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[callsign-tangerine]

Match my freak | Bullseye

Summary: You are at the diner when Bullseye tricks the AVTF. Your reaction to his massacre is not what he expected.

Word count: 1.6k

Warning: swearing, lots of killing, crazy behaviour from Bullseye and you, probably more

Note: This is a little shorter than what I do normally but I love the diner scene in S2E4 so I really wanted to to write this! It’s not exactly accurate with the scene, but still, I hope you like it!

———

You are enjoying your meal at the diner. You always get lunch at Bel Air Diner, on the corner of 43rd and 10th, on Wednesdays.

You hear sirens, that’s not uncommon in New York, especially with the creation of the AVTF under Mayor Fisk’s administration. You hate those guys, running around trying to capture as many innocent people as possible to lock them up in the name of “safety”. All under the “Safer Streets” act. Bullshit. You know they just like how Mayor Fisk gives them full immunity to commit awful crimes. You hate them.

Speaking of those bastards, you see their atrocious cars arriving full speed in front of the diner, almost crashing into parked cars before they come to a full stop. They rush out of their vehicles and stroll inside, as if this was a SWAT emergency. Yeah, they wish they were SWAT.

What the fuck are they even doing here?

The diner is almost empty, like it always is. You sometimes wonder how it doesn’t close down. You don’t want it to close cause you love it here, but you still wonder. You scan the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There’s a business man in the front booth, another guy alone and an elder couple in a booth, there’s only one waitress and also a guy at the bar. There’s nothing for the AVTF here.

You throw your hands up, as they demand, you don’t want any trouble. You hate them but you don’t want to get in a fight with them, they’re armed and you’re not. Maybe you’d get into a fight with them if you were equally armed. Having a gun would at least level the playing field. You do sometimes think about going on a rampage. Who would stop you? Certainly not those AVTF assholes. Anyways, as of right now, in this exact moment, you’re here for lunch, not for a confrontation.

One of the so-called police officer passes by your table, shouting at everyone, “Where is Frank Castle, huh?”

You don’t reply; The Punisher isn’t here. These fucking dumbasses. They probably got a call and sent all their arsenal here. How stupid are they? Really stupid you figure. Good for them, losing their time is all they deserve.

“Yo! Milkshake! Put your goddamn hands up. Turn around now. Let’s go”

You hear a scream, your head snapping in the direction of the sound to identify the source. There’s a guy bleeding from his eye. Is that a toothpick in his eyeball? What the fuck? Is Punisher here and you just didn’t see him? That guy would be dead already if it was Frank Castle.

Gunshots fill the room, every customers covering their ears because of the sound. AVTF agents have the door guarded, so no one goes for the door.

One of the guy screams, “It’s fucking Bullseye”.

He’s right. There is he. In all his splendour. Bullseye, in his costume, fighting against 10 guys from the AVTF. Well, they’re not fighting, they’re getting their asses handed to them. He’s putting them down one by one. They’re armed to the teeth and they still don’t stand a chance. They’re pathetic.

You never thought that’s how your usual lunch would turn out but you weirdly don’t mind. This is sick, you’ve got a front row seat to vigilante activity. And not just any vigilante, Bullseye. That guy is a maniac. He’s crazy. In the best way.

He’s taking anything he gets his hands on and uses it as a weapon. You look as he bounces a fork and knife on the counter top, before throwing them at a wall so they ricochet and hit two agents in the head. He’s full of tricks.

So far in this massacre, he’s used a toothpick, all ustensiles, a food thermometer, and even a lobster as weapons. This guy is unstoppable. And hot. He’s unstoppably hot, if that’s even something you can say. He stops in front of the booth where the guy is sitting alone. Well, he’s not alone, he’s with his dog, he always is. Bullseye takes his mask off. Oh shit, he’s like truly hot. You see him speaking to the guy for a second. You notice there’s no AVTF agent still standing. Maybe crawling, but not standing. You can’t see them all, but by the absence of noise, you figure they’re all dead or almost- silently and slowly bleeding out.

You eat a few of the fries that are left on your plate and take a napkin from the disposer on your table. You scribble your phone number on it and slide out of your booth. You walk to the door, where Bullseye is standing, a bottle of ketchup in hand.

“Wait!”, you say and he turns to look at you. You hand him the napkin with your number on it. He raises an eyebrow your way.

“Call me, handsome”, you wink.

For the first time, Bullseye is actually speechless. He thinks you can maybe match his crazy. Match his freak.

You walk out the door as if nothing happened. As if your usual Wednesday lunch at the diner didn’t just turn into a bloody massacre. As if you didn’t just hand your number to a manic, a psychopath, a stalker, a killer.

He looks at you go before securing the napkin in his pocket. He draws his logo on the door using the ketchup, drops the bottle to the floor and walks out.

He jogs to meet you in the parking. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah, call me. That was hot as fuck.”

He nods to himself, satisfied with your answer. He’d lie if he said he wasn’t happy with the praise. A gorgeous girl like you completing one of his good deeds? Yeah, you probably aren’t completely sain, but to hell with it- a win is a win.

Your answer confirms his theory: you totally match his freak.

You walk to your car and unlock it. You nod his way, “You need a ride somewhere?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” If you’re offering, he won’t refuse.

You get in the driver’s seat and he opens your passenger door. He gets in. You’ve got a hot vigilante sitting next to you, in your car. Like, a really hot vigilante. You shake your head and start your car. This is a crime scene, you need to leave. Now.

You put it on Drive and get out of the parking, avoiding the best you can the AVTF trucks that are still there. Once you get out of the parking, you look his way, “Where to?”

He directs you to a not-so-sketchy neighbourhood. This is not where you imagined Bullseye living, but you keep your comments to yourself. He points to an alley between two buildings.

“You can go in that alley. I’ll get in the building from the back.”

“Sure.” You follow his instructions, stopping the car in the alley behind the building he points.

He looks at you. You look at him. He’s got a small cut on his left eyebrow, the blood just starting to dry. There’s a scar on his right cheek, there’s probably a good story behind it. You want to ask him but this clearly isn’t the time.

You look into his eyes, unable to tell the colour. He’s looking into yours intensely in return. It’s stronger than you, you want to kiss him. Kiss him? You’re thinking about kissing the guy you just witnessed murdering about 10 guys. This is crazy. Are you crazy? Yes, yes you are. Kissing him is the only thing on your mind right now. Not the fact that you’re now technically his accomplice for driving him away from the crime scene. Not the fact that you’re sitting next to a cold-blooded murderer, that could literally kill you in an instant if he decided to. No. You’re thinking about kissing him. You wonder how his chapped lips would feel on yours. How he would taste like.

He must be thinking the same thing as you cause he grabs your face and smashes his mouth on yours.

It’s rough and it tastes like blood but you don’t care. This is so hot. You’re like his partner in crime now. That excites you. You’ve never felt more alive then now. In this moment. You’re kissing a vigilante after helping him run away from his crime scene. You left several bodies behind when you drove away. This is absolutely crazy but don’t care. You love it.

He pulls back, “I would really stay and continue this, but I need to go. I’ll see you around.”

You’re speechless for a moment, still absorbing what just happened. You just kissed Bullseye, your favourite vigilante. You wouldn’t tell him, but it’s true. You’ve been following vigilante activity and there’s just no one like Bullseye.

He gets out the car, you shout at him before the door closes.

“You better call me!”

He pokes his head down to meet your eyes.

“You bet I will. Take care, gorgeous”

He closes the passenger door and you see him going up the fire escape. What just happened? Your weekly lunch at the diner just turned into a feisty make-out session with Bullseye in your car, in a back alley. You even gave him your number but would he use it? That, you aren’t so sure. When you regain control of your body, you put your car in Drive and slowly drive out of the alley.

Your phone buzzes in the cupboard. A text from an unknown number. You break before you reach the street and pick up your phone to read it.

Dinner Friday. My place. 7pm. Text me if you’re in trouble in the meantime.

You’ve got your answer now. He didn’t lose a moment before using your number and now you have a date. A date with the devil.

——

© callsign-tangerine, 2026. Please do not post my work elsewhere, translate or feed it to AI.

[whosjunglejim4322]

Warnings and a brief synopsis: SMUT, you suck his dick EEEEEE, leans more toward sub! Dex cause he’s so WHINY but not 100%, stalking (but this isn’t a super dark fic, however general discretion is definitely advised) actually super fluffy and loving but kind of fucked up! My bad! Dex realizes you’re literally just as much of a freak weirdo as he is! Abandonment issues (obviously), sort of switch!Dex if you really think about it, confrontation and minor breakdowns but all is resolved <3

Part 2 where he fucks ur brains out?

You’ve known for seven months, eighteen days and seventy two hours that you are not alone. Not in the mundane daily activities of your life, and you’re not even certain that you’re alone when you’re asleep. Two steps ahead, a quiet and intense set of eyes, like observing your reality is an admirable routine.

It starts at 6:00 AM when your alarm blares and with sleep still in your eyes, you stare mindlessly and half lucid at the popcorn ceiling with a yearning to stay in bed just ten more minutes. To not have to deal with customers who are going to complain about you not filling their drinks fast enough, or their food being cold when you are clearly just the server.

But then you roll yourself off of the creaking mattress, and your big college graduation shirt hangs off of your familiar body, worn in places and torn in others. You just won’t let go of it.

He knows how warm you are underneath.

And you slip on fuzzy slippers as soon as your feet are about to hit the cold linoleum, you need a new pair.

He knew the scruff of them against the floor before he ever stayed over for the first time.

Then through your living room window with half broken blinds, while you grab something quick from the pantry to take for lunch where you probably won’t have time to eat it anyway, and start coffee on the Keurig. You always pick the same three mugs throughout the week. And the same K cups, at that.

He already knew your favorites.

And still, at 7:30 am when you pull out of your driveway in a 2007 bucket that he’s changing the oil for next weekend - watching, not necessarily waiting - but learning.

And yeah, you know that the shadow is your boyfriend of seven months, eighteen days, and seventy two hours.

It should be horrifying, right?

It should be uncomfortable to the fullest, most exposed extent. It should make you feel a dread that rots in your insides and comes out in broken sobs - it should scare you to the bone marrow.

And the fact that it doesn’t, that it hasn’t, that it probably never will, is the scariest and most concerning part for you to accept. To truly acknowledge at all.

Because in all honesty, Dex is devoted to you in a way you’ve never known here on this physical earth. He knows the basics, knew them before you even said them out loud, of course.

Your favorite color? Favorite food? Movie, television show, favorite type of fabric to buy your sweaters in because the wrong kind makes you itch? Too fucking easy. He couldn’t fathom why no one else had ever taken the time to get to know you like this.

And then the intricacies - god, down to the most insignificant, trivial tick of the corner of your mouth has taught him what you like and don’t like. A sound you make through your nose can tell him how you’re feeling, like you’re an open paged book and he’s memorized every single paragraph to most infinitesimal detail.

And he does it with little to no effort. Like this ability to know a person is engrained in him, trained in him.

You know about the dark parts of Ben, the ruins and the slaughter and the unrelenting cycle of not being good enough that his mind feeds through the cogs of his brain. That he’ll lose everyone he loves, and it’ll be his fault. At the heart of it, though, he was just dealt an unfair hand. It should’ve never happened to him, any of it.

And maybe that’s why it’s never bothered you. Because the need to be adored, devoured, consumed for your every movement, your every expression, - yeah, that’s why you go to therapy. And truthfully, it might not ever work in this specific category - loving Benjamin.

Because a lot of things never made sense to you before him. All this love wrapped tight inside of you, no one to give it to who didn’t absolutely demolish it, throw it away and act like none of it mattered even if you made sacrifices that stripped everything away from you, your skin and bones. He loved you in a way that split you open and had the most vulnerable parts of you spilling out, and he’d lap it up like it’s what made him strong.

Like it’s what made him whole.

You can cradle his face with an open, gentle palm and he acts like you’re a god, like you’ve exonerated him from any bad he’s ever done and any evil he’s been subjected to. Like you’ve saved him and nothing ever mattered before you and nothing will matter after you because you’re it for him.

You promised you’d wait at his apartment while he was out, that you’d lock the door and do nothing but relax. The fridge has stuff you eat daily, and honestly - you don’t know how he doesn’t realize that it’s impossible for you to not notice that he knows things about you that he only had to have seen while watching you from his car and peering through your window blinds from a yard away with his binoculars.

But he’s so in love it hurts, how could he notice anything else? Taking care of you is what matters. Right now it’s the only thing that matters.

His apartment is neat. It’s not a love letter to himself, more so a confession to how badly things plague him. The need for everything to have a certain spot, the cleanliness. Even the lack of stuff that makes it feel lived in, it never felt like a home until you were in it.

He thinks about that often. He comes home and fuck, everything smells like you. He can feel your warmth in the air where you’ve just walked, where you’ve just lied down. It’s a reminder that you’re real. That you’re here. With him, of all people you could choose and love.

He knows it’s wrong, to do what he does, to follow you around like a lost puppy - but he likes to think of himself as more of a guard dog. The world is cruel, is terrifying - the things that it does to people like you. Beautiful, a heart that aches with goodness, a voice so tender it could make a grown man cry.

It’s fucking insane. And you know that, but it doesn’t actually matter when you’re in this deep, when you’re this in love in mind, body, and spirit.

It’s all consuming. Rationale is forgotten, doesn’t exist.

However, his couch is really comfortable, and your blanket from your own apartment is fluffy and big and swallows you whole and - the rain outside is pattering against the window with just enough force to lull you to sleep while you started mindlessly scrolling on your phone - tv on for the extra company, another voice so you didn’t feel so alone while he’s out.

Falling asleep, don’t worry the door is locked. I love you Ben

Sent two hours ago, and he’s still staring at it periodically. Even when he pulls up to his building and checks his surroundings, when he’s walking upstairs and stares down both hallways of his floor, and then unlocking the door gently so that the noise doesn’t rouse you - locking it back with tentative fingers.

Every time he hears you say it, every time he sees it in writing it stuns him. Deep, behind his navel, knocking at his ribcage - it makes him feel like a real person again. If you can love him, what can’t he do? It makes him feel like he’s floating.

And he’s home, home cause you’re in it, and really you wouldn’t even know that there’s a person underneath the mass of fluff that’s on the sofa, but he knows it’s you. He feels your warmth from all the way over here, your presence.

He slips his shoes off and places them in their designated area, slides his black jacket from broad, strong shoulders and hangs it on the rack behind the door.

His big socked feet are quiet as a mouse against his floor, he wants to soak this up. Seeing you in such a peaceful state, and being right here with you and it not be a terrible and dirty thing that he’s doing. Cause you’re his girlfriend, in his apartment, and boyfriends come home and admire their partners sleeping. It’s normalcy. He never thought he’d find anything close to it.

You feel his weight dip the couch, but you’re still in a dream like state - so a soft hum reverberates in your throat as acknowledgment. Until you feel a warm, calloused hand cover the side of your face, a thumb softly stroking your cheek that isn’t squished against the arm of the sofa.

You lean into it, nuzzle against his palm and it’s then that your eyes flutter open. He’s a blurry image of dirty blonde hair and big, curious hazel eyes and a white dress shirt that’s hugging his body a bit unfairly. And then you blink again, and he’s perfectly tangible. You smell a peppery cologne and something sweet, almost smells like your perfume.

“Benji,” you yawn before leaning in to kiss his wrist. “you’re home. You look so beautiful.”

You pretend not to notice the shudder that ripples through him, the way his lips twitch and a sweet smile starts to spread across his face. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he does, but there’s still a hesitancy because he’s still worried about scaring you off with his excitement towards you.

A simple fucking nickname anda compliment has him hooked, heart racing. How could he ever admit that?

There’s an intense blush beginning to burn his face cause you say it like it doesn’t destroy him to hear it. Like it doesn’t get blood pumping through him at an alarming rate.

“I uh - fuck you threw me off with that,” he laughs, and you chuckle back, starting to stroke his bicep over his shirt. He swallows hard, and you’re getting severely distracted. He just got home.

You act like complimenting him is the most casual thing in the world, cause it is to you.

“Good nap? You go anywhere?” His voice is curious despite the shake, and he’s getting distracted too because you’re still clinging to his thick forearm and holding it against your chest. He feels a thousand nerve endings firing at once.

You let go and his heart drops to his stomach for a split second like he’s done something horrible - till you’re opening your arms, lifting your abnormally heavy blanket and silently inviting him to climb on top of you. In the safety of your fortress.

One heartbeat is all he waits, then he’s maneuvering his tall, bulky body to lay on you. He knows you like the weight, but he’s still careful, slotting his torso between your thighs and arms on either side of your waist while his cheek finds comfort on the plush of your chest.

Your fingers find his scalp and you’ve disarmed him completely. You feel his muscles relax, melt into you. He’s so hot to the touch, so whole and complete. He’s almost forgets that he asked you a question, a really important one at that.

And like the symbiotic being you two have become, you practically read his mind.

“You know I didn’t go anywhere honey.”

His head rises and falls with your breaths, and you feel his heartbeat against your sternum. It’s starting to thud, and you’re not sure if it’s from the proximity, which never ceases to be intensely flattering for you, or because of your statement. It was blasé enough to not be obvious.

“I wouldn’t know, was out all day.”

It’s cute, because if you didn’t know it would be so convincing. And you know, you know that the lie is to protect himself. And to protect you from himself. From the truth about his obsessiveness, his inability to be fucking normal about anything for even a second.

His inability to have you out of his sight, because how else do you cope when anything, everything good has been taken from you? When the world has shown you nothing but selfishness and leaving and forgetting and confirming the fact that he’s just unlovable.

You sit with this for a second, toying with the golden strands on his head, feeling the softness wisp through your fingertips. Your legs lift and they’re wrapping themselves around his torso, a cage, a sanctuary. He hums, so deeply you feel it vibrate against your chest.

“Thought the tracker on my phone was one of the best on the market?”

God, maybe you’re evil for it. But you need to get this out of the way. You sound so innocent when you say it too, like it hasn’t caused him to completely stop breathing for a solid ten seconds. Like his body hasn’t tensed ten fold, and his heart hasn’t started pounding inside of him.

It feels like the world stops. Or maybe it’s been turned on its axis and he’s falling off it finally. At first he thinks his sick mind and his trained ears have failed him, you couldn’t possibly have said what he thinks you said, right?

There’s no way. He is smart, careful, more careful than he’s ever been because you’re the most important person in his life.

He starts shaking, it starts from his hands like a tremor in his bones and spreads to his body like a wildfire in dry brush. You’re starting to shake with it, hands still steady in his hair, scratching his nape gently. You feel his Adams’s apple bob against you when he swallows, hard.

“W-what’d you just say?” He’s out of breath, like he’s run a marathon with no water and no break. Your heart starts to ache like an open wound for him, the fear he must be feeling.

“Let’s sit up, Dex, hmm?” You say it gently, like you’ll ruin him if you raise your voice any louder, if you let even a hint of annoyance bleed into your tone.

He’s weak in the arms, the knees, the torso. You move to scooch upwards and then he’s moving, freed from the cage of your legs and he instantly turns away, runs a big hand through his hair and over his face and starts anxiously rocking himself with his elbows on his knees. It’s just slight, the beginnings of what you know to be a massive panic attack.

“I don’t know - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You feel sick when he stands up, starts pacing back and forth back and forth back and forth. You can’t imagine, fully, what it’s like to be in his head right now. What it must mean for him that you know, expecting the absolute worst. A catastrophe, his world ending, a person he would just have to let you go cause he would never harm you in any realm or reality that exists. He’d have to take it. To bear it.

God, it feels like his body is on fire, and you’re just watching patiently, waiting for him to tell any semblance of truth.

His face and neck are so red, you hear the hiccups of a breath not being caught - and then with each pace and glance of his pretty face you get, you see the wet streams cascading down his cheeks, the furrow of his eyebrows, the pulse in his throat.

You can’t let him be alone in his head.

“Ben, I’m not leaving,”

He inhales deeply, exhales, finally. But the panic in his body is still there - wrecking him, unfolding him. He still can’t look at you. He feels too guilty. In fact, he turns his back to your completely, clutching at the back of his neck.

“come here, please? Just come to me, baby.”

You could kill him, you really could, and he’d let it happen. He’d help you shove the knife right through his scarred chest, no questions asked, and he’d know with certainty that was his salvation of the gentlest kind.

But your voice is so soft, you sound so worried. He’s so confused, so hurt by so much at once - like reality has punched him square in the jaw, and when he turns around, you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so sad. So defeated.

You could cry, really. You didn’t know someone could still be so stunning when they’re falling apart. And you have this aching, gnawing urge to make it all better.

He moves like a dog who’s been hit his whole life, like he doesn’t know why you’re being so gentle, so kind. It’s confusing him in a way that he’s never been confused before - and usually his emotions are reoccurring, deep and visceral wounds that have been there since he was a little boy and have just gotten ripped open again and again.

So this is new, and it’s got him trembling fiercely.

His long legs are unsteady when they saunter towards you, like he’s just now learning how to walk.

But then he’s right in front of you, big and tall and wilting like a sunflower when it’s overcast, and he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what else to do, so he drops to his knees with a heavy clunk against the hard wood floor. Cause if anything holy exists, you’re it. And he’ll do whatever he needs in order to be saved.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” His voice is shattered, tears getting caught in his throat, words clipped by hiccups yet again. His face has contorted to a pained expression that makes your lungs feel tight.

You reach out, and his brain is pure static. You’re holding him by his hot, tear soaked cheeks, pulling his head up so his glassy red eyes can meet yours. His pink bottom lip is trembling, and you make a sound close to a cry but softer than a whimper - cause it breaks your heart, badly.

“Shhh, shh, don’t cry baby,” you wipe his face with your palm, move his sweat soaked blonde hair from his forehead. You scoot to the edge of the couch so that he’s right between your legs, peering up at you like he’d let you do something horrible to him.

“I’m here, I haven’t left. I’ve known the whole time and I’m here, don’t you understand? I know why you do it, Ben,”

He’s hanging on to every word with rapt attention, and your voice alone has soothed the onslaught of tears - now he’s just observing like he always does, trying to understand. You feel his fingers picking at the legs of his sweatpants that you’re wearing, a nervous tic. Then he’s gripping your calves to steady himself.

You place a flat palm against his solid chest. It’s like he’s connected to earth again.

“No one’s ever protected me like this, like you have. What we have, it’s so different. You feel it, right? Just wish you would’ve told me sooner, but I’m not mad, Dex. Everytime I’m at work and feel your eyes on me - cause I know that they’re there, I feel it like it’s pulling at my ribs, and I know I’m safe. Do you get it?”

You keep your hand there, worried that his heartbeat hasn’t gone down - but the softening of his expression, the surrender, it soothes your ache. He looks dizzy, but calmer. He places a hand on top of yours, firm and tight and presses it harder against him like he wants it inside his skin.

“Sometimes I don’t think you’re real. How? How? How did you find me? Please stay, please. I love you. I love you.”

It’s said quietly, desperately like despite the fact that it’s only the two of you in the room, someone might hear. He’s getting flushed and frantic again, and you don’t know what else to do to show him.

You lean down, just a little cause that’s the only proximity you need with his height on his knees, and press your lips to his wet, swollen mouth.

A broken sound echoes in his throat, and you swallow it whole. Consume it like it never even happened, and then you cup the back of his neck, start working the top lip and then the bottom, till your warm tongue finds his as it’s peeking out to greet yours.

He tastes salty and desperate and sweet and real and you wish you could bottle it up and keep it forever. His nose rubs against yours with the movements.

Normally you’d take more time, kiss every bit of scarred skin like it’s to be worshipped and suck bruises over his carotid artery but you don’t have time. You need him to know, you need him to feel the way you want him.

“I love you, Dex. I love you too.”

He’s got both hands on your thighs now, still and unmoving for all intensive purposes but his fingertips are pressing into you like he’s scared you’ll just dissipate in front of him.

He’s lost, lost in the way you’re kissing him like you haven’t in years, lost in the way that you’re massaging the back of his head while you do it, and he’s making noises that are so petulant. It’s like he physically can’t help it, the hard exterior wasting away at your feet. He kills people, literally murders them, and yet he’s a mess in the arms of the person he loves. He’s nothing but flesh and bone and a soul lit on fire.

“Stand up for me.” You ask, and though your demeanor is urgent, your tone is soft. He complies with a wobble, till he’s towering over you again and staring down with kiss bitten lips and big, imploring eyes.

You follow suit, doing your best to pretend like you’re not already intoxicated by desire and love and all the other things that have dopamine receptors firing in your brain, telling you that you need him inside and all over - placing your hands on his sturdy shoulders, gripping the tense, thick muscle there and resisting the urge to nibble, to pry, to cover in bruises that you’d suck into his skin with your mouth.

You guide him with an urgent touch to the couch where you were just sat.

If he didn’t want to, you wouldn’t be able to push him on the couch cushion of course. He’s got a solid build, an intimidating build that’s been made this way for battle and combat and brawling and eliminating.

But he does it anyways, for you. Let’s his knees buckle and his backside hit the softness because his need for you is like a wild animal trying to claw its way out. Vicious, starving.

You’re enraptured in the worst way, too. Being able to take care of him, to have him in this way despite all the confessions and painful realizations of the night. He’s just a man when you go to crawl on top of his thick lap, with unsteady hands that hesitate before they touch you, shaking at the side of his face thick thighs like he’ll break you in half with his fingertips if he makes another move.

But your weight is so comforting in top of him, it’s a reminder that you haven’t run away, told him he’s disgusting, a freak of a human being, unworthy of anything let alone love and touch like this.

“You can touch me, please, I’m yours. I’m yours, Dex.”

He whimpers when his mouth reconnects with yours, uses his hands to hold your waist firm against him, until his strong arms are pressing you flush to his trembling body and he can feel the outline of your hardened nipples through your shirt and the warmth of your sex between his thighs.

It’s like a dream. He can’t fathom it, not viscerally.

And he tries not get greedy, really, but you’re starting to grind yourself against his lap - spurred by the hardening, thick length that’s suffocating in his dress pants and pressing against your crotch. And your mouths are still going at it, smacking together in a symphony of lewd and loud noises in the quiet room. Not even the incoming storm could quiet the noises you’re making.

“Let me take care of you,” you plead, breaking free from his tongue and finally kissing across his handsome face, his high cheeks and his aching temples, then his neck. He cranes his chin upwards, giving you access with breathy pants.

“need this shirt off.” You mumble, moving his collar to try and get his collarbones with your tongue. He helps you, deft and nimble fingers starting to hastily undo the buttons, shakily but expertly. Each sliver of skin revealed is such a reward, it has your pupils dilating and you don’t notice that you’re slack jawed like he is, too.

Once it’s done he sits forward to slip it off his shoulders, struggling just a little because of the position - you’re afraid he’s gonna rip the garment all together, but with your help it’s slipping from his wrists finally and being tossed to the floor.

You can’t hide your expression, the awe and the desire and the inability to grasp that it’s all yours to touch. He sees it, feels it, smells it on you. It makes him feel like a wild animal, completely feral.

Now he’s tugging at the hem of your shirt, with a look that says hey, not fair. You pull it off and toss it along with the steadily growing pile of clothes - and it’s his turn to be in awe, to look at you like he’s never seen a woman naked in his life. Your tits are perfect, nipples hard and swollen and he can’t help but to cup the fat in his big palms and lean in to nip at the flesh.

You yelp, but it’s followed by a whimper and pushing your chest towards his face and mouth further. You can feel the light blonde scruff that decorates his face, barely there but it’s scratching the surface of your skin deliciously.

He sucks bruises, too hard for submission, but too sweetly for complete dominance. He revels in the fact that no one will see these but him, your little secret. A shared moment of intimacy that exists between only you two. It makes his stomach fill with heat.

And then he’s taking your nipples into his mouth while you’re pawing at his abdomen, admiring the taut tension of muscle there, and over his firm chest and then down bulging biceps and - he feels too good already.

He’s lost in how pretty the hardened buds look covered in his spit, gleaming in the setting sun that bleeds through his curtains, or how you’re mewling against him, not even realizing he can feel you pulsing against him - a live wire.

“Dex, pleaseeee.” Your whine is a song, sweet and high and satisfying and mind boggling. You’re begging for nothing specific, but he knows the feeling. Knows exactly what it is you need. It makes his balls tense with the urge to fill you completely. But he needs retribution, he has to be patient.

He’s sucking harshly, haphazardly because he doesn’t know what else to do. It’s all his body can generate, this visceral desperation that’s seeping out of him in perspiration and precum in his pants and glistening tears in his eyes.

He moves from one breast to the other, till you’re covered in hickeys and saliva and sin. You’re grabbing at his locks, pawing at his back, scraping red stripes over scars and freckles.

His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see it but he feels it when you reach between the warmth of your bodies to paw at his dick. To grip the hardened shaft where its slanted to the right and threatening to burst from his waistband. It’s tight and rough through the fabric, and he has to press his forehead against your sternum to steady himself when you rub him up and down. He can’t get a breath in.

“Ohhh, baby, baby.” He slurs, gripping your waist like a vice.

“I need to feel you,” you mewl back, thankful for the tremble in his voice, Stunned by his pining, and the way he’s shaking like a leaf. “will you let me?”

You ask so sweetly, like you don’t know the answer.

He huffs a ragged breath, grits his teeth cause he’s fighting some invisible force. Doesn’t even know what it is, really. Is it his inability to let go of the fact that you know? To accept that, truly, you want him like he wants you despite what he’s done?

You kiss his temple, the top of his head.

“Fuck, yeah. Yes. Course’ you can.” He rasps. He doesn’t give in often. Ever. Unless it’s a total and complete mental deterioration.

How different it feels to surrender to this. To you. To the truth.

He doesn’t, however, foresee you letting go of him completely - he feels his pupils dilate and the adrenaline thrumming through him rise all the way to the top of his head. It’s the absence of your touch, your warmth - but then you’re slinking down to your knees.

This is your surrender.

He grips the couch cushions in a way that’s genuinely concerning for the couch in question. It’s rough, his nails nearly rip the fabric from the force cause you’re rubbing up and down his thighs and you start to lean in towards his aching manhood. He can feel your breath hot against him, even through two layers of fabric and he starts involuntarily bucking his hips.

It’s more so to relieve the throbbing, you have eyes so you can clearly see him twitching over and over again like he’s so hard it hurts. You peer up at him, and he’s really a sight for sore eyes.

It’s devastating.

He’s blushed everywhere, alabaster face and neck, ears and broad chest. His taut abdomen is tensed with anticipation and the arousal and the yearning for you. Every muscle is coated with a thin layer of sweat, like he can’t bear it. He’s huffing, strong jaw slack and pretty white teeth shining behind downward curled lips.

You make quick work of his slacks, knuckles against his navel when you undo the buttons, then dragging down the bulge underneath when you’re unzipping them.

He chokes on his own spit a little, swallows it when you look up at him with concern.

“Y’okay Dex? Still want it?”

You’re so genuine, and your voice is so fucking sweet, he can’t handle it. He’s already tearing up again, nodding fervently, cupping your face like it’s antique china. His touch is so hot, searing.

“Yes, yes - please don’t stop.” He couldn’t sound more wrecked, more fucked, more lost. His voice doesn’t even sound like his anymore. It’s so low, so husky and strained.

You tug at his pants and you can’t get them off, so he lifts his hips for you so that you can drag them off, down his long legs and off his feet. The black material of his briefs cling to him unfairly, halfway off already cause his pants got stuck on them- it’s too good to be true. He’s so gorgeous it makes your stomach hurt.

He’s so scarred, but so fragile under your touch. You kiss his thighs, on top of them, feeling the tendons move and writhe underneath. Then you’re spreading his knees apart, kissing between them.

This causes him to almost break and just beg you as pathetically as possible. His cock twitches fiercely, starts from his balls where they ache to release, jerks his whole shaft in the process. Pearlescent beads of his pre arousal seep through the fabric where his tip is protruding against it.

You take one look at him, in those intense and watery eyes, and you start peeling his underwear off. You can’t make him wait anymore, it’s making you feel too guilty. And between your own thighs pressure has built like a dam, making you slick and hot and thoroughly bothered. A heartbeat in your clit.

He hisses when his manhood touches the cold air, when the material drags against his sensitive tip as you take them off. His cock slaps against his tensed abdomen, leaves a sticky spot just below his bellybutton on the soft trail of light hair there.

You don’t tease anymore, you wrap your hands around the hot, thick base and immediately move to mouth at his frenulum on the underside of his head.

“Oh fuuuuck.” He groans from his chest, toes curled and the soles of his feet pressed into his living room rug. His head lolls back and all he can focus on is the warm wetness of your mouth. The plushness of your lips when they encompass him, the feeling of the roof of your mouth and then the back of your spongy throat.

He finally brings his hands to your hair, doesn’t pull or tug - just places them there and feels your head bob while you start to suck him off.

“Mmmm.” You hum around him, and choked noises keep leaving him, like he’s trying to breathe properly and his own drool is getting caught again.

It’s already messy, your spit coats him and gleams in the light, the sounds make him ache even more and he can tell that any ounce of precum that he’s surely leaking is being caught by your swirling tongue.

“O-oohhh, so good, baby it’s so good.” He cries through a shudder that ripples through him.

Two hands pump him while your mouth works. It’s hard work, but it’s so rewarding - you’ve got a big man right here shuttering like you’re doing something inhuman to him. And he’s massaging your scalp like he’s not a minute from coming undone, and the sounds.

God, you never knew he could be this vocal. It makes your body feel like it’s on overdrive, and he’s not lost to the way your eyebrows are furrowed and you’re still moaning around him.

The fact that sucking him off makes you horny is making him spiral.

You leave his cock with a pop, make direct eye contact while you kiss the underside of his shaft, tracing the veins with your tongue, dipping even lower to lick at his balls and he really shutters then.

“M’not gonna last, mmm, can’t. Can’t.” He pants.

You take him back into your mouth, focusing on the tip this time to let him know you don’t care if he finishes quickly. That this is about him. That you want to take care of him, show him how much he’s loved.

It’s soft and wet and tastes like him in your mouth. Your spit bubbles around him, your lips a suction that’s mapping the ridges and shape and flavor of him. Wha makes him tick, what’s making him the whiny mess that he’s become right now.

“Cum for me Dex, please, please.”

You say it between sucks, between laps and throating, and who is he to deny you? Such a request asked to sweetly? So desperately?

His whole body tenses, the breath stolen from him as quick as it came - head falling against the back of the couch and eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Fuck fuck fuck, cumming cummingggggg, ohhhhh fuckkkkkkk.”

He’s writhing, and you can feel the throb against your tongue as he releases in long ropes - and you swallow it all with no pause whatsoever.

You whimper around him with encouraging sounds, milking him dry and working him through his intense orgasm while he tries to clamp his thighs shut and fist the couch and then tug your head off of him cause it’s starting to become overstimulating.

He’s grunting like it hurts now, still not back to reality cause the release is rushing through him like an amped up form of adrenaline. He’s got sweat beading against his forehead, threatening to drip and his stomach and chest heaves long, deep breaths to try and regain control.

You let him go from your mouth, a mess and a vision that he wants to keep engrained in the hollows of his mind forever. He cups the back of your neck, eyes low and dark and vying for you.

“C’mere, kiss me.” It’s not a demand but he needs it. You’re on your feet, knees imprinted with the shape of the carpet and he pulls you by your soft hips onto his bare lap before his mouth is on you.

This is about the only time, other than his usual extracurriculars, where the mess doesn’t bother him. He tastes himself on your tongue, tastes sweat and the sweetness of your lip balm that’s somehow lingered and it only fuels his awe, his adoration, his hunger.

He’s all tongue and teeth and starvation when he kisses you this time. He works the top and the bottom with erratic movements, but you know the pattern all the same. You lean into him, mold yourself against his warmth.

But something shifts, it’s small, unspoken.

You cup his face, strong jaw and stubble and raised scar against your palm. You slow him down purposely, hanging onto his bottom lip with your teeth, stroking the lines by his mouth with your thumb.

And then you’re kissing his face. That same scar, the dimple in his chin, the lines creased into his forehead, his nose. All of it. He closes his eyes, absorbing it like it may never happen again even though you know it’s just the beginning.

“I love you, so much Dex.” You almost whisper it, kissing his ears and the side of his neck before you’re wrapping your arms around his shoulders and hiding in the crook of him.

He sucks in a breath, hugs you back like disconnecting would mean death. He rubs slow circles wit his wide palm, his voice muffled against your skin.

“I love you I love you I love you.”

You don’t know how long you both stay like this. Entranced, at peace with each other. Anchors, or magnets, or both. He’s got so many emotions inside of him, swimming around in circles with no place to go except out.

It’s while he’s holding you like this, pressed to his naked lap, that he realizes something important. Urgent because he feels you shift against his soft cock, and yeah the moment is so sweet it’s making him all fuzzy in the head but -

He never took care of you in return.

That’ll change, very quickly.

[weirdgirl247]

every year small towns and indigenous communities across canada are burnt to nothing by horrific wildfires and americans go on the internet to complain about it and blame us bc the smoke has spread to their state. i’m so tired.

go yell at mark carney or your own local politicians about climate change and urge them to do more to stop it. the namaygoosisagagun first nation had their community destroyed today. you can find a link to donate to them here. donate to your local food bank. go to the beach next week when the smoke clears and you don’t have to think about it anymore while the people who’s lives have been destroyed will have to pick up the pieces and try to move forward when we are already in a huge cost of living crisis across the country.

[weirdgirl247]

rbing with other places you can donate to to support those impacted by the fires!

true north aid (an organization aimed at providing support to remote/northern indigenous people in canada)

canadian red cross wildfire fund

ontario spca and humane society (links to their donate page specifically aimed at supporting pets and animals in areas impacted by the fires)

and the anishinabek nation’s page where you can donate to support the namaygoosisagagun nation who had their land destroyed by the fires is still accepting donations

[ruerecs]

𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒔 𝒊.

NAVIGATION | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER MASTERLIST | DAREDEVIL MASTERLIST

the watcher (6.5k) [smut] [slight angst]

by @whosjunglejim4322

if love had teeth (13.7k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] [smut]

by @aquaticmercy

right on the money (2.3k)

by @twentytomidnight

THE NIGHT WITCH (8.6k) [dark themes]

by @poiindexters

DIGITAL BATH (4k) [dark themes] WORLD IN MY EYES (3k)

by @deusexgirlfriend

a bet (916) [fluff] the offer (2.8k) [smut]

by @chvoswxtch

CHERRIES AND TIES (3k) [funny] wet spots guide (2.5k) [smut] firsts (2.2k) [suggestive] new experiences (3.5k) [smut]

by @machiavelliam

the devil of hell’s kitchen saves your life. or, at least he looks like him (1.6k) [angst]

by @spaceyaemonds

perverts (4.7k) [smut]

by @poindextergirl

backslide (1.8k) [smut]

by @vigilantekisser

FUZZY (5.1k) [smut]

by @monicfever

dex coming home horned up after a workout (1.7k) [smut]

by @little-miss-dilf-lover

no one else (1.4k) [smut]

by @petitepetronas

stains dont fade (1.5k) [fluff] [slight angst]

by @kruegerspillow

[dexrall]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[sgreer123]

This has FBI!Dex written ALL over it 💀

[clytemnestraaa]

hi this drives me crazy

canon is what happens in the text. e.g. merlin tries to poison morgana

a headcanon is a fact that you have personally made up as an elaboration of canon. it is your invention. e.g. i think morgana and gwen had a teenage lesbian situationship before the events of canon. or, i think modern morgana would love evanesence.

an interpretation is how one reads the existing text. it is not an invented fact nor is it a headcanon, it is a reading. e.g. i think merlin tries to poison morgana out of misplaced self-hatred. or, i think that one line was delivered with suppressed malice and shows a nuanced relationship.

fanon is the general fandom’s accepted headcanons and interpretations that elaborate or recontextualize canon. e.g. merlin is a badass waif and morgana is a bitch.

these are all different words with different meanings.

[artemisuns]

something about this genre of wilson....

[bthls]

[triceraquake]

#canon

[aceblvrd]

i wanna lick the vein on his bicep so fucking bad

[thereaperskiss]

Lord please i need the grey hair back

[shadowskribe]

Part 4: The Ghost of London

Benjamin Poindexter x You (F!Reader), Dual POV

WC: 8.9k, suspense, romance, smut

Summary: Dex can turn anything that fits in hand into a weapon - that's his gift. Yet even Bullseye is ill-equipped for the danger that's got its eyes on him now. Who knew desire could destroy a man?

Contents: Smut, mdni/18+, stalking, being chased, manipulation, mild dubious consent (m!receiving), hand job, head (m!receiving), p&v sex, dex doesn't pull out, violence, mention of murder, blood, general mental unwellness, adult themes, adult language...

A/N: Thank you all for your patience! The word count got away from me a bit, but I am so happy with this installment, I really hope you enjoy! Thank you @e0wens for the beta read and edits, having you truly makes this writing thing extra special 💖 read part 3 here / master list

For the second morning in his long lonely life, Dex wakes up with someone holding onto him.

He closes his eyes against the gentle warm light filtering in through your curtains and relishes the warmth of your body against his. He feels lighter. It's almost like he left his past behind in New York.

All those misdeeds— he's carried them around since he was a child. They were the knots in his muscles, the aches in his bones, the cold, piercing alloy infused in his spine.

But in this wash of light, he can almost allow himself to dream again. 

His chin tilts down in tentative awe at what he holds in hands that know only how to maim, and presses his lips to your hair when you shift, snuggling closer.

All he's ever wanted was to feel… wanted. He thought that he had been destined to wander his entire life looking for it. It doesn't feel real finally finding that place where he belongs. But it's right here in his arms. 

He shifts your hair back with his fingertips. With the dust motes glittering in the stream of sunlight, and those beautiful eyes of yours still looking in on your own dreamland, he can almost believe that he could be free.

Until he unlocked his phone. 

“What's wrong?” You mutter against his chest.

Dex quickly sets the phone down. “Nothing.”

When you tilt your face towards him, and blink against the light, he notices a flash of worry. Wetting his lips, he catches a glimmering thread of a chain around your neck.

“What’s this?”

“Changing the subject,” you chide and he stifles a grin.

“I just didn't see it before.” He pulls the chain out of the collar of your shirt until a simple gold locket falls into the hollow of your neck. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger. “Looks old.”

"It is. I put it on last night after… well, you know.” You grin mischievously at him and his heart rate shoots to that of a devil hiding in the pews at mass. 

He does know. In fact, he'll never forget how your tongue cradled every thick inch of him while your mouth brought him to his knees. You swallowed him whole, and licked up what spilled over.

He clears his throat, shifting his hips when he begins to harden. “What’s in there?”

Your eyes flick to his growing erection under the sheets, then back to his. “Oh, nothing.”

His lip quirks. “Isn’t that where you're supposed to keep someone close?”

Something in your gaze shifts and softens. “Dex, are you some kind of hopeless romantic?"

A wide smile spreads across his face in a flash. “I, um. I don't know-”

Your body slides under his hands as you press yourself closer and kiss him softly. “Tell me it's true– because I would love that.”

He can't help his hands from threading into your hair and pulling you into a kiss. 

The truth was that Dex has only ever experienced one sided romance. And that's just… yearning.

His therapist told him he needed connection like he needed to breathe, but that he was afraid of it. Afraid of losing it.

He loses his train of thought completely when you hum in contentment and slip your leg over his hips to straddle him. 

Something low rumbles in his chest when your soft hot core presses against him. It's that hungry part of him. That part that's been starved his entire life, and now he's willing to drown in it. Not just sex. But acceptance, loyalty. Love. Your eyes, when they meet his, match his hunger.

Does your monster see his?

His hands grasp your hips as you drag yourself into a slow winding grind on top of him. How long can he hold onto you? How long can he keep you?

Until tonight? Tomorrow? Forever?

His head falls back into the pillows just before you gasp—then his hands fly off of you and his full faculties return to him. He sits up, and cups your face. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, searching your wide terrified eyes. 

“No, but I will be!” You gesture to the clock. “I can't be late to work. I'm unpacking some seriously important artifacts today and if Piers gets to it first and steals my thunder I swear…”

Your expression softens. “Hey, I'm okay. I didn't mean to scare you.”

He shakes the unfamiliar feeling off. “Okay, museum girl.”

He scoots to the edge of the bed and laughs as you squeal and tighten your arms and legs around him when he stands up.

“I'll make the coffee. You can hang on like a little monkey if you want.” 

--

Dex studies the outside of the U.S. Embassy from his car warily, unwilling to break the illusion of this beautiful, messy life with you that he's hanging onto by the tips of his claws.

He knows, once he opens that door and sinks into the subterranean levels of that building, he's a weapon, he's that monster again– Bullseye.

Leaning his head back against the cool leather and adjusting his earbuds, his knee bounces violently against the steering column as he lets the liquid tone of the dearly departed Dr. Mercer wash over him. 

That must be really hard.

It is.

Rely on our structure. 

An image presses against his subconscious. The moment he acknowledges it, the sterile boxes he compartmentalizes his emotions into dissolve into the mess of suitcases left open on your bedroom floor. Your empty cabinets. The box of secrets in your closet.

A tidy physical space…

His face between your thighs.

A disciplined vocation…

You straddle him, hair mussed with sleep, pinning him to the soft mattress.

Your internal compass isn't broken…

The crescent moons of blood under your fingernails while you grip and lick his cock.

You will build your life on pillars of order…

He presses you into the side of the building, pinning you with his hips, twisting your arm around your back.

It just works better with a North Star to guide you…

You walk hand in hand with the little boy through the subway carriage, keeping him safe while you find his caregivers.

He squeezes his eyes shut against his thoughts, trapping the images of you and all your beautiful imperfections in that dark place he always retreats to.

He wonders what Dr. Mercer would think of his new North Star. His mouth pulls into a smile. What would she think if he admitted you were more than just a guiding light, more than just the brightest star in the sky? What if she knew that you're quickly becoming the center of his universe? His mouth quirks. 

She'd hate it. 

Because she'd know, if anything were to happen to you, he'd lose the very gravity keeping him tethered to reason. 

But there's only one real way Dex can protect you, isn't there?

--

The moment Dex strides into the Embassy, Smith falls into step beside him.

“Saw you in the car…” She snaps her gum. “You okay? You looked out of it. Listening to Enya or something?”

“Smith, I just walked in. Can you chew on someone else's ear?” He grunts and hikes his leather messenger bag further up on his shoulder.

His words had the desired effect, stopping Smith in her tracks. When he hears the distinct sound of her shoes clamoring across the tile again, he rolls his eyes and stops at the elevator.

“You know I'm starting to think you don't like me.” She snaps her gum again.

He chances a glance at her and is greeted with a wide, sharp smile.

“Hm. What gave you that idea?” He jabs the elevator button again.

“Oh, only that you're a complete dickhead.” She shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly.

He practically sighs with relief when the elevator doors open. He steps in and when he turns to scan his badge and punch the button for the floor he needs, he faces her. A smug smile plays on her lips.

“Oh– speaking of dick and head, maybe that would loosen you up a bit.” His poker face must be fraying around the edges because she winks before the doors close. “Get any lately?”

The polished titanium doors shut with a mechanical thud, sealing him in the empty elevator with his spiraling thoughts and a jazzy rendition of The Fly's ‘Got You’.

Her words echo in his ears. He stares at his shoes, swallowing down the impulse to let his repressed rage rip from his throat in an anguished roar.

Because Dex is acutely aware of the cameras in the elevator. To temper the hot rage bubbling up in his chest, he checks his watch and studies his cuticles.

It's a practiced skill– pretending to be okay.

And Dex has had a lot of practice.

On the ride down to Mr. Charles’ office, his face remains impassive while Dr. Mercer's voice plays on a loop in his head– and his time with you cycles through his mind's eye like a film reel playing in a theater built for one.

Mr. Charles is waiting for him behind his mahogany desk, hands folded. The picture of patience. He offers Dex a thin smile, cherub like dimples popping as he gestures to the chair across from him. Dex's warning bells are ringing at full volume in his head.

Still, he slides into his seat and widens his legs, relaxing his face into an easy smile. 

“Dex. Nice to see you.” Mr Charles shifts a stack of papers and leans forward.

"You told me to come." He deadpans.

Mr. Charles grins. “Indeed. What you got?”

Dex tilts his head. “What I got?” His lip curls in indignation. “I don't have shit. You have me babysitting the office gossip girl instead of doing my damn job.”

Dex tracks Mr. Charles’ hands when he shakes his computer mouse and begins typing at his keyboard.

“I work alone. This partner thing is slowing me down.” He leans forward on his elbows. “I need you to clip my ball and chain already– Smith's in the way. How am I supposed to investigate my mark with her breathing down my neck?”

“I hear you.” He looks over the frames of his glasses at him. “I'll reassign her.” He agrees with a poignant nod.

Dex leans back in his chair, mouth tilted in skepticism. “That’s it?” 

Mr. Charles makes a few final keystrokes before pushing his keyboard away. “It's done.”

He smiles—it's one Dex recognizes intimately. It's the smile of a predator.

“You look confused?” Mr. Charles says between a low laugh. “I did what you asked. Now, you won't have any distractions.” Mr  Charles’ fist tightens. “We need that artifact.”

“Valentina?”

“She's ready for heads to roll.” He jabs his index finger into the desk. “Both of ours.”

“It's been two days.” 

“It doesn't matter. If you don't get the information to secure the artifact soon, you're off the case and headed back to New York to mop shit at a maximum security location that'll make Guantanamo look like a fucking play ground.”

A sour smile pulls at his lips. “You remember solitary? I wouldn't wish what she has planned for you on my worst enemies.”

Dex isn't proud of the cold, ugly fear that rears up in him, shattering his composure. He can't go back. He’ll die before he goes back.

“How the hell am I supposed to get the artifact if I don't know what it is?”

Mr Charles throws his head back at this, a manic laugh tearing from his throat. “You're cozy enough with her, she should have told you by now.” 

“What are you–”

“Oh come on, Dex! I know you're spending the night there.” His hand flutters to his chest. “Do you think I'm stupid? We have her place cased out.” He leans forward on his desk. “I can forgive you, but you have to tell me one thing… How's she taste?”

Dex's jaw clenches before he can stop himself.

“Hey—she's not your mark, she's our mark!” His smile fades. “Tell me.” He leans back again, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. 

Dex shifts in his seat, eyes narrowed.

“Alright.” Mr. Charles nods, fingers scratching the stubble on his chin. “How about you tell me how hot and soft that pretty mouth of hers is–”

This must be hard.

It is, Dr. Mercer. Harder than I ever thought.

His eyes shudder closed briefly, when they open again, a coy smile pulls at one side of his lip. Mr. Charles’ eyes glimmer in anticipation. Despite the lazy slouch, Dex can recognize that if he makes the wrong move, the man across from him is ready to strike. 

“Oh…” The word glides out between a low laugh. “She's good—eager even.” His grin widens, flashing his incisors. Beneath the desk, his fist tightens, the ghost of your silky strands tickling his knuckles.

“She has… a deep throat.” His brows lift conspiratorily at Mr. Charles’ dark expression. 

“And damn, can she sing.”

Mr. Charles relaxes back into his chair, the tension in his neck and shoulders melting away as a self satisfied smile spreads on his face.

“Well, what’d the little birdie say?”

Dex doesn't dare blink. “It's a blade.”

“Hmmm,” his handler screws his eyes up, “the weapon that came from the Nubian desert is a blade… a god-killer blade. Makes sense.” He mutters to himself and drums his fingers on his chin before spreading them wide in an expression of relief. “I swear sometimes this fucking job is just like being a Dungeon Master again.”

“Dungeon Master?”

“D&D?” Mr. Charles narrows his eyes at Dex's confusion. “Dungeons and Drag– you know what? Don't worry about it.” He checks his watch.

“Listen, I have a 10:30 with the Prime Minister and am going to jump on the line with Valentina now. I'm going to have her tether her dogs up.”

He barks a laugh. “Close call, Dex. You know, I was a little worried you'd flipped on us over some easy pussy.”

Dex bites his tongue, savoring the metallic tang blooming in his mouth and stands up, smoothing down his slacks.

“I want that blade by tomorrow night. That's all the time I can buy us.” Mr Charles smiles. “Smith is off the case, and I'm pulling all eyes from our little bird so you can do… what you have to do. Do you understand?”

“The museum is practically a vault.” Dex reminds him.

“And she's your key!” Mr. Charles shakes his head like Dex is some farmboy too soft to wring a chicken's neck for dinner. 

“She's no one– she's inconsequential.” Dex whispers. 

“Pppft, we both know that sometimes people are going to get caught in the crosshairs.” Mr. Charles shrugs.

“I never miss,” Dex reminds him.

His handler pauses in thought. “You seem like a decent enough guy Dex, so listen closely– if you try to save every pretty little thing that gets your cock wet, you're going to be six feet under in no time.” 

Dex rolls back on his heels, fist clutching the coin in his pocket.

Mr. Charles studies him silently for a moment before his brows draw together. “What are you waiting for?” He gestures impatiently to the door. “Get a move on it, or Valentina will have both our asses!”

Before Dex can turn the knob and step out of the office, Mr. Charles’ voice carries across the room. “You’ll find I've had a new suit delivered to your apartment. I expect you'll be needing it, Bullseye.”

Dex freezes in the doorway for a breath, alloy spine frigid as ice. But then he remembers where he is– who he is. With a single nod, he steps out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him.

🎯

The mask on your face is stifling as you unpack the artifacts from the remaining crate. Piers works silently beside you, but only after you snapped that you'd have him removed if he continued to distract you with his incessant talking.

You need to focus.

Today in the temperature controlled glass chamber you're feeling clammy, and dizzy, and your breath keeps fogging your goggles.

This place is so cold and sterile your bones ache. It's so far from the warmth and comfort your little terrace home held this morning, where you watched Dex studying you from under your lashes. 

You saw it there in his eyes– he's a true hopeless romantic behind those battle worn tower walls. 

You want to be home– in bed. 

Not just in bed… you want Dex. You want to wrap him in your arms. Does he even know that he cries out in his sleep? Your stomach twists, and you wonder if you're even capable of helping him when you're already walking on a razor's edge trying to keep yourself together.

Pulling him down here with you isn't a good idea.

You bite your lip as you carefully lift another artifact from the crate. You came to London for work. The fact that this job just so happens to dig up the skeletons of your past and lay them at your feet wasn't in your plan. But, fate always liked to fuck with you like that.

You sigh as you carefully unfold the stiff yellowed cloth covering a piece of spectacular enamel painted and gold gilded pottery. After photographing, weighing, and measuring it, you tag it, record your findings, and set it line with the other artifacts ready for 3D scanning, and move to the next piece 

As the hours wear on, the drapings continue to fall away from the unearthed artifacts to expose them to existence once again, and the knot in you slowly loosens. With each shroud you remove, the dread you feel holding them in your latex covered hands lessens, and the sick tension on your mind eases bit by bit.

These are just things. Old things. Relics whose only real value is cast by the minds of men. 

Well, that's what you tell yourself.

But you know it’s your own pathetic attempt at easing your fragile mind. You have to keep it together or you'll lose it all again. But you know all too well that the value of these artifacts have been weighed in flesh and bone and blood.  

“Bloody, fuck!” Piers pulls his hand out of the crate he was reaching into as if he'd just been struck by a viper. Blood is filling his glove, spilling into the crate and onto the delicately wrapped artifacts.

“Something sharp… bit right through my damned glove.” He squeezes his wounded hand with the other, trying to stem the flow. Scarlet, hot and fast drips down his wrist and into the sleeve of his white coat. 

“What are you doing?” You slip between him and the crate, inside, speckles of red decorate the aged linen wraps. 

“I got it, it'll stop soon,” he hisses through a clenched jaw.

“Seriously Piers, get the hell out of here, you're bleeding all over museum property!”

You wave the security guard over and he removes a cursing Piers, leading him from the lab. You watch, fingers twitching, as Piers throws worried glances at you over his shoulder.

When the door seals behind them, and their figures disappear from view, your eyes flick around the empty lab before your attention returns to the crate. The blood soaked tip of one of the artifacts has worked its way through a frayed hole in its linen wrapping. It glistens, red and otherworldly, as you examine it. You reach for it, hand wrapping around the linen, around the fat drops of blood that spiderweb across the cotton fibers in dark blotches. 

Your vision is always funny when you go from extreme light to complete darkness.

The memory of light burned into your eyes is always overtaken by splatters of black and red, the dark fingers pulsing and expanding and mutating your vision until the light was just an uncomfortable blindspot on your retina.

It was like that when you stumbled out of the desert and into the cave that fateful day.

--

Your lips were so dry they had begun to crack. Stupidly, your tongue darted out again, rewarding you with stinging, raw pain. 

“Here.” Your grandfather shook a canteen, the sound of the sloshing liquid bounced off the cave walls in a murmured echo.

Uncapping the canteen with trembling hands, you tipped the warm water into your mouth. 

“That’s it.” He muttered gently, distracted by the etchings on the wall. He raised his lantern up to study them more closely.

“You could use more time out of the sun. Drink and walk with me. The others will realize we've stumbled upon something when we aren't racing behind their heels like eager pups on their way back to camp.”

“Shouldn't we go back and let someone know where we are?” Your eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, the inside of the cave becoming incrementally lighter with each passing second. 

Soon, the etching, which you thought to be a simple drawing left behind by a long perished cave dweller, expanded out across the wall and into the darkest depths of the cave.

“No. Not just yet.” He whispered, awestruck. “This place can be just ours for a while longer.”

Your grandfather pointed out the drawings on the walls as pictographs.

“I don't recognize these symbols. I can only compare them to an interesting combination of Egyptian hieroglyphs and Mesopotamian cuneiform.” He raised his lantern into the darkness ahead and smiled back at you.

You hesitated. He'd known of your fear of the dark since you were a child. With a knowing smile, he reached his hand out.

“Come on, darling girl– there's nothing to fear here, only more to discover." 

What was more to discover was the pile of buttery yellow bones.

Your grandfather paused outside a crumbling archway carved into the red sandstone to examine them.

“These are old. Very old.” His breath was soft, as if he knew they had just stumbled upon something sacred. “This chamber, these bones– they appear to be thousands of years old,” he whispered reverently.

The crunching of your boots on the fine packed sand stopped before the entrance of the chamber. You stood next to the pile of meticulously stacked bones, and watched as your grandfather lumbered ahead into the chamber.

Daylight was streaming into the darkness from the center of the room, it puddled onto a carved stone table then spilled over onto a raised stone dais. 

The hair on the back of your neck rose when he stepped onto the iron stained sandstone platform and walked towards the slab of rock roughly the size and shape of an operating table. Pottery and tools littered the space.

“Incredible.” He murmured, face titled up towards the light spilling from the ceiling. “They chiseled straight through to the surface.” He rubbed his ivory beard in thought.

When he saw you were still hovering by the door he waved you in. “Perhaps its purpose was just for light and fresh air, but can you imagine what it could mean if it were to align with celestial bodies? The moon perhaps?”

“A ritual chamber.” You walked into the room, feeling as if the past was whispering over your skin in a hidden breeze.

Sand blew in from the gaping hole in the ceiling, washing down over the waist height slab of rock. The sand skittered into and filled channels carved into the rock, sliding down it and over the side in little torrents to wash across the rust stained stone.

It felt wrong being in that room. As if you had just intruded on a dark entity who had been slumbering for millennia–and it had just caught your scent.

“I want to go back.” You breathed, eyes darting around the chamber, the corners were frosted with cobwebs and bones, everywhere you looked– bones. Bones were stacked up the walls to the ceiling, their hollow eyes staring into you…

Swallowing hard, you step back, away from the ancient slaughtering table, with every intent to flee back to the surface when the dark tooth of a shape solidified in the shadows cast by the unforgiving angles of the chamber. 

It's just there, on the ground, as if it had fallen from someone's hand and was forgotten for centuries.

Sweat beaded your brow, running into your eyes, stinging them, but you couldn't tear your eyes from the shape there, just under the veil of sand... 

Your grandfather watched curiously as you knelt and grasped the handle of the blade.

Though it was cemented in a glove of red sandstone dust blown in from the burning desert, it felt like ice in your hand.

--

“And what do you have there, darling?” Piers’ voice breaks through your memory and snaps you back to the present.

Standing from where you were kneeling next to the crate, you offer the linen wrapped artifact you're clutching to him with trembling hands. 

He takes it gingerly, you can see his palm is bandaged, dark blood bleeding through to stick to the inside of his blue latex glove.

“See for yourself.” Your stomach twists.

His eyes lock on the blood speckled package. Once the artifact is out of your hands, you peel your bloodied gloves off while he unwraps it. 

His face falls in confusion. “A piece of shattered pottery?”

“The jagged edge must have caught you.” You shrug. “You’ll have to excuse me, all this blood is making me sick to my stomach.” You toss your gloves in a nearby trash can and smooth your lab coat down. “I need some air.”

He straightens at this, an oily smile playing on his lips. “I'll keep unpacking then, yeah?” 

🎯

There have been times, many admittedly, since arriving in London where you just needed a quiet place for your thoughts to scream. Scream about all the shit you've done and seen. About how stupid you've been. It's quiet enough here, away from the noise that life brings, that you can untangle the anguish. 

You must have visited this hollow place enough because the security guard waves you through to the storage vaults with a mere glance at your badge.

Were you that much of a mess? 

The massive vaults used to store lesser valued, hardy artifacts and replica pieces not currently displayed upstairs, must have been built in Roman times. The stone ceilings soar so high it's easy to forget you're underground. Thankfully, security is as spotty as the cell phone service.

You run your fingers over the cool window like ledges chipped directly into the stone. Modern lights have been wired and hung for light, but the space is utilitarian and overlooked. 

You wander through a veritable garden of famous busts and marble statues. Sure, these aren't the real thing, just really good replicas, but if you're not classically trained, you'll never know the difference. You peer up at the beautiful, unseeing face of Icarus, and feel very small and self indulgent indeed.

“Reaching too high…” You mutter before moving along. 

Grandfather loved ancient Egyptology. As a girl, he educated you extensively on everything he knew. The tombs of kings built to send them into another plane of existence were your favorite. You were fascinated by the great treasures the tombs were supplied with for the pharaoh's journey to the next life and were completely enamored with the idea of being so well loved. Now, after everything, you know better.

A tomb is still a tomb. 

Everyone and everything, even memories and love, no matter how gilded, crumble and turn to dust with time.

Your feet finally come to a stop next to a dizzying display of intricately designed replicas of Egyptian sarcophagi. The plaster tombs are heavy, but so beautifully replicated that there have been times you wished you could push one open and climb inside. You run your fingertips over the gold leaf faces and it's like you're there with them.

What it must be like to be just a memory.

People choose to shape and fill in the holes as they wish–because can anyone ever really truly know someone? Even those you hold closest to your heart have secrets.

You know you do. 

Your fingers trace the dark, unblinking eyes of Tutankhamun. He was just a boy.

--

“Come on, girl!” Your grandfather and the others have photographed and secured as many of the relics found in the ritual chamber as possible.

“We must go before the sandstorm locks us in here, it's approaching fast!” 

The thought of spending the night in the cave to escape the effects of the storm made your skin crawl. You were only too ready to leave this dark place behind. But, when a low whistle carried on a phantom breeze through the chamber, it pulled your attention back to the fading beam of daylight in the center of the dais.

Everything in you was screaming to run—to leave, and never come back.

But your eyes fell on a small pebble. It cast a long blade of dark shadow on the sacrificial rock. The wind quietly convinced your feet back into the chamber, its cold whisper urging you not to leave the pebble behind.

You grabbed it up, shrugged the sudden chill off, and told yourself it might polish into an interesting souvenir—though the memory of that ancient airless tomb could never be forgotten.

Your final look back into that nightmarish chamber played in your mind while you and your grandfather rode behind the rest of the team, the horses’ hooves pounding and spraying the desert sand in an attempt to outrun the coming storm. 

Little did they know, the true danger was following them.

--

You slide the sarcophagus of the young pharaoh closed with a snap, eyes lingering on those watchful eyes. You get the feeling he can see right through you. 

“You don't know me,” you whisper. 

Straightening your lab jacket, you wind through the vault’s discarded treasures towards the elevator.

🎯

Dex is busy typing an incident report when he hears faint drumming on his plastic cubicle wall. Smith, hip jutting out, is leaning against the partition, fingers falling in a rhythmic thrum thrum thrum.

“Smith.” Dex's brows lift.

She tilts her head. “So– I'm off the museum tech case.” Her tight lipped smile doesn't conceal an ounce of her disdain for him. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

Dex does his best not to smile. She looks at him reproachfully but sucks in a long suffering sigh and continues talking anyways.

“I'm on some bullshit white collar case with Monroe now.” 

Dex shrugs. “Is that all? I really have to get back to this report,” he says drolly.

“Fuck you, Poindexter.” She leans in close. “She's all yours now, like you wanted, right?” She barks an incredulous laugh. “And don't bullshit me, I saw how you looked at her, I have half a mind to let them know just what I think about your idea of ethical investigation.”

His eyes shoot to her, and before he realizes what he is doing, his nose is an inch from hers. “Do not test me.”

Dex has to give it to her, she's either incredibly ballsy, or just stupid, because she doesn't move an inch. Instead, her eyes narrow and a knowing smile tugs at her lips.

“I know it was you.” 

“Go find your new partner, and stay the hell out of my way,” he growls before sitting back down. He straightens the papers and pens on his desk meticulously before returning to his report.

“You really are some kind of freak, aren't you?” She whispers under a low laugh before turning and striding away.

--

Mr Charles directed Dex to go home after he looked over his report. He knew not to toe the line with his handler again so soon after their talk this morning, so he did as he was ordered. When he pushes the door open to his white walled apartment his shoulders pull tight. 

Alone again. 

When he steps in he lets a long breath out and tries to center himself. There are no photos on the wall or post cards on the counter. There are no real signs of life here. Not like at your place anyways. 

He can't even get mail here. 

According to Mr. Charles, they erased his data completely from the world of the living. He's as good as dead. This place only confirms it.

Like living in an ivory lined coffin. 

Dex strides across the small sitting room and towards the kitchen counter. He runs his fingers across the briefcase before unlatching and opening it with a sharp snap.

He holds up the mask, turning it over in his hands. Bullseye's emblem is stitched across the forehead. 

He thought he had shed this skin in New York.

But, something pulls at a deep dark place within him as he takes its dark eyes in.

Fisk's campaign was won off of the premise that heroes don't hide behind masks. 

He's one of the good guys now.

Isn't he?

While he knows your hands aren't clean, what will you think when you see this monster running toward you? His heart sinks. 

He knows the answer.

If that's what it takes to get you out of this mess, then so be it.

Setting the mask aside, he returns the contents of the briefcase. There are throwing knives, holsters, gauntlets, and bullet proof armor.

He pushes them aside. Nestled inside the folded fabric is an ivory envelope. He slips a blade under the seal and slices it open. Inside is a lanyard and badge alongside a folded slip of paper. When he reads the looping crimson script cold dread runs in rivulets under his skin. His fist closes around the note, crushing it. 

“In case the first key breaks.”

-C.

–-

In an attempt to calm his racing mind, Dex listens to the voice of Dr. Mercer as he keeps one eye on the main entrance to the museum. Something feels off. This morning was like a dream. It couldn't have been more perfect. Now his texts to you have gone unanswered, and though he knows it shouldn't, it still stings. 

It just doesn't make sense.

Unless you're playing a game of your own.

A small voice whispers. 

Unless you've decided you don't want him anymore. 

He shakes the thought away and turns the volume of Dr. Mercer's voice up.

It's dark by the time Piers strides out of the building, looking pale and worried, before he slips into a waiting car. Dex watches, brows knit, as it idles for a few moments before it pulls away. 

He grinds his molars against the memory of you smiling at him during that farce of a dinner. He should have killed Piers while he had the chance. Odds were he still would. 

Asshole is gone, but where are you?

Dex checks the time. It's after nine o’clock. 

He watches from the car until the lights inside the museum dim. Soon after, the security guards trudge through the parking lot to their cars and drive away into rising fog.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end when the last of the tail-lights disappear into the dark.

Something is terribly wrong. 

He couldn't have missed you, he's been watching all afternoon. Unlocking his phone, he opens the app to track your location. It says you're still here, somewhere in the museum. Could you be pulling an all-nighter? His jaw clenches. 

Maybe Mr. Charles is full of shit. Maybe he never called Valentina's dogs off. 

🎯

You'd been sitting between two stacks of crates in the back of the storage vault for hours. Mostly, you played Sudoku on your phone. But for long stretches you looked at the texts from Dex, wondering how to answer them.

Can we have another sleep over?

I can't stop thinking about you.

Did I do something wrong?

You swallow and lean your head back against the dusty splintered wood. You can't stop thinking about him either—that's the problem.

When the lights in the vault flick off and you hear the gate to the vault close with a metallic clank, your legs slide out across the stone with a small moan. 

Security is finally gone. You blink up at the dark cameras. 

The nightmare is almost over.

Standing, you pull your arms overhead into a long stretch, then straighten your black hoodie and balaclava. You've never actually been here after hours, and you honestly can't believe your plan worked. Smiling smugly, you wind between the shelves and into the labyrinth of statues. 

Your smile fades when a light pops on, glowing faintly against the far wall by the elevators. The down arrow blinks a happy yellow, and goosebumps race up your spine.

Do they have overnight guards? No. No, of course they don't. 

You would know, right?

Curiosity overrides your sense of reason as you run silently towards the elevator in a low crouch. Peering from behind a shelf you watch the indicator as the elevator descends.

When it reaches the vault floor, a cheerful chime echoes across the dark space.

You're expecting to see a security guard clad in the typical white button down with a standard museum issued flashlight and walkie-talkie. Hell, maybe even a police officer.

You aren't expecting to see a tall, broad form clad in a dark mask. He's nearly one with the shadows, the only catch of movement bringing him to the forefront of the saturated dark are the rows of glinting blades attached to his hip.

Without the guards on duty, the only thing separating you from him is a simple chain link fence and gate. He steps out of the elevator, head swivelling. You watch breathlessly as his gloved hands lift the latch.

Valentina has finally upped her game.

Ignoring the fingers of fear crawling down your arms, you back away swiftly, sneakers silent. The gate rattles when it swings closed again.

Fuck! Your ears strain as you try to track him by the thuds of his boots. 

Backing into the maze of statues, you press your back against the winged back of le génie du mal. When your shoulders press against the arms of the fallen angel, you sink into the shadow cast by his clawed demon wings.

Sucking in a quiet breath, you wait.

You can't hear him. All you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears.

“I know you're here…” His voice is muffled behind his mask. 

When a shadow shifts close to you, you spring from your hiding place and run. A blade whizzes by your head, striking a nearby bust of Julius Caesar.

Tears sting your eyes as you run, sneakers pounding the floor. The watery forms of the ivory statues float in your peripheral vision like ghosts. You have nothing to fight back with. 

When a hand tugs on your arm you spin and strike out at the masked man with the heel of your palm. 

He ducks, feet continuing to retreat backwards, but not fast enough. A hard front kick to his solar plexus has him stumbling back gasping. Spinning you sprint towards the Egyptology storage section. 

You're almost there, you can see the stoic face of the boy king gleaming in the darkness when you're tugged back by your hood.

A frustrated cry rips from your throat as you're dragged backwards. Twisting, you shrug the fabric off and continue your sprint.

Your freedom is short-lived. When a gloved hand grabs your wrist you stop and face him, lashing the heel of your sneaker out at his face. He ducks and you twist from his loosened grasp easily.

 What is this guy's deal?

“Vicious little thing, aren't you–Ghost?” He says between heavy breaths.

He's close, just an arms length away. Each stride he takes towards you, you match with a step backwards. Soon you pass the twin black jackals flanking the disused display of Egyptian replicas. 

“What do you want?” You breathe, eyes darting around for anything you can use to stop his pursuit.

“I think you know,” he growls. “Tell me what happened in the desert.”

You can't help blinking back the raw shock of his demand.

“It was the worst night of my life. People died…” Your voice hitches. “Why do you care?”

When your back hits the sarcophagus of Tutankhamun you nearly sigh in relief. Behind your back, you press your hands against the lid, moving it an inch. Then another. 

Your tongue darts out over your lips when he presses closer, head tilting side to side.

“Who are you?” You hate how your voice trembles. 

“More questions you know the answer to…”

He comes to a stop close enough that you can feel the heat of his body radiating against yours.

“I don't know you.” Your voice rises to cover the grinding sound of the plaster lid moving another inch.

“You do.”

His voice is barely above a whisper. He's nearly chest to chest with you, drawing in ragged breaths that can't be the result of the fight.

Your wrist slips through the crack and grasps stiff fabric. Your fingers work to push the fabric away from the only chance you have of escaping Valentina's mercenary.

“From the alley.” He breathes.

His hand reaches out for your neck, but instead of squeezing, he tilts your chin up to look at him, exposing your throat.

“You have to trust me.” 

You can almost believe that there are kind eyes behind that sightless mask. Almost.

Gripping the hilt of the blade, you spin it into your hand and press the tip against the side of his neck in a flash.

“Is this what you want?” You bare your teeth at him. “What Valentina wants? What she's been hunting me for?”

His Adam's apple bobs as you press forward. The point of the blade biting into the leather of his suit. “You know it is.” 

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “This blade, this cursed appendage of some primal evil—it feeds on death and destruction.”

He takes a step back, the point of the blade is beginning to bite through the leather, splitting it like butter.

“Why does she want it?” Your eyes widen. “What does she know about it that makes it so valuable?”

He pauses for a moment. “It's a god-killer.”

You bite your lip and twist the blade. The leather snaps, exposing the tender skin beneath.

“God.” You step closer, closing the distance until your elbow is pressed against his chest. “Man.” He stands unmoving. “It'll do the job for either one.”

He lets out a soft breath, chest quivering. “Then what's stopping you?” He swallows. “I'm just another one of Valentina's monsters. I've seen what you do with them.”

“Monsters indeed.” You whisper, hand trembling when scarlet stains the tip of the knife and runs into the runic carvings along the blade.

“Put me out of my misery then.” He lifts his chin.

You hesitate a breath too long. 

His hand wraps around your wrist and he wrenches the blade from his neck. It clatters to the ground from your hand. He spins you, pinning your hands behind your back and pressing you over Tutankhamun's sarcophagus.

“I didn't want to do this.” He mutters as he adjusts his stance, pressing into you.

“You— please, you can't let her have it!” You gasp against the dusty varnish as he presses your head down. You feel him, hard and heavy between your thighs as he restrains you.

“I have to. I'm trying to protect you. You have to… trust me.” He grunts and kicks your leg out from between his.

“I’m not falling for that trick again.” 

“Please.” Your voice breaks. “I should have died out there with them!” 

His hips still against you but his grasp doesn't loosen. “Who?”

“The entire team I went to the desert with. They were good men and women.” You press your forehead to the chest of Tutankhamun's sarcophagus.

“It's my fault. If I hadn't taken that blade from its resting place, they would still be alive.” Hot tears spill against the lacquered goldleaf.

“I should be out there with them– dried bones lost in the sand.” Your body shakes with a sob. The guilt you've suffered from being the sole survivor of that tragedy pours from you in painful, gut wrenching waves.

He's quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry– that must have been really hard.”

🎯

Dex loosens his grip on your hands and steps away from you. He watches as you push yourself up from the sarcophagus and turn to him in confusion. Your balaclava is hanging around your neck, exposing swollen lips and bright, tearful eyes.

“What are you doing?” You whisper. “Aren't you going to kill me? You have the blade.”

He pauses, unsure what to say, overwhelmed by the raw emotion rolling off of you.

“I want to protect you.” He presses his lips together. “If you'll just… let me.” 

His stomach twists as you approach him, eyes locked on his mask, brows knit.

“You said I know you.” You whisper. Reaching for his hand. You turn his gloved palm over, inspecting it.

He shrugs, planning his next move. If you run, what then? Will he show up as Dex at your door? Will he let you take the blade and run? 

He'd make a fitting sacrifice for Valentina if it meant your freedom.

“If Valentina doesn't get that knife she won't stop hunting you.” His voice quivers as your fingertips drag up his abdomen.

“From the alley,” you whisper in comprehension.

“Yeah, the alley. Are you okay, did you hit your head?” His hand moves to cup your face, thumb brushing across your tear stained cheek before trailing to your locket. 

“I haven't been completely honest with you.” You swallow, wide eyes tracking his mask. Then your hand slips up to his jaw. Your fingertips slide under his mask and you pause, as if asking for permission.

He braces himself. 

If this is it, if this is all he'll ever have with you, he can try to accept it. He has the memories, more than he could have ever wished for, more than he believed he ever deserved.

“I do know you—from the alley. And the staircase.” Your lips are a breath from his. “The bedroom…” Your fingers slide under his mask, slipping it over his head and revealing his face.

“Dex.” 

You crush your mouth to his. 

Heart hammering against his chest, he pulls you into his arms. 

Your back bumps against the sarcophagus and, in one fluid motion, he lifts you onto it. Your legs wrap around him, pulling him against you as his mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck.

“I had to know,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair when he drags his teeth across your throat, pulling his face back so you can look into his eyes, “that it was real…”

“Oh, it's real.” He groans, mouth returning to your neck.

His hands slide under your legs and you reach for his belt. Once unbuckled, you jerk them down to his knees. He staggers back when your feet touch the ground and your fists grabs his length. 

He groans, pressing hips forward when you lick the head of his cock. Gazing up at him with stars in your eyes, your lips enclose around him. 

His head falls back with a sigh when he hits the back of your throat, again and again. You hum when his hand touches your hair. He brushes it back from your face as he watches his cock disappear past your pretty lips and into your mouth. 

“How long did you know it was me?”

You whimper around his cock in answer and he groans.

“Since the alley?” He asks, voice quivering uncontrollably. 

“Ugh… fuck.” He bites his lip when your gaze meets his, the only response to his question the slick, wet sound of his length thrusting in and out of your mouth. He bites back a frustrated groan, and clutching your hair in his shaking fist, urges you to stand.

Your lips are swollen and parted when you rise up on your toes and kiss him. 

“Please.” He begs against your mouth. “Tell me.”

You hush him and tug him closer. “Dex.” You swipe your sweat-dampened hair behind your ears. “I knew the moment you pulled me off that fence and pressed me against that wall.” You trace his lips with a fingertip. 

He watches, as you unbutton your pants and kick them away. 

“How?” His tongue wets his lips. “I need–”

You grab his wrist and spin him towards the sarcophagus. You pin him there, arm twisted behind his back, in a mirror image of how he's held you before.

Your chest heaves against his back, and when you press your tongue to his neck his hips thrust forward. He's hard, and dripping. He groans when your hand reaches around him, gripping him tightly.

You whisper against the shell of his ear, licking it. “I knew because I have that dark, fucked up thing in me too.” You pump your fist and bite his ear. His breath breaks across his lips in a painful gasp.

“I think they recognize one another.”

“Really?” He whimpers and rests his forehead against the sarcophagus, completely powerless in your hands, and only a little embarrassed of the cum he can't hold back that spills into your fist.

“That and you have a very distinct voice, Dex. A hat can't conceal everything.” Your breath shutters against his ear. 

“Ugh, fuck…” your fist slows to an aching stop, leaving him throbbing in your palm. He pauses a moment, breathing heavy for several heartbeats after you release him and step away.

His head is spinning when he turns. There you are, standing in your panties, blouse partially unbuttoned, chest heaving. 

Of all the beautiful things they hide down here… you're the most exquisite.

🎯

You've seen every bit of Dex now– the dark shadows behind his eyes, the edge in his smile, the tension in his muscles. The mask he’s had to wear for survival has melted away at your touch. Now, his expression is one of reverence, and need, and hunger. His eyes are wide and gentle as he looks down on you.

Dex's hands spread your thighs wider as he sweeps the swollen head of his cock against you. You're stretched across one of the sarcophagi, hair spilling over the side. Dex groans as he presses his hips forward, slowly stretching you open. You're wet and ready, hands cupping his face.

“You're so beautiful.” His eyes are locked on yours. He lets out a shuddering moan as he pops past the tight, slippery muscles hugging him so tightly. 

He lets his length settle inside of you for a breath before he grips your hips and thrusts.  Squeezing his eyes shut, his head falls back with a curse as he bottoms out in you. When he opens them again, his gaze is bright with light and locked in on you.

His hips pick up a desperate rhythm.

You widen your legs and wrap them around his waist. The sting of taking every inch of his heavy, thick cock is long forgotten, replaced with the intense pleasure of him claiming the deepest parts of you. Your body rocks with each punishing thrust. 

The cold silence of the vault is replaced with Dex's whispered pleas and your incoherent moans. The obscene sounds of his plunging into you and the creaking of the sarcophagus beneath you bounce sharply off the vaulted ceilings. When your eyes close and your mouth opens in a moan, he lets out a low plea.

“Look at me.” His hands tighten on your waist as he continues to plunge into you.

When your eyes meet his, something shifts. Leaning forward he hooks your legs over his shoulders and lifts you. Your arms loop around his neck and when he presses his forehead to yours you kiss him, long and deep. 

“Dex–” Your breath is squeezed from your lungs when your back presses against the cold stone wall of the vault.

“Ugh… oh. Baby– say it again.” His breath is hot on your neck. Pulling yourself closer you whisper his name against his ear.

“Fuck, you're– you're so wet.” His breath hitches and his pace quickens. “Tell me you're mine.” He lets out a strangled moan. “Please.”

You can barely think, stringing two words together seems like an impossible task. But those words leave your lips as if they're the only ones meant to cross them. “I’m yours.”

Your head falls back as a hot torrent of pleasure unwinds in you.

“Forever?” He kisses and sucks on your throat. “Please…”

A cry breaks around your lips, and your hips quiver as your orgasm rolls through you, drenching his cock.

“Baby. Ugh, oh, fuck–” His thrusts punch into you hard and deep, and his hands grip you tightly as rope and after rope of his hot, sticky cum fills you.

You hold onto him trembling, and he grips you like you're the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. You press sweet kisses to his temple and face as tears sting your eyes. He leans into them with a contented sigh. And you promise him forever. 

You're his forever.

For however long forever might be.

... to be continued...

read part 3 here / master list

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[aquaticmercy]

Just a Girl!

Summary : You tell Dex he needs to earn the right to kiss you. His efforts are… interesting.

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

Warnings/tags : Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, canon-typical violence, stolen clothing, suggestive (sex implied), obsessive behaviour, you have a roommate called Mia. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!

Word Count : 5.6k

Requested by : Ko-fi request <3

Notes : This is so insane! A ko-fi request for a sequel that was originally a ko-fi request. Enjoy!

This could be read as a one shot, but was intended to be direct sequel to Little Monster

The second you told Dex he would have to earn the right to kiss you, his attention tunnel visioned onto the task.

You said it on your first date, if you counted sharing one terrible beer, killing Task Force agents together, and being walked home across rooftops as a first date.

Dex definitely did.

He walked you back to your fire escape afterwards, his shirt still hanging off your body beneath your jacket. You still had blood beneath your nails, and he still had your silver paint smudged beneath one eye.

At your window, he stopped.

Dex looked at your mouth, and for one brief second, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe walking you home like a gentleman would have been enough to earn you. Maybe you were finally going to lose that cruel smile and give him the only thing he had been thinking about since you kissed him through his own mask.

Instead, after handing the mask back, you placed one hand against his chest and kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Dex.”

Then you climbed through your window and shut it behind you.

Dex stayed on the roof of your building for almost five full minutes, staring at nothing.

What was enough, then?

When he got home, he didn’t sleep.

Dex sat at his kitchen table until five in the morning with a notebook open in front of him, trying to work out how to earn you like it was a mission and a mathematical problem all at once.

He had never had this before, at least not romantically or properly.

He had wanted people before, sure. He had fixated and watched and needed. But he had never met someone he wanted to impress. This was different because it was you.

So Dex pulled up a notebook and started to brainstorm.

At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, he wrote:

What can I do to earn it?

He stared at the sentence for a long time.

Then, because he had no idea what normal people did, he wrote the first thing that came to mind.

Jewellery?

He paused, but it seemed right. Women liked jewellery. He had seen his colleagues back at the FBI buy silver and gold for anniversaries, engagements, and apologies. He had seen men do it in restaurants, in movies, and in department-store advertisements with stupidly saccharine music every February.

Still, Dex knew you wouldn’t want something bought. That felt too ordinary, too impersonal. Anyone with money could buy a necklace, anyone could stand at a glass counter and let a bored sales assistant choose whatever they thought  looked pretty.

That was not earning. To Dex, that was outsourcing.

Dex tapped the pen against the paper, before modifying it.

Stolen jewellery?

Better.

He underlined it once.

You liked flair, and a heist had flair. A heist required planning, timing, and risk assessment. It had alarms to silence, guards to drop, and glass to break.

Then he wrote:Necklace with red stones.

He paused, then kept brainstorming.

Clean first. Get a box.

He underlined clean first twice.

You would probably appreciate that he had been forced to kill his way through a collection of financiers, traffickers, and Task Force donors to get it. But you would appreciate the necklace even more if he cleaned every trace of their blood from it before he gave it to you.

See? He was learning.

—

A week later, you woke up to the report of a jewellery heist.

The story was already playing on the television in the kitchen by the time you wandered in, rubbing sleep from your eyes while the kettle hissed behind you. Blue police lights flashed across the screen, staining the marble frontage of some private gallery in a gray-ish intermittent colour. The windows had been shattered inward, glass glittered across the pavement like ice, and several black body bags were being wheeled past a row of reporters pressing microphones toward anyone wearing a badge.

Mia sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and the front page spread open beside her. She had placed an unloaded handgun across the article to keep it flat, which felt disrespectful to both journalism and breakfast but was hardly the strangest thing she had ever done in your kitchen.

You poured hot water over your coffee and leaned against the counter, only half listening as the reporter explained that the gallery had been used as a private showroom for a collection owned by three wealthy financiers. Between them, they had laundered money for traffickers, moved illegal weapons through shell companies, and funnelled anonymous donations into several Task Force operations.

Now they were dead.

The security team was dead too, although the report was careful to describe them as “private contractors,” which sounded much better than armed men paid to protect criminals and their stolen wealth. 

Apparently, only one item had been taken.

The reporter’s image changed to an old catalogue photograph of a necklace laid against black silk. It was beautifully dramatic, set in dark metal with deep red stones that looked almost black before the studio light flashed.

You paused with the mug halfway to your mouth. “Huh.”

Mia glanced up from her cereal, spoon hovering near her lips. “What?”

“It’s pretty.” You looked at the necklace again.”

And that was the full extent of your interest.

That morning, it didn’t occur to you that Dex had done it.

Dex was many things, but he was not a thief. He took weapons when he needed them, and sometimes files, keys, evidence, ammunition. Those were practical things with a means to an end. You couldn’t imagine him breaking into private galleries for jewels. He had never shown any interest in luxury, money, or expensive objects for their own sake.

You finished your coffee, watched another body bag disappear into an ambulance, and thought no more about it.

—

Dex tapped on your apartment window shortly after midnight.

The sound was small enough that Mia didn’t hear it from her bedroom, but it pulled you out of the book balanced across your knees. You stayed still for a moment, listening. 

Your hand went instinctively toward the knife tucked between the sofa cushions as you walked across the apartment. There was no shadow from the other side of the curtain, but when you saw Dex through the gap between the blinds you sighed.

Of course.

Dex stood on the other side, jacket zipped, his hair pushed back, and there was no visible blood on him anywhere. He held a small black velvet box between both hands with such care that, for a second, you wondered whether it might contain an explosive.

“Shhh,” you pulled a finger to your lips, and Dex only tilted his head.

You pulled back the window, his eyes found your face immediately, then flicked down toward your mouth before returning upward. 

“What are you doing here?” You tried not to smile as you stepped into the fire escape and pulled the window back down behind you before Mia could wake up and discover Bullseye standing outside with what looked alarmingly like a romantic gift. 

The metal steps were cold beneath your bare feet, and the night air smelled of rain, rust, and old brick. Traffic moved several storeys below, tyres whispering across wet roads while the glow from nearby windows softened the edges of Dex’s face.

For all you knew about him, he looked almost nervous.

The box remained cupped in his palms. When he finally offered it to you, his fingers lingered against the velvet for half a second before releasing it.

You looked at him, then down at the box, Dex watching your face like he was waiting for a verdict.

You opened it.

For several seconds, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. The stones were darker in person, a deep garnet red that seemed to hold light inside them. The metal had been polished until every curve gleamed. It was old, heavy, and far too beautiful to have belonged to any of the men who had kept it locked inside that gallery.

Then the television footage came back to you.

You lifted your eyes slowly.Dex didn’t look away.

“You did the heist,” you whispered, eyes wide now.

It was not really a question, but he nodded anyway, enough so that  the cold air touched the back of your teeth while your thoughts rearranged themselves around the fact that Benjamin Poindexter had robbed a jewellery vault.

He had never been a thief before. Apparently, you had turned him into one.

The realisation hit you, so unexpectedly absurd that a tiny bit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You lowered your head, one hand tightening around the box as the sound spilled into the alley below.

Dex’s face changed immediately. His shoulders drew in slightly, and for one second, he looked as if he thought you were laughing at him rather than the situation he had created. He had killed his way through a private gallery, stolen one necklace from an entire collection, cleaned it until it reflected fucking lasers, found a box, and knocked politely on your window.

All because you had told him to earn a kiss.

You pressed your lips together, trying to stop giggling long enough to speak.

“Dex,” you whispered, grabbing his arm, “I genuinely didn’t know this was you.”

His brow furrowed. “You didn’t?”

“You don’t steal jewellery.”

“I do now.”

That nearly started you laughing again.

You looked back down at the necklace instead. Up close, you could see the tiny details in the metalwork, dark vines curling around the stones like thorns. There was not a smear, fingerprint, or trace of blood anywhere on it. Dex must have cleaned it meticulously, working over every setting until nothing remained of the people who had guarded it.

You lifted the necklace carefully from the box. The chain slid over your fingers with a cool, satisfying weight. “It’s beautiful."

He was relieved all at once, you could tell when his jaw loosened and his shoulders dropped. 

You turned the necklace over in your hands.

Of course he chose this one out of everything in the gallery.

His gaze drifted toward your throat, lingering there just long enough to answer the question you hadn’t asked: he had chosen it because he had imagined it on you in more ways than one, you were willing to bet.

You gathered your hair away from your neck and fastened the clasp yourself. The stones settled against your skin with a cold shock before gradually warming to your body. They rested directly over your collarbone, against your throat.

Dex’s eyes followed the necklace downward, tracing the chain and the red stones before returning to your face. His hands stayed still at his sides, but there was tension in every finger, as though not touching you required the same concentration as hitting an impossible target.

You had thought the gift was simply a gift, but then you saw the way he kept looking at your mouth.

Oh. 

Oh.

How sweet.

You bit your lip. “This… was about the kiss.”

Dex’s face went still, and you could almost see him deciding whether denying it would help. He didn't bother.

“Did I earn it?”

There was something so painfully sincere in the question that your chest tightened. Dex hadn’t treated your teasing like flirtation. He had treated it like a task, or a standard he could meet.

You stepped closer.

The fire escape shifted faintly beneath your weight, metal creaking as you tried your hardest to still not make noise. You simply couldn’t bear to hear Mia fucking talk your ear off about manners anymore. 

You touched the front of his jacket. His body went rigid beneath your palm.

For a second, you let him believe it.

You tilted your face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth, his lips parted slightly, and every single part of his consciousness seemed to narrow onto the tiny distance remaining between you.

Then you turned your head and kissed his cheek.

Again.

This time, you let it linger as your mouth rested against the scar on his cheekbone while the red stones he had stolen for you pressed coldly against your throat. Dex closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a wounded exhale.

When you drew back, he looked dazed.

You smiled and touched the necklace lightly. “It’s incredibly sweet.”

His gaze moved from the stones to your mouth. “But?”

“But not quite.”

The disappointment flashed across his face before he could hide it. It lasted only a second, and he quickly replaced it with a familiar, frightening focus. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll do better next time.”

You probably should have been worried. Instead, you smiled.

“I can’t wait.”

—

The second attempt involved your cutting off your ex-boyfriend’s pinky finger.

Dex hadn't gone looking for him. At least, that was what he told himself. He had simply seen the man leaving a bar one evening while he was on his way back home. Unfortunately for your ex, he'd made the mistake of bragging about his ex being a dangerous and wanted vigilante, loudly enough for Dex to hear.

"I used to have her wrapped around my little finger,” He laughed loudly, as if that would impress the girl he was currently talking to. 

Ugh.

The package appeared on your fire escape the following morning, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with butcher’s string, with anote that said : Though he shouldn’t have this anymore.

It was small enough to fit in your palm, though the dark stain beginning to spread through one corner gave away that it was definitely not jewellery this time. 

You found Dex that evening on the opposite rooftop, watching your apartment with anticipation, waiting to hear whether a gift had been received. You should have been horrified. Instead, you kept thinking about the specificity of it. He had not killed the man, because apparently Dex had decided death would be too impersonal. He had taken the exact part of him that he had mentioned and removed it with surgical attention, leaving your ex alive to understand why.

When you met him on the roof, Dex straightened. Hope appeared on his face almost immediately, fragile beneath all that lethal stillness. You stepped into his space, rested your hand against his chest, and kissed his cheek in the same place as before.

Dex watched you leave with his fingers pressed against the place you had kissed, already reconsidering the scale of the gesture.

The third attempt happened during one of your outings together.

Calling it an outing was generous. You had spent most of the evening following a Task Force accountant through Hell’s Kitchen while Dex moved along the rooftops above you, appearing occasionally in dark windows and reflective surfaces like an omen. The job ended early, leaving the two of you walking without urgency through streets still wet from rain. You stopped for food from a cart, shared greasy hotdogs beneath the awning of a closed shop, and let yourself pretend for several minutes that this was what normal situationships did.

The man who ruined it came out of a bar angry. His shoulder struck yours hard enough to spill the drink in your hand, and instead of apologising, he grabbed your wrist when you turned toward him. His fingers tightened. He called you a bitch.

Dex knew you could more than take care of yourself, but instead of letting you deal with it, his head thought ding, ding, ding! This is your chance to earn it!

Without waiting to see what you would do, Dex killed him with his hands because the offence had been physical, and a primitive part of him apparently believed the answer should be too. By the time you reacted to them, the man’s face had already gone slack beneath the dirty wash of the streetlights. Dex remained crouched over him, breathing evenly, blood along his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.

He looked up at you without remorse, as if the man’s hand created a simple problem and Dex had solved it in the most direct way available.

You… looked disappointed, almost sad that you weren’t given the choice to end him yourself.

You should have scolded him. Instead, you crouched and wiped a thin streak of blood from beneath his eye. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth before you had even begun leaning closer, and for a brief second, the hope on his face made you consider giving him what he wanted.

You kissed his cheek again.

This time, your mouth landed nearer the corner of his lips, close enough that Dex inhaled and turned his face by instinct, chasing an act you had already withdrawn. You smiled, tracing your thumb once over his bloodied cheekbone before leaving him kneeling beside the body with his restraint hanging by a thread.

His fourth attempt was less impulsive and considerably more elaborate.

Someone had begun watching your building. You noticed the same dark sedan twice in one week, though it always disappeared before you could approach it. Mia found a listening device beneath the kitchen windowsill, hidden so badly it was frankly insulting. T

Three nights later, an entire surveillance crew disappeared.

Their operation had been housed in a rented office two streets from your apartment. Dex dismantled it room by room. The people inside had worked for a private intelligence firm funded by Task Force donors, and Dex killed the ones who had apparently fucking photographed your bedroom, even if he had done the same himself. He left the technician who had installed the device alive with both hands broken and every hard drive stacked beside him.

Then Dex brought you the files.

He arranged them across your kitchen table while you slept, pages separated into neat categories: From the names of the donors, their addresses, their routines, and the amounts they had paid to look into your life.

You found him later that night when you stepped onto the fire escape, crouched between his knees, and held his face in both hands. This time, your kiss landed at the edge of his cheek, close enough to his mouth that the corner of your lips brushed his for less than a second.

He went rigid.

The contact on his lips had been so slight it might have been accidental, but both of you knew it wasn't. Dex followed when you pulled away, stopping himself only after his mouth had moved an inch toward yours. His eyes had gone unfocused, his breathing suddenly uneven as he stared at the tiny distance you had created.

You thanked him for the files, and told him not quite.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

—-

Dex ran out of ideas three days later.

The almost-kiss had destroyed what remained of his ability to think rationally. He could still feel the exact place you had pressed your lips to his skin, which he thought about often enough to become embarrassing.

You had been so close. Closer than ever before.

That would have meant he was improving, right?

Instead, he sat at his kitchen table until nearly dawn, staring at the same notebook he had used after your first date.

The original page looked almost childish now. Jewellery? was written in black ink, followed by notes about red stones, boxes, and cleaning off the blood. That had seemed like such a strong idea at the time. He had been proud of it. He had planned the heist meticulously, selected the necklace from an entire private collection, and polished every link of the chain himself.

You had loved it.

Still. It was not enough.

Everything he had tried afterwards filled the next several pages. Names, addresses, little reminders of things that bothered you and people who no longer had the opportunity to do so. Some of the ideas had been crossed out because they were too excessive, although Dex’s definition of excessive remained alarmingly generous. Others had been completed and marked with neat dates in the margin.

Beside each attempt, he had recorded the result.

Cheek.

Cheek again. Slightly longer.

Corner of mouth. Almost.

Pathetic. It really was fucking pathetic.

Dex stared at that final entry until the words began to blur.

He could do more, obviously. There were always more people to kill, more enemies to drag to your feet like a sad cat. 

But Dex had begun to suspect that scale was not the problem.

He picked up his pen and wrote: bigger jewellery heist?

Then he crossed it out.

He wrote: kill Task Force Leader?

That one remained on the page for several minutes before he reluctantly crossed it out too. Powell definitely deserved it, but you had never mentioned him specifically. Killing someone you hadn’t complained about felt like guessing, and Dex was starting to understand that guessing wrong could push him farther away instead of bringing him closer.

He considered returning your ex’s other pinky finger.

No, he thought, too repetitive.

He considered finding every man who had ever frightened you and arranging them alphabetically in a warehouse.

Impractical, he thought. That idea had flair, but he could not work out what you would do with one.

By six in the morning, the notebook contained several increasingly desperate fragments and one entire page where Dex had written WHAT DOES SHE WANT? hard enough to leave the words embossed through the paper beneath it.

The answer didn’t appear.

For the first time since you had told him to earn the kiss, Benjamin Poindexter had no plan.

—

Mia discovered him outside your kitchen window at two in the morning.

She had come in for water wearing an oversized pyjama set, her hair twisted into a loose knot that had mostly collapsed. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove, and she nearly walked past him before she noticed the shape crouched on the fire escape.

Dex tapped once against the glass.

Mia flinched hard enough to spill water over her hand. “What the…”

Within seconds, she had a pistol aimed directly between his eyes.

Dex had expected that.

Mia stared at him through the window, exhausted because she had repeatedly asked you to stop contributing to her life becoming stranger and had been consistently ignored. Her eyes moved from his face to his empty hands, checking for blood, weapons, packages, or severed pieces of anyone she recognised.

There was nothing, and that seemed to concern her more.

She unlocked the window but only raised it several inches, leaving enough space to talk without giving him room to climb through. 

“She’s asleep,” Mia said quietly.

“I know.”

Her eyes narrowed. Of course he did.

Dex looked past her toward your bedroom door on the side, which was closed. He could picture you behind it, curled beneath the blankets, breathing into your pillow. He forced his attention back to Mia before the thought became distracting. “I need help.”

Mia’s grip shifted on the pistol.

For several seconds, she seemed unsure whether she had heard him correctly. Dex understood that he didn’t ask people for help. Help created debt and uncertainty, and it was usually more efficient to solve the problem himself.

Unfortunately, he had tried that.

Mia raised the window another few inches, though the gun remained.

Dex took the notebook from inside his jacket and passed it through the gap.

Mia didn;t lower the pistol as she took it. She placed the notebook on the counter, flipped it open with one hand, and began reading. Her expression changed as she moved through the pages: Confusion, followed by disbelief, then amusement.

Dex watched her read the record of his attempts, and when Mia reached the page headed POSSIBLE NEXT ATTEMPTS, she stopped.

The list beneath it included stealing a deed to a building, acquiring a tiger, and locating the person responsible for cancelling the brand of hot chocolate you liked three years ago.

Mia looked up. “A tiger?”

“She likes cats,” Dex shrugged.

Mia sighed. “That doesn't mean she wants a tiger.”

“I crossed it out.”

She looked at the notes again. “It says here you researched three private zoos.”

“I needed to know whether it was feasible.”

Mia shut the notebook and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The gun was still in her other hand, but it had lowered toward the floor, apparently because exasperation had temporarily overtaken self-preservation.

Dex waited for her to provide an answer.

Instead, she looked at him through the narrow opening and began to laugh, and it was not the same laughter you gave him. Yours eventually made his chest warm. Mia’s laughter made him feel as though he had failed the test at every hurdle.

He thought about hurting Mia for making him feel humiliated, but then decided against it because you’d probably hate him for it.

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the problem,” Mia managed, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake you. “You are thinking about this like you’re trying to overthrow a government.”

Dex didn’t see how that was relevant. Overthrowing a government required less guesswork.

Mia opened the notebook again and flicked through the pages, staring at each carefully planned act of violence. The laughter eventually faded, leaving behind a reluctant sympathy that Dex disliked even more.

“You’re thinking too much,” she told him.

The statement felt insulting. Thinking was how he avoided mistakes. “She told me to earn it.”

“I know. She told me everything.”

Dex’s attention sharpened. “Everything?”

Mia ignored the question. “You keep acting like there’s a secret combination of murder and theft that unlocks her mouth.”

He reached under the window for the notebook, but Mia pulled it back before he could take it. “She’s just a girl, Dex.”

He stared at her, because she wasn’t making sense.

You were not just anything. How fucking dare she insinuate that?

Mia seemed to read the objection on his face.

“I know she’s a fucking lunatic,” she continued. “I live with her. I’ve helped her sink bodies. Just… stop trying to earn the kiss by making her owe you.”

Eventually, she released the notebook back to his custody.

That had never been his intention. He didn’t want you indebted to him. He wanted you to be impressed, delighted. But perhaps those things were not as different as he had believed.

Perhaps the gesture had the undertone of the same question:

Was that enough? Do I get it now?

Mia had seen it. You probably had too.

Dex looked down at the notebook in his hands and the pages felt heavier than before.

Mia started lowering the window, apparently done with his bullshit for the night. She paused with only a narrow gap remaining. “Again,” She started, “She’s just a girl. Don’t overthink it.”

Easier said than done. 

—

For once, Dex listened.

The next time he came to see you, nobody had died.

There was no breaking-news report waiting for you that morning, no stolen artefact displayed across the front page, no mysteriously vanished Task Force officials, and no parcel on the fire escape leaking through its paper wrapping. The day passed so uneventfully that by evening, you had started to suspect Dex was planning something truly catastrophic.

You checked the news twice. Nothing.

You glanced toward the window whenever a shadow shifted outside, but the fire escape remained empty. It was nearly eight when someone knocked on the apartment door.

You looked up from the sofa.

Mia looked up from the weapon catalogue spread across her lap. She was in her bedroom with the door ajar. “You expecting someone?”

“No.”

Mia turned another page. “Weird.”

There was no urgency in the knock, no coded pattern, and no scraping sound suggesting someone was trying to slide a body across the hallway carpet.

When you opened the door, Dex was standing beneath the weak yellow light with a bunch of flowers in his hands.

For a moment, you only stared.

They were not arranged professionally. The paper around them had been folded precisely in some places and crushed in others, as though Dex had spent far too long trying to hold them without damaging anything. There were no red stones, no bloodstains, and no expensive velvet box. Just a slightly unruly collection of pale flowers and greenery, fresh enough that tiny droplets of water still clung to the petals.

Dex looked almost painfully uncertain.

He had faced rooms full of armed men with less visible tension. His shoulders were held too squarely, his fingers carefully positioned around the stems, and his eyes kept moving between your face and the flowers as though he expected one of them to tell him what to do next.

Oh. this was new.

“You… brought me flowers.”

“I uh…” Dex nodded, “yeah.”

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion as you accepted them. The paper rustled beneath your fingers, damp where the stems had been wrapped. “Did you steal them?”

“No.”

“Threaten the florist?”

He had another pause, just long enough to become concerning. “No.”

“Dex.”

“I paid.”

You looked up properly at that.

His eyes looked… defensive, as if buying flowers had required more courage than stealing a priceless necklace from a fortified vault. Maybe it had. Violence gave him a shield to hide behind. This was only Dex standing outside your door with a simple gift and no proof of obsession beyond the fact that he had remembered you might like flowers in your favourite colours.

You looked down at the flowers again.

They smelled green somehow, faintly sweet but not overwhelming. A little piece of leaf had caught against the paper near your thumb. One stem was slightly bent, probably from Dex gripping the bouquet too tightly on the journey over and then attempting to straighten it before knocking.

The imperfection made it strangely charming.

There was no note demanding that you understand what he had done for you, though you had at least expected it. There was no list of names or severed pieces of someone who had wronged you. He hadn’t even brought them as evidence that he could protect you, avenge you, or remove inconvenience from your life.

He had brought you flowers because Mia had told him you were just a girl.

And sometimes girls liked flowers their will-they-won’t-they situationship brought for them.

Finally, after all his increasingly elaborate attempts, he had tried doing something… simple.

“They’re beautiful,” you smiled,watching relief pass over his face so openly you nearly melted.

Dex’s eyes flickered toward your mouth out of habit, but he stopped himself almost immediately. He didn’t ask whether he had earned it, he didn’t even step closer or look expectant. He only stood there in the hallway, hands empty now, waiting to see whether you wanted to invite him inside.

Oh, Dex.

You stepped into the hallway and placed the flowers carefully on the console table beside the door. Dex watched you do it, cautiously hopeful, but he still didn’t move.

Without any warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his.

His mouth was warm beneath yours, parted slightly with surprise, and for one suspended moment he did absolutely nothing. 

Apparently, he had failed to consider that flowers might work.

Eventually, though, he kissed you back carefully at first, as if the kiss might disappear if he wanted it too much. His hand lifted toward your waist but stopped just short of touching, every part of him still suspended between hope and disbelief.

You pulled away.

Dex followed without meaning to, his mouth chasing yours by an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened completely dazed, and the devastation on his face made your stomach twist.

At that moment, he seemed to think that was all he was getting.

Then you smiled, tightened your fist in his jacket, and pulled him back.

The second kiss was deeper, and Dex made a soft, wrecked sound against your mouth as his hands finally settled around your waist. The restraint he had been pushed down for weeks cracked beneath your fingers. He kissed you like he had memorised every near miss: every cheek, every corner, every cruel fraction of an inch you had left between you.

Behind you, Mia peeked out her bedroom door.

Mia took one look at Dex leaning down on you in the doorway, your hands gripping his jacket and the flowers abandoned beside the door, then silently reached around the frame and pulled the door shut again.

You laughed into the kiss, breathless against his mouth.

Dex felt it in his bones, not quite believing the  fact that you were finally kissing him back without a tally to settle or another task waiting. When you eventually pulled back, he followed helplessly until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing had gone uneven, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips as if he still expected you to change your mind and put unbearable distance between you again.

“D’you wanna come in?” you asked.

Dex nodded far too quickly. “Mhm.”

It came out so pathetic and eager that you smiled, caught his hand, and pulled him through the doorway. The flowers stayed forgotten on the little table while you dragged him toward your bedroom, kissing him again before you had even made it down the hall.

Mia’s door was still shut, and Dex briefly considered knocking to offer her headphones.

Then your hands found his belt loops in his waist, your mouth moving hungrily against his, and he decided she could survive one noisy night after advising him on how to win your physical affection.

After all, she had been right.

You were just a girl, and all Dex had ever needed to do was bring you flowers.

—end.

NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5. 

That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.

Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist part 1:

@itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh @ugh-whytho @noonenuts @akiyhara @genya1617 @itzrachel04 @avidreader73 @quicksilver21 @lmg-stilinski24 @magnificentlymoltenpatron @s-u-t @smiithys

[juicycuotures]

easssssy white chocolate ...

[depsidase]

[sgreer123]

I need someone to write something based off this gif. The sad, pathetic look in his eyes is KILLING me 😭