//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.
"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.
matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.
matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.
matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.
matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.
matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.
matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.
matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)
matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.
matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.
matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.
matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.
matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.
and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.
get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.
getting takeout with dex is so annoying. he takes forever to decide on a place because of how rarely it happens. he likes cooking, so getting him to agree to a night of greasy food and fizzy drinks is already a task in itself. once that’s decided, he wants to be chivalrous and pick the food up. save a couple dollars on delivery, all that beautiful, responsible man nonsense— which goes down the drain when he’s met with a pout and the cartoon style slow blinking of his girl’s fluffy lashes. don’t you wanna cuddle on the couch while we wait? so now he’s on the couch, face full of tits, her arms and legs wrapped around him, keeping him locked and distracted so that he doesn’t move until the doorbell dings. that’s when their position shifts to his advantage. he can get up and reach the door first. he doesn’t like it when she answers the door for delivery men, doesn’t like how they gawk and make small talk over a minimal transaction. hell, he doesn’t even like when they say her name to confirm they have the right location. it allows the world to experience his princess in bite sized pieces, which isn’t fair. she’s all his.
he hates eating in the living room, hates the crumbs on the couch and the coffee table. takeout night usually ends with him wiping down the furniture and vacuuming the rug. another reason why it’s… annoying. the best part is watching his eyes get heavier and heavier when he finally settles back down. his belly full, his girlfriend tucked against his side, his hand down the back of her shorts, gripping and toying. the reward always end up being worth the aggravations.
summary: you hated him and you hated what he had done but that didn't even stop you from doing what you wanted deep down
word counter and tw: (1,9k) smut, age-gap, injuries
The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by the orange light of a streetlamp filtering through the broken window. The air smelled of dried blood, sweat, and that faint metallic scent Dex always left in his wake.
You were sitting on the wooden chair, legs crossed and arms pressed tightly against your chest, as if trying to contain the rage eating you alive. In front of you, on the makeshift bed, lay Dex.
Asleep. Vulnerable. And that only made you angrier.
His bare torso rose and fell slowly with each breath. He had fresh bruises everywhere, shades of purple and black marking his ribs, shoulders, and abdomen. A deep cut crossed his left eyebrow, still crusted with a bit of dried blood. His face, which was usually disturbingly attractive, now looked beaten and swollen… but it was still him.
The man who had killed Foggy. The man who had nearly destroyed your brother. The man Matt, in a damn stupid act of heroism, had decided to save.
Your hands clenched into fists on your thighs. You remembered the exact moment you found out about Foggy’s death. Foggy was family, and Dex had erased him like he was nothing. Since then, every problem, every sleepless night, every time Matt came back injured… everything had Benjamin Poindexter’s name on it.
Matt had brought him here, to one of the hideouts only the two of you knew about.
“I can’t let him die,” your brother had said with that damn voice full of guilt and responsibility. You hadn’t answered him, only looked at him with so much hatred that Matt almost stepped back. And now here you were. Watching him. Because Matt had asked you to while he went out to get supplies.
Dex stirred slightly on the bed, letting out a low groan of pain even in his sleep. The movement made the sheet slide further down his hips. Despite the hatred, your eyes lingered there a few seconds too long.
You hated him even more for that.
Suddenly, Dex’s eyes snapped open, not slowly or confused, but instantly, like a predator that never fully lowers its guard. His dilated pupils focused on you immediately. For a second he said nothing, just stared at you with that disturbing intensity that defined him. Then a slow, pained smile formed on his split lips.
“Murdock…” his voice came out hoarse and broken. “What a nice way to wake up.”
You froze. You hadn’t expected him to wake up so quickly.
Dex tried to sit up a little, but the pain made him hiss and lie back down. Still, he didn’t stop looking at you. His eyes traveled down your body for a moment before returning to your face.
“You’re still here… watching me while I sleep.” He let out a low laugh that ended in a cough. “Are you thinking about killing me? Go ahead. It would be… poetic. Daredevil’s adoptive little sister avenging the fat guy.”
The hatred burned in your throat.
“Foggy had a name,” you spat with venom. “And you killed him like he was just another target. Like he meant nothing.”
Dex stared at you in silence for a few seconds. His expression changed. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I’ve killed a lot of people,” he said coldly. “He was just one more.”
You stood up from the chair so fast it fell to the floor with a loud clatter. In two steps you were beside the bed, looking down at him with trembling fists.
“You’re a plague. Everything that’s gone wrong in our lives has your fucking name on it. If it weren’t for Matt, I would’ve let you bleed out.”
Dex held your gaze. His eyes shone with something dark, almost excited.
“So why don’t you do it now?” he whispered, almost defiantly. “I’m hurt. Unarmed. It’d be easy for you.”
He stayed quiet for a second, then added in a lower voice.
“Or… is it that deep down you don’t want me to die?”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Your hand moved before you could think twice. You grabbed a fistful of his blond hair and yanked his head back violently, forcing him to look up at you. Dex let out a rough grunt of pain, but his eyes locked onto yours with that damn intensity that drove you crazy.
“I’m not leaving things like this,” you hissed through your teeth, your face inches from his. “As soon as my brother takes his eyes off you… I’m going to take care of you myself. I’m going to make you pay for every tear. I’m going to destroy you, Poindexter.”
Dex breathed heavily, lips parted and a crooked smile on his face despite the pain from his split eyebrow. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a second before returning to your eyes.
“You’ve never killed anyone in your life…” he murmured in a deep, mocking voice. “Do you really think you can kill me, princess?”
You tightened your grip on his hair, pulling even harder until he hissed.
“You could be the first,” you replied with pure hatred. “And I’d enjoy it.”
The silence was electric.
Suddenly, Dex pushed himself up, ignoring the pain of his wounds, and crashed his mouth against yours with brutal force. It was a furious kiss, full of rage and something much darker. His lips were split and tasted like blood, but that didn’t stop you. For a second, you responded with the same violence, biting his lower lip hard.
Then you reacted.
You pulled away sharply and slapped him across the face with such force that his head snapped to the side. The sound echoed in the room.
“Son of a bitch!” you growled, breathing hard.
Dex let out a low, dark laugh, his lip now bleeding even more. He looked at you again, eyes bright with excitement and madness.
And he kissed you again.
This time it was you who pulled him in. You grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him with even more fury, as if you wanted to punish him with your mouth. Dex moaned against your lips. One hand slid to your waist and pulled you against him hard, even though his body protested from the wounds. The kiss was dirty, desperate, full of teeth and resentment. Your hatred mixed with something you refused to name, something hot and sick that made you wet between your legs.
When you pulled away again, panting, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You looked into his eyes, breathing ragged.
“I hate you,” you whispered against his mouth.
Dex smiled with that disturbing smile that defined him, running his thumb across your lower lip.
“Good,” he answered hoarsely. “Then use me to take it all out…”
You hated him. You hated him because your body responded before your mind did.
You shoved him hard against the mattress. Dex grunted in pain as his bruised back hit the bed, but the sick smile never left his face. You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You could already feel him hard beneath the thin sheet.
“Shut up,” you growled, yanking your shirt off with rough movements and throwing it to the floor.
Your hands were shaking with rage and something more you didn’t want to admit. Dex looked at your breasts with shameless hunger, his hands sliding up your ribs to squeeze them hard, almost brutally. His thumbs brushed over your already hardened nipples.
“You say you hate me… but look at you,” he murmured mockingly. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” you repeated, weaker this time.
You leaned down and kissed him violently, biting his wounded lip until it bled again. Dex moaned into your mouth and thrust his hips upward, rubbing his erection against you. With a quick movement you unbuttoned his pants and freed him. He was rock hard, thick, and already leaking at the tip.
You impatiently stripped off the rest of your clothes and positioned yourself over him. You rubbed his tip against your soaked entrance. Dex clenched his jaw, his hands digging into your hips with force.
You sank down hard.
A rough moan escaped you as you felt him stretch you open completely. He was big and filled you too much. You stayed still for a second, breathing heavily, refusing to move.
Dex looked at you with narrowed eyes, that crooked smile still on his lips.
“You gonna stay there pretending you feel nothing?” he taunted, voice broken with pleasure. “I can feel how tight you’re squeezing me…”
“Shut up,” you growled, starting to move.
You began riding him hard, with rage. Every downward thrust was brutal, punishing him, using him. Your hands braced on his bruised torso, digging your nails into his bruises on purpose. Dex groaned in pain and pleasure, but never looked away from you.
“Just like that… fuck,” he panted. “Harder, princess. Take it all out on me.”
You increased the pace, moving your hips with fury. The wet sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room along with his groans and your ragged breathing. You tried to keep the look of hatred on your face, tried not to moan… but it was impossible.
Every time you sank all the way down, a treacherous moan escaped you. Dex noticed immediately.
“There it is…” he whispered with dark satisfaction. “You can’t pretend with me. Your pussy is gripping me like it wants to swallow me whole.”
Dex slid one hand up and grabbed your throat, squeezing just enough to make you feel dominated, even though you were on top. With his other hand he pressed his thumb against your clit and started rubbing it in fast circles.
Your body tensed. A louder moan escaped you.
“I hate you…” you gasped, but your hips started moving more desperately, chasing more friction.
“I know,” he replied with a sadistic smile, not stopping his movements. “And yet you’re going to cum on my cock like a desperate little slut.”
That infuriated and aroused you at the same time. You started riding him faster, deeper, almost violently. Your moans could no longer be contained. Every time you came down, he thrust up, slamming hard into that spot that made you see stars.
“Dex… fuck…” his name slipped out without you meaning it to.
He let out a rough, victorious laugh.
“Say it again.”
You didn’t want to, but the orgasm was approaching too fast. Your movements became erratic, your thighs shaking. Dex kept rubbing your clit mercilessly, squeezing your neck.
“I’m not… I’m not going to…” you tried to lie, but your body betrayed you completely.
You came hard, moaning loudly, clenching around him as waves of pleasure tore through you. Your nails dug into his chest, leaving red marks.
Dex cursed under his breath, mesmerized by the look of pleasure on your face. He fucked you faster through your orgasm, prolonging it until it almost hurt, until your moans turned broken and pleading.
When you started to come down, he suddenly flipped you over, getting on top despite the pain of his wounds. He spread your legs roughly and thrust back in with one deep stroke.
“Now it’s my turn,” he growled against your ear. “And you’re going to cum again… even if you keep saying you hate me.”
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.
Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.
"What happened here?"
Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.
"What?"
You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.
"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"
A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.
"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."
You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.
"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."
"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.
The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.
And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"
He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.
"What?"
A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.
"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"
Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.
"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"
"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"
"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"
It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.
Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.
"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."
"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.
"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."
He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.
"You've got a lot over here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch your back more often."
"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.
"What happened here?"
"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."
"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."
"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."
Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.
"Do any of them still hurt?"
He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.
"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."
"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.
Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."
No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.
Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.
"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."
The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.
It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.
One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.
"What's this one from?"
Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.
"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.
"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.
[MDNI, nudity, bullseye out of context, touching, barely proof read, violence] [not my gif idk the owner]
Only you could touch him like this.
Others just touched him to hurt him.
You stood in front of him, his shirt off after a shower. Your left hand grazed the side of his rib cage and moved to his abs. They were so big that they jutted out of his stomach. You loved that you could see them under his shirt sometimes. Your right hand went to his pec, another strong muscle, and you gently ran your nails down it.
Dex really took care of himself. At first he would work out just to stay in shape and be strong enough to win in a fight but after how much he noticed you staring, he kept up his work outs for you.
Your left hand moved up to feel his massive shoulder, giving him a slight massage. He watched you as your hand moved lower over his bulging biceps and then lower to those huge hands. Hands that were normally used to hurt and kill were only used for pleasure on you. His fingers moved to intertwine with yours, bringing them up to his mouth and placing kisses on your fingers.
"You promise you'll be careful tonight?" you asked while looking at him from under your lashes. Dex continued to kiss each of your fingers and smiled down at you.
"Always, I'm always careful for you" he said leaving a kiss on your forhead.
Most of the time Dex would only come home with a few deep cuts and some bruises but he was always taking a chance. Every time a punch would make his head buzz he would fill with rage, sometimes blacking out while brutally killing everyone around him. It would sometimes get to him especially knowing you would be upset when he came home with fresh bruises. But he knew only one person could touch him to make him feel good, and that person was you.
Summary: You and Dex had lived on the edge of “almost” at the Bureau. Now, you visit him in prison for the first time since he left, forced to confront the feelings you both still have and how far you're willing to go to finally be together.
Word count: 6,000
Tags/warnings: angsty/spicy/sweet aka my triple decker fic sandwich, hurt/comfort, swearing, mental illness + meds mention, emotional manipulation/lowkey suicide threat (Dex) but the reader is v aware of what he's doing, making out, flash of sub/dom if you squint, breaking and entering, first date
A/N: Title from the Motion City Soundtrack song of the same name: I felt like a fool, kicking and screaming and pretending we were wrong // It had to be you, I knew it was you PS I shortened up the timeline here from the canon multiple years to like one lol
You stand behind the prison guard as he unlocks the metal door with a loud buzz, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets and trying to feign some appearance of calm.
Inside, you were anything but. You were scared, but not in the way most people would expect, considering you were about to visit someone in prison serving multiple life sentences for murder.
No, that part didn't faze you too much. What scared you was that, deep down, you had a very strong feeling that you were going to walk through that door, knowing full well what that someone had done to get put in there, and it wasn't going to make a goddamn difference.
You were still going to feel the same way about him as you always had. Only this time, you didn't see a chance for a happy ending.
At least the rational, sane part of you didn't. It wasn't like you, a federal agent, could just ride off into the sunset with a convict, right?
And yet ...
You had tried to listen to the part of you that had been screaming to just let go of him, to finally move on. But you couldn't.
Because even though neither of you had ever said it outright when you worked together, you knew with your entire being that Benjamin Leonard Poindexter was supposed to be yours.
You take a deep breath and walk into the darkened room, dim light filtering in through the door's small wire and glass square.
"You know the precautions, agent?" the guard asks.
"Yeah, I do.” Your gaze flickers to the cuffs and chains encasing Dex’s hands. “Don’t think they’re necessary, though.”
“Just standard procedure. We don’t take any chances with this crazy asshole. I’ll be outside.”
“Thanks.”
The guard leaves and now, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, it’s just you and Dex.
You can already tell that there's something different about him, something subtler and deeper than just trading his FBI jacket for a DOC jumpsuit.
The Dex you had known always looked like he was in control. But underneath the cool, composed exterior and the dry wit and smirks, when you actually got close enough to pay attention, there was a faint current of anxiety emanating from him; nerves stretched tight like a rubber band. Like he was working overtime to keep his shit together.
But that kind of uncertainty, that noticeable tension he had carried, had seemingly vanished. In its place was a kind of relaxed ease, a looseness in his being, even as he sat there bound and chained to the desk. And part of you wondered and worried, that the Dex you knew—or who you thought you knew—was truly gone.
The other difference was much more evident: he was fucking jacked, which was not helping your already racing heartbeat, your eyes roaming over his biceps, the veins standing out in his forearms.
Focus.
He breaks the ice first.
“I didn't think you'd show."
You try to keep your head on straight, to not get immediately floored by that gravelly voice you loved so much. But it's hard. Really hard.
"Surprise," you reply, making jazz hands before you shove them back into your pockets, lowering yourself into the chair next to him.
Then, he gives you that same stupid, sweet half-smile that you’d come to know and miss. And even though you try to fight it, relief floods through you.
Because it tells you that your Dex is still there.
"It's good to see you, Y/N."
Fuck.
You want to say it back, but it gets stuck in your throat. Yes, you had been dying to see him. But the fact remains that you're seeing him in prison, a sobering reminder that the kind of future you had once dreamed about having with him was gone.
"Why am I here, Dex?" you ask instead.
"Because I missed you," he says quietly. It’s such an immediate, sincere response that it cuts you like a knife.
“And I wanted to talk. Like we used to.”
"So, talk."
He pauses, suddenly apprehensive, and there’s a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes as he meets your own.
"How are you?"
"How am I?" you repeat back slowly, and you want to laugh and scream at the same time because it’s such a loaded question.
I’m ok. I’m a mess. I’m alright. I’m heartbroken. I’m so fucking mad at you. I’m so fucking happy to see you.
"Fine, I guess." You shrug. "I've actually only been back in the city for a few months. They put me on assignment in LA last year, organized crime. It was good, got really tan, surfed a bit. But wearing tac gear in 90-degree heat got old real quick. So, here I am."
Dex looks at you strangely.
"Did you put in for it or did they ask you?"
You pause.
"I put in for it." You start bouncing your leg, unable to keep your anxiety in check.
"Why?"
Your fists clench tighter in your pockets and you avert your eyes away from him, staring at the ceiling.
"Because when you … left, I was struggling. They thought a change of scenery would be good."
It’s silent for a few moments until Dex speaks.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you look at me? Please?”
You take a deep breath and force yourself to meet his gaze, and the sight you’re met with shatters your heart further than you thought was possible, threatens to break all your resolve.
Because Dex—whom the world has deemed as a volatile, soulless, irredeemable killer—is now sitting across from you with tears in his eyes.
"I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. All that ease you had initially noticed, it’s gone. He looks like how you feel, how you’ve felt every day since he was out of your life: broken.
“For what?” you manage to ask, trying to push down the lump in your throat, the stinging building in your eyes.
“That everything just … fell apart. That I couldn’t say goodbye because I didn’t even know I was saying it until it was too late. That I couldn’t tell you what was going with me. That I was too much of a pussy to just ask you out like I wanted to.” He takes a deep breath. “And fuck, I really wanted to. I was just … afraid. And I’m sorry.”
You brush the back of your hand against your eyes quickly.
“I don’t know what I'm supposed to say to that.”
“Say that it wasn’t just me that felt it,” he pleads, and it’s taking everything in you not to fall apart in front of him. “That it wasn’t all in my head.”
“It wasn’t,” you whisper. “Of course it wasn’t.” And your eyes burn more as they stare back into his own, trying and failing to steady your breathing. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”
He shakes his head.
“Yes, it does,” he says firmly, and it’s his conviction in contrast to the reality of the situation—the one he put you both in—that finally sends you over the edge.
“No it doesn’t, Dex. It can’t!” you yell, and this time, you don’t bother to wipe away the tears that start falling. Your eyes flicker to the door, and you lower your voice. “I’m still an agent, and you're sitting in front of me in a fucking DOC jumpsuit with multiple life sentences for murder. And every day I go to work and all I think about is how you’re supposed to be there but you’re not, because you chose blood instead of me.”
“That’s not what-” he tries to cut you off, but you keep going.
“And I feel insane because even after all that, I look at you for one second and I still feel the same goddamn way about you that I always have." You laugh without humor. “So I can’t get over you. And I can’t be with you because you’re here. And I am left fucking dying inside in the middle of that.”
You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, and then they land on the table.
Now, you’re the one pleading.
“So just tell me, why? Fucking why, Dex? Why did you do all this, choose this? What the fuck happened to you?” Your voice is shaking uncontrollably now, and it drops to a miserable whisper. “And why didn’t I see any of it coming?”
Dex inches his chair forward, trying to get as close to you as he can with his restraints still in place.
“Listen, you were—you are—the best part of my life,” he says desperately, and you choke back a sob and a scoff at the same time. “You have to know that. But I can see how it could look … otherwise. I’ll tell you everything, ok, you deserve that, but don’t.”
He stops, breathing deeply through his nose, but when he continues, he sounds almost angry; his frustration with your version of events spilling over; possessed by an ardent need to keep you on his side.
“Don’t ever think I did any of this because I didn’t want you. Us. That’s not right at all. I just …” He takes a deep breath again, steadier this time, and sighs. “I’ll start at the beginning.”
So, he tells you everything, all the way back from Mercer's therapy tapes and creating his North Stars to stopping his meds and planning to kill himself, Fisk manipulating him into murder and then snapping his spine.
And throughout it all, the relentless buzzing in his head that only ever seemed to quiet when he was around you.
You sit there, wide-eyed and listening intently, and you find you knew bits of it; the fucked-up childhood, the anxiety, the need for structure and control, the loneliness. But when he lays the full depth of everything out in front of you, the disparate puzzle pieces clicking into place, it's like you're seeing him again in full light for the first time.
And you're not repulsed, you’re not scared, you're not even angry.
You're just sad. So fucking sad, your heart breaking that he had been carrying all this by himself, trying to fight his own mind day in and day out. That Fisk had taken advantage of his trauma, of the deepest, most vulnerable part of him that had never known love as a little kid. That the fear and the pain and his wiring had blocked out any consideration for a different path forward.
And that you didn't know about any of it.
You wipe your tears on the edge of your sleeve.
"Why didn't you talk to me?” you ask.
"I thought if I tried hard enough, I could outrun it," he says slowly. "That I could be different. Better. But we are who we are." He looks at you, and suddenly, he seems exhausted. "I wanted to tell you, but I … I couldn’t handle you looking at me differently.” His voice quiets. “Like I was an animal.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“And now?”
You shake your head. When you had walked into the room earlier, part of you had wondered if you had just been blinded by your feelings—that maybe you were a lovestruck idiot and he really was just another psycho male shooter. But your heart had won out, and now, he’d confirmed what you had already known deep down.
He wasn’t a monster. He was just Dex: complicated, traumatized, mentally ill, Dex.
And Dex was your person.
"I still don't think you're an animal. I think, to some degree, you actually make … sense,” you say. You sigh, running a hand down your face. “I also think you need help. Serious, professional help, Dex." You wave your hands. "And probably some kind of, I don’t know, some fucking spiritually cleansing Ayuhsaca trip and R&R on a beach in Belize."
Dex suddenly smiles.
"You're still doing it."
"What?"
"Trying to make me laugh."
He’s not wrong. You manage a half smile back.
"Old habits,” you say softly. You shift up in the chair, cross your legs underneath you. “So, after Fisk, what happened? Your phone was disconnected and no one told us anything at the Bureau, it was just like ... like you never existed.”
He explains the operation and how when he woke up, he was in the psychiatric facility.
"It was worse than this," he says, nodding his head up at the prison. "The drugs they put me on, I could barely remember who I was, could barely move, barely think. Like I was drowning in cement. And I was starting … not to remember you." He pauses for a second, and you can see the weight of his time there etched in his face. "So I had to get out. I had to get my mind back."
"So how did you?"
"I got an offer. My freedom for a job. So I took it.” His jaw sets in a hard line. “I wasn't supposed to end up in here. I was supposed to come find you.”
Your eyes widen as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
"Josie's was a hit," you breathe out, and the revelation hits you like a freight train. "Who hired you?”
He shakes his head slightly.
"I can't tell you that."
"Oh, yes you can, and you better," you reply furiously.
"Or what?” He smirks. “You gonna arrest me?"
Goddammit. He could be a such a little shit when he wanted to be, and normally, it'd make you laugh. But right now, sitting across from him at Rikers, you’re infuriated.
"No, but I will punch you in the face for being an asshole! This isn't a joke, Dex, this is your life!" You watch the smirk slide off his face, eyes widening slightly. "This changes everything related to your case!”
"I know,” he says hurriedly. “I just can't tell you. You'll get hurt, and I can't have that.” His voice lowers. "Not again. But I'm supposed to meet with an attorney later. Matthew Murdock."
"The guy who's best friend you killed? Who helped put you in here?” you ask, your voice laden with skepticism.
Dex nods. “He’s gonna want to know who hired me. And I’ll tell him, but only if he can get me outside.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“That has about a 2% chance of working.”
“I’m gonna take those odds." He gives a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and even though he sounds nonchalant, you can sense the strain underneath.
"They, uh, they put me in gen pop yesterday, so I don’t have a lot of time to figure out a better plan. That’s also why wanted to see you now. Just in case.”
Your brain starts whirring, real panic setting in.
“What do you mean they put you in gen pop? You’re a former federal agent who can’t use his hands! Dex, you have got to cut the bullshit and tell me who’s behind this.”
“No, I told you, I’m not getting you involved.” His tone suddenly flattens. "But anyways, it doesn’t really matter, right? If I live or die. It’s not like I have anything good waiting for me out there. Not anymore.”
Your stomach drops and you look at him, confused.
“What are you talking about?” you ask.
That ease, that kind of assuredness you caught right before you walked in, it's now suddenly back. He’s eerily calm, his intense gaze boring into yours. And it all tells you that he knows exactly what he's doing.
“You said this, us, it can’t matter anymore, right? And that was the only thing keeping me going, so who knows?" He leans back and smiles, actually fucking smiles, and you really do think you might punch him in the face. "Maybe I won’t meet with Murdock. Maybe I’ll just let karma do its thing, balance the scales. Because if we don’t matter, then my life doesn’t matter to me.”
His words leave you speechless for a few reasons.
1) On one hand, you’re absolutely seething—because after everything, how dare he try to pull some blatant bush league, guilt-tripping, Quantico 101 shit on you and then sit there and look so goddamn smug about it? But it also makes your heart skip a beat, in a twisted way: that he’s willing to try absolutely anything to get you to stay in his life for good. To make you promise that you can still figure things out together.
2) You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time today, you don’t just see Dex. You see Bullseye.
And you like it.
“Jesus Christ,” you chuckle darkly, resting your head in your hands.
And as you sit there, you realize you’re tired. Tired of, as Dex said, “trying to outrun it.” Tired of pretending like you were ever going to be able to walk out the door today without knowing he’d end up back at your side. Tired of pretending like you couldn't be together, that you wouldn't give anything to make it happen.
Fuck it.
You lift your head up, mirroring his calm demeanor.
“Why are there no cameras in here?”
Dex frowns, thrown slightly by the seemingly random ask and looking at you curiously.
“Attorney-client privilege, you know that. And I’m pretty sure the guards use it for drug deals. But don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not.” You drag your chair forward until you’re within inches of him, your pulse picking up immediately. “I asked a specific question for a specific reason.”
And before he can reply, before you can change your mind, before you decide to listen to the voice in your head yelling "this is crazy!!!,” you grab his face in your hands and you kiss him.
As you pull back, your hands still on his face, Dex looks dumbstruck for a second, lips slightly parted as he stares into your eyes. Then, you catch the briefest flash of a triumphant grin before he practically headbutts you, so eager to get his lips back on yours.
You smile against him, dizzy from the dopamine surge as you match his pace, his fervor, before you slip your tongue in to meet his; heat flooding through you at the wrecked little groan he makes. The angle isn't perfect and it's a little rushed, a little messy, but you don't care—because finally, everything that ever went unspoken between you two of you is out in the open.
And there's no going back now.
Suddenly, he bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it might've broke skin, and you quickly pull back.
“Hey,” you say firmly, shaking your head. “No evidence here.”
He looks gorgeous like this: hazel eyes fixed on yours, blown-out and ready to devour; breathing gone ragged with want. Simply starving for you.
He gives you a wicked grin, chuckling.
“Have it your way, pretty girl, but just wait until I’m-”
“‘Till you're what?” you cut him off. “You can't do shit since you’re stuck in chains and gonna die here, right?”
“Hm. Change of plans,” he breathes out, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.
Men.
His gaze follows you as you duck under his restraints, crawling up onto his lap and straddling him. Your hands slide to his shoulders, working your lips, your tongue, up his neck; still mindful enough to fight the urge to sink your teeth in, to mark him up and finally, rightfully, claim him as yours.
"Fuck, Y/N. Don’t stop,” he rasps as you slowly roll your hips against him. You hear chains rattle suddenly and Dex growls with frustration. You look down and see the restraints pulled taut, veins practically popping out of Dex’s forearms from trying—and—failing to get his hands on you.
Five minutes ago, you would've felt bad. But that was before he thought he could play games with you, before he tried to turn his life into a bargaining chip.
So, as much as you love him, you laugh.
“Aw, this is hard for you, isn't it," you coo, tilting your head slightly.
"You finally get what you want, and you can’t do anything about it. Can’t touch me like how you want to.” You bring your mouth to his ear and graze it with your teeth, relishing the low drawl of “fuck” that falls from his tongue.
Your voice drops to a whisper.
“But unfortunately for you, you’re not in any position to tell me what I will or won’t do.
Before he can reply, you grab his hair in your fist, yanking back and tilting his head up to look at you.
“Now listen very, very carefully. If you ever try to pull that manipulative, 101 psyops bullshit with me again, I am gone." Your voice lowers further. "You will never taste me again, you will never get to use those hands on me, and so help me God, Dex, I will fuck every guy that looks my way within a 20-mile radius of here and I will send you detailed letters about it. Do you understand?”
Even though you’re threatening him, Dex just grins at you like he's won the lottery.
“There she is,” he breathes out with an exhilarated chuckle, eyes sparkling with awe as he stares up at you. “You're amazing.”
Your grip on his hair tightens, and the strained, contented little sigh he lets out might be the best sound you've ever heard.
“Answer my question.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good.” You let go of his hair and gaze into those hazel eyes, run your thumb across the scar on his cheek.
“Now, stop being a dick and ask me what you really wanted to ask in the first place."
“If I get out," he says slowly, bringing his forehead to yours. "Will you still want me?”
“Yes, Dex, I will still want you,” you murmur. “I never stopped.” You pull back to look at him. “So you’re going to stay alive in here and if you want to ‘protect me,’ fine. But I am only giving you 48 hours to figure out how you’re getting out of here and coming back to me, or I will be back for that name myself, which I will get from you by whatever means necessary.” You poke his chest. “Got it?”
And God, he looks transformed, glowing like you turned on a light switch inside him; brightening the weathered lines on his face, eyes filled with rapturous, slightly manic devotion.
“I’m gonna make things right with us,” he says fervently, nodding his head. “I promise. I can do it.”
And tears start to well up in your eyes, because you know he means it.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.
“I just. I missed you, too,” you reply, voice cracking. “So much.”
He kisses you again, softer this time, and you melt into it. Then, you duck back under the restraints, smoothing your hair out and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Good, no blood.
"How do I look?" you ask him.
"Beautiful."
You smile.
"Thanks, but no, I meant, 'Do I look like I just made out with you in prison?'"
"Oh. No. You're good." He actually sounds a little disappointed, and you try not to laugh. You cup his face in your hand.
“48 hours. Stay safe. For me,” you add softly.
He nods. “I will.” He turns his head slightly, eyes still on yours as he grazes your fingers with his lips. “See you soon, baby.”
You head to the door and turn back one last time, and you see the version of Dex you arguably love most: the version you obsessively devoted yourself to drawing out at the Bureau, the version that filled your entire body with warmth whenever you caught it; slipping through the cracks in his armor and gaining the privilege to see the rarest, most precious side of him.
It’s the version of himself where he lets himself be happy.
You force your smile away, draw your face back into a what you hope is a neutral expression, and knock on the door. The guard opens it.
"How'd it go?" he asks, letting you walk out as he shuts the door behind him.
You shrug.
"Unproductive. Like you said, crazy asshole."
The guard grimaces sympathetically. Phew. He bought it.
As you move from the lonely bus off Rikers to the familiar bustling rhythm of the city, wandering your way back to your apartment, you feel elated and hopeful and nauseous all at once.
Because holy shit, that had really happened: you’d finally kissed Dex. He’d kissed you back, he wanted you, you were going to be together.
And holy shit, yes, Dex wanted you and you were going to be together—and it would be an ill-logistical, most likely illegal, clusterfuck to make it work.
You had signed your life over the second you’d kissed him, surrendering any semblance of a normal existence.
But yet, you can’t stop smiling on your way home, can’t stop replaying the feel of Dex’s lips on yours, the way he kissed you like he was drowning and you were the only source of air; your body still humming electric from his manic adoration for you, only you.
His parting words to you are stuck on repeat, your new favorite song echoing in your head:
“See you soon, baby.”
And when your head hits the pillow that night, for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread waking up in the morning.
---
The next two days are the longest of your life, punctuated only by your frequent, covert refreshes of the local news website and glances at the TV in the FBI lobby. Waiting for any hint that Dex either secured an appeal or got out by … other means.
And if you’re honest, at this point, you don’t even care which it is. You feel like an addict going through withdrawal, hungrily waiting for another fix.
As the 48 hours approach, you trudge home from work and realize that you’re disappointed. That while you had given him a seemingly impossible, insane task, you really had believed he’d be able to figure it out.
Because if nothing else, you knew Dex liked a challenge.
You get home and unlock the door, kicking off your shoes and flicking on the light switch at the same time. You sigh and head toward the kitchen, fully ready to grab yourself a beer and order consolation takeout before you plan your trip to Rikers tomorrow.
Then, you stop in your tracks.
“What the-”
Your kitchen counters have been covered with a very expansive, very neat buffet from your favorite Mexican restaurant, everything from tacos and a rainbow of salsas and toppings to churros. There’s even two margaritas at the end, adorned with perfectly symmetrical salt rings.
But what gets you the most, what makes your heart want burst out of your chest, is the bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.
Because, while you'd never admit it out loud, you had daydreamed wya too many times about getting flowers from your favorite FBI coworker.
And now, there they were. And clearly, so was he.
“Dex?” you call out, and then, he’s there; rounding the corner from your hallway into your kitchen.
Suddenly, you’re breathless, heart racing like a teenager.
Except for the neat stitch on his forehead, Dex doesn’t look like someone who just escaped from prison.
He just looks like an ordinary guy who’s nervous before a first date. He looks, well, good. Like he took time to think about what he was wearing, which makes no sense considering where he just came from. Dark jacket, grey jeans, and a hesitant half-smile, his eyes flickering from you to the kitchen.
And you know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s waiting for your approval.
You break the silence.
“I take it you’re not getting an appeal,” you say.
Dex shakes his head.
“Nah. Murdock wasn’t interested. But it all worked out anyways.” And now I don’t have to wait to see you.” He smirks slightly. “Your locks are shit, by the way. I expected better security from you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, the next time I know you’re planning to break in, I’ll make sure to turn the laser beams on.”
“It’s fine, I’ll get you better locks this week.”
Fresh out of prison, and he’s worried your safety. And maybe you should think that's insane. But you don’t.
You think it’s romantic.
“Just to be clear, you’ve just been out for like a day, right?” you ask. “And you somehow managed to do … all this?" Your voice quiets. "For me?”
His gaze softens as he nods, fingers tapping on his leg.
“I told you, I was gonna make things right. To do this right with you. Like how I should’ve in the first place.”
And you can’t help it, heat rises in your cheeks, a giddy little smile blooming on your face at his words, at the way he's looking at you.
“Well, I’d say you’re off to a very good start.”
Dex looks relieved, smiling fully this time, and it feels like the goddamn sun is inside your chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And you were right. Dex was just waiting for the green light—your validation—and it sends him half-running across the kitchen, practically tackling you into the counter as he kisses you.
His freed hands roam from your face to your hair to your waist; curious and ecstatic and possessive all at once, like you’re the precious treasure he’s spent a lifetime searching for and finally found.
You pull back only to bury your face into his neck, your arms around him and his own wrapping you so tightly against him that you’re surprised you can breathe.
Happy tears spring up in your eyes as you savor how he feels, how he smells (delicious); warm and solid and real and finally, finally back where he belongs, where he was always meant to be.
With you.
“You’re really here,” you whisper, and he shifts you back slightly, one hand framing your face.
“And you’re really mine,” he murmurs, grinning broadly, the corners of his eyes creasing. You match his smile.
"Always was." You swat his chest lightly. “But we have to be so fucking careful, Dex. Not to insult your intelligence, but so I don’t have a panic attack, you’re not on any CCTV footage around here, right?
“That is insulting, actually; it’s a good thing you’re cute,” he says, smirking, brushing some stray hair behind your ear. “No, and the camera closest to here now has ‘mysterious damage.’”
“Ok. And you’re obviously staying here until any press dies down but, after that?”
“Somewhere in this neighborhood, close to you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Until we can find a new place together.” He sounds excited—almost too excited. “Wherever you want. You liked California, right?”
Tires screech in your head, everything coming to a jarring halt because woah, woah, wait, California, what?!
“Uh, yeah,” you say with a half laugh. “But I don’t work in California anymore, honey, I work here. In New York.”
Dex frowns, looking confused.
“Wait, you’re still planning on going to work?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
He looks at you like you’re insane, the irony of that not escaping you.
“You’re a federal agent harboring a fugitive. And you were the one who went off about how we couldn’t work as agent-convict.” His laugh is too sharp, a mocking grin appearing on his face that makes your eyebrows raise. “Now, not to insult your intelligence, but how could going into the Bureau every day make sense?”
Your heartbeat accelerates again, but this time, it’s because you’re pissed—at his shitty tone and because you know he’s not exactly … wrong.
“I know it doesn’t,” you huff. “But I’m just trying my fucking best here, given the circumstances. You got any better ideas?”
“Yeah, quit.”
“What?!”
Dex shrugs.
“I can make more in 5 hits than you make in a year.” The bite in his tone vanishes entirely, going sweet and earnest so quickly you feel like you have whiplash. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.” He grabs your waist again, thumbs tracing your ribs. “You could do whatever you wanted, we could go wherever we wanted, and you could just," he pauses with a smile, “let me take care of you.”
You’re silent for a few moments. Honestly, you don’t really have a strong rebuttal. On the surface, the offer seems thoughtful, domestic, even—even though, yeah, it involves homicide. Because you know Dex really will do anything, will give absolutely everything, to keep you safe and happy with him. To create your own little world together.
And also, hell yeah, early retirement!
But there's also the faintest chill running up your spine as you let his words, that light-switch change in his demeanor, sink in. Because despite the genuine care in his voice, you know that his offer isn’t really an offer.
It’s a demand.
You should be more unnerved by that fact, should be running full speed in the opposite direction. But you're not. Because if you're honest, there's a small, secret part of you that wanted to be wanted like this, chosen so fully that everything else in the universe just faded into the background.
You want to be mad at Dex, but you can't, can't blame him for being who he is—not when you were the one who saw the danger in the riptide and still dove in headfirst.
Now, it was time to go where the current wanted to take you.
“I need at least a month,” you finally say.
Dex opens his mouth to reply, but you hold up your hand, stopping him.
“I can’t just up and leave without it seeming suspicious. I need to make it seem reasonable, drop hints around that I’m burnt out.” You sigh. “Which is not a total lie. But I'm gonna miss it. So just … let me at least pretend I can have you and still do the job I love for a little while.” Your voice quiets and you blink back unexpected tears. “Please. You owe me that much.”
Dex nods quickly. “That’s fair.” Now, it's his turn to sigh, genuine distress appearing on his face as he cups your face in one hand. "Fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t want to ruin tonight and-
"Hey, stop, you haven’t. I mean, between the two of us, you’re actually presenting the more logical option. It’s not like I wanna keep my boyfriend a secret forever.” Dex visibly perks up at the word “boyfriend,” and you can't help it, you smile.
“So I guess the ‘murder sugar daddy route’ does have its perks.”
Dex’s brow furrows.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” he mutters sulkily, and you have to fight back a laugh.
“Oh yeah?" You wrap your arms around his neck. "What would you call it, then?”
“Hm. The ‘being an extra good boyfriend’ route.”
“You know what? That does sound better.”
Dex chuckles before he kisses you again, slower this time but with the same pressing need that leaves your head spinning; flooded with how good he feels, how right this feels.
So, consequences be damned.
He takes your hand in his, eyes never leaving yours as he brings it to his lips with a tenderness no one else would ever believe; butterflies dancing throughout your whole being.
“I’m gonna make this worth it for you. All of it. I promise.”
And you smile and tell him the truth—the most irrational, beautiful, simple truth you know:
