˖⁺mattsbunny˖⁺ @mattsbunnyy - Tumblr Blog

Brass Knuckles

Summary : You are not the only person hunting Anti-Vigilante Task Force. Luckily, your “competition” is Benjamin Poindexter.

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

Warnings/tags : Reader is ex-SHIELD, sexual themes, Freak4Freak, violence, death, blood, injury/gunshot wound, emotional trauma/grief, slight mention of cannabis use, brief mention of having suicidal thoughts, codependency, biting/blood play, Dex has you in a headlock as one point. Mention of surgery. Dex finds out he likes pain and learns sympathy in the same story lol. Fluff, angst. Set between DDBA season 1 and season 2. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 9.9k

Requested by : Anon

Notes : Most of the fic is inspired by the song Kitty Sucker by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Credit to this post by @truestaim for inspiring the more intimate scenes <3 Enjoy!

You didn’t meet Dex in a bar, or on a dating app, or on a night out, like any modern person would.

You met him at work.

Well, “work.”

Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected by emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents.

They weren’t exactly hard to track and they weren’t subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of “order.” You’d been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didn’t like being hunted.

And they were definitely hunting you.

You were an “Asset Gone Rogue.” At least, that’s what you were in their files.

In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself.

Because you refused, because apparently, if you weren’t loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you.

You didn’t mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right? At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you.

Until Fisk became mayor.

That’s when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for “assets” as a threat. So they slapped the label “vigilante” on you and processed your arrest warrant.

The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire.

They were your friends.

Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. He’d get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. You’d told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, they’d need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer.

Layla would laugh and ask, “You? C’mon. You’re not stopping nobody from coming in.”

Darren would say, “My cousin’s like 6’5. He can do the job.”

You’d laugh, because they didn’t really know your past. They didn’t know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didn’t know the blood on your hands.

You’d take a drag out of the blunt. “Trust me, man. I’m scary as fuck.”

They’d laugh and say, “If you say so.”

But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.

And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, they’ll get a vigilante.

Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for.

Because if there’s one thing you’re good at doing with your hands, it’s killing for sport.

—

What you didn’t expect when you started to hunt them… was competition.

On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldn’t have been knives. Pencils where they shouldn’t be pencils. And glass where they shouldn’t be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force.

You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler.

You smiled a little. “‘M not the only one, huh?”

—

The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive.

It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on.

Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour.

One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.

You stepped in.

Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.

Another came at you from behind.

You didn’t turn.

You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.

He folded.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work.

The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream.

You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets.

Shiny, you thought. It’s mine now.

“Messy,” you heard a voice say from the darkness.

You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.

The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like he’d always been there.

He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.

It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldn’t tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him.

What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.

Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.

“Oh?” you said, almost amused. “You got notes?”

His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.

“You were in my line of fire,” he said bluntly.

You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. “I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.”

To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.

You felt bone crunch under your heel.

You didn’t even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.

You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. “You see something unfinished?”

His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. “They were mine.”

Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.

“Well.” Your head tilted. “You should’ve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.”

“I don’t need to be close,” he replied.

“Mm.” You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. “Shame. You’re missing out.”

“And you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,” he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.

“It’s more fun,” you shrugged. “I like it when I feel it.”

You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile.

“Oh,” you said with a cynical grin. “There it is. You do have a personality.”

The tension didn’t ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.

“Got a name?” you asked casually, like you weren’t standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.

A fraction of a second passed before he answered. “Dex.”

It fit him.

You nodded once, like you approved. “Dex,” you repeated, tasting it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You?”

You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Tsk. Tsk.” You stepped a little closer. “I’m not that easy.”

Dex managed a real laugh. “I didn’t think you were.”

That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didn’t understand.

—

You kept running into each other.

Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.

Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding.

You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.

You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.

When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. “You stalking me?”

“You’re predictable,” he replied.

You smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still alive.”

“…For now,” he said. There was something almost playful in it.

A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, you’ve started actively looking for each other before fighting.

This time, you moved without speaking, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

You drew them in. Dex picked them off.

At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.

You didn’t even look.

“Gotta be careful,” he called.

“Relax,” you shot back. “I trust you.”

Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said.

You grinned. “Too late.”

By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.

You’d show up. He’d already be there. Or vice versa.

You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.

You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. “You gonna share?”

“Depends,” he shrugged.

“On?”

“Whether you slow me down.”

You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. “Or speed you up.”

That got you a sweet smile. “We’ll see.”

And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it mattered—

“The enemy of my enemy…,” you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.

Dex eyes locked on to yours.

“…is useful,” he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether.

After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.

—

Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.

He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.

“You’re late,” he said, not even turning.

He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.

You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadn’t just sprinted across half the block. “Just got back from a hot date.”

That got a pause. Was he… jealous?

“Really?”

You gave him a deadpan look he couldn’t see. “Yeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.”

His head tilted just slightly.

You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. “Of course not. I don’t have time for dates.” You huffed, almost amused. “My laundry, though? That needed folding.”

As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.

“Target’s moving,” he said.

You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.

“Mm,” you hummed. “You taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?”

“I’ve got it.”

You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was… fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours.

His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.

Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.

“Dex—”

The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.

Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder.

It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.

Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.

“Shit!” Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day.

Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.

“What did you do?” He demanded, almost a sneer.

You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. “You’re welcome?”

Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.

Another shot rang out.

Oh, so that bastard was still there.

Dex knew he had to go now.

His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired, like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.

A body dropped across the street.

“You’re hit,” he said, attention turning back to you.

You huffed weakly. “Wow. Observant.”

Your knees buckled. This time, they didn’t recover. He held you up anyway.

“Why?” he asked.

You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. “What?”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. “Wow. No ‘thank you’? I’m hurt.”

“You are hurt.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. “At least I’ll get a cool scar from it.” Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, “like yours.”

His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you.

What a foreign feeling, indeed.

“Stay with me,” he said.

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Stay. With me.” You’ve never heard him sound so… serious.

Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. “…Alright.”

For once, you didn’t fight him. You didn’t joke or deflect.

Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. “You owe me,” you murmured.

“What?” He asked, as if he couldn’t believe where your priorities lay right now.

You managed the ghost of a grin. “Saving your life. Obviously.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he managed, exasperated.

You exhaled, breath catching halfway. “Yeah… well. I did.”

He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.

You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.

His eyes weren’t steady anymore.

“C-Careful,” you managed, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re s-starting to sound like you care.”

Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, “I do.”

Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.

“…Huh,” you whispered.

And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.

—

You came back to the land of the living slowly.

You didn’t just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You weren’t at a hospital— there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just… peace and quiet.

Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.

And it was definitely not your ceiling.

You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.

Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.

“You decorate like a serial killer,” you muttered, voice rough from disuse.

“You’re awake,” Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like he’d been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Was hoping I died. This is disappointing.”

You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. “Tragic.”

You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. “…How long?”

“Eleven hours and forty-three minutes.”

“Mm.” You swallowed, throat dry. “You carry me all the way here?”

“Yes.”

A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”

Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory.

You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. “Come here.”

He didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.

You tilted your head, studying him. “I just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.”

He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.

You watched him for a second. “You’re weird,” you said.

“Mmhm,” he managed a laugh.

“At least you’re self-aware.”

You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. “You ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“All of it.” You gestured vaguely. “Of this.”

“No,” he said, and it was resolute.

You studied him, like you didn’t quite believe that. “I do,” you admitted quietly.

That earned his attention.

Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. “When I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more… being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.”

Your teeth tightened slightly.

“I tried to be normal,” you continued. “Did the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.” You managed a faint humorless smile. “Turns out I’m not built for normal.”

Dex didn’t interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you.

“They came after me anyway,” you said. “Didn’t matter that I walked away. To them, I don’t get to just… stop being what they made me.”

“And that is…?” Dex looked at you now.

“A killer,” you replied, sighing, “that’s all I’m good for.”

“Well,” Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, “that makes the two of us.”

You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasn’t distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.

That was new.

“I knew who you were,” Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. “Even before you told me your name.”

“That so?” you replied lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like your name hadn’t gotten people killed before.

He nodded once, finally looking at you. “Your MO was familiar."

Your lips curved faintly. “Flattered.”

“I knew I read something about brass knuckles,” he continued. “Used by a close range combat specialist.”

You just watched him, eyes sharper now.

“I was a fed,” he added. “I read your files a few years ago.”

That made you smile properly.

“Yeah?” you said, amused. “How much did you remember?”

“You were on the FBI watchlist,” he said. “It said that you were ex-SHIELD with an impressively high body count. High adaptability. High lethality.” He paused. “It said that you were high risk and… that you were volatile.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly against the pillow. There was no bitterness in it. No anger, just acceptance. Like he’d told you your eye color.

Dex studied your face, like he was expecting more of a visceral reaction.

“You’re not bothered?” he asked.

“Should I be?” you shot back lightly. “You already kept me alive. Bit late to get scared of me now.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

You smiled at that.

The lights dimmed around you both as the sun set outside, the tension unwinding. You adjusted slightly, wincing as your shoulder protested, and he noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he almost reached for you before stopping himself.

Your voice dipped, teasing again. “So you knew all along, and you still chose to work with me.”

Dex nodded as if it was never a question.

You raised an eyebrow. “That seems irresponsible for a federal agent.”

“I’m not a federal agent anymore,” he reminded, “and you are not as one dimensional as the files say you are.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “So what am I, then?”

He paused again.

You watched him carefully this time, vulnerability threading through every word.

“Am I a problem?” you asked. “A liability? ‘Enemy of my enemy’ and all that?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “No.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, firmer now.

You let that sit between you for a second before pushing just a little further. “So what am I to you, Dex?”

He was thinking about it, you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes now locked onto yours like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“A friend?” you offered. “Is that what this is?”

He didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then he shook his head.“‘Friend’ feels too tame.”

Your eyebrows lifted, interest sparking. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said.

You shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer despite the pull in your shoulder. “So what, then?”

For once, he didn’t look like he was calculating. For once, he just… felt present. “You’re…” he started, then stopped, like even he didn’t have a good word for it.

Your lips twitched. “C’mon. You made it this far.”

“You’re the only one I can’t reduce to a target,” He let out a faint exhale, “and the only variable I don’t want to correct.”

Ah. Okay.

Your expression didn’t change much, but it felt like the lens behind your eyes had shifted.

“I think…” you let a smile pull on your lips, “I like that answer better than ‘friend.’”

—

You didn’t go back to “normal” after that. It wasn’t an option anymore.

But you found something else, and it started the first night you cleared yourself to move properly again.

Dex watched the way you stretched, testing your muscles, the way you flexed your fingers like you were reacquainting yourself.

That’s when you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.

“You’re still hurt,” he said.

You scoffed. “I got shot three days ago. Do I look like I have a healing factor?”

“You’re arrogant. One day, it’s going to kill you,” he pointed out, as if your death was something he was dreading.

“You like that about me.” You grinned. The arrogance, you mean.

He paused, thinking. “I like you.”

“Jesus, Dex,” you laughed under your breath. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

“I don’t see the point in lying to you.”

So now, working together became less of an accident. You stopped pretending you ran into each other. Now, you wouldn’t go into a fight without knowing the other had your six.

—

And afterwards… After the bodies were dropped and blood was spilled, you didn’t walk your separate ways. Instead, you kept each other company.

Which was new.

You’d sit on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, boots tapping idly against concrete slick with drying blood.

The city stretched out below you.

You leaned back on your hands, breathing steadying after the fight. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

“Not really,” Dex said.

“You should. It’s weird.”

You were met with another bout of comfortable silence. Then, he said, “You talk more after fights.”

You smiled, glancing sideways at him. “Adrenaline. Makes me charming.”

“You’re already… that,” he said, like the word didn’t come naturally.

You blinked. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.”

“Mmhm.”

Dex shifted closer. His hand moved, stopping just shy of yours.

You turned your head to realise how close he truly was.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. He did the same.

Was he… leaning in?

Before you could meet him halfway, the church bells rang.

You flinched back on instinct, breath breaking as the moment broke clean in half. You dragged a hand through your hair, shaking your head slightly. “Timing’s shit.”

Dex didn’t look away. “…Yeah.”

—

Sometimes, you would sit on bridges.

You leaned against the railing, staring down into the dark. Dex stood beside you as you nudged his shoulders with yours.

“You ever think about it?” you asked once, more fragile than usual.

About jumping, you meant, and he knew that. About ending it all.

“Yes,” he said. It surprised him how easily he was admitting this to you.

You glanced back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

You nodded, turning back to the water. “Me too,” you sighed, wishing the void beneath you were a giant pile of comfortable pillows. “But not anymore.”

“I—“ he managed to choke up, looking at you. “Me, too.”

The words didn’t feel separate. They felt… tethered. Like a promise neither of you meant to make.

The wind rushed up from the dark below, cold enough to sting. Your fingers curled tighter around the railing as you turned your head.

He was already right there.

You realised a terrifying truth: If you jumped, he would.

And worse, if he did, you wouldn’t hesitate to follow.

You took a deep breath and leaned in anyway.

Dex did the same, like he understood exactly what this meant. Like he knew what you were giving him.

Your breaths mixed, you lips barely a breath apart—

—and a violent blast of car horns tore through it.

You jumped back like the world had yanked you apart.

Reality crashed in as you turned away, swallowing hard, grip tightening on the railing like it was the only thing holding you in place now.

Dex sighed, knowing that it was not the time, it was not the place. “Right…”

You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah.”

—

Most nights, though, you’d take him to sit on a bench by the river, tucked away just enough that no one bothered you.

It had a plaque on it, one that you bought. One that said— in memory of beloved friends: Layla Gras and Darren Walsh.

You blew half your savings account paying for the goddamn bench.

So after most nights of fighting Task Force, you’d make your way there and sit with your legs stretched out. Dex would follow, and you’d lean into him without thinking.

You’d talk about nothing and everything. You’d talk about small things like the weather, but you’d also talk about deep shit. Real shit. Your days with SHIELD, and whatever he would offer from his past. You’d talk like this was a confessional booth, like you’ve sworn under oath in court— that’s how freely you divulge information about yourselves to each other. That’s how safe you felt around him. Ironic, considering his… professional reputation.

Today, you were sat there after ambushing more Task Force agents than you were expecting. You had gotten bruised, so you were pressing your fingers against your side with a small wince. “I’m getting sloppy.”

“You still won,” he said immediately, “shoulda seen those guys.”

You scoffed. “That’s a very you way of measuring success.”

“It’s the only way that matters.”

“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but you didn’t argue. Your hand drifted down absently, brushing against your belt.

You froze for a second before pulling it free.

It was the knife you took from him on the first night you met.

You turned it in your hand. It was still in perfect condition, and of course it was. You’d taken care of it, maybe more than you needed to.

Your thumb traced the handle.

“Do you want it back?” you asked, holding it out slightly toward him.

Dex didn’t even look at it. “Keep it,” he said.

You blinked once, then let out a chuckle, lowering the knife back into your lap.

“Wow,” you said lightly. “How very sentimental.”

“It’s practical.”

“Is it?” you tilted your head. “Because I’m pretty sure you just gave me your weapon as a keepsake.”

“It’s not a keepsake,” he replied, but there was a slight delay. “You should use it.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

You flipped the knife once in your hand before catching it again it was almost as if you were imitating him. “You know,” you added, voice quieting, “most guys give flowers.”

“I don’t think you’d like flowers.”

You turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “Excuse you. I love flowers.”

He finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your face.

“No,” he said after a second. “You’d forget to change the water.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly. “That is—” you pointed at him with the knife, offended but amused, “—so disrespectful of you to assume.”

“You forgot to eat yesterday.”

“That is different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” you insisted, though you were already smiling. “One is basic survival. The other is… decorative responsibility.”

“That’s worse.”

You scoffed, staying silent for a long time.

This peace… was nice.

You looked out at the water, closing your eyes for a good five seconds before you opened them again. Then, you added, “I’d keep them alive if they mattered.”

Dex didn’t respond right away.

Your eyes dropped back to the knife, fingers tightening around it. “This matters,” you admitted shyly.

You didn’t look at him when you said it.

Instead, you carefully slid the knife back into your belt, adjusting it into place like it had always belonged there.

When your hand pulled away, you placed it on the bench.

Your fingers stayed there for a second… before you hooked your pointer finger around his.

You did it so casually, like it didn't mean anything. But it meant everything.

You leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulder bumping his just enough to close the space between you.

He leaned into your touch.

You smiled to yourself, eyes drifting out over the water as you let your thumb brush absently against his pinky.

Dex’s vision shifted to you, then to the small plaque fixed into the bench beneath you. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to read it properly.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew there must be a reason you brought him here like… what? Seven or eight times now?

He just never thought to ask because he didn’t know when the right time to ask would be. But it might as well be now.

His fingers adjusted, holding on slightly firmer. “Tell me about Layla and Darren.”

—

An hour later, the city had rolled further into early morning than night.

You stood from the bench after you laid your heart bare, rolling your shoulders once like you were checking in with your body before moving again. You were sick of being a walking sob story, however good it felt just to talk. You needed to move.

Dex stood a second after you did. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

It came out a little stiff. Not forced, but unfamiliar.

You glanced at him, a smile pulling at your lips. “Oh?” you teased lightly. “Is that what we’re doing now?”

He frowned slightly. “What?”

“You know,” you shrugged, stepping past him, hands sliding into your pockets as you started down the sidewalk, “chivalry. Social norms. Walking a girl home.”

“I’m making sure you get back safely.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Dex, I jump off rooftops for fun.”

“And you could still get hurt.” he replied evenly, falling into step beside you.

You didn’t argue.

The walk wasn’t long, but it stretched in that comfortable silence you’d both gotten used to. You walked shoulder to shoulder, naturally in sync.

By the time you reached your building, you slowed to a stop just outside the entrance. You turned to face him, head tilting slightly. “You wanna come upstairs?”

Dex didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

“Wow,” you said, pushing the door open. “No internal conflict? No hesitation? I’m almost offended.”

“I trust you,” he said simply, following you inside.

Upstairs, your place was dark when you stepped in. You flicked the light on, yellow lights warming the otherwise dim apartment.

Dex’s eyes moved immediately, taking everything in.

It wasn’t what he expected.

It was… neat and intentional. Not sterile like his, but not cluttered either. There were actual decorations, like a plant by the window and books stacked alphabetically on your desk.

“Don’t look so surprised,” you said, kicking your shoes off and placing your keys onto the counter.

“I’m not,” he replied.

“You are,” you shot back, glancing at him. “You thought I lived in a cave or something.”

“I thought it would be less… personal.”

You hummed, walking further in. “Yeah, well. I tried the whole ‘normal life’ thing, remember?”

His eyes lingered a second longer, until it shifted to the second door, which was left slightly ajar.

You noticed.

“Ah,” you said, already moving toward it. “That one’s less aesthetically pleasing.”

You pushed the door open fully.

The spare bedroom, the shape of a square, was stripped down to nothing but function. All there was in there was a foam mat covering most of the floor, worn in places. A duffel bag was placed in the corner. There were a few taped-up sections of the wall where impact marks had clearly been… frequent.

You stepped inside first, gesturing lazily. “This,” you said, “is where I train.”

Dex stepped inside, his eyes measuring distance, angles, exits, impact points.

He was interested.

He walked further in, like he was mapping it out in real time. “You spend a lot of time in here,” he said.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “Keeps me sharp.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. Then he turned to you. “Train me.”

“Are you serious?” you asked, pushing off the frame.

“Yeah.” He didn’t waver. “I know for a hand-to-hand combat specialist, you’re not particularly strong.”

“Ouch,” you said immediately, a hand pressing dramatically to your chest.

“What I mean is,” Dex continued, stepping closer. “I’ve seen you fight. You go against people twice your size. You’re not relying on brute strength, but you’re agile.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“I want to know how you do it,” he finished. “Teach me.”

Huh. You weren’t expecting this.

“Careful what you wish for,” you murmured, reaching up to shrug off your jacket. It slid from your shoulders, landing on the floor as you stepped onto the mat, rolling your wrists once like you were waking your body up again.

“C’mon, Dex,” you said, a hint of a challenge threading through your voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

—

Dex learned fast. That was the first thing you noticed.

The second was that he was not really trying to hurt you.

And that pissed you off.

His momentum slowed just slightly before impact. Then, he held back a counter that could’ve floored you but didn’t follow through. His grip was way too controlled.

You circled him lightly on the mat, breath steady despite the growing ache in your ribs.

“Again,” you said.

He moved.

You slipped under his strike, pivoted, redirected your palm and caught his wrist, your weight shifting just enough for him to hit the mat hard.

You stepped back, barely winded.

Dex stared up at the ceiling for a second before sitting up.

You could see it in his posture: restraint.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Godammit, Dex,” you tsked, pacing a circle around him. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘gentleman’ thing tonight, huh?”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you interrupted, stopping in front of him. “You’re pulling your punches.”

“I’m adjusting,” he corrected, standing again.

“For what?” you challenged, tilting your head. “My feelings?”

His teeth tightened, his chin pointing to your bruised side. “For your condition.”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “My condition can handle you.”

A familiar flicker shot through his eyes.

“Or is it not that?” you added, voice lowering. “You worried you might actually hurt me, or…” You stepped in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your nose “…that you might not want to?”

Dex’s gaze locked onto yours, a darker want threading through it now.

“I’m not holding back,” he insisted.

“Liar.”

You moved before he could respond. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He came at you faster, harder, and for a second, it almost looked like he meant it.

Good, you thought. The last thing you wanted was to be infantilised by the only man you might still have respect for.

You ducked, redirected, used his momentum, your body turning with his.

That was when he realised that calling you agile was the understatement of the century.

You weren’t overpowering him. You were using him. Every ounce of force he gave you became yours.

You twisted, hooked his leg, and sent him crashing down again.

This time, you followed him down.

Your knee pinned his arm before he could recover, your other leg sliding over his hips as you stabilized your position.

And suddenly, you were straddling his crotch.

Dex didn’t even try to move.

His chest rose under yours. His hands hovered blankly for a split second like he didn’t know where to put them… before settling against the mat.

Your hands pressed lightly against his shoulders, holding him there. You could feel the tension coiled on his muscles, beneath your palms.

And oh…

Oh.

You felt it.

Your lips parted slightly.

His pants were definitely more tight than they had been before, evident by how much it was actually pressing into your core.

“Wow…” you sighed, amused.

You shifted your hips, grinding into him ever so slightly, just enough to make the point undeniable.

His breath hitched, and his face, from his nose to his ears were getting red. You leaned down just slightly, close enough that your chest hovered over his.

“Fuck, Dex,” you whispered, teasing through it. “Does this get you off?”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted frantically.

He was embarrassed. How adorable.

When his hands finally moved, he grabbed your waist. It was firm, but not rough.

“Get off,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it.

You didn’t so much as flinch.

Instead, you smiled. “Make me.”

After a while, he moved.

Finally.

Dex didn’t shove you off gently this time. He fought, and you were pleased, even if lacking a hint of resistance. He did pivot, a torque of his shoulder, his grip locking at your wrist as he forced space between you.

You let him for half a second. Just long enough for him to think he’d reset the balance.

Then you twisted with him.

Your weight dropped, your hips shifting as you used his own pull to roll back in, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to react. The mat hit your knee, breath loud in both your ears now.

“Come on,” you taunted. “That all you got?”

That got something out of him.

The next movement was cleaner. He caught you off-guard, turned you, and in one controlled motion drove you into the wall.

His hand snaked around your upper chest, up to the throat line. He had caught you in a headlock, precise and controlled. His body pressed in, flush behind yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space he didn’t give you.

There was no room to turn properly. No easy escape angle. There was just his forearm locked under your, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You let out a quiet laugh, breath slightly uneven.

“Took you long enough,” you said.

Dex didn’t loosen his grip. He leaned in and whispered closely, lips touching the shell of your ear. “Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

But you also liked winning.

So, without warning, you sank your teeth into his bicep, hard enough to draw blood, to taste the tang of iron on your delicate tongue.

Dex, and you swore you weren't expecting this, moaned. It was throaty and low and utterly angelic to your ears.

It wasn’t long until he released you, more because he was surprised by his own bodily reaction than pain.

You stumbled forward out of the hold, spinning on your heel to face him again, licking your lips like nothing had happened.

Oh. That was interesting.

You looked at his arm again, watching the thin bead of blood you drew still sliding slowly down his skin.

“You okay?” you asked. It came off as gentler than you meant it to be, but there was still a hint of mischief between your eyes.

Dex didn’t answer immediately.

He was staring at you like his internal system had just stopped compiling. Like the world had introduced a variable he hadn’t accounted for and now everything else was lagging behind trying to catch up. It was like his brain had stalled somewhere between what just happened and why did I like that so much.

You lifted his arm slightly. “C’mere,” you pawed at his wrist, bringing the scar closer to your lips.

The bite was tiny, and there was only a little chance that it would leave a mark long-term. You would feel sorry if only he wasn’t so turned on.

And then you did something so absurdly gentle in contrast to everything you were. You leaned in… and kitten-licked the blood from his skin.

“F-fuck,” he said in a gasp, looking down your tongue to your eyes.

Oh, your eyes were locked on to his. He could barely keep it together.

The way you did it was teasing. Infuriatingly intimate in a way that didn’t match the violence still lingering in your skin. It’s as if you enjoyed drinking in his blood.

As you lapped up the scar at the source, he went very still.

Then his breath caught, his hardware short-circuiting.

A low, husky sound slipped out again before he could stop it.

Not pain, or anger. But pleasure.

He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to regain command of himself and failing in real time.

“W-what the hell are you doing?” he managed.

You wiped your thumb slowly over his wrist like nothing about this was unusual. Like you weren’t currently reprogramming his entire sense of restraint.

“M’ showing you how sorry I am,” you said mildly. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

He couldn’t look away and how beautiful you looked, how innocently you were acting through all this. You were a freak, he decided. If that was what it took, he would go band for band.

“That’s not what this looks like.”

You hummed, almost amused. “No?”

Dex didn’t answer.

He couldn’t, because he was still watching your mouth like it had become the only relevant object in the room.

Then you tilted your head slightly.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, dead serious. “And I’ll stop.”

Dex didn’t move for a second.

Not because he didn’t want to, but rather because he was trying very, very hard not to.

His eyes stayed on your mouth, on the faint trace of blood still there, and finally gave up pretending that you were anything short of an infuriatingly all-consuming obsession.

When his restrained snapped, it didn’t snap clean.

It frayed. Then tore.

His hand came up fast and grabbed your chin, firm enough to stop your whatever teasing remark you were going to say mid-breath. It was fucking rough, and you could feel it in your cheeks.

He didn’t hear you complaining, though.

“Dex—”

That was all you got out before he kissed you, hard. This time, nothing could possibly interrupt you.

There was no easing in. It was clear that this was the result of pent up emotions he’d been holding back for months finally finding somewhere to go.

His other hand hit the wall beside your head as he pressed you back into it, trapping you. But it was not like you wanted to be anywhere else.

You met him halfway.

Your hands found the collar of his shirt immediately, fingers curling in like you were pulling him closer just to make a point out of it.

His breath broke against your mouth for half a second, like even he couldn’t keep pace with how quickly this had escalated.

And then he kissed you again, like he was testing if you were real or just another thing his mind had invented under pressure.

You reminded him that you were tangible every time.

Running your tongue through his, gasping into his mouth.

He had been dreaming about this for months. He had fantasised up multiple scenarios in his head, how it would lead to this and how he would do it. Not once did he think he would finally get a taste of your lips and have it taste like himself.

His grip shifted, one hand still braced against the wall, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was supposed to be space between you at all.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to breathe.

His forehead hovered close to yours, his voice rough around the edges in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled through your lashes. A faint trace of red still lingered at the edge of your teeth as you bit his lower lip. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“F-fuck, baby,” he cursed through gritted teeth, lips finding you jawline, you neck, nipping and biting until he settled at your collarbone, where you made the most noise.

His fingers caught the edge of your top, hesitating for half a second, until you helped him undress yourself and him all the same. Clothes were just simply in the way, in his line of fire.

His hands were everywhere he could justify them being, at your waist, your back, your face, running down your breast all the way down between your legs. He was learning you in real time and refusing to stop long enough to overthink it.

And you weren’t any better.

Your hand trained the lines of his body, from his neck to his torso, but ended up trailing down his back.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him shirtless, or the first time you saw the scar. It was the first time you felt it, though, all rough edges and raised skin.

The first time you noticed it, you knew it was too precise to be anything but surgical, too severe to be anything but catastrophic. He had told you about it on his own free will; told you how his T8 and T9 vertebrae were shattered by Wilson Fisk, and how what put him back together wasn’t exactly medicine so much as an experiment.

He said it like it didn’t matter.

You knew better. Bodies don’t forget that kind of thing, even when they’re forced to heal. And right now, baring his soul to you, he let you trace it with the pad of your fingers ever so gently.

Dex broke from your mouth just long enough to breathe, but even that didn’t create distance.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You blinked up at him. “Like what?”

His grip tightened slightly at your waist. “Like you planned this.”

You smiled.

“Did you?” He demanded. He didn’t wanna stop it, he just needed to know.

“C’mon,” you laughed, tipping your head back. “A girl invited you up to her place. You thought we were gonna bake cookies or somethin’?”

That got a reaction out of him, almost like a laugh, but it died halfway into another kiss before it could become anything stable.

This was going to be fun.

—

Dex woke up in your bed the next morning.

He was lying on his stomach across, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other loosely curled like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered finishing it.

He noticed the soreness of his back in soft waves. There were scratches there, shallow and scattered. Dex exhaled slowly through his nose.

Right.

That had happened.

Then he felt you.

You were sitting next to him, cross-legged on the bed, close enough that your knee brushed his side when you shifted, casual enough that it didn’t feel like distance even existed as an option.

Dex turned his head and stopped when he realised you didn’t have any clothes on either. And everything he did to you last night was on full display. The sunlight streaming through the windows even shone on you like you were a piece of art in a museum.

Beautiful, he thought.

Gentle evidence of love bites bloomed across your skin, marks he remembered leaving. It was… very intimate in hindsight.

You were looking down at him already, like you’d been watching him wake up for a while.

“Morning, sunshine,” you greeted.

Dex made an unassuming sound and pushed himself up on his forearms.

He looked at you for half a second before reaching for you.

He kissed you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find you beside him and decide, without question, that this was what mornings were now.

You kissed him back, your hand sliding into his hair with an ease that felt like trust.

When he pulled back, it was only a little.

“Morning,” he said, raspy.

“Ah.” You smiled faintly. “He speaks.”

Dex let out a breath again, more awake now, more aware of every point of contact between you and him.

He shifted fully upright this time, sitting back against the bed.

You just reached down to your bedside table drawer and showed him a small tub of aloe vera. You traced the scars on his back your nails left last night as if they were maps of constellations.

You had nothing to be sorry about. He asked for it when he was chasing his high in you, feral and affectionate all the same as you were gasping for air and saying his name like a prayer.

He had said he wanted his spinal scar to have company. He wanted the marks to feel good for a change.

Eventually, though, his eyes drifted down to his arm.

Last night, it started with one bite mark. This morning, he counted five. Three on his bicep, two on his forearm.

Again, he was the one who wanted it.

You had been trapped between the mattress and his body, putting you in a similar headlock from behind as he pulled the most lewd noises out of your pretty little mouth. “Gonna bite your way out now, pretty girl?” He whispered then, while you drew another bead of blood. “Huh? You know you like it. You know I— hmph fuck! Take it. Take it, take it…”

And the rest were mostly incoherent mumbles and muffled sinful mewls from both of you.

If your neighbours didn’t hate you before for all the thudding, they would now for all the fucking.

Still, the small tub of aloe was a curious thing.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me you feel bad now.”

You shrugged. “I just want a clean slate for next time.”

Dex’s heart skipped half a beat.

“Next time?” he repeated, like he was wondering whether the phrase was hallucinated.

You leaned forward slightly, tugging him by the shoulder so he turned his back toward you.

“Yeah,” you said simply. “Turn.”

Dex didn’t argue as you scooted closer behind him, dipping your fingers in the herbal ointment. His hands rested loosely on his thighs the whole time, not resisting as the coolness hit his skin. You laid it on the scratch marks first, then on his surgical scar. Not to erase it. Just to make it hurt a little less. To acknowledge that it was part of him, even if it didn’t define him.

When you were done, you gently guided him to face you again. “I knew you were kinky.”

Dex couldn’t help but laugh.

“But I have a feeling,” you set the tub down, “that I was just barely scratching the surface.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dex said honestly. “I’ve never done that before.”

You chuckled, biting your lower lip. “You are adorable, Poindexter.”

You let your hand come up, tracing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. Your thumb traced the scar there.

He swallowed, but not out of discomfort.

Slowly, you leaned in.

The first kiss you pressed to the scar was featherlight, but you didn’t stop there.

Then you pressed another kiss, just beside it this time. It was warm, like he was worth being careful with.

His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet, insistent thought that convinced him, I don’t deserve this.

But he wanted it anyway.

Your lips brushed his cheek again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time, and his eyes shut briefly, like taking affection in was easier if he didn’t have to see it happening.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

“I think it suits you,” you murmured.

He didn’t trust himself to answer that.

Your attention drifted down, fingers slipping from his face to his arm. You picked up his wrist gently, turning it just enough to see the marks you’d left behind.

This time, when you dipped your fingers into the aloe, your touch was careful. He watched you smooth it over the faint crescents of your bite.

Then, his eyes shifted to you, your bare skin, and the marks he’d left behind.

His brow furrowed slightly before he could stop it. “You’re okay, right?”

He asked it without thinking. It caught him off-guard. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of this kind of sympathy.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes.

“More than okay,” you told him. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to confirm it.

He lifted his hand.

His fingers brushed your skin, starting at your collarbone, tracing one of the marks he’d left. His touch was lighter than it had ever been, like he was afraid of pressing too hard, of leaving something worse behind.

You didn’t flinch, so he kept going.

Down to your shoulder, pausing at the bullet wound he’d stitched himself. His thumb hovered there for a second before grazing over it.

He thought about that night, about how much blood you lost and how utterly lifeless you looked in his arms. He thought he was going to lose you, and he was terrified.

You didn’t see this, of course. You had the privilege of being out cold.

You didn’t see him break down, panicking for almost twelve hours straight, feeling like he wanted to claw his eyes out because he thought he was going to lose you. You didn’t see how nauseous he got when your heart beat skipped, or how shaky his hand had been when he stitched you up. You didn’t see him broken, tears streaming down as he folded his own body onto the kitchen floor, when he didn’t know if you would ever wake up again.

So, if you wanted to, he would let you pretend this was just fun. You could pretend there were no strings attached. That last night, you two were just fucking like animals without the certainty of labels.

But it will never be just sex to him.

So when moved his hands on to the bruises on your body, to the cuts that the task force left for you, the only thing he could feel was blood-curdling rage.

But when he glanced at your face, he was down to earth again. Just like that.

His hand settled at your waist after that, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your hip.

Your fingers found his again, idly tracing the lines of his hand.

“Don’t die on me.” He whispered, as if he was almost scared to say it, as if reliving the memory again and again, with no end in sight. It might be an abrupt thing to say in the moment. It might feel out of place. But right now, after being so close to you, he just needed to know. “Please.”

You didn’t answer right away. When you did, it was barely more than a whisper. “I won’t.”

Your thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.

“You don’t either,” you insisted, looking into his eyes. Then you added, “I mean it.”

His fingers shifted under yours, turning just enough to lace with your hand properly this time.

It was almost impossible to reconcile this version of him— the lovesick man in front of you who would melt like putty in your arms —with the one stamped wanted, armed and dangerous. And yet… you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your forehead against his. As your breaths fell into sync, he wasn’t even sure where you ended and he began.

After all, who knew the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be the only person who truly understood him?

—end.