//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.
Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x assassin!reader
Summary: Dex has fantasized about you coming over for weeks. When you do, it starts off like a nightmare—but it turns out better than he could’ve ever dreamed.
Tags/warnings: soft boi Dex, slowish burn, first kiss + some making out, swearing, angst and fluff because it's my jam, just give this man a BREAK ok
Word count: 4,000 (oops I did it again)
Title from my all-time favorite Hozier song, “From Eden” / Babe, there’s something wretched about this, something so precious about this, where to begin? Babe, there's something broken about this, but I might be hoping about this. Oh, what a sin // I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door.
Knock, knock, knock.
Dex springs up from the couch. Holy shit. It was finally happening. You were at his apartment.
It had to be you—cops and feds wouldn’t knock so politely, and no one else knew where he lived.
He’d shared his address with you last week in what he hoped seemed to be a casual mention between whiskeys at your favorite dive bar, telling you that if you were ever bored between jobs or needed somewhere safe to crash, you were welcome.
His nonchalance about it was total bullshit, of course. Underneath, it carried all his foolish, feverish hope that someday, somehow, you’d be together.
And you’d smiled and repeated his address back a few times, committing it to memory, before telling him you had a busy few weeks ahead, but you were sure you’d find your way over soon enough.
Since then, Dex had fanatically dreamed about you coming over. The scenario unfolds differently in his head each time: sometimes, you arrive with a 6-pack and a smile; sometimes, you have a duffel bag and are looking for a place to lay low.
Sometimes you don't say anything at all, you just step forward and kiss him, your voice breathless as you say the two words Dex would give anything to hear since he’d met you:
“I’m yours.”
But in all of his varied imaginings, of all of his normally precise plans and calculations, he somehow hadn’t prepared for the actual version that was waiting for him outside his door—and his stomach dropped when he faced it.
Because this wasn’t a dream. This was a nightmare.
You’re barely standing, crimson-stained knuckles clutching onto the edge of the doorframe like a lifeline. Your dark clothes bear sporadic slices and rips, blood clearly visible underneath and soaking the fabric that now clings to your skin. He hopes that most of it isn’t yours, but with how pale your face looks, he can’t count on it.
“Hey, Dex,” you murmur, trying to smile but it comes out as a grimace. “Hope it’s not a bad time.”
He doesn’t answer, just surges forward and scoops you up into his arms, your own wrapping around his neck instinctively.
Rage, white-hot and corrosive, floods through him—rage for whoever dared to do this to you, that they warped your first visit to his place into something filled with shock and horror. That they tried to destroy the only light in his darkened life.
Whoever “they” were, he would make them pay. Not with his normal expediency, oh no, their demise would be drawn-out; choking on their own spattering blood and pain while he watched. And he was going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.
You curse under your breath and it snaps him back to the present. Then, he does what he spent so many years perfecting: he shoves the rage down and buries it, ignores the metallic buzzing in his brain ordering him to punish, punish, punish.
He gently lowers you onto the couch, treating you like the most precious artwork he’s ever seen. You don’t wince too badly as he does it, though, which he takes as an encouraging sign.
“What’s the worst of it?” he asks as calmly as he can.
You sigh.
“Pretty sure I cracked a rib, maybe both, I’m not sure.” You tap your shoulder. “Got stabbed here. And I think my hip got grazed on the way out, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to check. Doesn’t feel like the bullet’s in there, though. You chuckle. “My lucky day.” You pause, shaking your head as you stare up at the ceiling. “And I’m just … tired.”
Dex drops to your level, wanting to do so many things at once.
Part of him wants to hold your hand, part of him wants to lick every last drop of blood off you, and part of him also wants to scream at you—that you should’ve been more careful. Because didn’t you know how special you were, how utterly irreplaceable you were to him? Sure, you’d had injuries before—a natural job hazard—but nothing like this. He could’ve lost you.
That thought cuts through the vestiges of the remaining anger, flooding his veins with ice. He can’t lose you, he just can’t.
“I know it’s really hard. But you’re safe now,” he says, nodding vigorously, trying to adopt the steady, soothing tone he learned back at the Suicide Hotline. “I’m gonna make sure you’re ok. I’ll be right back.”
“And I’ll be right here,” you deadpan, giving him a flicker of a smile through your split lip. A glimmer of relief ripples through him—if you can still smile, your injuries probably aren’t immediately fatal.
He jogs into his room and rips down the medical kit from his closet. He’s used it on himself plenty of times, sure, but this is the first time he’s grabbed it for someone else.
And then the truth suddenly dawns on him:
You needed him.
In the most primal, intimate way imaginable: to keep you alive. And you trusted him to do it.
Him. You chose him. No one else.
He gives himself a second to savor that truth, a wide grin breaking over his face as his eyes close. Was it fucked up to feel happy right now? Absolutely. But how could he not?
It might not have looked like anything he’d envisioned, but … maybe your arrival was better than that. Of course, he didn’t want you hurt, but he couldn't deny there was no better opportunity to prove to you that he was worthy, that he was valuable. That he could be good and that he was good for you.
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to blow it.
Taking a second to rearrange his features back to a look of focused concern, he walks back out into the living room.
“Shoulder first,” he says, popping open the kit and sliding on the latex gloves. He’s rooting around for antiseptic and when he looks up, his heart nearly stops at the sight of you there, bare skin and sports bra exposed as your hoodie now hangs half on and half off.
You've only gotten one arm free though, wincing as you start to raise the other.
“Goddammit,” you huff, and then your eyes meet his.
Dex's pulse immediately quickens, seeming to reverberate straight through his whole body.
“Can I …” He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “You want some help?”
You nod without hesitation, so Dex slowly scoots forward, trying to keep his breathing even.
He’s so close to you. So, so close. It’s not fair—how can you still be so fucking pretty when you’re covered in blood? And are you somehow even more attractive to him because of it? The vivid, scarlet remnants of chosen violence across your face; clear, undeniable proof that, in some way, your internal wiring was twisted up like his.
No time to unpack all of that right now, though. So his hands—feared weapons in all other circumstances—go feather light on your wrist as he lifts your arm up, gently sliding the sleeve forward. He guides the blood-stained fabric up and over your head, an electric current flooding through him as his fingertips brush against your ribcage.
For the two seconds your vision is obscured, he can't help himself. His eyes flicker down, roaming across the contours of your chest, the bright colors of tattoos no longer hidden, scars and fresh wounds alike.
He drags his eyes back up as he tosses the sweater over the couch. Now, there you are, bruised and battered and half-undressed about a foot away from him. And somehow, you never flinched at his touch. And your eyes are still trained on his.
"Thanks."
"No problem," he replies, his chest tight. Seconds pass but it feels like an eternity to Dex as you both sit there in the stillness, and it feels like he's hovering at the edge of something more, something real, something that both scares and enthralls him far more than bullets or blades ever have.
He drinks you in, practically hypnotized at this point, and it's only when his eyes betray him, flickering down to your split lip, that he remembers what he's supposed to be doing.
“Right," he says, clearing his throat and turning you slightly to get a closer look at your shoulder.
"You'll need stitches, but I've seen worse," he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. He grabs some antiseptic and a cloth, brushes it over the wound, and watches for your reaction: you frown slightly but don't move.
Then, onto the scissors, needle, and thread, lining his hands up at the start of the wound. "You ready?"
You nod and Dex gets to work, finding a rhythm as he sews you up, skilled fingers moving with ease. It only takes a few minutes before he finishes and snips off the remaining thread.
“Done,” he says, gently brushing his thumb under the stitch, relishing any excuse to touch you.
You turn and look down.
“That was fast.” You smile. “Nice work, Dr. Dex.”
“Well, you’re a good patient,” he replies, and he’s not lying. You barely shifted as he wove the needle through you. “Give me two seconds, ok?”
You nod again and he walks to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with the coldest water he can.
He walks back over and hands it to you, being sure to brush your fingers with his.
“Drink.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Aye aye, Doc.” You take a sip and start to shift up slightly on the couch, a low hiss escaping your throat.
Dex is there in an instant, one hand wrapping around your waist to guide you up further as the other places the cup on the side table next to you.
"Let me look at the rest, now." His fingers pause for a fraction of a second, hovering just above your torso, deep bruises blooming like indigo flowers. It's unusual for him, being so tentative. He's not used to it, the hesitation, the nerves, of trying to be delicate for anyone.
You're the exception.
Slowly, he pushes in against your bones, feels the slight crunching underneath his touch. Your body pulls away reflexively, and for the first time, you flinch as your eyes shut tight.
“Yeah, that’s definitely broken,” he says.
“Mm." Your eyes are still closed, but there's now a strained grin on your face. "I think the proper medical term you’re looking for is ‘totally fucked,’ Doc.”
And Dex can’t help himself—he laughs. And so do you, the bright sound reverberating inside him, filling up all the empty spaces.
It's short lived though, your laughter morphing into a pained cough as you grab your ribcage with one hand, his forearm with the other.
It's not like your grip is anywhere close to hurting him, but part of Dex wants you to. To dig your nails in, draw blood, leave bruises; to let him absorb your pain as his own.
"Give it all to me," his brain begs. "Let me take it."
"Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your fingertips loosening against him. But before he can get too disappointed, instead of pulling away, your hand stays, and warmth surges through his entire being.
He looks downward toward your hip. You're right, you got lucky—it's a shallow graze, no remnants present. Reluctantly, he slides his arm out from under yours, quickly repeating the same process as before: antiseptic, needle, thread, stitch. He's just about done when you speak up:
"Do you have any Vicodin?”
He frowns, feels a twinge of panic. He doesn’t.
“No. But I can go get you some," he quickly adds.
“From where?” you ask, amusement evident in your tone. “Mr. FBI's got a narcotics plug?”
Dex shakes his head. “There’s always medicine cabinets. Hospitals. I’ll find some."
“And people say chivalry is dead," you say lightly, and then your tone shifts, gives way to something more sincere.
"Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”
“Probably collapse in the street,” he says dryly, hoping the joke will make you smile. It does, and he melts.
God, he is so fucked. Absolutely, pathetically, fucked for you. And he doesn't mind it.
“That’s fair," you reply. "But really, Dex. Thank you.”
“Yeah, of course." His eyes meet your own. "I’d do anything for you.”
Your gaze burns back through him.
“Do you mean that?” you ask quietly.
Dex nods, his heart racing. It feels like he’s moving through water as he decides what he’s about to do, and then, somehow, he just does it; places his hand on your thigh and draws slow circles with his thumb.
You lean into the touch, moving even closer toward him, your leg now grazing his own, fully igniting something deep and buried within him.
“Well, in that case, I have a request.”
Dex swallows, tries to remember how to breathe, how to think, but it’s hard—really hard—because how is he supposed to function properly when you’re there with that voice and that look and that goddamn half-undressed body of yours?
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice slightly strangled. “Name it.”
“Kiss me.”
Finally.
And so he does, grabbing the hinge of your jaw as he brings your lips to his, desperation and want drowning out the usual din in his head; obscuring everything that isn’t you, you, absolutely fucking perfect you.
You’re right there with him, nails scratching at the back of his hair as you coax his mouth further open with yours, sliding your tongue in to taste his. There's the faintest tinge of iron, and his body hums with a strange exhilaration as he realizes he’s tasting your blood—tasting you from the inside out.
It’s everything all at once: hard and soft and sweet and fast, too fast for Dex’s brain to keep up with, and so he reacts to your touch without thinking, grabbing your hips and yanking you onto his lap because he needs you closer, needs all of you, now.
But it all comes to a screeching halt as you pull back from him with a gasp, not from pleasure, but with pain.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” you hiss, grabbing at your ribcage, and the last syllable is laced with faintest whimper that floods Dex with dread, his emotions spinning on a dime.
He hurt you. He had one fucking job: to make you feel good. And he couldn’t even do it right.
“Pathetic,” his brain hisses at him. “You ruined your chance. You always ruin everything.”
“Shit, I’m so, so sorry,” he says, panicking. “I wasn’t thinking, I just-“
Your voice overlaps with his.
"No, no, it’s ok, it’s not your fault. I was, uh, I was definitely all for it.” You smile, brushing some of his now-disheveled hair back from his forehead, and his anxiety lessens.
“I'll just have to make it up to you when I’m not falling to pieces.” You trace his jawline with your nails, sending shivers through him, your eyes reflecting back the same hunger that fills his own.
“I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”
Thank fucking God. He hadn't ruined everything.
“I’m counting on that,” he murmurs. He pauses, biting at the corner of his lip.
Dex has never done drugs before, convinced that they’d just fuck up his mind further (and the FBI tends to frown on illicit substances). But now, sitting here next to you, he wonders if this is what addiction feels like: this insatiable, pulsing current through him demanding more, more, more; willing to do anything at all if it means he can keep the high going. Even if it’s just a small taste.
“If I’m more careful though … can I kiss you again?”
You smirk slightly, propping your head on your arm against the top of the couch.
“How long have you thought about this? About me and you?”
Dex chuckles.
“It's, uh, gonna sound like a shitty cliche, but probably since the day we met."
“Good. Me too.” You shift forward, your tone softening. “Now, come here.”
Dex does just what you ask, kissing you gentler and slower this time as he savors you more fully—the feel of your lips against his, your face cupped in his hand, burning it all into his memory.
You pull back first, grazing your lips against his neck as you turn to rest your head there, nestling into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
His hand finds yours and you sit there like that, together in the quiet; taking in the sounds of the city drifting in from his open window.
"You ... you need anything else right now?" he asks.
You shake your head against him. "Right now, just you."
Just you.
Dex could laugh at the absurdity of it—just him? Who's ever needed him before? Who's ever chosen him before?
"Actually, I lied." You sit up. "There's one more thing I need.”
Of course, there it is. You need to leave, you need to tell him this was a mistake. You need someone else.
"Yeah?" he asks and his hand squeezes yours, subconsciously trying to keep you close.
"Can I shower and borrow some clothes?" You smile. "I'll do my best to keep the stitches dry, I'm not gonna ruin all your hard work."
Oh. Relief floods through him. You're staying. You're staying. He didn't fuck everything up.
“Yeah, yeah, of course you can.”
You follow him down the hall as he grabs you a towel from the closet. Then, he switches on the light in his room, opens the dresser drawer.
"I, uh, I'm not sure what you're looking for, but you can pick whatever you want."
Your hand runs over the neatly folded clothes, settling on one of his old FBI t-shirts and some grey sweatpants.
"These work." You stand up on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek, his skin immediately heating up underneath.
"Thanks, babe."
Babe. You say it so easily, like it's nothing, but it's everything. You're speaking like he's something precious, something familiar.
Like he's yours.
"You're welcome," he replies, voice barely above a whisper, and he sits down at the edge of his bed as you walk into the bathroom.
As soon as you shut the door, he falls backward onto the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling and lets himself grin, runs his hands down his face in utter disbelief.
Then, he notices the red tinge on his fingertips, your blood staining his skin and parts of his shirt. He gets up and changes into a dark grey one—the same color as the one you took—and heads to the kitchen to wash the rest off, telling himself he should probably work on cleaning off the couch, too.
And yet, even with his OCD, he hesitates. Because those crimson splotches are a visceral, tangible confirmation that this wasn't all in his head, that he's not going to blink and find you've disappeared.
But, on the other hand, he’s also just sane enough to recognize that keeping your blood as some kind of a fucking souvenir is probably not a good look.
So, to the sink he goes.
He washes his hands and dries them, then starts to work on the couch. He's pretty much gotten it all out when he hears your footsteps, and he looks up and stops mid-scrub.
Your hair is wet and tousled, standing there with his shirt and rolled-up sweats loosely hanging on you. He surreptitiously pinches his forearm, double checking to make sure he's not hallucinating, but the scene doesn't change.
You're really there. Whatever this is between you and him, it's real.
“Hey," you say, then gesture at the couch. "Sorry about that."
He tries to give you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, it comes off easy."
He grabs the rag and cleaning supplies, tosses them under the sink, and washes his hands again.
You walk over next to him.
"Do you have an ice pack I can borrow? Or frozen anything, I'm not picky."
"Yeah, I got it." He walks over to the freezer and gently tosses you one, which you throw between your hands.
"Thanks.” You pause for a second. “I’m gonna go get some sleep."
"Ok." Dex frowns. "Wait, you still need Vicodin."
You wave him off.
“I’m ok. Really.” You grab his hand, skimming your thumb across his knuckles. “Kissing you and taking a shower brought me up like 40%." You look up at him.
“You coming with me?”
If his brain wasn’t already short-circuiting, it sure was now.
"Yeah, I’ll be right there.” But then he stops himself, suddenly unsure. “That’s what you want, right?”
You squeeze his hand and give him a look he can’t quite read. It’s not pity exactly, it’s more like … understanding. Like somehow, you can see straight through him, right down to the deepest parts of himself he’s tried to hide.
“Yes, that’s what I want.”
You walk back down the hall into his bedroom while he stands there in his kitchen. He leans over the sink and closes his eyes.
He hears Mercer’s voice, reminding him gently of how alone he’d been in his childhood. He hears you saying “kiss me,” the way you called him "babe." He thinks of the way you just looked at him, without horror or confusion or anger.
You looked at him like you knew him, really knew him—and somehow, you were still here.
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Don’t fuck this up,” his brain warns.
Then, he turns and walks down the hall to his room. Logically, he knows you’ll be in there, but taking in the sight of you already half asleep in his bed still feels surreal.
You look up sleepily and pat the mattress next to you. Carefully, he climbs in next to you, lets you slowly shift to lay on his chest. He’s sure you can feel his heart hammering there, but if you do, you don’t say anything.
Until you do.
"Are you ok?" you ask softly, looking up at him.
Dex swallows and nods, lies through his teeth. “Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
"You just seem ... intense. More than usual.” For the first time that night, apprehension enters your tone. “Was this too much too soon?”
And he almost laughs because it's so absurd, the idea that anything to do with you could be "too much." "Too much" to most people was barely scratching the surface for him. He wants it all, to capture every single thing about you, in every way and every minute and every shade and color in between—how you laugh, how you cry, how you feel underneath him; empty it all into the hollow expanse in his chest and carry it with him forever.
“What? No, no, absolutely not,” he says, shifting so he can look you in the eyes, to make sure you know he means it. He brings one hand to your face, strokes away some of the damp hair clinging to your cheek.
“You are perfect,” he says firmly. “And I just. You're so special and funny and beautiful and I ... I want you to be happy … with me.” His voice quiets. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”
"I know,” you murmur back. “But let me ask you something. Who did I come to tonight when I needed someone I could trust?"
Dex gives a half smile.
"Me."
"Who did I summon enough energy for to make out with on the couch even though my body was beat to shit today?"
"Me."
You spread your arm out wide.
"Whose literal bed am I laying in right now?"
He can’t help it, he smiles for real this time.
"Mine."
"Right. Those were all my choices. All you.” You bring his forehead to yours. “And I don’t plan on that changing any time soon. Ok?"
"Ok."
You kiss him again, slow and sweet, before you tuck back into him.
"Night, Dex."
"Night."
Your eyes close immediately but his stay open, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, grounding himself in the warmth of your body against his.
After a while, he checks his watch and realizes he's been watching you sleep for over an hour. He knows he could do it all night, but he also knows he needs to be functioning in the morning.
After all, he's got a plan to execute: he needs to pick up your favorite Starbucks and make breakfast before you wake up, figure out where he wants to score your Vicodin from, set up Netflix so you can watch whatever you want.
Anything to make you stay.
So he brushes his lips against your hair and finally lets his eyes close, the humming in his mind starting to slow.
And before he drifts off, he realizes that, for the first time in his life, it doesn't feel so hard to breathe.
