but darkness.
At the shrill of the freezing temperature, the only thing your body could do was tense. You didn’t kick, didn’t scream, didn’t fight, it’s like every muscle went into immediate shutdown and numbness. You vaguely felt the feeling of something under your arms before you were surged back up to the land of the breathing.
Something was touching your face. At the whirlwind of motion you just went through, your muddled and frozen brain was struggling to keep up with everything going on. You felt the plushness of snow beneath your back, the wind biting at your cold and wet leathers. “Hey. (Y/n). Please, look at me.” echoed above you. After blinking the frost out of your eyes, you came into focus of a stressed Azriel staring down at you.
His hands were gently brushing up and down your arms as your body involuntarily convulsed from the cold. “Come on. We need to get you warmed up. Just focus on me, angel.” muttered from his lips, his amber gaze still taking in your figure from head to toe, assessing for injuries.
With Azriel’s help, you stiffly rose to your feet after another 30 seconds of examination. Once he deemed you okay to walk, he assisted you into a standing position before wrapping your arm around his neck and trekking forward. “There’s an inn close by we can stay in for the night. It’s just a few miles ahead.” He reassured into your ear, free hand still rubbing up and down your arm for warmth.
After what felt like hours of hobbling, twinkling lights and the smoke from a fireplace appeared in the distance. At the sight, you unwillingly let out a sigh, but with the current situation you realized it came out as more of a whimper. “I know. I know. We’re almost there I promise.” Azriel all but whispered, his free arm coming down to scoop up your legs, taking your body fully into his embrace.
“I’m okay, Az. I can walk” you whispered, teeth chattering so much it sounded like more of a stutter. “You just fell into a frozen lake in the dead of winter. I’m allowed to mother hen for a moment.” he rebuttled, sharp eyes catching yours in a no-nonsense gaze. You couldn’t help the small smile pulling on your lips, Azriel’s eyes taking it in until his lip was lifting slightly as well, pulling out that crease in his cheek you adored.
“Your lips are blue.” he stated, almost to himself as his eyes landed back on your mouth. At the admission, it seemed as if something clicked in him, his head turning and body surging forward once again. With nothing else to do, you lowered your head onto his shoulder and allowed your eyes to close for the remainder of the trip.
When shuffling and the muffled sound of a door closing filled your ears, you slowly raised your head to take in your surroundings. You were still in Azriel’s arms, stood in the middle of a small room. The room was dull, old wooden floors and ancient wallpaper adorning every surface. There was a small dresser, an armoire, a nightstand with a small lamp adorning it, and a very uncomfortable looking bed pushed into the corner.
While it wasn’t extremely inviting, you felt the weight of the world ease off of your shoulders when your eyes caught the hearth of a fireplace across from the bed. Gently rubbing your eyes, you felt Azriel release your legs and set you gently on the floor, his arms staying wrapped around you for assurance before releasing you entirely.
“Let me get the fire started so we can get you warmed up.” he muttered, already set in his task. Your cold fingers started working nimbly at the buttons of your leathers, fighting with each one much harder than you would have if your fingers were behaving properly. You cursed yourself as you failed at the second button, frustrated tears forming in your eyes as your fingers slipped off of the cool metal for the third time.
Right as you went to try again, a warm, textured hand gently laid over yours. “Let me” came from his lips in a whisper, his hand gently pulling yours away from the cursed contraption before he got to work. He slowly undid each button, looking up into your eyes as he worked.
“Would you like me to run you a bath before you change into dry clothes?” he asked, eyes bouncing from your own back down to the buttons repeatedly. You nodded your head eagerly, almost moaning at the thought of sitting in water warmer than -12°.
Once you were freed from the confines of your frozen tunic, Azriel helped you slip off your pants, leaving you in an undershirt and pants that were also frozen. After laying your leathers to dry on the dresser, he made his way to the bathroom.
Instead of feeling useless, you decided to tend to the fire while Azriel was preoccupied. Crouching in front of the hearth, you used the metal poker to stab and adjust the logs to your liking, ignoring the shooting pain in your legs at the squat you were maintaining.
After you were satisfied with the logs, you dropped the poker and wrapped your arms around your knees, resting your head atop them and soaking in the warmth from the flames. After a few seconds of silence, you heard Azriel’s footsteps approaching from behind.
His hand came down to rest on your back, his own legs bringing him into a squat beside you. “The bath is ready. I laid out some clothes for you on the sink.”. You slowly pried your eyes open, taking in his appearance slowly from underneath your lashes. His hand began absentmindedly rubbing up and down on your back soothingly, his soft gaze maintaining your stare.
“Aren’t you cold too?” you muttered, words muffled by your arm pressing into your lips. Azriel’s fingers came up to gently push a strand of hair behind your ear as a soft smile grazed his features once again. “I’ll be okay.” he whispered, grabbing your hands and pulling you to stand once more. “Yell for me if you need anything. I’ll be right here.” passing his lips as he walked you to the bathroom door.
Once in the safety of the bathroom, you felt a warm blush spread over your cheeks. While you undressed, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander to Azriel and his sudden protectiveness of you.
You had been friends with the shadowsinger for years, close enough to share sleepless nights together and find comfort in each other’s presence. While it was mainly a platonic relationship, you sometimes felt a twinge in your heart or an increase in your pulse when he would cuddle up to you. It wasn’t rare for him to seek you out after a long mission and rest in the comfort of your embrace. That’s what friends were for though, right?
As your final piece of wet clothing thudded onto the floor, you dipped your foot into the warm water with a sigh. Azriel had somehow found a bottle of bath oils and dumped them in with the running water, leaving a calming earthy scent wafting throughout the room. As you lowered yourself in, you couldn’t help but let out a groan at the warmth encasing you.
You stayed until the water got lukewarm, scrubbing and relaxing to your hearts content. Once you declared your spa night over, you lifted yourself up, albeit ungracefully, and wrapped yourself in a towel. Reaching for the clothes on the counter, you noticed your usual nightly attire replaced by a large t-shirt with cutouts in the back and some undies.
Back home, Azriel would often slip you one of his t-shirts whenever you complained about how uncomfortable your attire was to sleep in. It seemed like every week he would suddenly have a pile of clothes he no longer wore, coming to your room to drop off his “donations” with a soft smile and a teasing smirk. It didn’t pass on you that each one smelled more and more like him, rising confusion into just howww old each round of t-shirts was. You felt a giddy feeling ignite in your chest at the thoughtfulness of him laying one out for you.
Emerging from the bathroom, you suddenly felt the nerves of wearing so little in Azriel’s presence. Sure, he had seen you in this exact outfit hundreds of times over the years, but something about being in the small confines of the inn made it feel different. Almost like your teenage boyfriend seeing you in your swimsuit for the first time.
You padded lightly over to the fire, Azriel’s head snapping in your direction as you made your way towards him. While you felt a million times better, there was one small issue. You couldn’t clasp the buttons on the back of the shirt. Having a shirt made for Illyrian wings meant two gaping holes in the back, requiring multiple buttons to be clasped for each one to remain closed.
Turning around in front of Azriel, you pulled your damp hair over your shoulder to offer him your back, mewing out a weak “button me?” as you stilled. Gently, his large hands came to rest on the open fabric, pulling and buttoning each one slowly.
“Do you feel any better?” he asked, voice muffled by the concentration he held over the buttons. A wave of shivers went up your spine when his hand brushed the bare skin of your back, an uncontrollable goosebump breaking out in the open space. With a nervous giggle, you squirmed a little at the feeling, a small “so much better” leaving your lips in a sigh.
Once he was satisfied, Azriel gently gripped your wrist and turned you to him. Unbeknownst to you, he had taken the time you spent in the restroom to change, dry himself off, and even heat up some of the soup he had brought in his pack. He wore a simple black t-shirt, tattoos peaking out from the collar, with gray sweatpants. You felt your mouth water slightly at the sight of his shirt stretching over his taught shoulders, choosing to keep your gaze on his face instead.
Pushing down the blush forming on your cheeks, you prayed to the mother Azriel hadn’t caught your ogling, but the small smirk on his face crushed some of that hope. Without warning, he pulled you forward by your wrist, dragging you down into his lap. Your legs rested across his thighs, dangling on his other side, and your arms involuntarily wrapped around his neck. Almost like an instinct.
Azriel wrapped himself around you, one arm coming around your lower back while the other grabbed the back of your head gently, pulling you into him as he buried his face in your neck. You felt him take a deep inhale, his shoulders relaxing under your grip, before he muttered out an “I thought I lost you today.” against the skin of your shoulder. You let your eyes close and your body relax, pushing your face further into his collar like he did yours. An overwhelming scent of pinewood and man invaded your senses, immediately relaxing you and making you crave more.
“I’m sorry Azzie” you whispered, tightening your grip around his shoulders. “I should have paid more attention to where I was stepping.” following your confession as you slowly pulled back to meet his gaze. His eyes immediately found yours, amber glowing in the firelight as they took in your small, apologetic smile. His gaze searched your face for what felt like centuries, eyes catching on your mouth as you unknowingly bit down on your lip before his brows furrowed and a frustrated look took over his features.
“I-uh. I’m going to go get some water.” he rushed out, gently pushing you off of him and standing, leaving you with a pang in your chest. You watched his figure retreat to the door, brows furrowed and silent curiosity taking over when he didn’t even look back at you before he walked out, closing the door behind him.
After slurping down the rest of your soup, your eyes started to close tiredly as you sat patiently on the bed for Azriel’s return. He had only been gone for half an hour, but something in your chest was aching at his absence. Had you done something? Said something? You had been racking your brain endlessly for any hint as to what his distaste could be from, but were coming up empty.
Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, you grabbed a pillow and small blanket from the bed before setting up your spot on the floor. Mother forgive if Azriel couldn’t even look at you and you forced him into sharing a bed. He had to be just as exhausted as you, and rather than face the awkward encounter when he returned, you decided to make the decision for the both of you.
Tucking yourself into the thin blanket, you laid your head on the pillow and closed your eyes. The only sounds in the room were the occasional dripping of the bathroom sink, and the cracking of the fire in the hearth. If you hadn’t have been so in your head, it would have been oddly relaxing. Well, relaxing for having your hip stabbing into the hardwood…
Somehow, sleep took over you, the crackling and dripping dwindling into silence as your body fully relaxed into the darkness. It felt like you had only dozed off for a few moments when you heard the door shut quietly on the other side of the room. You had laid out your palette in front of the fireplace, so whoever entered got a good look at your back upon entering the room.
Deciding you didn’t want to face the impending awkwardness, you remained still with your back turned to the door as you tried to listen for Azriel’s movements. He stepped a few feet into the room before you heard his footsteps pause, a quiet “Oh, angel.” coming from him before his footsteps resumed. You heard his footsteps carry over to the nightstand, something sounding like glass being sat atop of it, before he was on the move again.
Realizing he was coming towards you, you quickly shut your eyes and relaxed your features into the likes of sleeping. You knew it was childish, but you had no idea what to say after Azriel’s obvious discomfort. Maybe he would assume you were asleep and leave you be, everything going back to normal once the sun was shining and everyone was fully rested.
Those prayers were squashed when you felt his footsteps come right behind you, a thud escaping from the sound of his knees meeting the hardwood. He gently rolled you onto your back, his hands being as gentle as always with grabbing your shoulder and waist to assist him. Now that he was moving you, there was no way you could fake sleep without it being obvious, so you slowly peeled your eyes open to look up at him.
His gaze was saddened as he took in your features, his hand coming to rest on your cheek as his brows furrowed, leaving a crease between his brows. You blinked a few times to clear the fog, eyebrows raising in question as he stared down at you. “Why are you on the floor, angel?” he whispered, finger grazing your cheek gently as he awaited your reply.
You took a few seconds to generate a response, teeth taking claim to your lower lip as you weighed out your response. His amber eyes watched your movement for a second before coming back up to meet your own.
“I. I thought you were upset or uncomfortable or- I just. I didn’t want to force you to share a bed with me.” coming out weakly, your voice scratchy and worn from the sudden awaking from your slumber. You felt embarrassed at the admission, slowly tearing your gaze from his to look beside you at the fire.
At the turn of your head, his fingers gently found your chin before making you look up at him. “Force me?” rushed past his lips in an astounded tone, his frown getting even deeper at the thought. “Angel, I don’t give a damn how upset I seem.. Never. Ever. make excuses for me if it affects your well-being.” he demanded, eyes not leaving yours as he continued. “I could never be upset with you, angel. Never” his voice started out strong, but by the end of his sentence his voice came out more strangled than you had ever heard him.
Scrunching your brows in even more confusion, you opened your mouth to reply but couldn’t muster up a reply. When your mouth gently closed again, Azriel began sliding his arms underneath you, quick to scoop you off of the floor.
“Az- wait. It’s fine. I was comfortable.” you rushed out, fighting his grip to go back to your spot on the thin blanket. A scoff left his lips as he rounded the bed, gently sitting you down before turning your chin to him once again. “Gods this is all my fault” he muttered to himself before backing away from you again, going to grab the pillow and blanket off of the floor before returning to your bedside.
He gently ushered you to the other side of the bed, between him and the wall, before tucking you in and making sure you were fully covered. Once he was satisfied, he lowered himself into the bed, covering himself before propping his head on his hand to look at you.
Feeling nervous, you slowly began to roll the opposite way, hating the way his eye contact affected you. His hand shot out to grab your wrist at your movements, gently pulling you back around to face him as he scooted closer to you.
“I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to make you think I was upset with you.” he whispered, a serious concern taking over his features. Both of his hands came out to cup your face, his face so close to yours you could see the flecks of amber in his irises.
You pondered your response for a millisecond, deciding to just be honest. Wrapping your hands around his wrists, you admitted, “It just seemed like you were angry with me by the way you left the room. Its okay. We can just go to bed and talk about it tomorrow.” you offered, a slight smile taking over your lips in reassurance.
Azriel groaned, dropping his forehead to connect with your collarbone before letting out a pained “Fuck, angel. You’re killing me.”. He slowly lifted his gaze back up to you before a saddened look took over his features as he took you in. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” brushed past his lips as his thumbs rubbed soothing lines under your eyes.
Feeling a sudden wave of boldness, you let out a weak “show me, then.”, eyes staring deeply into his. You felt your heart rate pick up in anticipation, a flutter raising into your chest at the close proximity. At your words, Azriel let out a deep growl, hands sliding to the back of your head to lace into your hair. He cursed under his breath before exhaling, and the next thing you know his lips were on yours.
Azriel kissed you like a man starved. He craned your neck back for better access, kissing you deeper than before. His tongue invaded your mouth, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his t-shirt, eliciting another growl from him. As his kiss grew more desperate, you clung to him. A small throbbing began in your lower abdomen, a whine being pulled from your lips as Azriel ravished you.
He pulled back from you slightly, growling a quick “you have no idea how long I’ve needed this, baby.” before he pulled you back into him, one of his hands leaving your hair to graze down to your hip. Suddenly, he gripped your thigh, pulling it to rest over his hip before angling you to where he was slightly above you.
You moaned at the feeling of his length pressed against your core, his member already hardened from the short exchange. With a few thrusts of his hips, you were a whining mess, thoughts clouded and lips swollen from the intensity.
Just as he came down to kiss you again, a soft whine sound escaping from his throat as his dick grazed your center again, there was an overwhelming tug in your chest. A tug so tight and so intense it had you gasping at the feeling. Just when you thought your heart was about to explode, an invisible golden string appeared, tying you to the man above you.
“You- you’re. You’re my. My mate?” came from you in a rushed intensity, eyes flying open to meet Azriel’s piercing gaze.
Hi! Can you do one with Azriel finding out your mates with him/ meeting him? 💖
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Authors Note: Love this request! I chose to go down a rom-com vibe, as I absolutely adore scenes like this.
The first snowfall in Velaris always made everything feel softer.
Quieter. Gentler.
The upcoming Solstice celebration usually had the residents in festive cheer, especially with the added knowledge that the High Lady's birthday was also at Solstice. Residents decorated outside their houses and storefronts, the smell of cinnamon and cranberry would waft through the markets and the Rainbow was also bustling with festive cheer and spirit.
You would have appreciated it more if you weren't currently running late.
"Gods, I'm going to be so late-" you muttered under your breath, clutching your coat tighter as you hurried down the street, boots crunching over fresh snow.
Your focus was entirely on getting across the Sidra in time, mentally running through excuses that didn't make you sound completely incompetent to your friend you were currently running late to meet.
All because of the one stubborn section of your hair at the back of your head that you could never get the annoying kink out of.
Which is precisely why you didn't see him.
You hurried down the street and turned a corner too quickly, keeping an eye on the ground to avoid any icy patches-
-and slammed straight into a wall of solid muscle.
"Oh-!"
"Shit-!"
Strong hands caught your arms on instinct, steadying you before you could fall. You were staring at a chest of black leather, a blue siphon glowing faintly. For half a second, you thought you'd be fine.
And then-
Ice.
Your foot abruptly slid out from under you.
His did too.
There was a split second of shared, horrified realisation before everything went spectacularly wrong.
You both went down in an undignified tangle - arms, legs, and wings -snow flying everywhere as you hit the ground hard.
A breath left your lungs in a rush as you landed flat on your back with a handsome stranger above you.
One hand planted beside your head. The other gripping your waist to keep from crushing you completely. His wings flared slightly, shielding you from the worst of the fall, even as snow dusted dark leathery membrane and talons.
For a moment, the world just...stopped.
You blinked up at him.
He was-
Beautiful, in a way that caught you completely off guard. Shadows curled faintly at his shoulders, like they had a mind of their own. His hazel eyes were already on yours, sharp and assessing-
And then they changed as your eyes met.
His eyes dilated. His nostrils flared. His jaw tightened.
Something deep, ancient, and unyielding snapped into place.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft.
It was a jolt - like something invisible had reached into your chest, zapped you and tied itself to him.
Suddenly you could feel him.
You were aware of nothing else, but him. The world faded around you. The centre of your universe was this stranger above you.
Your breath hitched.
His did too.
The shadows around him surged, then stilled - before slowly, almost reverently, drifting toward you.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, fuck-
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you spoke.
But you felt it - him - as clearly as your own heartbeat.
And judging by the way his entire body had gone rigid, the way his grip on you had tightened ever so slightly-
He felt it too.
"Well," an amused male voice drawled, "this is one way to meet someone."
The moment shattered.
You froze.
Slowly - slowly - you became aware of everything else.
The street. The snow.
And the two males standing a few feet away, both very clearly trying - and failing - not to laugh.
Your stomach dropped clean out of your body.
The High Lord of the Night Court was watching you, violet eyes gleaming with poorly concealed delight.
Beside him, a male you could only assume was the General of his armies had already given up trying to hide his amusement and was openly snickering.
You stopped breathing.
You were on the ground.
If the High Lord and his General were there, then that meant you were-
Under the Shadowsinger.
In front of the High Lord.
Covered in snow.
"Oh my gods," you squeaked.
The male above you seemed to come back to himself at the same time.
Of course the one person in Velaris you could collide with, like an absolute disaster, was the Shadowsinger himself.
He pushed up slightly, clearly intending to give you space - but his hand hesitated at your waist, like something in him resisted letting go.
That bond - still thrumming, insistent - didn't help.
"Are you hurt?" He asked, voice low, steady - warm and controlled.
You tried to contain the shiver down your spine at the sound of his voice.
You shook your head quickly. "No-no, I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going, I just-"
You stopped.
Because he was still looking at you.
Not annoyed. Not even embarrassed.
He looked...amused, and incredibly focused.
Like he'd suddenly found something he hadn't been searching for.
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful.
Behind him, the High Lord made a soft, thoughtful hum. "Interesting."
"Rhys," The Shadowsinger warned quietly, though he still hadn't taken his eyes off you.
That only made things worse.
"Right," you said faintly. "Yes. Brilliant. I'm just going to...get up and stop lying on the ground in front of-"
You attempted to sit up.
He immediately offered his hand as he - seemingly reluctantly - got to his feet.
You took it without thinking.
The moment your fingers wrapped around his, that bond flared - warm and undeniable, like it was settling more firmly into place. Although his hands were clothed in leather gloves, the warmth as his large hand enveloped yours was almost scorching.
You both felt it.
You both knew you both felt it.
He pulled you gently to your feet with ease.
And didn't let go.
The General snorted. "You planning on keeping her, Az?"
You nearly choked.
The Shadowsinger didn't even look at him.
Instead, he said quietly, "I'm Azriel."
You swallowed.
Your name came out almost breathlessly.
His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, like he was committing it to memory.
"Nice to meet you," you managed, even though your brain was still somewhere on the ground where your dignity still lay.
The High Lord - Rhysand - stepped forward then, smile far too knowing for your comfort. "Well, seeing as fate has decided to be particularly efficient today..."
You had a bad feeling about this.
"...you should join us for dinner later."
You blinked. "I-what?"
The General grinned at you, eyes full of mirth. "You're going to be seeing a lot of us now anyway."
Your face went hot.
"Cassian, shut up," Azriel almost hissed.
You glanced at Azriel - half expecting him to shut this down, to say something sensible-
He didn't.
If anything, there was the faintest hint of something softer in his expression. Something almost...hopeful.
And he still hadn't let go of your hand.
"Only if you want to," he said, voice quieter now. For you alone.
The bond pulsed between you.
You were absolutely, completely doomed.
"...Dinner sounds nice," you said.
Rhys's smile widened like he'd just won something.
Cassian looked delighted.
And Azriel-
He finally, reluctantly, loosened his grip on your hand.
But only just.
Like he already knew, he wouldn't be letting go anytime soon.
jason who started smoking when he was a preteen in crime alley, and picked it up again once he became lucid after the pit. it helped him feel normal after returning from the grave; a rare connection to his life before. that, and the nicotine soothed his frayed nerves.
he knows it’s not good for him, honest! he won’t argue with you on that. it just feels too good; it’s too easy to lean on it when things get stressful. they call it a crutch for a reason.
you weren’t sure whether you approved of his ‘habit’ (admittedly he does look sexy), but all of his ashtrays were sterile and lifeless — colourless glass or featureless aluminum. the least you could do was bring some joy into it. one day while thrifting, you’d come upon a little glass ashtray, pink and heart-shaped.
a soft laugh rumbled from his chest when you gave it to him. “thought you didn’t like me smoking, baby,” he remarked wryly, turning it over in his hands. he planted a kiss on your temple and vowed to use it until he smoked his last cigarette.
***
over time, he develops a collection, courtesy of you. there’s a cartoon frog, a marijuana leaf, an intricate silver dish, a coffin (he finds this one particularly amusing), and a dozen others just made from colourful glass. a couple of them are tenderly misshapen attempts from amateur pottery classes. each of his safe houses has a different one — each ashtray serves as a little reminder of you when he’s away from home.
right now, just the sight of the smouldering cigarette in that glass heart dish is making his heart ache. his boots are kicked up on the desk. he’s got fifty different cctv feeds open on his dozen-odd monitors, criminal case files and breaking news pages, but his eyes are glued to that little pink ashtray.
fuck it, he thinks. there’s nothing going on tonight. all his contacts are reporting as planned, nothing of note has popped up, there are no big moves happening. his fingers twitch towards the dwindling cigarette. bringing the filter between his lips and taking a drag, he knows there is zero reason he can’t go home to you right now.
so he does. he stubs out the cigarette butt and shuts off the computer. the room goes dark as all those blinking monitors sleep for the night. a twinge in his chest; he’s here in a dark, concrete bunker and you’re probably cozied up in the living room with your book. it doesn’t matter. he’s coming home to you.
it’s getting to that point in the year where the evening air is balmy even with the fresh breeze, instead of piercing through to the bone like the few months prior. jason doesn’t even need a jacket, really, but he keeps it on because he likes to tuck his hands into the pockets. the magnolia trees have almost shed all their flowers in favour of glossy, green leaves. the sun only set a couple hours ago; the scent of sun on pavement is still ripe.
he practically throws himself up the fire escape. it’s frantic, almost irrational. he slides open the living room window, then there’s the thud of his boots hitting the hardwood, his eyes move towards the couch as if magnetized and—
there you are. his sweet baby.
just like he thought you’d be, you’ve got your book and your favourite blanket, cuddled up in your favourite spot on the couch, with your favourite drink on a coaster near you. something in his chest immediately settles, his mind goes quiet. that right there — the peace you bring him? that’s better than any nicotine rush.
after shedding his jacket and boots, he lowers himself to his knees on the floor in front of you. jason nudges your book out of the way and instead lays his head in your lap. deep breath in, deep breath out. your familiar scent fills his lungs (again, better than nicotine).
“you’re home early,” you muse quietly, fingers slipping into his fluffy locks. it’s late, but not according to gotham’s vigilantes.
“couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmurs. “comms were quiet, no big moves happenin’ tonight. besides, i’d be useless out there if anything did happen; only thing runnin’ through my mind is you, angel.”
his gaze meets yours as he leans into your touch, making him look like a puppy in need of attention. jason’s eyes are an interesting colour which has always fascinated you: they’re almost hazel, but the green is so bright that you’re not quite sure it qualifies. regardless, it’s hypnotizing— he’s hypnotizing.
“i’m not sure what you’re trying to butter me up for,” you tease, “but it might work.”
“swear to god i’m not,” he replies, voice softened by your thumb now smoothing over his cheekbone. his soft (even if a little chapped) lips press to the fleshy part of your palm just below your thumb. “just… it’s stupid, but i kept lookin’ at that ashtray you got me. y’know, the pink heart? couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
a soft hum resonates from your chest. at first glance, most people think jason is some tough, unfeeling delinquent. they don’t know how much he craves the soft warmth of your skin. you’d call him touch-starved, but you both know he’s not starved for it at all. not as long as you’re around.
“should we go to bed?” you tilt his head up a little more towards you.
those big, pretty eyes stare back. he nods.
“are you gonna go smoke first?” you ask, leaning down to peck his lips.
“don’t need it,” comes the answer. “so long as you keep kissing me.”
i don’t know what this is or where it came from but it’s been sitting in my drafts for two weeks so i’m releasing it like a feral animal. jason’s eye colour to me depends on my mood but i was feeling hazel today #canonwho
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; This whole fic was inspired by this post by @masterfishbaiter71 ! Anyways, this entire fic is just about edging Dex til he has a meltdown and goes fucking crazy on you ;)
⋆ tags/warnings. benjamin poindexter x female reader. SMUT!!!! PURE PORN. Guys please don't edge Dex, for your own safety, warnings for sadism, mentions of dacryphilia for both dex and reader, dex taking his anger out on reader, kind of switchy vibes (starts off with somewhat subby Dex and ends with reader getting destroyed lmao), m!receiving oral smex, BLOWJOB BLOWJOB BLOWJOB, facefucking, sadomasochism, you're his north star, per usual that white boy loses his self control, emotional Dex, swearing. I saw this post and flatlined pretty much. I love my little dexy-poo. Again, tysm to everyones support on my fics! Im so excited for tommorrows episode!
♫ “Baby, I could slow down, if that's what you need me to do. / We can go another round, maybe to a new altitude. / I'll make you need it, and you want it.” Altitude by Montell Fish
"I'm...I'm trying-" He growls out a plea.
The words fall from his lips in short spasms and bursts. He's struggling to get them out, his jaw clenched like it might break. You see him white-knuckling the sheets, twitching like he wants to reach out and grab onto you. Onto any part of you he can get his hands on.
Your tongue flicks over his tip once, twice. Precum pools in a small bead at the top which you kitten lick off intently. You hear Dex moan- and it's a strangled, ragged sound.
"Trying to...what, Dex?" You tease. Laughing against his throbbing cock. He can't respond when you begin to just kiss the length of him, wet and hot. You feel his whole body jerk and a low groan tear out from him.
The only sound in the room is the slow, wet obscene noises coming from how you're working him. And the sound of Dex's heavy choked breathing.
He's close. So close. It's times like these you get to see his brain completely shut off, all the noise that plagues him turn into a pliant, quiet mush at the feeling of your mouth on him.
"I-I'm going to-"
Cum. He's going to cum. You know that, smirking around the head of his flushed red cock. Poor guy can't even finish his sentence. You almost feel sorry for him the moment you pull back.
The loss of your tongue is jarring. It's the third time tonight. You've been teasing him, watching his control falter with every lick and kiss. You've also been careful not to take him fully down your throat, cataloging every reaction he gives you. The sight of his pretty face contorted with a desperate, needy pleasure.
You chuckle when his abdominal muscles flex, his whole body tense. The absence of your mouth feeling like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on him. A sharp gasp is ripped from his throat, hips bucking in shallow thrusts to chase the loss.
His whole body taught with the effort not to snap.
You finally look up from your place between his thighs, if only to catch a glimpse of his face. You note his hollow cheek-bones twisted into a grimace at the loss. The beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and abs. The way his veins prominently stick out and throb from under his skin and forearms. The way his chest heaves at the lack of contact.
And yet, what finally gives you pause is when you meet his eyes.
His eyes. Those gorgeous, dark eyes of his- heavy lidded and red rimmed. Overstimulated and wrecked, like he's been crying, or at least is on the verge. Glossy and wet as he desperately attempts to blink them away.
For a moment, you think he really just is that needy. Crying for his North Star's mouth on him, eyes dimmed with nothing but complete worship. But when his eyes meet your own, biting the inside of his cheeks, it's when you finally notice the truth.
The way his brows are lowered. The way his body trembles. The way his cheeks are flushed. The way his cock pulses impatiently under your hand. His locked jaw.
That look of pathetic desperation in his eyes is nothing short of a hot, wild, frenzied anger.
He's not just needy. He's fucking furious.
Your train of thought is cut off entirely when you feel a hand come up, tangling in your hair, and pushing you down in one hard, smooth motion. You feel the head of his cock immediately hit your esophagus.
As if on instinct, you gag around him, throat tightening as he groans loudly. He pants as he pushes you all the way down, manhandling your mouth onto his cock like a fleshlight. He holds you there for what feels like forever, those glossy eyes of his drinking in the sight of you gagging on him.
"Breathe...Breathe through your fucking nose." Is all he orders, trying to catch his own breath while you sputter around him. The words come out harsh. The change of pace is jolting. His eyes are still wet with need, the hard lines of his body still rigid underneath. You feel his hands tighten in your hair to a pressure than borders on painful.
He's seething. That anger boiling over and melting into a mean look on his face he was trying so, so hard to repress for you. But you just couldn't let him, huh? Had to make him the bad guy.
He observes as your mascara quickly begins to run, your own eyes welling. Something about it makes him shudder. Only when he sees tears of your own does he begin to move. You two can cry together.
"Good. That's...That's good. That's it." He loosens his grip on you ever so slightly to pet your hair, take you in like the goddess you must be, his saving grace. His body begins to relax, coming down from his anger as his breathing calms down...right before he rams his cock sharply down your throat.
You let out a loud gag and whimper around his cock, and he inhales sharply in unison.
"All quiet now, huh." He grits out, shoving you down further as you choke. The force of his words are coupled with the sharp thrusts of his hips fucking up into your throat. When you whine, he decides to push you harder. "Look at me. Look at me."
His words sound like both a livid command and a desperate plea.
You struggle to open your eyes, but when you do, you're still met with bloodshot and glistening gaze that now completely matches your own.
He holds you there, both of you shakily breathing, tears pooling while you cry around his dick.
He briefly wonders if you knew. If you knew you were killing him like this. If you knew how hard he was trying not to grab your head and fuck your throat raw. Be...gentle.
Guess it doesn't matter now.
Dex’s grip tightens in your hair, fingers flexing like he’s still fighting himself even as he starts fucking your throat in short, brutal strokes. His voice is low, rough, and broken.
“Couldn’t…just...wait anymore.” The words come out both furious and strangled. Like he's desperatley trying to apologize, to tell you why, but they lack any and all remorse the more he bullies your throat.
Each thrust is measured but punishing, his cock sliding deep, stretching your throat until fresh tears spill down your cheeks. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time- glossy, furious, and starving.
His thumb gently wipes a tear from your cheek even as he keeps ruthlessly using your mouth, the contrast between the soft touch and the vicious snap of his hips making your head spin.
He's close. Again. For the fourth time tonight. And something tells you this one won't end in broken pleas or shallow thrusts up into nothing.
He’s panting hard, hips snapping up faster, losing the last threads of control.
“Swallow it. All of it. Right now.”
His voice cracks on the last word. And with a final groan, he shoves himself as deep as he can go and holds you there, pulsing hard as he spills straight down your throat in thick, endless spurts. He stays buried, breathing ragged, thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek almost tenderly while his cock twitches against your tongue.
He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, pulling you back up with a gentleness that contrasts his earlier actions. His touch is hot, the sweat of his body sticking to your own. Your throat will be sore tomorrow.
The two of you stay like that for quite some time, losing count of the hours. You might just end up kissing each others tears away.
reader x tommy? both reader and tommy are in love but are oblivious to the other's affections, and the other shelby siblings realise they're going to have to step in. (I'd prefer reader to be male but if you'd rather do female that's ok too!!)
A/N: sorry this took so long!! I also kept the reader gender neutral so you can choose whatever gender you want 😊
You’d been working for the Peaky Blinders for nearly six months. It was a good job, paid well and the hours were reasonable and the work was never boring. You enjoyed it and it gave you stability in a life that had being chaotic for years.
Working for Tommy was a privilege, for you. He always had time for you and often paid you for overtime when you stayed late. In return, you always had time for Tommy and made sure to complete any work he needed to be done.
It was a surprise that neither of you had picked up on the feelings you both had for one another. The rest of the family had picked up on it within three weeks of you joining.
John and Arthur wanted to lock the two of you in Tommy’s office and wait for you both to realise. Poll and Ada, the sensible members of the family, kept trying to get the two of you to go to the Garrison together and twig. Michael was happy to just let you to be blissfully unaware, knowing full well that you’d eventually figure it out.
Finn didn’t care. He, like Michael, knew you’d eventually figure out.
But, six months later, they were all fed up of waiting. Neither one of you had made a move. You’d been on a couple of dates in that time and Tommy hadn’t realised just why he’d been in a bad mood both times. Everyone else had.
So, tired of watching the two of you dancing around each other, Polly organised a family meeting.
“Pol?” Tommy asked as he strolled into the room, frowning at the assembled members of his family. You followed behind him, just as confused. “What’s going on?”
“We’re staging an intervention, Thomas, y/n,” Polly told you.
“We?” You echoed, frowning. The entire family stood up. “Ah.”
“Look, we love you both,” Ada began, “but, this is becoming ridiculous.”
“I am so confused,” you whispered to Tommy.
“They’re still not getting it,” John groaned. “Right, Tommy, y/n, it’s extremely obvious that the two of you like each other. We’ve noticed - quite frankly we noticed three weeks after you joined - and it’s about time you two did something about it.”
“About what?” You asked, crossing your arms.
“The fact that you love Tommy and Tommy loves you!” John exclaimed loudly. “When you two have talked, we’ll be in the Garrison.”
And with that, they left you and Tommy standing gobsmacked in his office.
“I don’t know -“
“You love me?” Tommy asked softly, cutting you off. You turned to look at him, cursing yourself for betraying how you really felt.
“I mean, maybe. Yes.”
Tommy smiled. “I love you too.”
Your eyes widened. “You do?”
“I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you,” Tommy said quietly, taking your hand in his. “And I’ll always love you.”
You smiled broadly, eyes sparkling. You stood on your tip toes and leant into Tommy, kissing him passionately on the lips. Tommy returned the kiss just as passionately, putting his hand on your head.
He pushed you against the wall and you giggled against his lips.
~personally love obsessive reader x dex so this is my take on how they would finally talk/officially meet. also just for fun and not edited~
You stepped into the coffee shop the cool air enveloping your hot skin. It was a ritual now. Every morning the same time, same place, same table. You looked forward to talking to him even if it was a quick hello in passing or even just a shared smile.
Unfortunately today was different. A woman sat across from him. The usual smile for you was not there as he seemed to not even notice you as you ordered your coffee.
Your eyes slid over his body watching for any signs as to why he hadn’t looked your way yet. His eyes stayed on the other woman as she babbled mindlessly about something. The blood in ears roared as anger flared within you. You dug your nails deeply into your palm attempting to ground yourself as you stared at them.
You grabbed your coffee from the barista without a thank you and turned quickly to leave. Giving one final look at the tall blonde man. His eyes met yours and you narrowed them hard without even trying to hide your anger, quickly making your way out the door.
You walked through the crowd outside zigzag zagging your way past the people around you. Your blood still boiling. You turned down a side street and chunked your coffee at the wall. The paper cup crumpling under the force of your throw. The splatter of your latte coated the red brick wall. You let out a frustrated growl, picking up the cup and disposing of it in a trash can as you made your way back to your apartment your day already ruined.
You slammed your door shut sinking to the floor and finally letting the tears flow out. You felt so dumb over how something so small ruined your day. How he and ruined your day.
No smile plastered across his face for you. No simple greeting. All you could see was the other woman with him. Her red hair glinting in the sunlight through the window. The day was already over in your mind. You spent the rest of it ruminating on every interaction you had had with him. How you could’ve said more. Could’ve sat down with him, given him your number and not left it to what ifs. You decided you wouldn’t go back to the coffee shop for awhile you didn’t want to feel this out of control again anytime soon.
~
You didn’t notice as he followed you. How he left the other woman at the table without a simple nod of goodbye. How he followed you as you angrily stomped down the street, fist so tight he could tell your fingers were turning white. How he heard the cup of coffee hit the wall and the frustrated noise you let out. He found it amusing that you were so worked up over someone so insignificante. Who had sat down with him without being asked.
He followed you all the way to your apartment. Your anger clouding your ability to see the obvious man stalking behind you making sure you got him safe.
Days had past since the incident. From the small viewpoint from another rooftop he knew you hadn’t left your place since he saw you last, hadn’t ordered food, hadn’t even checked your mail. You had cooped yourself up in there and hadn’t even given him a glimpse through a window. Your shades drawn closed tightly as to not let anything out. He was beginning to lose it. Your beautiful smile hadn’t graced his eyes in what felt like a lifetime. The soft smell of your perfume began to get distant in his memory. He needed to see you, smell you, hear the sing songs voice of yours.
He had waited for you everyday at the coffee shop. Sometimes hours and you never showed. On the sixth day he found himself running behind. He had spent so much time watching your place that he hadn’t slept much. His eyes red rimmed with dark circles under them. He stumbled into the store burnt coffee hitting his nose first and then the faint whiff of your smell. His ears perked up as he heard your voice, he scanned the room quickly finding you at the table he always sat at. Your back was toward him and you facing a dark haired smiling man that was in his seat. The seat he had watched you from for months.
He could feel the blood rushing through his veins. The anger taking over his very being. How could you ignore him, forget about him for days and then show up with another man.
He stalked his way toward you both. “You’re in my seat.” His words a growl behind clenched teeth.
Your head snapped upwards toward the man towering over you and the other guy. “Listen I don’t know who…” the man across from you began to say but you cut him off quick.
“You can leave now.” Your voice giddy with excitement as you motioned your head toward the door. You narrowed your eyes at him as if daring him to object.
The dark haired man got up quickly brushing past the one you really wanted muttering something about you being crazy.
The tall blonde sat down in the now empty seat. His hands still clenched rested on top of the table.
You stared at each other for a moment his hazel eyes locking with yours. You could see the anger, possessiveness and a tinge of sadness in them. You reached for his hand forcing him to unclench his fist. Your fingertips traced over the calluses on his palm.
“Doesn’t feel good does it?” You said with a smirk as you traced a heart into his palm.
He blinked rapidly at you as if he didn’t understand what you were saying. The girl he had been watching, obsessing over to the point of no sleep had purposely baited him and he had fallen for it. He felt vulnerable under your watchful eyes. He could see the jealously and obsessiveness in them. It was the same sight as when he would look in the mirror.
He let out a deep breathy laugh before grasping your hand tightly placing his other on top, creating a cage you couldn’t pull from.
“I’m Dex by the way.” He said squeezing your hand tightly.
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.
[...]⠀⠀┄ ⠀ a lonely, socially isolated benjamin poindexter becomes unexpectedly fixated on a small pink bracelet worn by a kind barista. what begins as an awkward misunderstanding turns into the first genuinely warm interaction dex has had in years, when you gifts him the bracelet and treats him with a kindness he doesn't believe he deserves.
❝ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter. ◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 1 of series → part 2 → part 3 → part 4 → part 5. fem reader, yandere dex, fbi dex, fluff maybe? masterlist, english is not my first language 𖹭⠀⠀❞⠀
The bracelet is pink.
That’s it.
That’s the whole fucking problem.
Not you.
Not your smile.
Not the way your voice sounds soft enough to make his chest ache.
The bracelet.
Pink stones around your wrist.
Small.
Glossy.
Translucent under the café lights like little pieces of skinned flesh dipped in sugar.
Dex notices it the second he walks in and then his brain clamps onto it so hard it feels physical. Like teeth sinking into tendon.
Great.
Fantastic.
Another thing to obsess over.
He should leave.
He knows he should leave.
The coffee shop is crowded and loud and smells like burnt espresso beans and wet jackets and somebody’s cloying perfume two tables over. Every sound crashes into him separately instead of blending together normally.
The espresso machine screams.
Silverware scrapes ceramic.
Somebody taps their nails against a laptop keyboard too fast.
A guy near the door keeps sniffling every twelve seconds exactly and Dex notices every single one.
Twelve seconds.
Sniff.
Twelve seconds.
Sniff.
His head already hurts.
He shouldn’t have come here.
Should’ve stayed home.
No. Home is worse.
Home breathes.
Home makes noises at night.
Not real noises. Just settling pipes and creaking walls and neighbors moving around upstairs but his brain stretches every sound open until it becomes something alive. The apartment feels like the inside of a body sometimes. Warm and airless and rotting slowly around him.
So he came here instead.
And now there’s you.
Pink bracelet.
His eyes drift toward it again immediately.
Fuck.
Stop staring.
He looks away.
One second later his eyes slide right back to your wrist.
Fuck.
You’re moving behind the counter, smiling at customers while steam curls around you in pale ghost shapes. The café lights catch against the bracelet every time you move your hand.
Pink.
Pink.
Pink.
His brain starts tracing the movement automatically.
Trajectory.
Distance.
Speed.
The beads hit against your wrist softly every time you reach for something.
Click-click-click.
His fingers twitch against his coffee cup.
Don’t stare.
He stares.
He tells himself he’ll stop after one more second.
Then another.
Then another.
It feels good.
That’s the embarrassing part.
The bracelet quiets something in his head for a second. The noise around him dulls whenever he focuses on it. Like his brain finally found one clean line in a room full of screaming static.
You laugh at something a customer says.
Dex’s eyes jerk upward automatically.
And there it is again.
That smile.
Jesus.
You smile like you don’t know what people are capable of.
Like nobody’s ever bled on your hands before.
His stomach twists strangely.
Look away before she notices.
Too late.
You’re already walking toward him.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Dex straightens immediately in his seat without meaning to. His spine locks rigid. He looks down at the coffee cup like maybe if he avoids eye contact hard enough you’ll leave.
“Do you need anything, sir?”
Too close.
Your voice is too close.
Warm.
Soft.
He can smell vanilla syrup on your clothes.
“No,” he says too quickly. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
Weird.
Too fast.
You definitely noticed that.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“Then why do you keep staring at me?”
There it is.
He fucked up.
Heat floods his neck instantly.
His grip tightens around the paper cup hard enough to bend it inward with a soft crunch.
Everybody heard that.
Now everybody’s looking.
Nobody is actually looking but it feels like they are. Feels like the entire café just turned toward him all at once.
Creep.
Weirdo.
Psycho.
His heartbeat starts slamming too hard.
Say something normal.
Normal people know how to do this.
“Well— I—”
Jesus Christ.
Spit it out.
Your expression shifts slightly.
Not angry.
Guarded.
Like you’re already preparing yourself to leave.
That feeling hits him somewhere ugly and soft inside his ribcage.
“No, it’s not—it’s not like that,” he says quickly.
Too quickly.
Now he sounds defensive.
Good job.
You made it worse.
“Then what is it?” you ask.
His thoughts jam together immediately.
Words never come out right when people are looking directly at him.
Too many things happening at once.
Your eyes.
Your voice.
The noise in the café.
The smell of coffee.
The bracelet.
Pink.
Focus.
“It’s just your bracelet,” he blurts out finally.
You blink.
“My bracelet?”
“Yeah.”
Too blunt.
He should explain more.
Why can’t he ever fucking explain things correctly?
“What about it?” you ask slowly.
He notices your shoulders tightening slightly.
You think he’s lying.
You think he’s dangerous.
Maybe he is.
The thought flashes through him fast and cold.
No.
Stop.
“It’s just…” His throat feels tight suddenly. “It’s a nice color.”
Silence.
God.
That sounded pathetic.
A grown man staring at a waitress because of a bracelet.
You’re definitely gonna walk away now.
Instead your eyes widen slightly.
“Oh.”
Color rushes into your cheeks almost immediately.
Dex stares before he can stop himself.
Pretty.
The thought arrives sharp and sudden.
Too pretty.
You let out this awkward little laugh and glance down at your wrist.
“Thanks,” you mumble. “It’s rose quartz.”
Rose quartz.
Rose quartz.
Rose quartz.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Your expression changes again.
The suspicion softens around the edges.
You touch the bracelet gently with your fingers.
“It’s a crystal,” you explain. “People say it attracts love.”
Love.
The word sits strangely inside his chest.
Heavy.
Wet.
Like an organ dropped into his hands.
His eyes flick unconsciously around the café.
Couples everywhere.
Hands touching.
People leaning close together.
Everybody connected together through invisible threads while he sits alone at a tiny corner table feeling like something stitched together wrong.
“My sister gave it to me because she said I was lonely,” you say with another embarrassed laugh.
Lonely?
You?
No.
That doesn’t make sense.
You move through rooms easily. People smile when you talk to them. Your voice sounds warm enough to crawl inside.
Lonely people are supposed to look like him.
Tired.
Sharp.
Held together too tightly.
“Does it work?” he asks quietly.
You blink at him.
His stomach twists immediately afterward.
Too serious.
Why did you say it like that?
Now she thinks you’re insane.
But you keep staring at him instead of leaving.
Your expression softens slowly.
Like fabric loosening.
And suddenly Dex feels exposed in a way he hates.
Because he thinks you can see it.
The emptiness.
The horrible starving thing inside him.
“It works if you believe in it,” you say gently.
Believe.
Dex almost laughs.
His brain feels like a mouth full of broken teeth chewing on itself half the time.
He doesn’t know how to believe in anything.
Then suddenly you step closer.
Too close.
His whole body locks immediately.
You reach for his hand.
Dex freezes so hard it almost hurts.
Warm fingers wrap around his wrist.
Fuck.
His pulse jumps violently beneath your touch.
He can feel every line of your skin against his. Every tiny shift of pressure. His nervous system lights up all at once like somebody peeled his skin off and exposed every nerve ending directly to air.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean you have to—”
“You can have it.”
You’re already sliding the bracelet off your wrist.
His brain stutters.
Wait.
Wait.
Your fingers brush against the inside of his wrist again while fastening it around him.
Pink beads against his skin.
Warm from your body heat.
“You need it more than me,” you say softly.
Need.
The word goes through him like a blade.
Need.
Need.
Need.
Something inside his chest moves suddenly.
Not metaphorically.
It genuinely feels like something waking up underneath his ribs. Something thin and starving uncurling slowly in the dark.
Because you noticed him.
That’s the horrifying part.
You looked at him and saw loneliness immediately.
And instead of recoiling—
you touched him.
Dex stares down at the bracelet silently.
His thoughts start looping instantly.
You touched him.
You gave it to him.
You said he need it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Like film burning over itself inside his skull.
Then you step back suddenly.
“Oh my God,” you say quietly. “And I’m sorry for earlier.”
Your face goes pink again.
“We get a lot of creeps here sometimes.”
Creeps.
There it is.
Reality sliding back into place.
Dex feels his stomach knot painfully.
Because for one second there he almost forgot how he looked from the outside.
Strange man sitting alone.
Staring too hard.
Too intense.
Too quiet.
Wrong.
“I hope you understand,” you mumble awkwardly.
You actually look guilty.
That’s what gets him.
Not the accusation.
The guilt.
Because you care.
You genuinely care that you hurt his feelings.
Something in his chest pulls painfully tight.
Say something.
Say thank you.
Say it normal.
“Y-yeah,” he manages finally. “No, I understand.”
Too stiff.
Still weird.
You smile anyway.
Small.
Sweet.
Beautiful.
Tiny living thing fluttering through all the rot inside his head.
Then you walk away.
Dex watches you go because of course he does.
His eyes follow automatically.
Your hands.
Your shoulders.
The empty space on your wrist where the bracelet used to be.
No.
Not empty.
On him.
His fingers close around the pink stones carefully.
Pink.
Still warm.
Still carrying heat from your skin.
And suddenly the café doesn’t feel quite as loud anymore.
Not because the noise stopped.
But because now there’s something else inside his head too.
Your voice.
Your smile.
Your hands touching him gently like he wasn’t something dangerous.
Dex sits there long after his coffee goes cold.
And every few seconds his eyes drift back toward you again automatically.
Every time you laugh, his chest aches strangely.
And when you catch him looking again near the end of your shift—
you smile at him.
Actually smile.
Like you’re happy he’s still there.
The starving thing inside him opens its eyes completely after that.
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
i know there might be a couple or people disappointed in this but i am going to archive my ethan landry fic recs. nothing to do with jack himself, but i am just not interested in the fandom anymore and i don't want to keep scream as a fandom on my blog. with the rise of the new movie, i would rather not associate my blog with a franchise that chose to fire someone just for speaking out about gaza and palestine.
