𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 - 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐦 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐝𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐫
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : when dex admits that he’s been seeing Karen —an old friend— again , your bloods run cold , mind shutting off while the instinct of keeping this relationship alive kicks in .
Resolute and wholly committed to settling this matter once and for all, you proceed to undertake an irrevocable act. One that cannot be undone, nor softened by hesitation.
How, then, will Dex confront the weight of such a decision? Will he navigate its consequences with composure and clarity, or will the gravity of the moment unravel him from within?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : ANGST || SMUT ( 18+) || DUBCON : toxic dynamics ( in between reader and dex) ,, oral sex (fem receiving ) ,, extreme jealousy,, really morally grey characters ( reader’s kinda fcked up mentally ) murder ,, manipulation ,, abandonment issues,, hints of misogyny if you squint ,, mentions of mommy issues ,, dex is a sweetheart in the end !
𝐖𝐂 : 8, 8k??
𝐀/𝐍 : oooff this is a big one guys I hope you enjoy it as much as I did ! I’m thinking of writing a sequel to this because I’ve been having some really good ideas . let me know if you’d like that !! Honestly ,I wanted to give my own take on the series plot and Dexter’s character development ,so here we go . Comments , re blogs and likes are always appreciated! -love , Jo
It set your blood to a simmer. A repellent, utterly insignificant woman—that was all she was. From the very moment your Dex confided in you the delicate, shadowed history he shared with her, you had anointed Karen as your adversary.
It was a rare Saturday night. The light night breeze tickled your bare back, while Dexter carefully drew stars on the back of your arm: a mantra of up, down, left, and right again. Up, down, left, and then right again. Again and again and aga—
“Where were you in the morning?” your quiet voice interrupted his obsessive thoughts. Getting so lost in his wickedness, he had almost forgotten about this morning’s—let’s say—acquaintance.
“Had to get some stuff done, angel,” he answered calmly as he continued the massage, now rubbing the upper half of your back gently. He moved his rough hand to your hair, slowly tugging at the soft strands—softly enough to get an exciting reaction out of you; observing you closely as you exhaled abruptly and your eyes widened.
You pulled back from the comfortable position, lying oh so carelessly in his lap, his thick thighs rubbing pleasantly the sensitive skin between your legs, his strong arms wrapped safely around you.
“You were limping, Dexie,” you responded. A tiny bit of sass, mixed with a touch of concern, in your voice. “You can’t just go to get stuff done and come back so—”
He quickly shushed you, bringing his other hand to cover your mouth.
“No. Stop that,” he stated sleepily; his eyes sparking with excitement as your concerned expression caused his cock to harden in his pants. The effect you had on him was undeniable ,no matter how well collected and restrained he wanted to act like.
He always seemed so calm and well-behaved. Never lost his temper, never unjustified overreacted. You would even call him the epitome of the chill-guy meme back in the day (even if that meant having to explain to him for days that you weren’t angry or making fun of him).
But that was rare. Because you knew he could lose his temper and snap—viciously, terribly.
His nostrils flared as he continued his little rehearsed speech. “You don’t need to concern your pretty mind with me, okay?” he mumbled, before he leant in for an affectionate forehead kiss; one that took advantage of your weak spot, while you moaned shamelessly.
He was not playing fair, obviously avoiding the conversation.
You pulled back and watched his façade drop, as the rejection of his acts of affection reminded you how a thousand voices in his head would be screaming right now, the same amount of bells ringing too.
You couldn’t care less, not when that meant he could always get away with lying like that. “Relationships were all about trust,” he had emphasized one day, explaining the undeniable need that burned within him, one that forced you to reveal your darkest and most mysterious secrets—as if he had not known them already.
“Oh, will you stop, for God’s sake!” you replied, arms crossing over your exposed chest while you cursed yourself for wearing such an exposing fabric—especially on a chilly night like that one. “Just tell me the truth once. I’m not a fucking child, Benjamin. I can take it,” you added, feeling your calmness slip away, the tingly feeling of anger overtaking.
You were so fed up with his lies—his false statements about how he did all of this for you.
You looked him straight in the eyes. The tiny wrinkles around them didn’t move; he wasn’t even blinking, you noticed.
That wasn’t good.
But you couldn’t accept that behavior anymore. No.You were determined to get some answers.
“I said I had to deal with some obstacles, angel,” he answered loud and clear, his voice so stable it sent you into a spiral. He turned his head to the side as he waited for your answer, a cynical smile adorning his chiseled face as he mentally mocked your unconventional behavior.
Oh, fuck that guy.
“You wanna play like that, Dexie? Fuck, I can play like that,” you laughed back at him, his usual egoistic expression now giving its place into a serious—more firmer—one.
Instantly, you stood up, leaving the warm, soft embrace of his body,making your way to the bedroom.
He fancied being all mysterious and calm like this? Oh, you would show him mysterious.
You took off your summer casual shirt and put on a warm, dark-blue sweater, thinking it would be quite cold outside since it was now thirty minutes past midnight.
“Where are you going?” his tone, taut with strain, betrayed a man edging ever closer to the collapse of his self-mastery—an erosion of control that devastates not only those who love him, but himself most of all.
Was he worked up?
Good.
You ignored his question, moving to the drawer to grab a fresh pair of socks. You needed some time away from him.
Not that you wanted it. No. But he couldn’t shut you out like that.
“Angel, where are you going?” There it was again.
He was getting scared now; you could almost see his empty eyes fill with a windstorm of unreadable emotions as he realized the following consequences of his actions; or maybe his mind filled with excuses he could make excellent use of later.
You couldn’t tell.
You were planning on going for a walk—not far from your block. Get some fresh air and come back prepared to deal with his breaking-down mess.
Dating Dex was not an easy thing.
You turned to face him, determined to get past him, reach the bedroom door, and maybe sprint to the main entrance—only to come face-to-face with his tall figure standing proudly in the middle of the doorway, barricading your path .
Cliché, you thought.
“Dex, I really don’t have time, nor am I in the mood, to play games.” you admitted, surprising yourself with your own absurd honesty.
When did you get so feisty? Dex thought to himself. He was used to you being the compliant one—always pleased, never talking back.
His obsessive thoughts were projecting like crazy. He could think of a million things that, if you learned… oh, if you learned…
He didn’t even want to think about that possibility.
“I’m just going for a walk, alright? When I’ll be back, perhaps you’ll be able to tell me the truth,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as a mild headache had started to form in the half of your scalp.
Were you holding your breath? he noticed; your chest deflating as you finished your sentence.
Poor angel.
You aren’t going anywhere.
He leaned into the doorway, sinful arms tightly wrapped around his godlike torso.
“Are you sure you want this level of honesty, angel?” he asked as his head dipped downwards, reviewing the wooden surface of your bedroom floors.
Was that even a question?
He can’t be serious.
“Well, obviously you weren’t at work, since Saturdays are off days, neither were you busy running er—”
He interrupted your ongoing monologue, perhaps to save your precious time—a futile tendency to justify his every action.
Even if you had stood up for yourself, tonight. He was proud deep inside, however, he could not deny how the thought of you finally managing the courage to give up on his violent and manic self troubled him deeply.
“I was with Karen,” he said, finally looking back at your face.His eyes—now slightly playful and taunting—searched for yours.
What did he say?
“Tell me one good reason that forced you to be with her. Alone.”He had not mentioned it, but you could tell from the way his voice lowered an octave when he dared to mention her name.
“Before I fucking kill you,” you threatened, eyes shining with madness as her name echoed through your mind.
He first wanted her gone—dead—out of the physical world, once and for good. That’s what he had told you when you two had first bumped into her; the force of youthful passion led you to disregard the troubling, profoundly misogynistic remark.
And now he admitted meeting her.
You wanted to believe he was lying, that he was provoking you in order to vanish your runaway fantasies.
He continued standing there,his sinister smirk plastered on his straight teeth, almost begging you to punch him.
There was no chance of that, though. No need to lie to yourself.You would never lay a finger on him—to hurt him, of course not.
No. You were a good person.
“You would not harm anyone, angel,” he had told you on one of your ice-cream dates, his mesmerizing eyes boring holes into your lightweight sundress as he spun you around, the light edges of your hair grazing his linen shirt.
He was terribly wrong.She had crossed the line; You were in too deep, too bonded with him, to let him fall into her mischievous trap.
Dexie is obviously spiraling, you thought.
He is not thinking right!
Maybe this is my chance to save him—prove to him that I’m more than capable of committing horrible actions.
You did not allow him to answer as you added, “Fuck it. It’s not even worth it right now. Did you two enjoy your seven minutes in heaven? Or wasn’t it enough to fulfill your repressed passion?” your voice dripping with poison as you continued.
Irony was your best point; you knew it.
His eyebrows shot up in disbelief as he kept staring, never answering or acknowledging your emotions, not handing you back the reaction you manically sought.
You hated how stoic and patient he acted.
“This is it. I’m going for a walk,” you spat as you stormed to the door,not even earning the chance to reach past him as his hands captured you—his right one at the top of your mouth, muffling your voice, while the other pressed into your hipbone.
“Are you done with the show, angel? I can admit it’s pretty exciting, but I’m getting bored, time by time,” he cooed, patiently waiting for your nod. And indeed, when you did, he started his own performance—the one you were extremely familiar with.
“You aren’t going anywhere, sweetheart. You hear me?” Affirmative.
You knew from firsthand experience he wasn’t playing around with your wellbeing and security; the man wanted control over everything: when you were going to eat lunch, when the dishes would be washed.
“You still have a chance to be a good girl. Why don’t you go sit on the couch and wait for me, hm?” he suggested, as he hesitantly removed his athletic hand from your lips.
The same hand hovered at your jawline, caressing the sharp line, before lastly pulling an annoying strand of hair out of your face.
He leaned in for a gentle forehead kiss, causing your eyes to flutter shut at the warm motion. Your heart bloomed with the realness of his soothing touch, almost forgetting about his previous unreasonable behavior.
He broke the kiss first and encouraged you to return to the living room, where one of Netflix’s latest miniseries was waiting for you two—paused; patiently waiting for the lovers’ quarrel to end.
You sat on the messy sofa, throwing the fuzzy blanket over your bare legs. A gift from him, you recalled.
Last Christmas, when he had planned on flying you out to London—not only because he knew how much you adored that part of the year, but because he wanted to make up for the time you two were apart since work had been consuming—and still is—a lot of time in his everyday life.
The minutes passed as you reminisced over the winter holidays: how the soft snowflakes adorned his beautiful face, the day he took you to Harrods and bought you the shiniest ring just because you were “staring at it for too long, angel.”
Unconsciously, your fingers touched the cold accessory, feeling the gold engraving of his name on the inside of the ring as you continued toying with it.
He was so good back then.
“Dexie?” you asked,but the message didn’t reach its receiver.
Dex was never late; there was only one answer for his late promise.
Immediately, you stood up from the couch, throwing the grey blanket to the floor in your attempt to reach the living room faster.
Tears gathered in your eyes as you scanned the empty room.No sign of Dexter.
The cold breeze that broke in from the open window slapped you in the face, simultaneously with the realization that he was gone.
Once again, you had been deceived.
The first shy rays of sunshine invaded your bedroom, lighting up the room.
You barely slept all night, shuffling around as you reminisced over last night’s incident.
You hated when he left—how he preferred to isolate himself rather than talking to you, express himself, confront his—your—difficulties.
The smell of slightly burnt butter and vanilla forced you to open your sleepy eyes, your mouth salivating at the thought of full plate of homemade, warm pancakes.
He’s back already? That troubled you.
He rarely returned the next day after you two had fought;only God knew where he decided to spend that time unwinding.
This past year, you thought he returned to the bureau, probably double-checking old cases or occupying his mind with the newest ones.
Now it would be pretty naive to believe he was staying over at the office.
Lazily, you pushed the cotton duvet off your warm body; the chilly air caused goosebumps to appear on the smooth surface of your skin.
Most Sunday mornings were spent in his safe embrace—his hands carelessly rubbing your cheek, his pretty mouth gifting you one of those rare, heartfelt smiles.
Making your way into the kitchen, you couldn’t help but admire the devoted man. A white tank top adorned his fit body, his well-traced abs peeking through the fabric.
His hands moved steadily as he flipped the pancakes, oftentimes checking how much batter was left.
“You up, angel? I made your favorite,” he broke the unbearable silence as he turned to look at you, a hesitant smile replacing his usually frigid, unreadable expression.
You stayed in the exact same position for quite some time, unsure of what to answer; Ignore him and stay angry, or play it off—act cool in order to cover your wicked plans.
“What are you doing here so early?” you managed to ask, the confusion in your voice making his eyebrows furrow.
“Well, obviously, I’m making you a wonderful breakfast—just in case you haven’t noticed,” he shot back, pointing to the kitchen full of fresh ingredients.
You decided to disregard his arrogant comment; there was no point in fighting him when he was acting so sweet, so innocent—even if it made your blood boil.
“It’s just that you don’t often return so—”
He cut you off, acting as if he had forgotten about your favorite toppings. As if ever.
“Is it maple syrup or honey, angel? Remind me, please,” he added softly as he flipped another piece, the simple movement making your heart ache with adoration.
You willingly approached him, deciding he could use some help.
Two are always better than one, right?
Soon you reached your final destination, now face-to-face with his thick back, his much bigger frame almost covering you whole.
You smiled at the thought; He was so big.
Your hands clasped around his waist, tugging him closer, as you left a small kiss at the top of his shoulder blade.
His musky scent—a combination of tobacco and vanilla—stimulated your senses.The warm feeling of his masculine presence made your eyes flutter shut.
You loved these moments. The ones where no one was rushing anyone—no excessive yelling or sarcastic glares.
You noticed as he instinctively reached for the honey, applying a generous amount to the sizzling stack of pancakes.
Bastard.Didn’t even try to hide it.
Quickly, he turned off the stove and touched your soft hands, switching your positions so that you would be facing him.
Trapped between him and the still-warm machine, your eyes wandered over his rough face. The nasty scar on his left cheek always made your lips pout at the view of the poor skin.
His denial to admit the real reason behind it always irritated you, but shortly you had accepted his mysticopathic tendencies.
“Slept good, angel?” he mumbled in between kisses, his strong hands holding your waist tight—possessively.You nodded in return, melting at his sudden affection.
He made you breakfast. He’s genuinely concerned about you!
What else could a girl ask for?
Still, that didn’t change the fact he had abandoned you last night, choosing his personal peace and space over your mutual one.
You wanted to hit him—scream that you actually cared about him—show him he was the only one for you.
Despite proving your devotion every single day—the way you happily obeyed his every command, patiently waiting for him to return after a tiring day at work, helping him steam some stress off.
You didn’t get the chance to indulge deeper in your thoughts as his hands dropped beneath your waistline, purposely playing with the hem of your pajama shorts.
The kiss that followed was passionate, nothing like the previous one.Your teeth crashed as his tongue invaded your mouth, making sure you knew he was the one in control.That he was in charge of all this.
Your hands shot up to his scalp, shuffling his dark-blond locks while you enjoyed the feeling of his fresh shave at the back of your palms.
He wasted no time as he removed your pants, clicking his tongue with fake disbelief as he witnessed the lack of underwear.
“You are such a dirty girl, angel. You know that?” he challenged.
Oh, how unfair he acted.
As if he wasn’t the one who had made it clear how important easy access was.
The first time you had forgotten about that particular rule, he had torn them apart before he stuffed your poor mouth with them.Not only did that muffle your futile cries as he spanked your bare ass over his knee, but it reminded you of the importance of following his instructions.
You didn’t answer his provocative remark.
Instead, you moaned a little “please” while you tugged his hair harder, practically urging him to fall to his knees.
And oh, he did.
Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, his lips trailing kisses all over your naked body, glassy and innocent eyes looking up at you.
“You are so beautiful, angel. All mine,” he said as his head faced his proudest possession—your bare pussy, begging him to get wrecked.
The pounding sensation between your legs was getting unbearable as his two fingers reached the petite bundle of nerves, carefully rubbing and tugging the glistening skin.
His other hand secured its position at the small of your back—a typical way to minimize your squirming and shaky nature.
But for you it wasn’t just an indirect tool to provoke maximum pleasure; it was a constant reminder of his supportive and steady presence.
His skilled fingers followed the path to your wet hole as you tugged his head harder, bringing him closer to your exposed mound.
“What do you want me to do, angel?” he dared to ask as he peered up at you, a wicked smile adorning his lust-covered face; Pupils dilated and cheeks flushed—he was more than enjoying this.
He was thriving off it; your sweet taste and presence were like a drug.
“Use your words, baby,” he encouraged as your mouth dropped at the sudden loss of friction, unconsciously buckling your hips forward to release some pressure.
“Not so much of a big girl now, huh? All of yesterday’s disrespect and audacity—now gone,” he finished, as he finally allowed himself to take the most precious bite of his favorite breakfast.
He licked a long stripe of your dripping pussy, taking a moment to process the outstanding, unique taste.
He could die for this—for you.
His sinful tongue continued its illicit game, now thrusting simultaneously with his expert fingers.
He brought your leg over his prominent shoulder, his other hand never leaving your back;A constant reminder: he was there, with you, for you. Now and always.
“I love you so much, angel,” he growled, the bass of his voice causing another wave of pleasure to erupt in your sensitive stomach.
His hot breath felt like ice on a hot summer day, relieving your flushed skin from his dirty torture.
Going back like a starved man, he continued sucking and biting at your most sensitive region, his eyes looking up at you as if you were his goddess.
His North Star.
His guidance.
His hope.
No matter how cliché it sounded, he found himself thinking how lost he would be without you. You were the light of his life—the reason he didn’t… he mustn’t… lose control.
Because behind all those hideous crimes, he was still a scared man—a person so afraid of his own nature that he had decided to turn against his own kind.
People had failed him innumerable times: first his family, later Fisk’s wife, who he so naively thought would be able to cover the immense gap of motherly love.
Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, he used to say, reassuring himself that he wasn’t the bad guy—making sure he wasn’t portraying the typical villain in an innocent person’s life.
So why did the thrill of the perfect shot feel like a drug to him—so rare and important he could not imagine a life without a possible weapon?
And for him, that could be everything: from a random CD you had left in his apartment, to the black pen he used to write with at work.
“Heading out for a run, angel!” you heard Dex shouting from the living room, your old headphones muffling his voice.
Perfect, you thought, quickly looking over at your bedstand to check for the time; 11:45 a.m.—he would have returned in approximately fifty-two minutes if he did his easy 10 km run, one hour and five minutes if he decided to go for 14 km.
Estimating the time needed for you to use New York’s terrible means of transportation, you realized you would probably need about forty minutes to pay a visit to an old friend back in Brooklyn and return home.
Dexie wouldn’t be home for another quarter of an hour or so, meaning you had plenty of time to cover any undesirable tracks.
Your thoughts were violently interrupted as he barged into the room, a concerned look plastered on his face—perhaps due to your lack of answer.
Fuck. How many times had he called out for you?
“Is everything okay, angel? You would not answer me,” he added as he approached eagerly, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek.
Softly, he pushed your chin upwards, forcing you to face him.
His handsome head was now covered by his grey hoodie.
Even with New York’s warm weather, he never liked running so openly exposed to strangers—fellow enjoyers of the so-called runner’s high.
He knew firsthand how cruel and sadistic this world could be; he had witnessed the sharp and unforgiving teeth of this monster long ago.
It was time for his revenge.
And maybe at that particular moment he noticed the wrath beneath your eyes—the impressive flames of your decisiveness, mixed with a touch of possessiveness he could only admire.
“Everything’s fine. Just got caught up with the music,” you lied, pointing to the source of the rhythmical beat.
Your hand came over to affectionately play with his prominent veins.
You followed the trail of the biggest one, reaching up to his elbow before laying a kiss at the very low of his bicep.
“I said I’m going for a run, right?” he continued, his other hand patting your head softly—a reminder he had to leave. Again.
But this time would be different.
It would be the last time he left you alone like that.
You would make sure of it.
Your heart raced as your shaky fingers twisted the metallic doorknob, droplets of sweat making your forehead shine in an extraordinary way. You were not used to this. God, you had never done anything like that before.
The lethal piece of steel felt heavy in your jacket’s hidden pocket, an unexpected discovery you had stumbled upon while cleaning Dex’s office . You couldn’t help but wonder how he had managed to sneak this into the house, taking into consideration how he had always been critiquing FBI policies and laws about gun reservation and protection.
“I really don’t see a point in delivering our guns at the main entrance every night. How are we supposed to protect ourselves unarmed?” you remembered one of his heated dialogues with the head chief. “Oh yeah? Well I think it would be a wonderful idea to inform the citizens about this new legislation, too.”
You knew he wasn’t exactly the most liked colleague, famous for the wrong—right, according to him—things, and hated for his inhuman expertise and shot.
But no one could deny the fact he was exceptionally good at what he was doing, even if that meant inspecting thoroughly old cases, visiting the crime scenes for latest clues, or risking his own wellbeing by indulging in the sweet thrill of the human hunt. Undoubtedly, this was one of his favorite parts of the job.
Now you could not help but question how he managed coping with such a terrifying wave of emotions, the stress making its presence known as you sensed your heart beat fast and loud in your ears.
Was she even here? you thought. Honestly, you had not predicted your actions in case she was away. Perhaps because deep down you actually hoped she would be missing, out with Matt or whatever her current boyfriend’s name was. Would he come after you? You didn’t even care. She had crossed the fucking line.
Dexie could deal with him later.
He would be so proud, always rewarding you when you stood up for yourself in front of others. Not him, though. No. He demanded particular respect, no matter the person or the circumstances.
You took a final breath in a futile attempt to calm your breath, control your irregular heartbeat, and finally rewire your thoughts. You had to maintain your sanity if you wanted this to be sleek.
Dexter had given you some information—that was now being used as advice—about the most usual ways the defendants used in order to cover their tracks, adding his own comments and going so far as grading the options.
You couldn’t be more grateful that you had paid attention at this particularly old conversation, instead of zoning out; admiring his extraordinary features.
Entering the room, you felt an inexplicable sensation of epiphany and self-control taking over your body, nerves relaxing and certainty coming through the surface. The living room was dimly lit, a made-up bed and handcuffs in the middle.
It looked as if no one had been staying over here for years. The signs of abandonment were crystal clear as the walls were under destruction, mold and humidity destroying the base of the apartment.
The windows were tightly closed, the metal handles now painted in red, as rust had corroded them through the years.
Any stranger that would have visited the place would not believe that it could be habitable, that a family could normally function in between these walls.
But you knew better than that. You had overheard some of Dex’s secret conversations with his boss, demanding a stricter, more precise hunt for Hell’s Kitchen’s unholy avenger; the so-called Daredevil. Later, when you had snooped through his locked files, marked as top secret and tightly shut, you had come to the horrible realization that your boyfriend wasn’t exactly working hard to undermine this man.
In reality he was cooperating with him, as they were both driven by the same end; which in this particular occasion justified the means. His devotion to the FBI and the states was nothing but an illusive expedient to vanish his prints and movements.
So yeah, you acknowledged the reason behind the wrecked and toxic house.
“Karen? Is anyone here?” you asked, your voice echoing easily through the empty space. You doubted she would recognize you at first.
You checked your phone. The first 20 minutes had passed. You needed to be quicker, without this meaning that the job would evolve into a mess and careless last-minute thought. No, Dex had taught you better than that.
You shuffled through the place, your right hand reaching out to grab the pair of handcuffs that was hooked on the bed’s headboard. Crimson red blobs were splattered on them, no sign of the iodine liquid on the bed, however.
Somebody has been here, you noted mentally.
Your left hand never left Benjamin’s second gun, making sure that no matter whom you would be faced with, you could be able to confront them.
You sat on the ancient camp bed, the squeaky sounds of its old components breaking the total silence.
You allowed yourself to explore the bedding, hands soothing over the ruched fabric. The pillowcase was bright white, in contrast to the grey linen sheets and the dark beige cot. It must be new.
Why place a new pillowcase in such an old and rusty bed? you asked yourself.
Immediately your hands snatched the opaque pillow from its place, abandoning your gun and leaving you exposed and vulnerable. At least physically.
You removed the pillowcase carefully, inspecting for any mystery signs of notes that could be hidden beneath it. And that’s when you noticed the tiny piece of paper hanging at the top right corner of the cushion.
It was folded once, probably about 1 or 2 cm long. Indeed tiny, you muttered, while you could not imagine what sort of important message would be engraved on this small amount of surface.
Checking the surrounding place once again, you took the fragile piece of paper and opened it, trying your best to minimize the trembling that had started to reappear in your dry hands.
At the sight of its content, your eyebrows furrowed as your mind raced perpetually, attempting to come up with the most logical explanation for this common sign.
It was a handwritten star, shaped with black ink and a declination of about 35 degrees.
It all clicked into place as you reminisced over the memory of the same star-marked file. The North Star Project—was it named it after? you questioned as the imaginary picture was weak; you could not make up your mind about whether or not this was related to a forbidden plan.
Maybe it functioned as a compass? you came up with an idea, twisting your wrist at what you thought 35 degrees were. Trigonometry wasn’t your best skill, but taking into consideration where 45 degrees stood, you could proudly admit you had done a good job.
The handmade compass pointed at the light switch next to the door. Had it been there when you first entered?
The click of the door startled you from your thoughts, your right hand now reaching for the lethal weapon in your inside pocket.
Soon, a blonde female figure had entered the room, a list of what you guessed would be lawsuits and hidden files in her hands.
She didn’t reach for the light switch, you noticed, but that was the least concerning fact at that exact moment.
She had not noticed your presence so far, but you knew this ignorance would not last long. You had to make the first move so your perfectly planned scheme would not go to waste.
“Hello, Karen,” you spat, voice laced with poisonous hate and obstinance. There was no going back now.
Her amused—almost dreadful—expression pleased you, the white of her eyes now prominently shining, her pupils dilating as she attempted to guess the invader, the lack of physical sunlight betraying her.
Standing just in front of the old door, she wisely decided not to move, blinking consciously while making an effort to inspect her surroundings.
Her breath was now the only thing that echoed through the place, shakiness and instability reigning over it; fear was always proved by physical signs first.
She could act all stoic and calm as she wanted, but her weak body would always give her away. Because that’s all she was. A worthless person, a weak woman that hid beneath the profound justice and power her boyfriend represented.
It was her fault you were doing this. She should have minded her business, she should have stayed out of this, she, she,she ,she—
“Are you alone?” you asked, voice just above a whisper as you pathetically attempted to convince her; yourself, about the seriousness of the attack.
Crystal blue eyes were penetrating through you, a gaze so deep and focused that you could not bear the suspicious eyeing a moment more.
The absence of the longed-for answer had started to raise concerning questions and doubts about your abilities. A programmed delay in order to distract you, or a bright chance for a clearer view of the crime you were about to commit.
You would have done this. For him.
“Are you alone?” The repetition of the query only showed more cues of terror and deranged empathy, your ragged breath coming to meet hers, eyes still avoiding her dominant look.It was too much. Facing her meant you would have to face a vile truth, one that cannot be undone, nor softened by hesitation.
You had come so far, spent uncountable hours planning and scheming this malicious vengeance while the sweet remnants of justice encouraged your ruthless and efficient work.
It had to be perfect, and it would be.
As long as you kept your sanity and logical thinking, this could have been portrayed as a vicious tragedy, a love story that never worked out.
An ethical lawyer and a ruthless vigilante would have never acquired the coveted normal life, one which not only would make them forget their irreversible pasts but add a new kind of meaning into their boring lives.
You were saving her. That was what you were doing.
“One last good deed,” as Dex used to say.
Oh how much you had learned by his side, a solid rock that stood up for you, loved you selflessly and never questioned your worth nor your destiny, which was now peeking more and more prominent at the end of this last act.
You were meant to be by his side, reciprocate the undoubted devotion, loyalty, while you made him proud in a way he could only understand, since the violent remnants of his army career had irreparably stigmatized him.
“Answer me, god damnit!” you spat, tongue coming to lick the white of your teeth as the suddenly unbearable weight of the metallic weapon caused a frenetic trembling in its own stabilizer.
“You don’t have to do this, okay?” she answered in return, her shaky and almost sweaty palm reaching behind her ear, holding pieces of light blonde hair there.
The dimly lit room reflected the white points of her hair perfectly; an innocent angel in the darkness, the light in somebody’s pessimistic tunnel.
It was a shame she wouldn’t live to see the sun’s light shine proudly and perpetually, a physical alarm that no matter how hard things got, humanity would always find a way out. Better days were coming.
“I don’t know who convinced you to do such a thing, but… this is not you, right? You don’t want this!” she kept going, her voice now rising an octave as your idle stance urged her to not give up the—already decided—act of persuasion.
The idea of you being lured into this would only have caused you to laugh harder if you weren’t engulfed in a primitive, ancient fear, one that caused bones to shatter and goosebumps rise on your neck.
“Somebody—I can’t imagine who—is taking advantage of you! We can sort this out together, yeah? I’m a law—”
The warning click of your gun forced her to stop the manipulative way of your surrender, her hand now sliding in front of her face as she covered her tinted lips with it.
A stereotypical method to shut her tiny whines out, while your sensitive patience had started to run thin.
Her rebellious lecture infuriated you further, the thought of her false assumption of your un-navigated nature caused a sinister smile to appear on your face, your eyes remaining inactive as your flushed cheeks rose tauntingly, dangerously.
“I have no intention of being preached by a homewrecker,” you casually stated, your arm declining slightly, as the point of the gun was now gifting you a clearer view of her terrorized façade.
The atmosphere was thick and unbearably hot, your camouflaged attire clinging uncomfortably to your body.
Her eyebrows furrowed at the unfair accusation, followed by your arrogant eye roll as you would have expected her steady denial.
The futile attempts to deny the truth persisted, even as her voice gradually faded into a hush. Meanwhile, your thoughts dissolved one by one, as a muffled rhythm drew nearer—its presence thick with quiet menace.
“Are you alone?” the question remained in the unbearable atmosphere, as the far away footsteps provoked an unprecedented ringing in your head, vision blurring ever so slightly while the last bits of prudence exited your body.
The creak of the door, entwined with her unbearable cries, wrenched you back into reality. The intruder’s entrance ignited an unfamiliar feeling, deeply rooted within you, as your finger drew the trigger with agonizing deliberation.
The bullet travelled to the other side of the room, battling scattered electrons’ uncontrollable speed; the frenzied path marking a deep hole into the man’s chest. In nanoseconds, the lethal gun dropped to the ground, the intolerable burden of killing a person unlocking your hands with such ease.
The tears you so rigorously had been holding back were now blocking your eyesight, a futile attempt to hide the lying body of a young man right next to the door, crimson liquid leaking out of his right side, where the bullet had just grazed him—yet its aim was precise enough to deal a fatal wound.
Crouched beside him, holding him tightly—as if that would reverse the huge loss—was the blonde female. Her screams had only worsened as her stifled sobs made it harder for her to speak.The blurry picture only allowed you to observe the constant movement of her mouth, her much promised finger pointing straight to you, while you stood still; completely incapable of processing the unexpected turn of such a violent moment.
Your fingertips pulled the edges of your black zipper harder; the victim was… alive.
She had escaped your cruel plans, while an innocent man experienced the deadly consequences of your unorganized activities.
An overwhelming feeling of denial emerged from within your soul, as your brain kept replaying the gruesome development of this afternoon.
You did not remember your legs moving, physically transferring your weightless body out of the bloodied apartment, while your soul—uneasy and unsettling—stayed there.
It would do everything you had not been declared strong enough to; it would hold Foggy’s cold hand as you’d whispered to him how deeply sorry you were, moving then into comforting Karen—affectively assuring her that everything would be fine, eventually.
But you could not do that.
Numb, you passed the mourning best friends, completely missing how Karen—despite the unforeseen tragedy—managed to pull out her cellphone, shaky fingers dialing quickly at the small electronic keyboard as the emergency line’s call waiting picked through.
You had just managed to complete a few meters away from the hatred-filled room, now being at a breath distance of the emergency stairs—your last hope of getting away with this inglorious murder—when you forcefully bumped into a leather-adorned chest.
The hard straps of his black suspension pressing painfully hard into your cheek, as the collision stole the air from your exhausted lungs.
Your tired efforts of pushing him away were broken off as usual, as a delicate voice reached your ears: “Angel, look at me please,” the man begged as the order had not been edited in your cognitive control centre .
Your heavy eyes refused to meet his, guilt and shame leaving a restraining feeling at the back of your throat, banning every cry for help.
In return, the hot tears kept running as you let out an exceptionally stifled sob, melting into the familiar embrace of his strong body.
God, you had committed all of these unforgivable crimes for the sake of his invaluable adoration.
“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he whispered into your ear, his steady hands tangling in between your messy hair, as you pointlessly wished he could reveal to you the harsh truth—no matter how intense or shocking that could be.
You would go to jail. Yet even so, it would never fully render justice for the unjust loss of the young advocate.
As if he had been reading your thoughts, a soft “you’re not going to jail, angel” was muttered, followed by a last plea of him, one that demanded you to face him whole like that—vulnerable and exposed like never before.
His golden brown eyes were engulfed entirely by a concerned shadow, lurking behind his moving iris as he was desperately begging you to talk to him, prompting you to breathe simultaneously with him.
“Please, angel, you have to tell me exactly what happened,” he murmured into your ear, the warm air escaping from his mouth a comforting caress on your painful profile.
His hands didn’t move an inch as he continued holding you there in his arms, sporadically shaking you harmlessly as your stifled chokes were interrupting your ridiculous effort to explain the predicament.
He knew you had shot her the second he had stepped his foot into the building, the robust ringing of the bullet reaching his ear as he rushed to take the stairs.
His current need to hear your voice was more like a pathetic reminder of your presence; you were safe and sound physically, yet your soul had been irreversibly marked.
He kept repeating your incoherent words, a last effort to memorize the smallest details of the scene before he leaned back for a forehead kiss.
Your hands clasped tighter around him, fingers barely reaching together behind his back as his thick torso stabilized you.
Managing the courage to look up at him, the bloodshot portrait of your soul deeply disturbed him , causing his heart to ache, while a primitive reflex to ward off any pontential danger resurfaced. He had to act quickly.
His obsessive mind roared as he released you, your weightless body drifting away.
Your back met the cold surface of the wall, allowing yourself to lower to the ground, knees caving in weakly as your strength was long ago gone.
You opened your mouth to ask him a last question as his dark-clothed figure had been vanishing into the darkness, the sound of the metals and leather contacting; the only intruder of this unsettling peace.
Your mind lingered ghostly as you wondered how he had tracked you so easily, coming to save you like the hero he was and destroy your maleficent plans.
But the pituitary gland of your mind could not give voice to the question, for the images reigned supreme—relentless, looping, and ever-returning, as though caught in an endless, silent incantation.
Dex walked into the apartment, door widely open as the metallic smell of fresh blood was rising into the atmosphere.
His hands now tightly wrapped around the weapon which was naturally bound to his calling; a polished black Glock 21 pointing unflinchingly to the possible target, only to be faced with the view of a… man?
You hadn’t killed Karen?
Obviously taken aback from the sudden trope of the tragedy, he crouched next to the victim, gloved hands instinctively shooting to check for a pulse.
Of course none was found, but he could calculate the estimated time of death as the heat flowed from his pale skin into the surrounding air. Less than 20 minutes, more than 12, he thought.
A deep, ugly hole adorned his ribs, as the collared suit was soaked into the sanguine liquid; a petite lake of the same kind,surrounded the drained corpse, any signs of vitality missing from his still body.
He could not deny the ancient sensation this brutality generated, permitting himself to take a generous breath of the decomposed climate.
His nostrils flared as the familiar smell of rotten flesh filled his lungs, adrenaline rushing strongly through his veins while the victim’s monotone gaze taunted him in a deranged way; Benjamin smiled back to the young commissioner as in a last goodbye, one he had not been the one to inaugurate.
“Miss, can you hear me? Do you confirm that you are currently located at 3rd and 7th turn Livonia Avenue, East New York?” the female continued, interrupting Dexter’s thoughts abruptly while the profound mention of their location urged him to act faster, precisely and sleek as he repeatedly supervised the dark place in case of unwanted visitors.
He could not be more grateful that the blonde female—the woman behind it all, Erid’s apple—had abandoned her closest friend; not only because her mandatory stay would have perplexed things further, but mainly due to the fact he would be compelled to counteract her immense fury.
His mind paced like a drugged racehorse; the prospect of your redemption drove him to extremes. Speed and precision were on his side, as the plan revealed itself in ever more intricate detail.
The yellow flicker of the small flame, paired with its unexpected warmth, was the last trace he left behind in the apartment, mirroring the fervor and passion burning in his gaze.
That was it. He would save you, overturn this bleak reality—one for which no one else bore responsibility but himself.
Your withering figure was an extremely unpleasant sight, knees bitterly digging into your chest as your dirty hands kept running through your scalp; the crushing weight upon your chest bore witness to something still stirring within—some remnant of feeling, faint yet undeniable.
It was proof that your wretched humanity had not yet been extinguished, even as each breath came thinner, more reluctant than the last, as though the air itself had begun to forsake you.
A friendly pair of hands forced you to stand upright, as Dex’s masked face invaded your blurred field of view; the thick, black balaclava covering him whole as a dartboard seemed to adorn the center of his clothed forehead.
Your hand reached out to feel the unexpected sign, only to be outrun by his tactical nature; removing the restraining fabric in order to gain better sight of your wrecked state.
His stunning face was now painted with remorse and innumerable guilt; tears pouring ceaselessly at sight of the apparent expression of his arcane feelings.
He whispered a quick hi before his calloused hands cupped your tear-stained face; despite the reigning domination of misery, his choice to jest afforded you a dim, wavering hope of a more favorable outcome.
“I need you to listen to me carefully, angel,” he stated, the bass timbre of his voice stirred the otherwise dormant faculties of your mind, as you struggled to keep in step with the unfolding design.
He explained the illustrious plan in a serious tone, the decisiveness and details of his own thinking reassuring you steadily; your brows had started to furrow ever so slightly, wrinkles forming in your forehead as your secondary role proved to be more and more complex.
You wanted to scream at him, hit him and reject his scheme of self-sacrifice—since a life devoid of his presence would crawl in quiet anguish, as the burden of his absence would settle deep within your soul.
You could not do this to him.
An inhuman feeling of injustice and infuriation tore your chest, as you watched the only man you had truly and devoutly cherished sacrifice himself for your own immature behavior.
But you weren’t strong enough for such a negative response; the quiet “no” you released got immediately dismissed as the words kept escaping his mouth, no sound whatsoever accompanying them while his eyes shone with extraordinary thrill.
His scar looked deeper now, the stitched edges held the skin hardened by the time as you couldn’t help but unleash your imagination, envisioning his orange-clothed persona suffering between the suffocating silver cage.
“Angel, do you understand? I need you to tell me you understand,” he sighed, his head feeling insufferably heavy as the vast amount of information he had to memorize and also describe had started to get to him; a slight dizziness and fogginess captivating him while his gaze sank.
Your chest panted frantically, while you shook your head in approval; being unable to form objections or any sort of disagreement regarding the predetermined layout.
“Would you repeat it for me, sweetheart?” he wished, while your mind strained to assemble the right words—words that would render the plan flawless:
“When the police arrive, from that moment on I forget my true role in this story. You came here because you had unfinished business with Karen. I followed you—unseen—and in the end, I became a witness to your crimes. You… simply ask me to act against you, Dex.”You explained, as the distant wail of sirens swelled outside the building.
The acrid scent of gunpowder bled into the already suffocating air, while pulses of red and blue light flooded his face, washing it in a restless, accusing glow.
Your final memory of that night was a fervent kiss—desperate, consuming, and unbearably fragile all at once.
It was a contradiction only Dex could embody.
Your teeth met with a jarring, almost violent urgency, yet his lips lingered with impossible tenderness, as though he feared you might break beneath the weight of him… or perhaps beneath the weight of what was to come.
It was the kiss of a man who loved too deeply—and far too late. A man already standing at the edge of ruin, willing to sacrifice everything for those he could never truly keep.
And then it was gone.
Your moment—yours—was torn apart as armed men thundered up the stairs, their presence crashing in like fate itself.
“Hands up! Slowly!”
The command rang out, cold and merciless. Red and blue light bled into the room, swallowing him, fragmenting him, reducing him to something smaller, something already lost.
The man you took to be their leader stepped forward, his voice final, irrevocable:
“Benjamin Lester Poindexter, you are under arrest for the murder of Foggy Wilson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
The words did not echo. They settled—heavy, absolute—like the closing of a door that would never open again.
𝐀/𝐍 : hehehe the end !!!!! please please please let me know what you think ??How is reader gonna cope with Dex’s absence :(!??Do we want a part 2 which is gonna include his trial and show readers emotional perspective? Let me know !
