Summary : You are not the only person hunting Anti-Vigilante Task Force. Luckily, your “competition” is Benjamin Poindexter.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is ex-SHIELD, sexual themes, Freak4Freak, violence, death, blood, injury/gunshot wound, emotional trauma/grief, slight mention of cannabis use, brief mention of having suicidal thoughts, codependency, biting/blood play, Dex has you in a headlock as one point. Mention of surgery. Dex finds out he likes pain and learns sympathy in the same story lol. Fluff, angst. Set between DDBA season 1 and season 2. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 9.9k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : Most of the fic is inspired by the song Kitty Sucker by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Credit to this post by @truestaim for inspiring the more intimate scenes <3 Enjoy!
You didn’t meet Dex in a bar, or on a dating app, or on a night out, like any modern person would.
You met him at work.
Well, “work.”
Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected but emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents.
They weren’t exactly hard to track and they weren’t subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of “order.” You’d been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didn’t like being hunted.
And they were definitely hunting you.
You were an “Asset Gone Rogue.” At least, that’s what you were in their files.
In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself.
Because you refused, because apparently, if you weren’t loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you.
You didn’t mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right? At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you.
Until Fisk became mayor.
That’s when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for “assets” as a threat. So they slapped the label “vigilante” on you and processed your arrest warrant.
The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire.
They were your friends.
Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. He’d get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. You’d told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, they’d need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer.
Layla would laugh and ask, “You? C’mon. You’re not stopping nobody from coming in.”
Darren would say, “My cousin’s like 6’5. He can do the job.”
You’d laugh, because they didn’t really know your past. They didn’t know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didn’t know the blood on your hands.
You’d take a drag out of the blunt. “Trust me, man. I’m scary as fuck.”
They’d laugh and say, “If you say so.”
But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.
And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, they’ll get a vigilante.
Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for.
Because if there’s one thing you’re good at doing with your hands, it’s killing for sport.
—
What you didn’t expect when you started to hunt them… was competition.
On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldn’t have been knives. Pencils where they shouldn’t be pencils. And glass where they shouldn’t be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force.
You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler.
You smiled a little. “‘M not the only one, huh?”
—
The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive.
It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on.
Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour.
One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.
You stepped in.
Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.
Another came at you from behind.
You didn’t turn.
You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.
He folded.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work.
The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream.
You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets.
Shiny, you thought. It’s mine now.
“Messy,” you heard a voice say from the darkness.
You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.
The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like he’d always been there.
He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.
It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldn’t tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him.
What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.
Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.
“Oh?” you said, almost amused. “You got notes?”
His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.
“You were in my line of fire,” he said bluntly.
You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. “I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.”
To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.
You felt bone crunch under your heel.
You didn’t even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.
You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. “You see something unfinished?”
His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. “They were mine.”
Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.
“Well.” Your head tilted. “You should’ve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.”
“I don’t need to be close,” he replied.
“Mm.” You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. “Shame. You’re missing out.”
“And you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,” he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.
“It’s more fun,” you shrugged. “I like it when I feel it.”
You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile.
“Oh,” you said with a cynical grin. “There it is. You do have a personality.”
The tension didn’t ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.
“Got a name?” you asked casually, like you weren’t standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.
A fraction of a second passed before he answered. “Dex.”
It fit him.
You nodded once, like you approved. “Dex,” you repeated, tasting it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You?”
You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Tsk. Tsk.” You stepped a little closer. “I’m not that easy.”
Dex managed a real laugh. “I didn’t think you were.”
That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didn’t understand.
—
You kept running into each other.
Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.
Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding.
You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.
You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.
When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. “You stalking me?”
“You’re predictable,” he replied.
You smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still alive.”
“…For now,” he said. There was something almost playful in it.
A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, you’ve started actively looking for each other before fighting.
This time, you moved without speaking, like you’d done this a hundred times before.
You drew them in. Dex picked them off.
At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.
You didn’t even look.
“Gotta be careful,” he called.
“Relax,” you shot back. “I trust you.”
Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said.
You grinned. “Too late.”
By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.
You’d show up. He’d already be there. Or vice versa.
You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.
You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. “You gonna share?”
“Depends,” he shrugged.
“On?”
“Whether you slow me down.”
You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. “Or speed you up.”
That got you a sweet smile. “We’ll see.”
And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it mattered—
“The enemy of my enemy…,” you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.
Dex eyes locked on to yours.
“…is useful,” he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether.
After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.
—
Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.
He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.
“You’re late,” he said, not even turning.
He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.
You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadn’t just sprinted across half the block. “Just got back from a hot date.”
That got a pause. Was he… jealous?
“Really?”
You gave him a deadpan look he couldn’t see. “Yeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.”
His head tilted just slightly.
You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. “Of course not. I don’t have time for dates.” You huffed, almost amused. “My laundry, though? That needed folding.”
As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.
“Target’s moving,” he said.
You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.
“Mm,” you hummed. “You taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?”
“I’ve got it.”
You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was… fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours.
His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.
Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.
“Dex—”
The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.
Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder.
It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.
Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.
“Shit!” Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day.
Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.
“What did you do?” He demanded, almost a sneer.
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. “You’re welcome?”
Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.
Another shot rang out.
Oh, so that bastard was still there.
Dex knew he had to go now.
His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired, like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.
A body dropped across the street.
“You’re hit,” he said, attention turning back to you.
You huffed weakly. “Wow. Observant.”
Your knees buckled. This time, they didn’t recover. He held you up anyway.
“Why?” he asked.
You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. “What?”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. “Wow. No ‘thank you’? I’m hurt.”
“You are hurt.”
“Yeah,” you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. “At least I’ll get a cool scar from it.” Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, “like yours.”
His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you.
What a foreign feeling, indeed.
“Stay with me,” he said.
You let out a small, shaky laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Stay. With me.” You’ve never heard him sound so… serious.
Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. “…Alright.”
For once, you didn’t fight him. You didn’t joke or deflect.
Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. “You owe me,” you murmured.
“What?” He asked, as if he couldn’t believe where your priorities lay right now.
You managed the ghost of a grin. “Saving your life. Obviously.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he managed, exasperated.
You exhaled, breath catching halfway. “Yeah… well. I did.”
He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.
“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.
You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.
His eyes weren’t steady anymore.
“C-Careful,” you managed, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re s-starting to sound like you care.”
Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, “I do.”
Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.
“…Huh,” you whispered.
And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.
—
You came back to the land of the living slowly.
You didn’t just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You weren’t at a hospital— there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just… peace and quiet.
Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.
And it was definitely not your ceiling.
You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.
Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.
“You decorate like a serial killer,” you muttered, voice rough from disuse.
“You’re awake,” Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like he’d been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Was hoping I died. This is disappointing.”
You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. “Tragic.”
You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. “…How long?”
“Eleven hours and forty-three minutes.”
“Mm.” You swallowed, throat dry. “You carry me all the way here?”
“Yes.”
A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”
Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory.
You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. “Come here.”
He didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.
You tilted your head, studying him. “I just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.”
He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.
You watched him for a second. “You’re weird,” you said.
“Mmhm,” he managed a laugh.
“At least you’re self-aware.”
You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.
You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. “You ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“All of it.” You gestured vaguely. “Of this.”
“No,” he said, and it was resolute.
You studied him, like you didn’t quite believe that. “I do,” you admitted quietly.
That earned his attention.
Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. “When I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more… being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.”
Your teeth tightened slightly.
“I tried to be normal,” you continued. “Did the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.” You managed a faint humorless smile. “Turns out I’m not built for normal.”
Dex didn’t interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you.
“They came after me anyway,” you said. “Didn’t matter that I walked away. To them, I don’t get to just… stop being what they made me.”
“And that is…?” Dex looked at you now.
“A killer,” you replied, sighing, “that’s all I’m good for.”
“Well,” Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, “that makes the two of us.”
You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasn’t distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.
That was new.
“I knew who you were,” Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. “Even before you told me your name.”
“That so?” you replied lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like your name hadn’t gotten people killed before.
He nodded once, finally looking at you. “Your MO was familiar."
Your lips curved faintly. “Flattered.”
“I knew I read something about brass knuckles,” he continued. “Used by a close range combat specialist.”
You just watched him, eyes sharper now.
“I was a fed,” he added. “I read your files a few years ago.”
That made you smile properly.
“Yeah?” you said, amused. “How much did you remember?”
“You were on the FBI watchlist,” he said. “It said that you were ex-SHIELD with an impressively high body count. High adaptability. High lethality.” He paused. “It said that you were high risk and… that you were volatile.”
You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly against the pillow. There was no bitterness in it. No anger, just acceptance. Like he’d told you your eye color.
Dex studied your face, like he was expecting more of a visceral reaction.
“You’re not bothered?” he asked.
“Should I be?” you shot back lightly. “You already kept me alive. Bit late to get scared of me now.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
You smiled at that.
The lights dimmed around you both as the sun set outside, the tension unwinding. You adjusted slightly, wincing as your shoulder protested, and he noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he almost reached for you before stopping himself.
Your voice dipped, teasing again. “So you knew all along, and you still chose to work with me.”
Dex nodded as if it was never a question.
You raised an eyebrow. “That seems irresponsible for a federal agent.”
“I’m not a federal agent anymore,” he reminded, “and you are not as one dimensional as the files say you are.”
“Mm,” you hummed. “So what am I, then?”
He paused again.
You watched him carefully this time, vulnerability threading through every word.
“Am I a problem?” you asked. “A liability? ‘Enemy of my enemy’ and all that?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, firmer now.
You let that sit between you for a second before pushing just a little further. “So what am I to you, Dex?”
He was thinking about it, you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes now locked onto yours like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.
“A friend?” you offered. “Is that what this is?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he shook his head.“‘Friend’ feels too tame.”
Your eyebrows lifted, interest sparking. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said.
You shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer despite the pull in your shoulder. “So what, then?”
For once, he didn’t look like he was calculating. For once, he just… felt present. “You’re…” he started, then stopped, like even he didn’t have a good word for it.
Your lips twitched. “C’mon. You made it this far.”
“You’re the only one I can’t reduce to a target,” He let out a faint exhale, “and the only variable I don’t want to correct.”
Ah. Okay.
Your expression didn’t change much, but it felt like the lens behind your eyes had shifted.
“I think…” you let a smile pull on your lips, “I like that answer better than ‘friend.’”
—
You didn’t go back to “normal” after that. It wasn’t an option anymore.
But you found something else, and it started the first night you cleared yourself to move properly again.
Dex watched the way you stretched, testing your muscles, the way you flexed your fingers like you were reacquainting yourself.
That’s when you caught him staring.
“What?” you asked, a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.
“You’re still hurt,” he said.
You scoffed. “I got shot three days ago. Do I look like I have a healing factor?”
“You’re arrogant. One day, it’s going to kill you,” he pointed out, as if your death was something he was dreading.
“You like that about me.” You grinned. The arrogance, you mean.
He paused, thinking. “I like you.”
“Jesus, Dex,” you laughed under your breath. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”
“I don’t see the point in lying to you.”
So now, working together became less of an accident. You stopped pretending you ran into each other. Now, you wouldn’t go into a fight without knowing the other had your six.
—
And afterwards… After the bodies were dropped and blood was spilled, you didn’t walk your separate ways. Instead, you kept each other company.
Which was new.
You’d sit on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, boots tapping idly against concrete slick with drying blood.
The city stretched out below you.
You leaned back on your hands, breathing steadying after the fight. “You ever think about how weird this is?”
“Not really,” Dex said.
“You should. It’s weird.”
You were met with another bout of comfortable silence. Then, he said, “You talk more after fights.”
You smiled, glancing sideways at him. “Adrenaline. Makes me charming.”
“You’re already… that,” he said, like the word didn’t come naturally.
You blinked. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
“Mmhm.”
Dex shifted closer. His hand moved, stopping just shy of yours.
You turned your head to realise how close he truly was.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth. He did the same.
Was he… leaning in?
Before you could meet him halfway, the church bells rang.
You flinched back on instinct, breath breaking as the moment broke clean in half. You dragged a hand through your hair, shaking your head slightly. “Timing’s shit.”
Dex didn’t look away. “…Yeah.”
—
Sometimes, you would sit on bridges.
You leaned against the railing, staring down into the dark. Dex stood beside you as you nudged his shoulders with yours.
“You ever think about it?” you asked once, more fragile than usual.
About jumping, you meant, and he knew that. About ending it all.
“Yes,” he said. It surprised him how easily he was admitting this to you.
You glanced back at him. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
You nodded, turning back to the water. “Me too,” you sighed, wishing the void beneath you were a giant pile of comfortable pillows. “But not anymore.”
“I—“ he managed to choke up, looking at you. “Me, too.”
The words didn’t feel separate. They felt… tethered. Like a promise neither of you meant to make.
The wind rushed up from the dark below, cold enough to sting. Your fingers curled tighter around the railing as you turned your head.
He was already right there.
You realised a terrifying truth: If you jumped, he would.
And worse, if he did, you wouldn’t hesitate to follow.
You took a deep breath and leaned in anyway.
Dex did the same, like he understood exactly what this meant. Like he knew what you were giving him.
Your breaths mixed, you lips barely a breath apart—
—and a violent blast of car horns tore through it.
You jumped back like the world had yanked you apart.
Reality crashed in as you turned away, swallowing hard, grip tightening on the railing like it was the only thing holding you in place now.
Dex sighed, knowing that it was not the time, it was not the place. “Right…”
You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah.”
—
Most nights, though, you’d take him to sit on a bench by the river, tucked away just enough that no one bothered you.
It had a plaque on it, one that you bought. One that said— in memory of beloved friends: Layla Gras and Darren Walsh.
You blew half your savings account paying for the goddamn bench.
So after most nights of fighting Task Force, you’d make your way there and sit with your legs stretched out. Dex would follow, and you’d lean into him without thinking.
You’d talk about nothing and everything. You’d talk about small things like the weather, but you’d also talk about deep shit. Real shit. Your days with SHIELD, and whatever he would offer from his past. You’d talk like this was a confessional booth, like you’ve sworn under oath in court— that’s how freely you divulge information about yourselves to each other. That’s how safe you felt around him. Ironic, considering his… professional reputation.
Today, you were sat there after ambushing more Task Force agents than you were expecting. You had gotten bruised, so you were pressing your fingers against your side with a small wince. “I’m getting sloppy.”
“You still won,” he said immediately, “shoulda seen those guys.”
You scoffed. “That’s a very you way of measuring success.”
“It’s the only way that matters.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but you didn’t argue. Your hand drifted down absently, brushing against your belt.
You froze for a second before pulling it free.
It was the knife you took from him on the first night you met.
You turned it in your hand. It was still in perfect condition, and of course it was. You’d taken care of it, maybe more than you needed to.
Your thumb traced the handle.
“Do you want it back?” you asked, holding it out slightly toward him.
Dex didn’t even look at it. “Keep it,” he said.
You blinked once, then let out a chuckle, lowering the knife back into your lap.
“Wow,” you said lightly. “How very sentimental.”
“It’s practical.”
“Is it?” you tilted your head. “Because I’m pretty sure you just gave me your weapon as a keepsake.”
“It’s not a keepsake,” he replied, but there was a slight delay. “You should use it.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
You flipped the knife once in your hand before catching it again it was almost as if you were imitating him. “You know,” you added, voice quieting, “most guys give flowers.”
“I don’t think you’d like flowers.”
You turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “Excuse you. I love flowers.”
He finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your face.
“No,” he said after a second. “You’d forget to change the water.”
Your mouth dropped open slightly. “That is—” you pointed at him with the knife, offended but amused, “—so disrespectful of you to assume.”
“You forgot to eat yesterday.”
“That is different.”
“It’s not.”
“It is,” you insisted, though you were already smiling. “One is basic survival. The other is… decorative responsibility.”
“That’s worse.”
You scoffed, staying silent for a long time.
This peace… was nice.
You looked out at the water, closing your eyes for a good five seconds before you opened them again. Then, you added, “I’d keep them alive if they mattered.”
Dex didn’t respond right away.
Your eyes dropped back to the knife, fingers tightening around it. “This matters,” you admitted shyly.
You didn’t look at him when you said it.
Instead, you carefully slid the knife back into your belt, adjusting it into place like it had always belonged there.
When your hand pulled away, you placed it on the bench.
Your fingers stayed there for a second… before you hooked your pointer finger around his.
You did it so casually, like it didn't mean anything. But it meant everything.
You leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulder bumping his just enough to close the space between you.
He leaned into your touch.
You smiled to yourself, eyes drifting out over the water as you let your thumb brush absently against his pinky.
Dex’s vision shifted to you, then to the small plaque fixed into the bench beneath you. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to read it properly.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew there must be a reason you brought him here like… what? Seven or eight times now?
He just never thought to ask because he didn’t know when the right time to ask would be. But it might as well be now.
His fingers adjusted, holding on slightly firmer. “Tell me about Layla and Darren.”
—
An hour later, the city had rolled further into early morning than night.
You stood from the bench after you laid your heart bare, rolling your shoulders once like you were checking in with your body before moving again. You were sick of being a walking sob story, however good it felt just to talk. You needed to move.
Dex stood a second after you did. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.
It came out a little stiff. Not forced, but unfamiliar.
You glanced at him, a smile pulling at your lips. “Oh?” you teased lightly. “Is that what we’re doing now?”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
“You know,” you shrugged, stepping past him, hands sliding into your pockets as you started down the sidewalk, “chivalry. Social norms. Walking a girl home.”
“I’m making sure you get back safely.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Dex, I jump off rooftops for fun.”
“And you could still get hurt.” he replied evenly, falling into step beside you.
You didn’t argue.
The walk wasn’t long, but it stretched in that comfortable silence you’d both gotten used to. You walked shoulder to shoulder, naturally in sync.
By the time you reached your building, you slowed to a stop just outside the entrance. You turned to face him, head tilting slightly. “You wanna come upstairs?”
Dex didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”
“Wow,” you said, pushing the door open. “No internal conflict? No hesitation? I’m almost offended.”
“I trust you,” he said simply, following you inside.
Upstairs, your place was dark when you stepped in. You flicked the light on, yellow lights warming the otherwise dim apartment.
Dex’s eyes moved immediately, taking everything in.
It wasn’t what he expected.
It was… neat and intentional. Not sterile like his, but not cluttered either. There were actual decorations, like a plant by the window and books stacked alphabetically on your desk.
“Don’t look so surprised,” you said, kicking your shoes off and placing your keys onto the counter.
“I’m not,” he replied.
“You are,” you shot back, glancing at him. “You thought I lived in a cave or something.”
“I thought it would be less… personal.”
You hummed, walking further in. “Yeah, well. I tried the whole ‘normal life’ thing, remember?”
His eyes lingered a second longer, until it shifted to the second door, which was left slightly ajar.
You noticed.
“Ah,” you said, already moving toward it. “That one’s less aesthetically pleasing.”
You pushed the door open fully.
The spare bedroom, the shape of a square, was stripped down to nothing but function. All there was in there was a foam mat covering most of the floor, worn in places. A duffel bag was placed in the corner. There were a few taped-up sections of the wall where impact marks had clearly been… frequent.
You stepped inside first, gesturing lazily. “This,” you said, “is where I train.”
He walked further in, like he was mapping it out in real time. “You spend a lot of time in here,” he said.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “Keeps me sharp.”
He nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. Then he turned to you. “Train me.”
“Are you serious?” you asked, pushing off the frame.
“Yeah.” He didn’t waver. “I know for a hand-to-hand combat specialist, you’re not particularly strong.”
“Ouch,” you said immediately, a hand pressing dramatically to your chest.
“What I mean is,” Dex continued, stepping closer. “I’ve seen you fight. You go against people twice your size. You’re not relying on brute strength, but you’re agile.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“I want to know how you do it,” he finished. “Teach me.”
Huh. You weren’t expecting this.
“Careful what you wish for,” you murmured, reaching up to shrug off your jacket. It slid from your shoulders, landing on the floor as you stepped onto the mat, rolling your wrists once like you were waking your body up again.
“C’mon, Dex,” you said, a hint of a challenge threading through your voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
—
Dex learned fast. That was the first thing you noticed.
The second was that he was not really trying to hurt you.
And that pissed you off.
His momentum slowed just slightly before impact. Then, he held back a counter that could’ve floored you but didn’t follow through. His grip was way too controlled.
You circled him lightly on the mat, breath steady despite the growing ache in your ribs.
“Again,” you said.
He moved.
You slipped under his strike, pivoted, redirected your palm and caught his wrist, your weight shifting just enough for him to hit the mat hard.
You stepped back, barely winded.
Dex stared up at the ceiling for a second before sitting up.
You could see it in his posture: restraint.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Godammit, Dex,” you tsked, pacing a circle around him. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘gentleman’ thing tonight, huh?”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you interrupted, stopping in front of him. “You’re pulling your punches.”
“I’m adjusting,” he corrected, standing again.
“For what?” you challenged, tilting your head. “My feelings?”
His teeth tightened, his chin pointing to your bruised side. “For your condition.”
You scoffed, stepping closer. “My condition can handle you.”
A familiar flicker shot through his eyes.
“Or is it not that?” you added, voice lowering. “You worried you might actually hurt me, or…” You stepped in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your nose “…that you might not want to?”
Dex’s gaze locked onto yours, a darker want threading through it now.
“I’m not holding back,” he insisted.
“Liar.”
You moved before he could respond. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
He came at you faster, harder, and for a second, it almost looked like he meant it.
Good, you thought. The last thing you wanted was to be infantilised by the only man you might still have respect for.
You ducked, redirected, used his momentum, your body turning with his.
That was when he realised that calling you agile was the understatement of the century.
You weren’t overpowering him. You were using him. Every ounce of force he gave you became yours.
You twisted, hooked his leg, and sent him crashing down again.
This time, you followed him down.
Your knee pinned his arm before he could recover, your other leg sliding over his hips as you stabilized your position.
And suddenly, you were straddling his crotch.
Dex didn’t even try to move.
His chest rose under yours. His hands hovered blankly for a split second like he didn’t know where to put them… before settling against the mat.
Your hands pressed lightly against his shoulders, holding him there. You could feel the tension coiled on his muscles, beneath your palms.
And oh…
Oh.
You felt it.
Your lips parted slightly.
His pants were definitely more tight than they had been before, evident by how much it was actually pressing into your core.
“Wow…” you sighed, amused.
You shifted your hips, grinding into him ever so slightly, just enough to make the point undeniable.
His breath hitched, and his face, from his nose to his ears were getting red. You leaned down just slightly, close enough that your chest hovered over his.
“Fuck, Dex,” you whispered, teasing through it. “Does this get you off?”
His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted frantically.
He was embarrassed. How adorable.
When his hands finally moved, he grabbed your waist. It was firm, but not rough.
“Get off,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it.
You didn’t so much as flinch.
Instead, you smiled. “Make me.”
After a while, he moved.
Finally.
Dex didn’t shove you off gently this time. He fought, and you were pleased, even if lacking a hint of resistance. He did pivot, a torque of his shoulder, his grip locking at your wrist as he forced space between you.
You let him for half a second. Just long enough for him to think he’d reset the balance.
Then you twisted with him.
Your weight dropped, your hips shifting as you used his own pull to roll back in, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to react. The mat hit your knee, breath loud in both your ears now.
“Come on,” you taunted. “That all you got?”
That got something out of him.
The next movement was cleaner. He caught you off-guard, turned you, and in one controlled motion drove you into the wall.
His hand snaked around your upper chest, up to the throat line. He had caught you in a headlock, precise and controlled. His body pressed in, flush behind yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space he didn’t give you.
There was no room to turn properly. No easy escape angle. There was just his forearm locked under your, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You let out a quiet laugh, breath slightly uneven.
“Took you long enough,” you said.
Dex didn’t loosen his grip. He leaned in and whispered closely, lips touching the shell of your ear. “Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?”
You would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.
But you also liked winning.
So, without warning, you sank your teeth into his bicep, hard enough to draw blood, to taste the tang of iron on your delicate tongue.
Dex, and you swore you weren't expecting this, moaned. It was throaty and low and utterly angelic to your ears.
It wasn’t long until he released you, more because he was surprised by his own bodily reaction than pain.
You stumbled forward out of the hold, spinning on your heel to face him again, licking your lips like nothing had happened.
Oh. That was interesting.
You looked at his arm again, watching the thin bead of blood you drew still sliding slowly down his skin.
“You okay?” you asked. It came off as gentler than you meant it to be, but there was still a hint of mischief between your eyes.
Dex didn’t answer immediately.
He was staring at you like his internal system had just stopped compiling. Like the world had introduced a variable he hadn’t accounted for and now everything else was lagging behind trying to catch up. It was like his brain had stalled somewhere between what just happened and why did I like that so much.
You lifted his arm slightly. “C’mere,” you pawed at his wrist, bringing the scar closer to your lips.
The bite was tiny, and there was only a little chance that it would leave a mark long-term. You would feel sorry if only he wasn’t so turned on.
And then you did something so absurdly gentle in contrast to everything you were. You leaned in… and kitten-licked the blood from his skin.
“F-fuck,” he said in a gasp, looking down your tongue to your eyes.
Oh, your eyes were locked on to his. He could barely keep it together.
The way you did it was teasing. Infuriatingly intimate in a way that didn’t match the violence still lingering in your skin. It’s as if you enjoyed drinking in his blood.
As you lapped up the scar at the source, he went very still.
Then his breath caught, his hardware short-circuiting.
A low, husky sound slipped out again before he could stop it.
Not pain, or anger. But pleasure.
He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to regain command of himself and failing in real time.
“W-what the hell are you doing?” he managed.
You wiped your thumb slowly over his wrist like nothing about this was unusual. Like you weren’t currently reprogramming his entire sense of restraint.
“M’ showing you how sorry I am,” you said mildly. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
He couldn’t look away and how beautiful you looked, how innocently you were acting through all this. You were a freak, he decided. If that was what it took, he would go band for band.
“That’s not what this looks like.”
You hummed, almost amused. “No?”
Dex didn’t answer.
He couldn’t, because he was still watching your mouth like it had become the only relevant object in the room.
Then you tilted your head slightly.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, dead serious. “And I’ll stop.”
Dex didn’t move for a second.
Not because he didn’t want to, but rather because he was trying very, very hard not to.
His eyes stayed on your mouth, on the faint trace of blood still there, and finally gave up pretending that you were anything short of an infuriatingly all-consuming obsession.
When his restrained snapped, it didn’t snap clean.
It frayed. Then tore.
His hand came up fast and grabbed your chin, firm enough to stop your whatever teasing remark you were going to say mid-breath. It was fucking rough, and you could feel it in your cheeks.
He didn’t hear you complaining, though.
“Dex—”
That was all you got out before he kissed you, hard. This time, nothing could possibly interrupt you.
There was no easing in. It was clear that this was the result of pent up emotions he’d been holding back for months finally finding somewhere to go.
His other hand hit the wall beside your head as he pressed you back into it, trapping you. But it was not like you wanted to be anywhere else.
You met him halfway.
Your hands found the collar of his shirt immediately, fingers curling in like you were pulling him closer just to make a point out of it.
His breath broke against your mouth for half a second, like even he couldn’t keep pace with how quickly this had escalated.
And then he kissed you again, like he was testing if you were real or just another thing his mind had invented under pressure.
You reminded him that you were tangible every time.
Running your tongue through his, gasping into his mouth.
He had been dreaming about this for months. He had fantasised up multiple scenarios in his head, how it would lead to this and how he would do it. Not once did he think he would finally get a taste of your lips and have it taste like himself.
His grip shifted, one hand still braced against the wall, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was supposed to be space between you at all.
When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to breathe.
His forehead hovered close to yours, his voice rough around the edges in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled through your lashes. A faint trace of red still lingered at the edge of your teeth as you bit his lower lip. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“F-fuck, baby,” he cursed through gritted teeth, lips finding you jawline, you neck, nipping and biting until he settled at your collarbone, where you made the most noise.
His fingers caught the edge of your top, hesitating for half a second, until you helped him undress yourself and him all the same. Clothes were just simply in the way, in his line of fire.
His hands were everywhere he could justify them being, at your waist, your back, your face, running down your breast all the way down between your legs. He was learning you in real time and refusing to stop long enough to overthink it.
And you weren’t any better.
Your hand trained the lines of his body, from his neck to his torso, but ended up trailing down his back.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him shirtless, or the first time you saw the scar. It was the first time you felt it, though, all rough edges and raised skin.
The first time you noticed it, you knew it was too precise to be anything but surgical, too severe to be anything but catastrophic. He had told you about it on his own free will; told you how his T8 and T9 vertebrae were shattered by Wilson Fisk, and how what put him back together wasn’t exactly medicine so much as an experiment.
He said it like it didn’t matter.
You knew better. Bodies don’t forget that kind of thing, even when they’re forced to heal. And right now, baring his soul to you, he let you trace it with the pad of your fingers ever so gently.
Dex broke from your mouth just long enough to breathe, but even that didn’t create distance.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
You blinked up at him. “Like what?”
His grip tightened slightly at your waist. “Like you planned this.”
You smiled.
“Did you?” He demanded. He didn’t wanna stop it, he just needed to know.
“C’mon,” you laughed, tipping your head back. “A girl invited you up to her place. You thought we were gonna bake cookies or somethin’?”
That got a reaction out of him, almost like a laugh, but it died halfway into another kiss before it could become anything stable.
This was going to be fun.
—
Dex woke up in your bed the next morning.
He was lying on his stomach across, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other loosely curled like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered finishing it.
He noticed the soreness of his back in soft waves. There were scratches there, shallow and scattered. Dex exhaled slowly through his nose.
Right.
That had happened.
Then he felt you.
You were sitting next to him, cross-legged on the bed, close enough that your knee brushed his side when you shifted, casual enough that it didn’t feel like distance even existed as an option.
Dex turned his head and stopped when he realised you didn’t have any clothes on either. And everything he did to you last night was on full display. The sunlight streaming through the windows even shone on you like you were a piece of art in a museum.
Beautiful, he thought.
Gentle evidence of love bites bloomed across your skin, marks he remembered leaving. It was… very intimate in hindsight.
You were looking down at him already, like you’d been watching him wake up for a while.
“Morning, sunshine,” you greeted.
Dex made an unassuming sound and pushed himself up on his forearms.
He looked at you for half a second before reaching for you.
He kissed you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find you beside him and decide, without question, that this was what mornings were now.
You kissed him back, your hand sliding into his hair with an ease that felt like trust.
When he pulled back, it was only a little.
“Morning,” he said, raspy.
“Ah.” You smiled faintly. “He speaks.”
Dex let out a breath again, more awake now, more aware of every point of contact between you and him.
He shifted fully upright this time, sitting back against the bed.
You just reached down to your bedside table drawer and showed him a small tub of aloe vera. You traced the scars on his back your nails left last night as if they were maps of constellations.
You had nothing to be sorry about. He asked for it when he was chasing his high in you, feral and affectionate all the same as you were gasping for air and saying his name like a prayer.
He had said he wanted his spinal scar to have company. He wanted the marks to feel good for a change.
Eventually, though, his eyes drifted down to his arm.
Last night, it started with one bite mark. This morning, he counted five. Three on his bicep, two on his forearm.
Again, he was the one who wanted it.
You had been trapped between the mattress and his body, putting you in a similar headlock from behind as he pulled the most lewd noises out of your pretty little mouth. “Gonna bite your way out now, pretty girl?” He whispered then, while you drew another bead of blood. “Huh? You know you like it. You know I— hmph fuck! Take it. Take it, take it…”
And the rest were mostly incoherent mumbles and muffled sinful mewls from both of you.
If your neighbours didn’t hate you before for all the thudding, they would now for all the fucking.
Still, the small tub of aloe was a curious thing.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me you feel bad now.”
You shrugged. “I just want a clean slate for next time.”
Dex’s heart skipped half a beat.
“Next time?” he repeated, like he was wondering whether the phrase was hallucinated.
You leaned forward slightly, tugging him by the shoulder so he turned his back toward you.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “Turn.”
Dex didn’t argue as you scooted closer behind him, dipping your fingers in the herbal ointment. His hands rested loosely on his thighs the whole time, not resisting as the coolness hit his skin. You laid it on the scratch marks first, then on his surgical scar. Not to erase it. Just to make it hurt a little less. To acknowledge that it was part of him, even if it didn’t define him.
When you were done, you gently guided him to face you again. “I knew you were kinky.”
Dex couldn’t help but laugh.
“But I have a feeling,” you set the tub down, “that I was just barely scratching the surface.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dex said honestly. “I’ve never done that before.”
You chuckled, biting your lower lip. “You are adorable, Poindexter.”
You let your hand come up, tracing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. Your thumb traced the scar there.
He swallowed, but not out of discomfort.
Slowly, you leaned in.
The first kiss you pressed to the scar was featherlight, but you didn’t stop there.
Then you pressed another kiss, just beside it this time. It was warm, like he was worth being careful with.
His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet, insistent thought that convinced him, I don’t deserve this.
But he wanted it anyway.
Your lips brushed his cheek again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time, and his eyes shut briefly, like taking affection in was easier if he didn’t have to see it happening.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.
“I think it suits you,” you murmured.
He didn’t trust himself to answer that.
Your attention drifted down, fingers slipping from his face to his arm. You picked up his wrist gently, turning it just enough to see the marks you’d left behind.
This time, when you dipped your fingers into the aloe, your touch was careful. He watched you smooth it over the faint crescents of your bite.
Then, his eyes shifted to you, your bare skin, and the marks he’d left behind.
His brow furrowed slightly before he could stop it. “You’re okay, right?”
He asked it without thinking. It caught him off-guard. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of this kind of sympathy.
You glanced up, meeting his eyes.
“More than okay,” you told him. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to confirm it.
He lifted his hand.
His fingers brushed your skin, starting at your collarbone, tracing one of the marks he’d left. His touch was lighter than it had ever been, like he was afraid of pressing too hard, of leaving something worse behind.
You didn’t flinch, so he kept going.
Down to your shoulder, pausing at the bullet wound he’d stitched himself. His thumb hovered there for a second before grazing over it.
He thought about that night, about how much blood you lost and how utterly lifeless you looked in his arms. He thought he was going to lose you, and he was terrified.
You didn’t see this, of course. You had the privilege of being out cold.
You didn’t see him break down, panicking for almost twelve hours straight, feeling like he wanted to claw his eyes out because he thought he was going to lose you. You didn’t see how nauseous he got when your heart beat skipped, or how shaky his hand had been when he stitched you up. You didn’t see him broken, tears streaming down as he folded his own body onto the kitchen floor, when he didn’t know if you would ever wake up again.
So, if you wanted to, he would let you pretend this was just fun. You could pretend there were no strings attached. That last night, you two were just fucking like animals without the certainty of labels.
But it will never be just sex to him.
So when moved his hands on to the bruises on your body, to the cuts that the task force left for you, the only thing he could feel was blood-curdling rage.
But when he glanced at your face, he was down to earth again. Just like that.
His hand settled at your waist after that, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your hip.
Your fingers found his again, idly tracing the lines of his hand.
“Don’t die on me.” He whispered, as if he was almost scared to say it, as if reliving the memory again and again, with no end in sight. It might be an abrupt thing to say in the moment. It might feel out of place. But right now, after being so close to you, he just needed to know. “Please.”
You didn’t answer right away. When you did, it was barely more than a whisper. “I won’t.”
Your thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.
“You don’t either,” you insisted, looking into his eyes. Then you added, “I mean it.”
His fingers shifted under yours, turning just enough to lace with your hand properly this time.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this version of him— the lovesick man in front of you who would melt like putty in your arms —with the one stamped wanted, armed and dangerous. And yet… you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You leaned forward slightly, resting your forehead against his. As your breaths fell into sync, he wasn’t even sure where you ended and he began.
After all, who knew the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be the only person who truly understood him?
Summary : After breaking out of prison, you find out that Dex thinks you never broke up.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags hurt/comfort, fluff at first, hostage situation, guns, violence, blood, injury, death of a civilian, murder, moral corruption, grief, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive behaviour, food, non-graphic sexual content. FBI Hostage Negotiator! reader. Starts three years before DD S3 and ends sometime after DDBA S1. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 18.3k
Notes : A little canon divergence note, guys! Julie doesn’t exist in this universe. Dex’s season 3 spiral happens because you and him were on a break. Enjoy!
FBI was called in twenty-three minutes after the first 911 call. By then, the second shot had already been fired.
It was not fired at anyone, thank fuck. It was fired into the ceiling, according to the first responding officers who had backed off fast enough to keep the situation from turning into a massacre. What started as a robbery at a midtown bank had become a hostage situation in under twelve minutes.
There were three suspects and at least seven civilians were visible through the front windows before the blinds came down. One security guard was injured but moving. One suspect was pacing near the teller counter with a handgun.
Three squad cars were angled badly out front because patrol had arrived first. Now there were barricades, news vans sniffing at the edges, uniforms pushing civilians back, radios talking over each other, and a command post being built out of wobbly folding tables.
Usually, this was the part where everyone got grim. People knew that one bad word, one twitch, one wrong movement could turn a lobby full of frightened people into a massacre.
And then you arrived carrying two coffees and three boxes of pastries.
“Okay,” you said, stepping under the tape and handing two boxes to the nearest tech like you had just walked into an inconvenient staff meeting, “I brought croissants! If this goes horribly, at least we’d all have had a decent last meal.”
Three people turned and nobody laughed.
You looked around at the armoured vehicles, the blocked street, the negotiator phone being unpacked, the SWAT team moving into position across the road, and sighed. “Tough crowd.”
Your supervisor shot you a look. “Agent.”
“I know, I know.” You tucked the pastry bag under your arm and started shrugging into your vest. “Hostages, firearms, massive public safety issue. I’m taking it very seriously. I’m also saying you all probably haven’t eaten since six.”
“That’s not relevant.”
“It will be when I start making decisions with low blood sugar.”
That got half a smile out of one of the younger agents.
Good.
That was why you did it.
You weren’t careless. You understood what was happening behind those doors. You knew there were women and children inside lying on marble, trying not to cry. You knew someone had a gun in their hand.
But panic did not need more panic, and fear did not calm fear.
“Where’s my line?” you asked, clipping your radio into place.
The commander pointed toward the opposite building. “Fifth floor. SWAT sniper position has the best view into the front lobby. You can set up with them if you need eyes while you’re on the phone.”
“I do need eyes,” you said, nodding at him.
“Suspect one’s name is Eddie Marlow. Twenty-nine with prior for armed robbery. No confirmed fatalities today, but a guard took a round to the shoulder, still moving as of two minutes ago.”
You nodded, taking that in as you looked back at the bank.
“Right,” you said, almost too calmly. “So, normal Thursday.”
“Agent.”
“What?” You took a sip of coffee. “It’s Thursday.”
You took one last look at the bank, grabbed the phone, then crossed the street with two tactical agents shadowing you toward the building opposite.
—
Dex was stationed across the street on the fifth floor of an empty office building, flat behind his rifle with the blinds cut just enough for a sightline.That was where he belonged: above from the noise, above the mess. His scope was steady, breathing steady.
He could hear command in his ear. Entry team holding. Negotiation line was being established. Sniper one in position?
Dex didn’t answer until he needed to. “In position.”
The room behind him was dim and mostly empty, littered with grey carpet, abandoned desks, and a tactical gear set. His spotter murmured updates into comms as someone on the ground, a junior agent probably, dropped something metal. Sirens pulsed red and blue against the ceiling.
Then the door opened.
Dex didn’t look away from the scope at first.
People came in and out all the time during operations. Sometimes it was commanders, other times it was spotters or techs with updates, maybe agents carrying folders. Dex ignored them, usually.
That’s when you said, “Oh. Hi.”
He knew that voice. His eyes lifted from the scope.
You stood in the doorway with a vest half-zipped over your blouse, a negotiator phone tucked under one arm, and a pastry box balanced against your hip like you had wandered into the wrong brunch and decided to make the best of it.
Your eyes brightened. “Special Agent Poindexter.”
His spotter glanced over. In that moment, Dex forgot how to be normal about his own name. “You know me?”
Your smile widened. The New York office was big, but not that big. “Your reputation precedes you.”
His spotter looked down at his clipboard as if it became very interesting all of a sudden.
Dex knew you, too, though not personally. But he had seen you around the office forever. In elevators, at the coffee machine, walking through glass-walled conference rooms with files against your chest. You were always moving, always talking, always being pulled into conversations because people liked you.
Agents smiled when you passed and techs forgave you for stealing pens. Your supervisors pretended to be annoyed but really, they loved you. Even Ray Nadeem had spoken highly of you, said that his wife liked having you over for tea and that his kid liked you because you brought sweets to brunch. Dex had wanted to talk to you after that. So many people admired you, he just needed to see for himself, right?
He had stood in the same hallway as you, watching you laugh with a clerk from crisis response and thinking that he could say something. Anything. Nice work with the Port thing. Ray mentioned you. Are you training the new HRT recruits?
But there had never really been a clear reason to talk to you. And without a reason, there was no script. Without a script, there was only the blank space where courage was supposed to go. So Dex had never said anything.
“Is this the best view?” you asked.
Dex nodded. “Yes.”
“Can I?”
He shifted, even though there was barely enough space for two, which meant when you lowered yourself beside him, your knee pressed against his thigh and your shoulder brushed his arm.
“Sorry,” you murmured.
Dex looked at the place your knee touched his, then at you. “It’s fine.”
You leaned toward the cut in the blinds, careful not to touch the rifle. Your cheek came close to his shoulder, close enough that he caught a whiff of fragrant coffee on your breath, sugar on your fingers, and city air clinging to your uniform. Dex decided not to think too much about that.
“Talk me through it,” you said.
He looked back into the scope. “Suspect one in the green jacket is Eddie Marlow. Right hand dominant, pacing near the teller counter.”
“Is he scared?”
“Agitated,” Dex corrected.
“Mm.”
Dex glanced at you. “Suspect two,” he continued, “with the red cap. He had a shotgun and had been sitting behind the manager’s desk.”
Your face changed, only slightly. “And suspect three?”
“Not visible. He was last seen by the west wall with hostages.”
You leaned in closer, trying to see through the narrow slice of the lobby. Your shoulder pressed more firmly into his arm as hip bumped his side. “Sorry,” you said again, absentmindedly.
“You’re not,” he said.
“No,” you admitted. “But I keep doing it cause’ it sounds right.”
His spotter made a tiny laugh, and Dex ignored him.
Finally, you opened the pastry box. The smell of butter and sugar swirled into the dusty room, absurd and warm. You pulled out a croissant like there were not three armed men across the street.
His spotter stared. “Are you eating?”
You took a bite as the pastry cracked softly between your teeth. “I’m preparing.”
A few crumbs fell onto your vest. One landed on his sleeve. Both of you looked down at it. “Oh,” you said.
Before he could move, you reached over and brushed it away with your thumb. It was a tiny touch, almost nothing but your knuckle grazing the inside of his wrist.
Still, Dex’s fingers tightened once against the rifle.
Your gaze dropped to his hand, then rose back to his face. Your smile changed, smaller now.
“Sorry,” you said, quieter. This time, it almost sounded sincere.
Dex didn’t know why, but his mouth had gone dry. “It’s fine.”
You held the pastry box toward him. “Croissant?”
“No.”
“You sure? You look like a plain pastry kind of guy.”
Dex tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Instead of answering, you only shrugged and took another bite. Dex noticed your vest was crooked because you had clearly zipped it in while walking. You looked entirely too kind for a sniper’s nest.
You settled closer again, eyes returning to the bank. “Eddie looks reasonable.”
“They’re criminals,” Dex scoffed, unimpressed. “When are they ever reasonable?” It was really just a line he repeated from his coworkers.
“Hey,” you joke-scolded, nudging his arm lightly with your shoulder. “We’re all people here.”
Dex didn’t look convinced.
Downstairs, command crackled in your ears. “Negotiation line almost ready. Stand by.”
You exhaled once and set the half-eaten croissant carefully beside his gear bag like it belonged there. Then you wiped your fingers on a napkin and stood up, reached for the phone on the table in the middle of the room.
Before lifting the phone, you glanced at him. “ Poindexter?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need your eyes.”
For one second, he understood why people liked you. You made people feel wanted, needed. Then, briefly, he thought about telling you he already knew your voice. He already heard your laugh. He knew he had wanted to speak to you for months and never managed it because wanting was not the same as knowing how.
Instead, he lowered himself back to the scope. “You have them.”
You smiled at him one last time as you picked up the phone and the line clicked alive.
Pressed the receiver to your ear, one hand braced on the table, you said, “Hi, Eddie, I’m Special Agent—”
“I’m not talking to feds!” The shout cracked down the line loud enough that even the spotter looked up.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull the phone away from your ear. You didn’t take offense to being screamed at by a man with a gun and a room full of innocent civilians.
You only nodded, like Eddie could see you.
“Okay,” you said. “That’s okay.”
“I said I’m not talking to you!”
“I heard you.”
“Then shut up!”
Dex’s jaw tightened.
Across the street, through the scope, Eddie Marlow was pacing so hard he almost tripped over his own foot. He could take him out so easily, Dex thought, but that wasn’t why he was here.
Because if he did, the other two suspects would probably open fire. There would probably be a bloodbath. That was why you were holding the phone, not him.
You leaned against the table like this was a normal phone call.
“You sound really upset,” you said thoughtfully.
“No shit!”
“Yeah,” you chuckled. “Fair.”
Dex blinked. His spotter stared at you for half a second, then remembered his job and murmured into comms, “Negotiator has contact. Suspect one highly agitated, still engaged.”
Eddie was breathing hard into the phone and you let him.
You were… patient. It was tender. You were letting this man be loud and terrified, and you weren’t punishing him for it. Dex had never understood that kind of kindness.
“Eddie,” you said, after the worst of his breathing settled, “what did you have for breakfast?”
Dex looked up from the scope. The spotter mouthed, What?
On the phone, Eddie went silent. “What?” he finally snapped.
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“What the fuck does that matter?”
“It might not,” you said. “I’m just trying to figure out if you’ve eaten today.”
“I’m in the middle of a fucking robbery.”
“I know. But you’re also a person with a body, and bodies make stupid decisions when they’re hungry.”
Dex’s mouth parted slightly. Oh, you were charming.
He understood what you were doing with that stupid, sweet little question, that was really a thread to his humanity. Just to calm him down, get him to think about something else other than the crime he was committing.
“I had coffee,” Eddie muttered.
“Okay. Just coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“No food?”
“I don’t know. A cigarette.”
You winced faintly. “Eddie.”
“What?”
“That is a terrible breakfast.”
For one bizarre second, Dex’s spotter made a strangled noise into his fist. Even Eddie went quiet, confused out of his panic. “You judging me right now?” He asked.
“A little,” you admitted.
Dex almost smiled.
Then Eddie’s voice cracked back into anger. “You think this is funny? You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“You think I’m some junkie idiot with a gun?”
“No, Eddie.”
“You don’t know me!”
“You’re right,” you said. “I don’t.”
That stopped him again. Then, you lowered your voice. “But I know you don’t really want to kill anyone, do you now?”
Through the scope, Dex saw that Eddie’s pacing has slowed down. It… worked. “You don’t know what I want,” Eddie said, smaller this time.
“No,” you said. “But you fired into the ceiling.”
“It was a warning.”
“I know.”
“I had to.”
“Okay.”
“I had to make them listen.”
“I hear you.”
Dex’s throat tightened. I hear you.
It was such a simple thing, and yet it sounded so easy coming out of your mouth. It was as if you were giving him a blanket, as if you were lowering yourself beside him on the floor instead of standing over them with a clipboard and a gun.
He wondered, suddenly, what it would be like to have your voice turned on him like that. And not your jokes or bright comments you tossed across rooms full of coworkers. This voice.
Dex wanted it so badly it almost made him angry.
The thought hit him hard enough that his finger twitched beside the rifle. He forced his eye back to the scope.
Eddie had stopped near the teller counter. His gun hung at his side now, loose in his hand.
“Green jacket has stopped pacing,” Dex said, “Weapon still in hand.”
The spotter relayed it immediately. “Suspect one stationary. Weapon lowered. Negotiator has him slowing down.”
You glanced at Dex and he held onto it like an idiot.
“Eddie,” you said, “the guard needs medical attention.”
“He’s fine.”
“Is he?”
“He’s moving.”
“That’s good,” you said. “Moving is good. But he’s bleeding, right?”
No answer.
“Eddie?”
“I didn’t shoot him.”
Your face changed into a compassionate frown. Dex hated how beautiful it looked on you.
“I know,” you said.
“He went for his gun. Rob panicked.”
The spotter’s head snapped down to his notes. “Second suspect possibly Rob. Pass to command.”
You didn’t react to the name. You didn’t make Eddie feel like he had made a mistake, or make him feel like he was snitching on his friends. You only said, “That must have scared you.”
Eddie laughed, but it came out ruined. “Scared me?”
“Yeah.”
All you got back was silence, longer his time. Dex watched Eddie through the scope and saw the second the your words got under his skin. His shoulders moved, head dipping. The gun lowered another inch.
You kept going, careful as hands over broken glass. “People make worse choices when they’re scared. That doesn’t mean you have to keep making them.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Okay,” you said. “Then breathe with me for a second.”
Eddie scoffed. “Fuck you, lady.”
“C’mon, man,” you said mildly. “Just… breathe.”
Dex’s eyes flicked to your mouth before he could stop himself.
You smiled faintly, not because it was funny, exactly, but because you were giving Eddie somewhere to put the panic, somewhere that was not a trigger. “Breathe in,” you said.
“I’m not doing that.”
“That’s okay. I’m doing it anyway.”
Then you did. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Once. Twice.
On the other end of the line, Eddie cursed under his breath. But after a few seconds, his breathing started following yours. Dex heard it. Without realising it, Dex started to follow it too.
There was something hypnotic about your calm. The whole room had frozen around it. Even the radios seemed quieter, like the world was leaning into your warmth. Then, through the phone, you heard someone crying out inside the bank.
Eddie snapped away from the phone. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
Dex was back in the scope immediately. “Weapon coming up,” he said.
The spotter relayed fast. “Weapon rising. Suspect one agitated. Hold positions.”
Your hand lifted slightly, saying Wait.
Dex saw it and went still.
The shot was clean. Eddie was turned three-quarters away from the hostages, arm visible, head exposed. Dex knew exactly where the bullet would go. He knew what it would do. But your hand was up, so he waited.
“Eddie,” you said, firmer now.
No answer.
“Eddie, come back to me.”
The shouting on the other end cut off.
Come back to me. Dex gripped the rifle harder.
“Eddie,” you repeated, softer. “Come back to me. Don’t follow the noise. Follow my voice.”
He heard ragged breath. Then Eddie, frustrated now, said, “She won’t stop crying.”
“They’re scared.”
“I didn’t want this.”
“I believe you.”
“I didn’t want it like this.”
“I know.”
And somehow, you made it sound true, even though you weren’t forgiving him. You were not excusing him. You were simply giving him one human corner to stand in before the whole day swallowed him.
Dex had seen people beg. He had seen people lie. He had seen people pray. He had never seen someone be talked back into themselves.
“Eddie,” you said, “I think you can still keep this from getting worse.”
“It’s already worse.”
“It is,” you said. “But worse has levels. We don’t have to go lower.”
Eddie breathed hard.
“The guard,” you continued. “If he dies in there, this gets so much harder for everyone.” You paused. “You included.”
Eddie made a sound that was almost a sob, except he swallowed it too fast. “I’m fucked anyway,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” you said, so gently it hurt. “But not as fucked as you could be.”
Dex’s spotter blinked at you, but you kept your eyes on the bank.
“You can make one good decision,” you said. “Just one. I’m not asking you to become a different person in the next thirty seconds. I’m asking you to help the guard.”
“If I open that door, they’ll shoot me.”
“No.”
“They will.”
“They won’t unless there’s an immediate threat.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Eddie. There are guns outside.”
Dex’s teeth tightened again.
“There are snipers,” you said, glancing at the nest.
Dex blinked. What the hell were you doing?
“But they are there because people need to live,” you continued. “Not because anyone is excited to kill you.”
Eddie said nothing. You looked at Dex, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if you gave the command.
“So,” you said, “put the gun down. Tell Rob to stay back and let the guard out slowly. You help me keep everyone calm, and I promise no one shoots unless there is an immediate threat.”
“You promise?”
Dex heard it, and Eddie almost sounded like a child.
“I promise,” you said. “But you have to help me keep that promise true.”
Across the street, Eddie turned toward the guard.
“He’s looking at the guard,” Dex said.
The spotter relayed, “Suspect one looking toward injured guard. Possible compliance. Medical team stage.”
“That’s it,” you whispered. “That’s good, Eddie. Stay with me.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to die!”
“You’re not going to die, this isn’t The Town,” you said, gentle and absurd, “It’s real life, not a Ben Affleck movie.”
Eddie let out a broken little laugh.
Dex closed his eyes for half a second. Jesus Christ. You were going to ruin him.
“Okay,” Eddie said shakily.
Your hand tightened around the phone. “Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll send him out.”
The spotter straightened his posture. “Possible hostage release. Guard extraction. All units hold.”
Dex went fully still behind the rifle.
“Calm,” you told Eddie. “Nice and calm.”
Through the scope, Eddie moved like his bones had turned to water. He bent toward the guard, said something Dex couldn’t make out, then flinched when the guard recoiled from him.
“He’s helping the guard stand,” Dex said. “Left hand on guard’s arm. No immediate threat.” The spotter repeated every word.
You nodded as if Eddie could see you. “You’re doing good.”
The door opened. Every rifle outside seemed to hold their breath. Dex tracked Eddie’s face in the crack of the doorway. He was pale, wet-eyed, terrified. A criminal, yes. But for the first time that day, he was not beyond reach, be you had put your hand into all that fear and pulled until what was left of his humanity surfaced.
“Send him out,” you whispered. “Then step back.”
The guard stumbled forward and medical moved in.
“Guard is clear,” Dex said, though his own voice sounded distant to him. “Medical has him.”
The spotter echoed, “Guard clear. No shots fired.”
You exhaled, and it was so small nobody else would have noticed. But Dex did.
“Eddie?” you said into the phone.
He let out a shaking breath. “Yeah?”
“You did the right thing.”
“I’m still going to prison.”
“Probably,” you said.
Eddie gave another broken laugh, almost crying now.
“But not for murder,” you said. “Not today.”
Dex looked at you then, like he couldn’t help it. You were standing in a dusty room, and down an armed man like kindness was not weakness, And Dex wanted to be spoken to that way.
He wanted your patience, your belief that there was something worth saving even in people who had done unforgivable things. Especially in people who had done unforgivable things.
Then you breathed in and kept going. “Okay,” you said. “Now I’m going to want some of the people out too.”
Eddie went quiet.
You gentled your voice even more. “Women and children first, okay?”
“I can’t just—”
“I know.”
“Rob’s going to lose his shit.”
“I know, Eddie.”
“And David, he’s—” Eddie stopped abruptly, like he had realised he had given you another name, before continuing, “I have to talk to them.”
“That’s okay,” you said, looking at the spotter to relay the third suspect’s name. “Talk to Rob. Talk to David.
“They think I’m folding.”
“You’re not folding,” you said. “You’re thinking. You’re making sure everybody, including them, makes it out of there alive”
Dex watched Eddie through the scope. The man had backed away from the doors, one hand over his mouth, gun at his thigh. He looked less like a criminal now and more like a man finally realising the size of the hole he had dug.
You leaned closer to the phone. “I’m going to let you go for five minutes,” you said. “Okay?”
Eddie’s breathing hitched, as if you were his one and only life support right now. “You’re hanging up?”
“Just for five minutes. You need to talk to them, and I need to talk to my people.”
“What if—”
“I’ll call back,” you said. “And you’re going to pick up.”
Eddie said nothing.
“Eddie.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to pick up.” It wasn’t even a question anymore.
After a while, you heard a small and frightened, “Okay.”
“Good,” you whispered. “We’re counting on you.”
Dex felt it like a hand around his throat. We’re counting on you.
You gave that trust to Eddie like a burden and a gift at the same time.
On the other end of the line, Eddie exhaled shakily. “Five minutes,” he said.
“Five minutes,” you promised.
Then the line clicked dead. Then, you glanced at Dex over the phone, and he felt the look land directly under his skin.
“You still with me, Agent Poindexter?” you asked, sighing.
Oh, so this did take a toll on you, however much you try to hide it.
Dex lowered his eye back to the scope because looking at you was becoming a distraction.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. Then, because he couldn’t help it, he repeated your tone, “I’m with you.”
—
Afterward, everyone kept calling it a success.
The guard had gotten out. Three hostages followed twenty minutes later, two women and a little boy with one shoe missing, shaking so hard the paramedics had to guide them by the elbows. Eddie had picked up every time you called. He had argued with Rob, shouted at David, disappeared from the phone twice and come back both times breathing like he had run through a wildfire.
But he came back. By the fourth call, his voice had started to sound empty. By the sixth, he was crying and pretending he wasn’t. By the end, the remaining hostages came out with their hands over their heads, Eddie was the one who told Rob to put the shotgun down.
It wasn’t perfect, but it ended without another shot fired. So people congratulated you.
Your supervisor clapped a hand on your shoulder. The commander called it “excellent work.” Someone from crisis response said, “That was textbook,” even though it hadn’t felt textbook. It felt like pressing your palm to a cracked dam and smiling while water pushed through your fingers. You smiled anyway.
You accepted the praise and filled in the early notes. You let people tell you how good you were, how calm you were, how you had saved lives.
And for a while, you let yourself believe them, because the only injured person— the guard— had been alive when they loaded him into the ambulance.
He had been breathing. So it counted. It had to count.
Four hours later, you heard a knock on your office door.
You were halfway through typing your report when your supervisor stepped in with sweat beading on her forehead.
Your hands went still over the keyboard. “No,” you said.
She didn’t answer fast enough then, and that’s how you knew the guard had died at the hospital.
Not from the bullet, exactly. That was what she told you, as if the distinction mattered. It was a mix of vascular complication and too much blood loss, which in your head translated to: too much damage already done by the time you had convinced Eddie to open the door.
Still, you nodded like a professional.
“Okay,” you said.
Your supervisor watched you carefully. “Agent.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be.”
But you smiled anyway, because if you didn’t smile, you were going to cry, and a full grown woman was not supposed to cry for doing her job well. “I’m fine,” you repeated.
She didn’t believe you, but she left anyway.
For a while, you just sat there. The HRT floor was quieter at night, reduced to the hum of printers, distant phones, the occasional murmur from junior agents walking past with a folder tucked under one arm. Your office smelled faintly like cold coffee.
Your report blinked on the screen, trying to finish it up: Guard extracted at approximately…
You stared at the sentence until it blurred. You pressed the heels of your hands against them hard, like you could shove the tears back where they belonged. Like grief was just a reflex you could discipline out of yourself.
What a fucking joke. You didn’t even know the guy!
Then, a knock came at the door.
You inhaled quickly, wiped under one eye with the side of your thumb, and sat up in your chair. “Come in.”
To your surprise, Dex opened the door.
He was out of the tactical gear now, in his dark quarter zip with his badge clipped at his belt, hair slightly mussed like he had dragged his hand through it too many times. He stood in the doorway awkwardly, too tall for a room this small.
“Special Agent Poindexter,” you said, and your voice came out almost normal.
“I wanted to check on you,” he said. It was a lie. Or not a lie exactly. This was just an excuse to hear your voice again.
In truth, he had rehearsed the sentence and hated every version of it. He had walked past your office twice before gathering enough nerve to knock.
You tried to smile and it almost worked. “Oh,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Dex looked at you, seeing your smile trembled at the corner.
His eyes dropped to your hands, clenched too tightly together on top of your desk. He knew the anatomy of a smile. Yours was not real.
“You’re not,” he said.
Your smile stayed on because it had nowhere else to go. “I…” you started. Fuck. What was the point in lying? He had been there. He had seen the injury. He deserved to know, too, if he didn’t already. “The guard didn’t make it.”
Dex froze. “Oh.”
You nodded once, a bit too quickly. “Complications or something, I don’t know. They said a lot of words and I retained absolutely none of them.”
Your laugh came out wrong. Dex hated it immediately. He hated the way you were trying to make the room easier for him. Even now, with your eyes threatening to spill with tears and your mouth trying not to shake, you were still smoothing your own hurt down so he else would not have to feel awkward around it.
You looked exactly like you had on the phone with Eddie towards the end of the call.
Dex stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He was in the room with you, mission accomplished. What was he supposed to do now? “You got him out alive.”
You nodded. “And it still didn’t matter.”
Dex only looked down, unsure of what to say.
You shook your head, smiling harder now, which was worse than crying. “I know. We saved the hostages. We de-escalated the situation.” Your voice thinned. “All things considered, it was a good outcome”
Dex didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to touch you, though he didn’t know if that was the right call. Maybe he should put a hand on your shoulder. But he didn’t know if that would help. He didn’t know if he was allowed. He didn’t know how to comfort you without making it strange.
So he stood there uselessly, watching you try not to fall apart.
“Poindexter, I…,” you said, quieter, “I talked to him for hours.”
Dex swallowed. “Dex.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“My name.” His voice came out rough. “Call me Dex.”
For some reason, that was the thing that broke your smile, just enough for the tears to gather properly.
“Dex,” you repeated.
His name in your voice was catastrophic. He had wanted you to say it all day. He had it in that warm, coaxing tone you had given Eddie through the phone. Now you said it like you were standing at the edge of crying. And he would have given anything to fix it.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted.
That surprised you, maybe because people usually tried to fill grief with more grief. But Dex only stood there, honest and stiff and visibly uncomfortable with his own helplessness.
“I don’t either,” you whispered, and your face fell for half a second. You turned it away immediately, pressing your fingers under your eyes. Your smile was still trying. Dex had never seen anything braver or more painful in his life.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Smile.”
For a second, you forgot you were an agent in her office, staring at a report waiting on the screen. There was only you, too full of grief to keep pretending it was professionalism.
The first tear slipped before you could stop it. You looked furious with yourself, so Dex did the only thing he could think of.
He pulled the chair from the corner of your office, sat down across from you, and stayed.
You looked down, laughing under your breath as another tear fell. “You’re accidentally very nice, Dex.”
He swallowed. It was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. “I’m not trying to be accidental.”
You laughed again, and this time, it sounded a little less ruined as Dex sat there, listening to your voice tremble and come back to itself, pretending he had only come to check on you. Pretending he hadn’t come because he wanted to hear you again.
That night, after he walked you to your car, Dex didn’t go home right away.
He wandered back into the building instead, into your supervisor’s office. Dex knew where the recordings were kept. He knew the system, he knew the labels, he knew exactly how to make it look like nothing had been touched. The hostage negotiation tape was logged under case number, time, location. His hand hovered over it for one second, before he copied it into his private drive.
At home, he sat on the edge of his bed with his headphones on in the dark and listened to your voice, steady and impossibly kind.
“Eddie,” your recording voice said, gentle as a hand against a fevered forehead. “Come back to me.”
Dex closed his eyes, jaw tightening. His hands curled over his knees. He knew it was wrong. He knew normal people didn’t steal recordings just to hear a woman speak kindly before bed. But then your voice came again. “Come back to me, Eddie.”
And in the dark, with his breathing gone shallow, Dex let himself change it in his mind: Come back to me, Dex.
For the first time in days, he slept well.
—
Dex kept finding reasons to talk to you.
At first, they were almost believable: A clarification for the report. A detail about Marlow’s prosecution. A question about the hostage order, even though he had heard every word of it through comms and then, later, through the stolen tape in his apartment.
Then the excuses got worse. Apparently, he found one of your pens near the fifth-floor sniper position and returned it. He asked whether you wanted a copy of the incident timeline, then stood awkwardly in your doorway while you told him you already had three. He brought you a file that belonged to someone else entirely.
You looked at the name on the tab, then up at him. “Dex,” you said carefully. “This is for Agent Alvarez.”
He tried to look confused, which failed. “Right.”
“Different floor,” you smiled. He hated how much he liked that you were kind enough to pretend not to notice.
For two weeks, he learned the sound of your laugh. He learned that you clicked your pen when you were thinking. He learned that you always forgot your coffee until it went cold, then drank it anyway. He told himself it was harmless. It was most definitely not.
Then one morning, he showed up at your office holding a paper bag.
You looked up from your desk tiredly, hair a little loose around your face. “Morning.”
Dex stepped inside and the bag crinkled in his hand. “I got you breakfast.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
He placed the bag on your desk like it might explode. “A croissant,” he said.
Your mouth into a small smile. “You remembered.”
Of course he remembered the crumbs on your sleeves and the sugar on your thumb. He remembered everything about that day. “Yeah,” he said.
You opened the bag and looked inside, then back at him. “Thank you, Dex.”
He nodded too quickly. “You’re welcome.”
He should have left. This was the normal time to leave. Instead, he stood there in the doorway, hands empty now, heartbeat hard in his throat.
You tilted your head. “Was there something else?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He paused, then turned back“Yes.”
Your eyebrows lifted, and Dex looked briefly furious with himself.
Then he said, all at once, “Do you want to have dinner with me?”
You went very still. He immediately wanted to die.
“Not professionally,” he added.
Your lips parted. Did he… make it worse?
“I mean, it can be professional if that makes it less—” he stopped himself now, sighing to himself, “No. I don’t want it to be professional. I’m asking you on a date.”
You stared at him. Dex stared back, rigid and catastrophically earnest.
Then you looked down at the croissant, before looking back up at him. “Did you bring me a pastry as a bribe, Special Agent Poindexter?”
His face fell slightly, and you chuckled a little. “Dex,” you corrected gently.
His breath caught in itself.
You smiled properly then, almost merciful. “I’m just teasing.”
“I know that.”
“You don’t look like you know that.”
“I’m… processing.”
A sweetlaugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. There it was, the sound he had been trying to earn for two weeks. Dex’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.
You leaned back in your chair, still smiling, when you looked up at him through your lashes and said, “Okay.”
His face went blank. “Okay?”
“Yes, Dex. I’ll have dinner with you.”
For one second, he looked almost boyish and stunned. Little did you know, he had prepared for rejection, confusion, pity, maybe even HR involvement, but not you saying yes.
“Oh,” he said.
You bit back a smile. “That’s usually the desired outcome when you ask someone on a date.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I think so.”
You laughed again and reached for the croissant.
“Tonight?” he asked, a little too fast.
You raised an eyebrow.
He swallowed. “Or another night.”
“Tonight is good.”
He nodded once, then turned like he was going to leave before either of you could ruin it.
“Dex?”
He stopped immediately.
You held up the croissant. “Thank you for breakfast.”
His eyes lowered, barely. “You’re welcome.” Then he left your office with his heartbeat still pounding.
Behind him, you took one bite of the croissant and smiled into your coffee. Absolutely terrible at flirting. Very good pastry, though.
—
The date was cute, even though it had every right to be awkward. You were both still in work clothes, making it feel less like a date at first and more like two agents walking down the street after a long day, badges tucked away.
When you sat down at the restaurant, you noticed that Dex looked… nervous. “You look like you’re about to be interrogated,” you chuckled.
“I’m not.”
“Dex.”
“Am I?” He looked concerned for a second, because he knew you handled interrogations sometimes.
That made you laugh, and his shoulders loosened slightly, like he had survived the first round of af a boxing match.
When the waiter came, you ordered first. Dex closed his menu immediately. “I’ll have that too.”
You blinked at him. “You don’t even know what I ordered.”
“I heard.”
“You can order something else.”
“I want what you’re having.”
You looked at him for a second, then smiled into your water glass, thinking that’s either very sweet or very concerning.
And then, it got easier. It didn’t go smooth, exactly. Dex answered questions like he was afraid there was a correct version and he had missed the briefing. But he listened like every word out of your mouth belonged carved in a stone tablet.
You told him about terrible tea on the HRT floor. He told you about a sniper qualification day where a rookie threw up behind a barricade. You laughed so hard you had to press your napkin to your mouth, and Dex looked at you like he had just learned a new way to breathe.
By the time the food came, the candle between you had burned golden. You took one bite, hummed happily, and pointed your fork at him. “Okay. Can I tell you a secret?”
Dex stilled, a little more alert. “…Yes.”
You leaned forward over the table. “I went to Quantico a year after you.”
His eyebrows drew together. “You did?”
“Mhm,” you grinned. “Our shooting instructor mentioned you all the time.”
Dex froze.
You sat back, delighted. “Oh my God. You didn’t know how much he loved you?”
“No.”
“Dex.” You put your fork down. “You made my life a living hell.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You were spiritually there”
His lips parted slightly, offended and confused. “How?”
You dropped your voice into a gruff instructor impression. “‘Poindexter could do this with his eyes closed.’ ‘Poindexter cleared this drill ten seconds faster.’ ‘Poindexter didn’t need three tries.’ Poindexter this, Poindexter that.” You pointed at him. “Fuck, man.”
Dex stared at you before the corner of his mouth lifted. “You were bad at shooting?”
You gasped. Was that… a joke? “I was not bad at shooting.”
“Sounds like you were.”
“I was excellent,” you swallowed your food, “I was just not you.”
His smile got worse, almost smug.
“Our instructor once said, and I quote, ‘Poindexter could hit this target in a blackout with a concussion.’”
Dex looked down at his plate, but you saw the smile pull at his mouth anyway.
“He was exaggerating,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, before laughing. And there it was again — that look on his face. He didn’t know how to hide his adoration fast enough.
“You made my target practice time a living hell,” you admitted. “Agent Benjamin Poindexter. Destroyer of confidence. Patron saint of aiming at moving targets, apparently.”
The restaurant noise blurred around the two of you. The cutlery, conversation, music from the speakers, all of it bled into the background.
“But then I saw you in New York,” you continued. “and thought, oh. That’s him.”
Dex’s throat moved. “And?”
“And,” you said, gentler now, “I thought you looked lonely.”
Dex glanced down at the table, fingers curling once near his glass. For a second, you worried you had gone too far, too honest.
Then he said, very quietly, “I noticed you too.”
You lowered your eyes a little, suddenly shy in a way you had not expected to be. “Yeah?”
Dex nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Ray talked about you a lot after that Wall Street blackmail corruption case you both worked on together.”
Your face softened at the mention of him. “Ray’s lovely.”
Dex nodded.
“I get along with his wife better, actually,” you added, glancing back up. “Seema gave me a really good chole recipe and now we’re bonded forever.”
Dex looked faintly confused by that detail, but he listened anyway, like he was storing it somewhere important.
“She said I was doing the spices wrong,” you continued, your smile widening. “Which, to be fair, I was. That, and I handled the chickpea wrong, apparently.”
That got a small laugh out of him, eyes flicked from your mouth back to your eyes.
“I’ve… wanted to talk to you for a while,” he admitted.
Your smile faded into a furrow of your brows. “You have?”
Dex looked down at the table, at his untouched water glass, at the candle between you, anywhere that wasn’t your face. “I just never had reason.”
The words sat there, painfully honest. He didn’t even try to be charming in the way guys usually tried to be with you. Still, it was sincere enough that it made your heart ache.
The candle flickered between you, gold light catching along the sharp line of his cheekbone. For a second, Dex looked almost panicked by the silence, like he had accidentally handed you a confession and had no idea what you were going to do with it. So you reached across the table and touched your fingers lightly to his wrist.
“Well,” you said softly, “good thing you finally brought me a croissant.”
Dex looked at your fingers, then back at you. And this time, when he smiled, it was not an imitation of anything or anyone.
—
You agreed to a second date. That was the easy part. The hard part was actually having one.
The next week turned into a mess before either of you could do anything about it. HRT got pulled into a fugitive barricade situation in Queens. Dex got sent out on a protection detail that lasted two days longer than expected. Your supervisor dumped three active threat assessments on your desk.
So the second date kept moving. Tuesday became Thursday. Thursday became Saturday. Saturday became, “I’m so sorry, Dex, I might actually die under this paperwork.”
Dex, who had appeared in your office doorway with his jacket still on, only looked at the files stacked across your desk and said, “That would be inconvenient.”
You stared at him before laughing so hard you dropped your pen.
After that, you started finding time to take your lunch together. The first time, Dex showed up with two coffees and a paper bag from the place down the street.
“I was passing by,” he said.
“On the HRT floor?”
“Yes.”
You let him in, obviously. Then it kept happening.
Sometimes you ate in your office with the blinds half-closed and your shoes kicked off under the desk. Sometimes you found him in the break room already sitting at the corner table, pretending not to wait for you while leaving the chair beside him empty. Sometimes he brought you pizza because you had forgotten to eat again. Sometimes you brought him coffee because he drank his like punishment and you had made it your mission to introduce him to flavour.
So the second date never officially happened, but he knew your lunch order. Still, Dex kept appearing during your break, and you kept pulling the extra chair closer to your desk until eventually he was sitting beside you instead of across from you, both of you hunched over paper bags and plastic containers and case files like this was a normal blossoming relationship.
One afternoon, you were both sitting so close your chairs were practically conspiring. Dex had brought sandwiches and one pain au chocolate “in case,” which made you stare at him until his ears went faintly pink.
“You really know how to treat a girl, Dex.”
Dex looked down at his pastry. “I’m being practical.”
You laughed and bumped your shoulder into his.
He looked at you then, and the whole office seemed to shrink. You were close enough to see the little shift in his breathing, close enough to notice his pupils drop to your mouth and shoot back up like he had been caught committing a federal offence.
“Oh,” you said, grinning. “That’s what’s happening.”
Dex went very still. “What?”
“You’re trying not to kiss me.”
“I’m not.”
“Dex.”
“I…” he trailed off. What was the point in lying anymore. “I’m trying not to do a lot of things.”
That startled a laugh out of you so badly you had to cover your mouth. And then he smiled.
You leaned closer, still laughing a little. “You can, you know.”
His face changed. All the awkwardness turned… stunned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in like he was afraid you might disappear if he did it too quickly. One hand came up, careful against your cheek, and then his mouth was on yours, almost polite at first. It lasted maybe three seconds before you smiled into it, grabbed lightly at the front of his shirt, and kissed him properly.
Dex made a tiny sigh against your mouth.
The kiss went from sweet to a little desperate all at once, like both of you had been starving for weeks and then remembered you both kinda fell too much too quickly. His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck. Your chair squeaked as you shifted closer. His knee pressed between yours and you laughed into his mouth because the whole thing was ridiculous, hot, and happening in your office beside a half-eaten sandwich.
Dex pulled back just enough to breathe.
You both stared at each other, “Hi.”
He looked utterly ruined. “Hi.”
You laughed again, breathless, and his forehead dropped lightly against yours.
“This is not lunch,” he said.
“No,” you agreed, still holding his shirt. “It's not.”
—
The second date happened two months after the first.
By then, calling it a second date felt ridiculous. You had eaten lunch together a dozen times. He had kissed you in your office, in the stairwell, once against your car with his hand braced on the roof.
Dinner was a little awkward, still, because Dex would probably be a little awkward until the end of time, but sweet. He listened to you talk about your week like it was testimony under oath. He remembered tiny things you had said offhandedly weeks ago. So, when he took you home that night, it didn’t feel sudden.
He was sweet about it at first. His hands hovered before they touched, his mouth kept coming back to yours like he was checking he was still allowed, and every time, you sighed.
Then he got braver and messier. His shirt was half-open, your hands were in his hair, and he had you pressed back against his pillows when he suddenly leaned close to your ear, voice serious, and said, “You like that, sweetheart? Tell me you’re mine. Tell me nobody else gets to make you feel this good.”
It might have been fine if it hadn’t come out of nowhere, weird and aggressive, zero to a hundred with absolutely no warning. Hell, your trousers weren’t even off yet. So what the fuck?
You went still. Dex went still too. There was a little pause before you slowly turned your head to look at him. “Dex.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“What was that?”
His face fell. “Was it bad?”
“It was…” You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “It was very committed.”
“Was it bad?” He insisted.
“I just…” you held back a chuckle, “Where did you learn that?”
Dex looked like he didn’t want to answer. He eventually did, though. “I… researched.”
You stared at him. He stared back, very embarrassed, and very clearly hoping the word researched would be enough of an explanation.
“You researched sex?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Dex.”
“I wanted to be prepared.”
“That sounded like it came from a man named Stepbrother Number Four.”
His ears actually went red. You covered your mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway.
Dex looked wounded, almost confused. “I thought it was appropriate.”
“It was… something.”
“It worked in the video.”
You stopped laughing and raised your eyebrows. “Video?”
His teeth locked. He had said too much.
Little did you know, a week earlier, Dex had gone through your phone in the office while you were in the bathroom. He had found your browser history, your saved tabs, your filthy little private collection. He sent them to himself and deleted all evidence of it, of course. He wasn’t an amateur.
And then he had watched six hours of porn, studying it like a psychopath. It was not pleasure or fun. It was Dex in the dark, dead serious, analysing the links you saved, what you watched, even if some of them might have been an accidental click. He was taking notes in his head, trying to become a sex symbol you would want.
Now he was above you, flushed and mortified, realising that pornography was apparently not a good idea to imitate.
“Dex,” you said carefully. “Is this your first time?”
His whole body went tense under your finger. “Yes,” he admitted, barely a breath.
Your heart folded in on itself. “Oh, baby.”
His face tightened like your kindness hurt. “I should have told you.”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “You should’ve.”
“I didn’t want you to change your mind.”
You reached up and cupped his cheek. “C’mere.”
He hesitated, so you said it softer. “Come here, Dex.”
He came down to you, like your voice had hooked into his ribs and pulled. You kissed him again, slower this time. Your hands smoothed over his shoulders until he stopped waiting to be corrected.
“No more lines,” you murmured against his mouth.
As you wished, he stopped performing. He stopped trying to be the man from whatever awful tab he had studied too seriously. He touched you like himself instead: careful, intense, a little overwhelmed, listening to every sound you made as if it mattered more than anything. And fuck, that was better.
His mouth against your skin, your fingers in his hair, his name leaving you in sighed until he started to understand that was what you liked.
Afterward, he lay beside you in the dark, warm one arm tucked carefully around your waist like he was still asking permission to exist in your vicinity.
You brushed your thumb over his wrist. “Good job, pornstar,” you teased.
Dex groaned into your shoulder, but struggled to hide his smile at the praise. “Please don’t.”
“You were so brave.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He went silent, arm tightened just a little. “No,” he admitted with his lips against your skin. “I could never.”
It was quite the opposite, actually.
He would tell you that for years after. Sometimes with his words, sometimes with his hands, sometimes with the way he looked at you like you were the only fixed point in a world constantly trying to move away from him.
But you were a federal agent who argued and calmed down very bad men for a living. Of all people, you should have known better. You should have known good things rarely ever lasted.
—
Ten Years Later...
You came home with blood on the heel of one shoe and a headache lodged so deep behind your eye it felt like someone had driven a nail into your skull.
You weren’t a federal agent anymore. You hadn't been one for a very long time. There were still people who talked about what happened ten years ago like it had just been one bad year. One scandal, one chapter the Bureau could close with a press conference and a few resignations.
If you closed your eyes, you could see everything clearly.
It happened three years after your started dating. Wilson Fisk in a white suit. FBI agents on his payroll. Dex told you, in confidence, that he had killed the remaining Albanians on the motorcade. You told him that you needed to go on a break because of that. You put in your annual leave to visit family because your boyfriend had just confessed to using lethal force after the enemy surrendered. Apparently, that’s why and when his spiral started, because when you came back, Ray Nadeem had a bullet in his head. Daredevil was framed and hunted while your boyfriend wore the suit. The Bulletin. The church. Father Lantom, who you didn’t know of but learned of later.
After that, faith in anything became difficult. Faith in institutions, faith in badges, faith in men who said they were protecting people while selling their souls behind closed doors.
So you left and built your own private security company from spite, savings, and sheer exhaustion.
You did everything from executive protection to crisis negotiation. Threat assessment, asset recovery, and corporate extraction. All very nice words for work that often felt like pulling teeth. And the thing about running your own company was that the job didn’t stop when you clocked out.
You still had payroll to approve and contracts to review. Clients to placate, insurance renewals, background checks, three missed calls from your operations manager, and junior associate who had accidentally offended la Russian client’s nephew. Just yesterday, you had a driver who quit over text as you received invoice from an arms consultant that made you genuinely consider crime in a more administrative capacity.
Sure, sometimes less-than-ethical people hired you. Triads, Russians, Italians, Irish. But at least, unlike the bureau, they never pretended to be saints. Monsters, you had learned, were never the real danger. It was hypocrites.
Tonight, you had spent fourteen hours in the back room of a private club, brokering a deal between a triad member and a client too rich to be as stupid as he was. Everyone had been polite. Everyone had been armed. You had spent the whole night dragging grown men away from their own worst impulses one careful sentence at a time.
No one died, and the client paid double. By your current standards, that was almost a success.
Still, by the time you got home, you were so tired your body felt like it was running on borrowed time. Your blouse clung damply to your back and your feet were screaming. Your phone had not stopped buzzing once, and you had started fantasising about throwing it into the river.
You unlocked your front door in the dark.
You stepped inside your apartment, dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and kicked it shut behind you with one exhausted foot.
You stood barefoot in your own hallway and sighed.
You had listened to the radio the whole way home, a force of habit, really. Its just today, you found out that your ex-boyfriend had broken out of prison and tried to shoot Fisk at some gala.
Wow. Shocker.
Honestly, you would rather shut all of it out and go to bed. Thinking about him, about the man you had loved more than anything in the world, would only break your heart all over again.
Then you saw the paper bag on the kitchen table with your favourite bakery’s logo stamped neatly on the front. Your favourite croissant was inside.
For one long second, you only stared at it and a Post-it stuck to the paper bag, written in a familiar, careful handwriting: You haven’t eaten today.
You stared at the croissant for a long time, long enough for your phone to buzz itself toward death inside your bag.
You didn’t touch the paper bag, and not because you thought it was poisoned. Dex didn’t need poison. If Dex wanted you dead, which he almost certainly did not, you would already have a knife in your throat.
You were thinking more about how Dex had been inside your apartment. It wasn’t surprising, unfortunately. You exhaled, using the name you reserved only when you were mad at him. “Jesus Christ, Benjamin.”
You moved through your own home like you were clearing a client’s building. First the hall closet. Then the bathroom, bedroom, ensuite, guest room, and kitchen. You checked under the bed because you weren’t stupid, behind the shower curtain just in case, and the balcony because Dex had always been incapable of using a normal door when being unhinged would do.
Nothing.
Still, you found the kitchen window open three inches. You stood in front of it for a second, staring at the gap before you shut it and locked it. Then, you checked the lock twice.
Then, because you were tired and petty, you went around the apartment and did every other lock too. You even checked the little latch on the tiny laundry room window that no full-grown man should have been able to fit through, although Dex had a history of doing things no full-grown man should be able to do anyway.
Eventually, you took the croissant out of the bag, held it for one long second, then put it back.
“No,” you told the empty kitchen. “I have standards.”
You made it exactly five minutes before you came back, tore off one angry bite, and ate it standing over the sink because he had been right. You haven’t had a proper meal today.
What were you going to do now? Call the cops? And say what? Hello, officer, my ex-boyfriend broke out of prison, tried to kill the mayor, apparently swung by my apartment, broke in, and left me a croissant because he noticed I skipped dinner. Yes, that Benjamin Poindexter. No, I am not currently being held hostage. Yes, I own a private security company. No, I don’t need medical attention. Yes, this is going to jeopardise my brand and I’ll probably never get a client ever again.
Ha!
You threw the Post-it into the kitchen drawer then you went to bed.
You slept badly. Once, half-asleep, you thought you heard your name in the hallway, and your hand slid under the pillow before you remembered you had put the knife in the bedside drawer because apparently some part of you still believed in “healthy boundaries.”
By morning, you were still exhausted. Your alarm went off at six-thirty. You slapped it silent, lay there for ten seconds, then dragged yourself upright with the suffering of a woman who had payroll, a prison break, and a quarterly review of her employees all waiting for her before breakfast.
The city outside your window was grey and wet. New York rain hit the glass in thin lines. Your head still hurt. Your phone had nine missed calls, four news alerts, and one message from Seema that simply said: Please tell me you’re alive.
You typed back: Unfortunately.
Then came the three firm knocks on your door and you froze in the middle of tying your robe.
You moved to the door, silent on the wood floor, and checked the peephole to see an empty hallway.
You undid the locks one by one, slow enough to make a point to nobody, and opened the door with the chain still on.
There was no one there. Only a coffee cup sitting neatly on your doorstep. Beside it, a burner phone.
You stared. The coffee was from your favourite place. Extra shot with, because you had once mentioned a decade ago that nutmeg tasted like dust and cinnamon was better.
On the cup, in careful black marker, were three words: Can we talk?
You stared at it for so long the neighbour’s door opened at the end of the hall.
Mrs. Banerjee from 4B peered out, hair wrapped in a scarf, eyes immediately dropping to the coffee, then to the burner phone, then back to you.
“Morning, love,” she said.
“Morning.”
She looked at the cup again. “Secret admirer?”
You looked down at the burner phone. The screen lit up to one message.
Unknown Number: Please.
You closed your eyes and Mrs. Banerjee made a small, interested noise. You picked up the coffee and the phone. “Ex-boyfriend.”.
—
You really did think about turning in the burner phone. Or maybe you should call your lawyer. You could call your operations manager, who was a former private investigator. You could walk it straight to 15th precinct, drop it on Brett’s desk, and say, congratulations, you have one prison escapee’s attempt at courtship. You even considered crushing it under your heel and leaving the pieces in the hallway like a very clear, very mature message: Get the fucking hint.
But because you were an idiot, because apparently ten years of therapy, firearms training, and owning a private security company had not cured you of Benjamin Poindexter, you did not crush it.
You brought it inside and locked the door.
Then you sat at your kitchen table, took the back off the phone, and found the tracker chip in under twelve seconds. Of fucking course the burner phone he left like some pathetic little peace offering was also a locator. Of course Dex could not simply say can we talk without also making sure he knew where you were when you ignored him. You should have expected nothing less of him.
You held the tiny chip between your fingers, looked at it under the kitchen light, and felt both rage and nostalgia twist behind your ribs. “Romance really is dead,” you muttered.
When you dropped the chip into a glass of water, the phone buzzed in your hand almost immediately.
Dex: Did you take it out?
You stared and sent nothing back, shoving it into your bedside junk drawer beneath batteries, old keys, a tape measure, and three expired pepper sprays.Over the next week, Dex kept finding ways to leave things for you.
On Monday, you found a paper bag with your favourite chocolate bar between an invoice and a threateningly glossy real estate flyer. You stared down at it in the lobby while Mr. Kowalski from 2A walked past with his pug. “Breakfast?” he asked.
“I think so,” you said.
On Tuesday, there was a carton of chocolate milk waiting on your window sill. Outside. Four floors up.
You opened the curtains and nearly had a stroke.The carton was balanced there neatly, like New York wind, gravity, and basic human decency didn’t exist.
You opened the window, grabbed it, and looked down at the street and found no sign of a psychopath in a tactical black suit making eye contact from across traffic like this was a part of the healing process. You drank it anyway, because you were angry, not wasteful.
On Wednesday, you found a book on your balcony.
That one actually pissed you off, and not because it was on your balcony. You had accepted, against your will, that Dex was apparently treating your apartment like a very emotional obstacle course. It pissed you off because it was a first edition of the stupid out-of-print novel you had complained about not being able to find for years. You had mentioned it once, maybe twice, back when you were still together, curled into the corner of his couch with your feet under his thigh and your hair wet from his shower.
There was a note tucked inside the front cover: I saw it and thought of you.
You looked at the note. Then at the sky. Then back at the note. “Are you kidding me?”
You brought the book inside. You didn’t read it. You put it on the kitchen counter, facedown.
On Thursday, there was a pastry box on your office desk.
Your actual locked private security office with cameras, keycards, a receptionist, two former Marines on the morning shift, and a very expensive alarm system you had installed.
You walked in at eight-fifteen, stopped dead in the doorway, and stared at the little white box sitting beside your keyboard.
Your assistant, who had followed you in talking about insurance renewals, went quiet. “Is that yours?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do we need to evacuate?”
You opened the box. Inside was one pain au chocolat and a folded napkin. You unfolded it: You forgot lunch yesterday.
You sighed, “no.”
You spent the next hour reviewing security footage and getting progressively more furious because, of course, there was nothing useful. There was nothing more than a camera flicker and a ten-second blind spot. The side door alarm that had been disabled and re-enabled so quickly it looked like a system error.
By Friday, you were in a mood so bad people started physically moving out of your way when you walked down the hall.
You went home late, half hoping there would be nothing and you were right. For once, your hallway was empty. Your mailbox was empty. Your windowsills were empty. Your balcony was empty. You checked all of them twice anyway, because apparently this was your life now. Nothing.
You made actual dinner out of spite: rice, protein, vegetables. You ate it standing in your kitchen because sitting down felt too intimate. Then you showered, changed into sleep shorts and an old quantico T-shirt, and tried not to think about the fact that you were kind of disappointed by the lack of gifts. Which was humiliating.
You were a grown woman. You ran extractions for millionaires and negotiated with armed mob bosses before breakfast. You were not going to have feelings because your escaped-convict ex-boyfriend skipped one day of stalking.
Then, at eleven at night, you heard tapping against your window.
No one was there when you opened it, but there was an envelope stuck to the outside of the glass.
You stared at it, then walked over, opened the window, and peeled it off. Inside was a note: Why are you mad at me?
You blinked and read it again.
For a second, you genuinely thought you were hallucinating. Then you looked down to your fire escape below your window to see a bouquet of daisies, the ones he used to buy from the deli down the street because you said you always like them.
“Oh my God,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “He actually thinks I’m playing hard to get.”
You picked up the flowers. And, because you were a very reasonable person, you leaned out the window into the damp New York night and shouted, “DEX!”
Somewhere below, in the dark, a car alarm chirped. A dog barked. Someone yelled, “People are sleeping, lady!”
You ignored them. You held up the flowers like evidence at trial. “‘WHY AM I MAD AT YOU?’ IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE?!”
Nothing, for a moment. Then your burner phone buzzed from the drawer. You stormed over, yanked it open so hard the batteries rattled, and dug the phone out from under three dead pens.
Dex: Are they the wrong flowers?
You stared and slowly sat down on the kitchen floor, because if you didn’t, you were going to throw the phone through a wall.
Because surely, surely, you had misread that. Surely the man you once had thought of as the love of your life, had not just asked if you were mad after he killed your mutual friend seven years ago.
The phone buzzed again.
Dex: I can get different ones.
You closed your eyes. For a moment, you thought you could feel your soul physically leave your body, look down at the situation, and decide it wanted no part in this, because he kept acting as if the issue was floral. As if this whole thing could be solved by a better bouquet and not, for example, an apology, a therapist, a complete understanding of privacy, and maybe not breaking into your apartment.
“Fuck,” you muttered.
Whatever, you thought. I don’t give two shits
You very much gave two shits. You gave several shits. You gave a whole municipal waste facility’s worth of shits.
In truth, you cared so much it made you furious. You had spent seven years telling yourself Benjamin Poindexter was not your problem anymore. Seven years building a life from the ruins he left behind. And now he was back in your life!
The phone buzzed again
Dex: Please talk to me.
You stared at the screen before you stood up. “No,” you said aloud.
You were not doing this through a burner phone. You were not typing out a long, literate paragraph about boundaries to a man who had apparently decided stalking was a valid love language. You were not texting your fugitive ex-boyfriend the basics of human decency. If he wanted to talk, he could talk face to face.
And because you knew Dex better than anyone should know a man like Dex, you knew exactly how to make that happen without sending a single message.
You went to your bedroom and changed, pulling on jeans, boots, a warm coat, and the black scarf with hidden pockets because practicality was important, even during emotional breakdowns. You hid a knife in your sleeve and a compact pistol at your back.
You walked back into the kitchen and looked at the burner phone on the floor.
Dex: Are you there?
You picked it up, turned it over once in your hand, then dropped it into the fruit bowl like it deserved to be punished among the bananas.
“I’m going for a walk,” you said to your empty apartment, before grabbing your keys and left.
—
Central Park at midnight was, objectively, a stupid place to go. You knew that. You literally charged people money to know that.
You had written entire security briefs for clients with more cash than survival instinct, and half the advice boiled down to: do not go into isolated places at night to meet emotionally unstable violent criminals.
Still, there you were, walking through the park under a wet black sky, boots clicking against the pavement, the city humming behind the trees like it was pretending not to watch.
Every instinct you had spent the last seven years wanted to look back: look at the tree line, benches, shadows. Check reflection in puddles and windows across the street. But you didn’t look, because looking meant admitting you cared whether he was there.
The path curved ahead of you, slick with rain and scattered leaves. A few lamps burned gold through the mist. The park was not empty, exactly, but it felt emptied out. You could hear footsteps and cyclists passing too fast. You kept walking. Past the fountain. Past the little bridge, until you reached the bench.
It had the same black metal arms, same damp wooden slats, same stupid plaque dedicated to someone’s grandfather who had loved chess and spring mornings.
You and Dex had found this bench years ago after a date went wrong because work interrupted dinner. He had been stiff beside you, still in his work shirt, tie loosened. You had shared cold fries out of a paper bag. You stole one from his carton and he let you.
After that, the bench became yours in the stupid unofficial way things became yours when you were in love. After late shifts and bad days, arguments you both pretended were not arguments. You kissed here stolen under orange lamplight, hand hovering near your lower back before finally touching.
You sat down anyway. The bench was wet. “Perfect,” you muttered.
You crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, looking straight ahead.
For one minute, nothing happened. Then two. Then three.
You almost laughed. Maybe this was it. Maybe you had finally overestimated him. Maybe Dex had left the flowers, sent the texts, and vanished into the night.
Maybe you had dragged yourself into Central Park at midnight for nothing. Maybe you were the unwell one.
Then, a sound came from the trees behind you, barely anything at all.
You didn’t turn around.
From the darkness behind the nearest tree, Benjamin Poindexter stepped out of the shadows. He looked older, bigger, still beautiful in that awful, inconvenient way that made you want to throw something at the sky.
Dex stopped a few feet away from the bench. For once, he didn’t come closer.
The mist clung to his shoulders. The lamplight caught the scar on his cheekbone. Then, he said, “Hi.”
Your mouth felt dry. “Hi,” you said back. Stupid. Pathetic. Human.
Dex looked at the empty space beside you, then at your face. “Can I sit?”
You almost laughed. Now he wanted permission? “Sure,” you said, voice flat. “Why start respecting boundaries now?”
He flinched like you’d rub salt in a wound. He sat anyway, carefully, as if the bench belonged to you now and he was only borrowing the edge of it. His thigh was too close to yours, so scooted away.
Dex noticed. His eyes dropped to the wet space you’d put between you, then lifted again.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The park filled the silence: dew ticking through leaves, traffic muttering.
Dex’s hands rested between his knees, visible, like he knew you were checking and armed.
“How are you?” he asked.
Of all the things he could have asked. Of all the impossible, cruel, stupid things.
How dare he ask like this was a coffee run. Like seven years had not happened. Like he had not crawled back into your life through windows and burner phones and pastry boxes, leaving little proofs of memory everywhere, every single one saying, I still know you, I still know you, I still know you.
You smiled and it was fake, Dex could tell.
“Oh,” you said brightly. “Great. Coping. The last seven years have been very normal and relaxing for me.”
Dex looked down.
You kept going because if you stopped, worse thingswould come out.
“I built a company. Paid taxes. I learned how to read insurance contracts without wanting to walk into traffic. Got eight hours of sleep, never. Oh, and I developed a fun little stress headache that lives behind my right eye.” You looked back at the path. “You know. Girl stuff.”
“That must have been hard,” he said quietly.
Your eyes closed. Fuck off. That one repetition you knew Dr. Mercer gave him that you told him was cute once. You opened your eyes and rolled them instead. “Don’t sound sad on my behalf.”
“I am sad.”
“That’s the fucking bare minimum. Catch up”
He took that, and you almost wished he wouldn’t. You almost wished he would snap back like you had always expected him to.
But seven years had changed parts of him. Dex, whose anger had been manipulated, had sat down on the prison floor and trained himself not to succumb again. Then he said, “I saw your apartment.”
You looked at him. “What about it?”
He hesitated, and you could see him trying to choose the right words, which was almost funny, considering he had broken into your home without needing words at all.
“It’s.. modest,” he said.
For a second, your brain refused to process it. Then you turned toward him fully. “I’m sorry?”
Dex’s eyes flickered. “That came out wrong.”
“You’re insulting my apartment?”
““I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh, please.” You laughed once. “Go on, Bullseye. Tell me what the fugitive home inspector thinks.”
His face changed at the moniker. “I meant,” he said carefully, “you always talked about more.”
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
Dex looked past you toward the path, like maybe the memory was sitting there too.
“You said you wanted a house in the suburbs,” he said. “You said you wanted no less than five bedrooms and big windows. A kitchen with the blue tiles you liked. A bathroom with a copper bathtub that would’ve been hard to clean.”
You had been half-asleep when you told him that. Years ago, your legs in his lap, his thumb moving over your ankle bone, the TV murmuring some terrible late-night movie neither of you were watching. You had been talking nonsense because you were tired and happy and safe.
You swallowed the memory down hard. “I can’t afford more,” you said.
Dex frowned. “You can.” You owned a private security firm. You should be able to. Dex had seen the numbers you were bringing in.
“You don’t know anything about my life anymore,” you said, and your voice cracked just enough to make you furious.
His eyes stayed on you.
“I can’t because I… I pay two mortgages,” you said, words coming out quieter than you meant them to.
Dex’s brow furrowed.
“One for my apartment.” Your hand curled against your knee. “One for Seema.”
He stopped breathing for half a second.
You kept your eyes on the wet path because if you looked at him, you would see exactly when he understood, and you didn’t want him to see that.
“And I…I’m putting Sami through college, too,” you added, proud of the boy he had become. “He’s going to be a structural engineer.”
You thought of visiting Seema once in a while. You folded bills into drawers and pretended it was nothing. Seema pretending she didn’t notice. You were just two women building something survivable out of the wreckage men left behind.
Dex stared at his hands. “Oh.”
You smiled without looking at him. It hurt. “Yeah,” you whispered.
He looked smaller, though not physically. Dex still took up too much space. But he was folding inwards, like he had finally stepped on a loose floorboard and realised there was a whole room underneath the house.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“No.”
“I would have—”
You turned to him then, anger saving you from the softer thing trying to crawl up your throat. “Don’t tell me what you would have done,” you said. “Don’t sit here and offer me imaginary help from prison like that does anything for anybody.”
Dex wanted to say the right things so desperately, you could tell.
You held up a hand before he could speak, “Stop.”
He knew that voice, that tone. He had stolen it from evidence and slept to it in the dark.
You saw the moment it hit him, so you hardened again. “Why are you here?” you said.
Dex looked at you for too long. “I wanted to see you.”
“Cut the shit,” You leaned closer, not because you wanted to be near him, you told yourself, but because you needed him to hear you. “Why are you here, Dex?”
Barely above a whisper, he said, “I wanted to see my girlfriend.”
For one second, you couldn't move. Girlfriend?
You stared. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”
Dex looked genuinely confused, not pretending or manipulating.
“We never broke up,” he said.
Your stomach turned. “Oh, fuck.”
“We didn’t.”
“We were on a break when you got arrested! I never visited you in prison, either, Dex!” you snapped. “Take the fucking hint.”
His face went sout first. Then his eyes changed, helplessness flashing there, quickly buried, but not quick enough. He was hurt, almost boyish in its disbelief, like it had never occurred to him that your absence was a hint at all.
“No, no,” he insisted, and you could almost see the story he made up in his head. “You didn’t visit because it wasn’t safe,” he said.
Your mouth opened slightly.
He kept going, voice gaining force desperately. “Because of the Bureau and your firm. Because if anyone saw you with me—”
“No.”
“I know why you didn’t visit,” he said “You had to protect yourself. I understood that.”
“No, Dex.”
“You needed time.”
You scoffed. “I needed more than time.”
“You were angry.”
“I was grieving.”
“You loved me.”
“Yes!” you snapped, and the word tore out of you so violently both of you went silent. It was the ugly, irredeemable truth. You swallowed, but it did nothing.
“Yes,” you repeated, smaller. “I loved you. I loved you so much I almost ruined my life because of it.”
His face broke open for half a second and You couldn’t look at him
“I sat outside that prison once, after you killed Nelson,” you said.
Dex let out a deep breath.
You laughed under your breath, but it came out nearly ruined. “I drove there after work. I parked across the street. I was in my car for forty minutes like an insane person.”
“You came?” he whispered.
“I didn’t go in.” you said, finally looking at him. Your eyes burned so badly it made the lamps blur. “Because I knew if I walked inside, I was done. I knew if I saw you, if you looked at me, if you said my name in that voice, I would forgive things I had no business forgiving.”
Dex was breathing shallowly now.
Oh.
He reached for you, too quickly, when he realized he was losing your attention. His fingers closed around your wrist and pulled, hard enough to hurt.
“Don’t,” he said.
For half a breath, you froze. Seven years ago, you might have let him. Seven years ago, you might have let him pull you close because he was hurting and Dex hurting had always made you stupid. You might have said his name. Might have touched his face. Might have coaxed him back to you gently, patiently, like he was one of your frightened men with a gun and a locked room full of hostages.
But you were not that girl anymore. Your wrist turned, thumb pressing to a weak point. You twisted down, stepped in, and pivoted, making him release you.
His eyes flashed, more surprised than hurt.
You caught his arm, moved behind his shoulder, and slid the knife from your sleeve with one clean motion, pressing the blade on the curve of his neck .
Dex went still, some part of him, some sick part of him, had been waiting seven years to be close enough for you to hurt him, if that was all you would ever give to him.
Your mouth was near his ear. “Don’t,” you said, “grab me like that again.”
Dex swallowed. You felt it against the blade. His eyes were fixed forward, dark in the lamplight.
Even now, you could feel yourself trying to regulate the room. Keep him calm. Keep yourself calm. No sudden moves. Name the feeling. Give him a choice. Bring him back to his own.
You almost laughed. Once a hostage negotiator, always a hostage negotiator. Even when you were brokering arms deals most of the time now.
“I left you alone,” you said. “For seven years, I left you alone. That was the kindest thing I could do for both of us.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
Your hand tightened around the knife. For a second, you couldn’t speak, because you knew what he meant. You had not given him closure. You had not given yourself closure either. You had simply walked out of the burning building and refused to look back in case he was still inside screaming.
He said your name, like he still had the right to use it. “You don’t want to kill me,” Dex said.
Your eyes burned so badly it made the park blur at the edges. You laughed once, but it came out broken. “Don’t be so sure.”
Dex didn’t flinch. He looked at the knife in your hand, then back at you, and his voice dropped.“If you wanted me dead,” he said, “I would already be dead.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Your heart broke again, and this time you almost heard it.
“Leave me alone,” you whispered. You stepped closer, teeth clenched, tears hot on your face. “Leave me alone, or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Then you flipped the knife in your hand, turned the butt of it toward him, and struck him hard under the temple to knock him out.
You stood over him for one second too long, breathing like an animal, waiting for yourself to regret it. You did, but you left anyway.
When Dex woke up, you were gone.
—
For the next couple of months, Dex actually left you alone. Which was good, right? You had to remind yourself that you did tell him to leave you alone or you’d kill him. It was a very clear instruction, a very reasonable boundary. It was very mature of him to respect it.
So why did it make you feel insane?
You told yourself this was healthy. You told yourself that, actually, most women would be thrilled if their escaped-convict ex-boyfriend respected a boundary after years of moral devastation. But apparently, you were not most women. Apparently, you were a fucking idiot.
At work, people started noticing. One of your freelancer caught you staring at a blank wall for too long and said, carefully, “You okay, boss?”
“Hm?”
“You’ve been holding that folder upside down for five minutes.”
You looked down. Ah.
Seema called twice asking you to come over for dinner. Both times, you said no. “It’s not safe,” you told her.
Then Seema sighed, and that hurt worse than yelling. “You always say that when you are punishing yourself.”
You hung up after promising to call again. You didn’t call, even though you kept the checks going.
Then one morning, every phone in your office buzzed at once. That was never good. Apparently, many of your clients wanted extra protection against an “unknown threat.
You wondered why until your assistant handed you a newspaper with the headline: THREE ANTI-VIGILANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN BROOKLYN.
Your whole body went cold.
You read the article, and that was all the confirmation you needed. You knew what Dex’s violence looked like. You knew he did this.
Your assistant said your name again. You looked up, and whatever was on your face made her stop talking.
“Cancel my morning calls,” you said as you phone buzzed.
Brett Mahoney: Do not get involved.
You almost laughed.
You knew then, that he had not left you alone because he stopped loving you. He had left you alone because he was trying to be good. And something, or someone, had just reminded him he wasn’t.
—
You started following Dex on his little crusade. It didn’t take you long to find him, really. You had once loved him too thoroughly to be normal about him now.
You knew which rooftops he would choose because they gave him height and had three clean exits. You knew he hated wet alleys unless they led to fire escapes. You knew he would never use the obvious door. You knew the little rituals he had during work.
So yes. Fine. You started stalking Benjamin Poindexter.
Fuck. How pathetic. You were a grown woman. You ran a firm. And now, apparently, you had a new hobby: following your fugitive ex through New York like a ghost with a concealed carry permit.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
You told yourself it was professional. AVTF had been leaning on your clients hard, forcing them into hiding, turning protection details into extraction jobs, calling it public safety while they raided apartments without warrants and threatened families in parking garages. They were dickheads, so yeah, you had no sympathy for them.
You followed the bodies, the rumours, the gaps in camera footage, the silence in neighbourhoods that had been loud twenty minutes before. And the more you followed him, the more you felt him following you back.
You noticed a shadow on a rooftop opposite your office, a reflection in the window of a closed deli. The certainty that when you walked home at night, something in the dark was following you.
You knew Dex had clocked you the first night and, instead of losing you, instead of warning you off, the sick bastard started letting you get closer, though not enough that you could grab him, never enough that you could put a bullet in him if you finally developed common sense. But enough.
Apparently, even when you kept saying you wanted him gone, your body didn’t get the memos
And Dex… Dex wasn’t any better.
Dex was worse. Dex was leaving you openings like love notes. He would stop too long on rooftops. He let you see the edge of his shoulder before he vanished. He let a camera catch half his face, just enough for you to know he was thinking of you.
Once, you found a dead AVTF agent slumped in an abandoned office with a heart shot into the wall beside him.
Fuck.
Eventually, you stalked his home. Well. Home was generous.
Dex didn’t have a home so much as he had a room to return to when the city stopped needing him bloody for five consecutive minutes.
It was a third-floor walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, rented under a name so fake it was almost insulting. Tony? Where did he get that, huh?
He had no doormats or plants. He had no personal mail. You found it in four days. You told yourself that was because you were good at your job.
You watched the building from across the street with coffee going cold in your hand. Like a creep, like him.
The first night, he didn’t come home until 3:12 a.m.You saw him slip through the alley, hood up, shoulders tense, blood dark on one sleeve. He paused before unlocking the side entrance.
Dex knew you were there and the bastard still turned his head slightly, just enough for the streetlamp to catch the side of his cheek, the bruising near his mouth. Then he went inside.
You sat there with your hands curled around the steering wheel and hated him for being alive.
After that, you came back, but every night. You had clients to protect and employees to encourage into filling out paperwork properly.
Obviously.
—
One night, you followed him to the docks.
You told yourself it was reconnaissance. You told yourself it was work. You told yourself a lot of very reasonable, very professional things while walking into a half-rotted maintenance building with a pistol at your back and your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
But by then, you had stopped pretending you weren’t actively choosing him.
The building sat by the water like a body left to die, with rusted metal, wet concrete, and black windows. Task Force had picked it because they thought isolation made them clever.
It didn’t. Instead, it made them predictable.
You slipped through the side entrance and knew immediately something was wrong when you smelled blood, oil, and gunpowder in excess.
Your stomach turned. Not him, a terrified part of you thought before you could stop it. Please, not him.
When you were fully in, he had already been through the first two. One agent was at the bottom of the stairs. Another near the service corridor. A third was dragging himself across the floor, one hand pressed to his side, the other reaching for his radio.
He saw you, a stranger, and desperately rasped, “Help me.”
You looked at the badge on his vest; AVTF.
Then you looked toward the room ahead, where another gunshot went off so loud the whole building seemed to echo around it.
Your blood went cold. Dex.
You stepped over the agent, who was begging for you to save his life. “No.”
You ran instead, because you knew, somewhere in that building, Dex could be hurt. Dex could be cornered. Dex could die.
And the thought was so unbearable it stripped every lie out of you.
No. No. No. Not him. Not after a decade of caring about him. Not after you spent all that time hating him just to realise that hate was probably just you punishing yourself.
You reached the room and saw him. Dex was backed near the far wall, one hand braced against a pipe, blood at his mouth, shoulders heaving. His eyes were dark and wild, and still, somehow, he found you the second you entered.
For half a second, nothing stopped.
The agents. The prison. The motorcade killing of surrendering men. Ray. Fisk. The suit. None of that mattered anymore. Not really.
Then you saw the agent next to him, lifting his gun, Finger tightening to the trigger.
Dex didn’t see. He was distracted. He was watching you. Dex was watching you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
But you saw the gun, the angle. You saw the split second before the world took him from you.
No.
There was a sawn-off shotgun on the floor beside a dead man’s hand.
You picked it up before morality could catch up. The blast tore the room open.
The agent dropped. Your hands moved on instinct efficiently. You loaded in another shotshell. Another shot. The second agent went down before he could turn his weapon. Then the third.
Then nothing but smoke and ringing silence and your own breath coming out broken and a little too loudly.
Dex turned toward you slowly with blood on his cheek, mouth parted, his eyes locked on yours.
You had saved him, yes. You had crossed a line for him, yes. But Dex didn’t look surprised, not even a little.
He looked at you like he had always known, like he was waiting for you to come out of the dark and choose him. Like he had loved every version of you: the woman with pastries in a federal sniper nest, the woman with a knife under his jaw in Central Park, and now this woman, holding a shotgun because the idea of him dying had made her forget every boundary she had ever built.
Your throat closed. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to kiss the blood off his mouth. You wanted to hit him for making you care this much. You wanted to fall apart against him and have him hold you like no time had passed at all.
You hated him. Or maybe you loved him so badly it felt like a heart attack.
Dex’s eyes dropped to the shotgun in your hands, then rose back to your face, so in love with you it was almost frightening.
You swallowed hard. “I don’t actually want you dead,” you admitted.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
Then the shotgun slipped from your hands. It hit the floor with a dull clatter, and it made you flinch for the first time in years.
Dex said your name, but you didn’t answer.
Your knees gave out before you decided to kneel. One moment you were standing there with smoke in your lungs and blood ringing in your ears, and the next you were on the concrete, palms braced against the floor.
Fuck. Fuck! What did you do? What the fuck did you do?
The agents were dead because you had killed them. You didn't even try negotiating or de-escalating. You didn’t even try buying time.
You had picked up a gun and blown three men apart because he had been about to shoot Dex.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, sounding thin and very much unlike the person you had convinced yourself to be.
Your eyes dropped to the shotgun on the floor, then up to your bare hands. Your… fingerprints were on it. Shit!
Your DNA and your hair maybe, your shoe prints in the blood and river grime. You had stupidly dragged your goddamn life into this room because you had followed a man you swore you hated into a trap and saved him as if he was still yours to save.
You had jeopardised everyone; your employees, the contracts and the clients. Seema and Sami and their mortgage payments and tuition fees. If you went down, they went down with you.
Your breath hitched so hard it hurt. “No,” you said, but it came out like a sob. “No, no, no.”
Dex moved toward you, boots scraping concrete, his body dropping down beside yours. You jerked back on instinct. “Don’t,” you choked out, though you didn’t know what you were telling him not to do.
Dex stopped for half a second, but he reached for you anyway, carefully this time.
His arms came around you from the side, one hand sitting between your shoulder blades, the other wrapping around your back like he could hold your life together by force if you just asked him to.
“It’s okay,” he said, even though it was the wrong thing to say. Nothing was okay, but in the end it was still Dex’s voice.
“It’s okay,” he said again. “I’ve got you.”
You made a sound, and you would have been embarrassed by it if you had any semblance of self preservation.
“Dex,” you gasped.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t- my fingerprints, I touched it, I touched the gun, I…. ” Your words tripped over each other, useless and frantic. “They’ll find me. They’ll know. My firm finished. Seema won’t… I-I—Sami’s tuition, Dex, I pay his tuition, I can’t— fuck! M-my employees, they’ll lose their jobs, I,… everything is tied to me, everything…”
“I know,” he said.
“You clearly fucking don’t!”
“Listen to me,” he said again, hand pressed against your back.
You shook your head, because listening meant being in the room. Listening meant admitting this had happened. It was basically a fucking confession.
Dex moved ever closer, until his chest was against your shoulder, his lips by your temple. “Nobody has to know,” he said.
Your breathing stopped abruptly, looking at him through the blur of your own tears.
His face was bruised, blood at the corner of his mouth, eyes so focused on you that it made you want to collapse all over again.
“Nobody has to know,” he repeated. “I’m going to help.”
You were terrified. You were relieved.
Dex knew what to do. Dex knew what to do with bodies, right? He can make this all go away, right? Right?
You needed him. Needed.
You turned into his chest, hands grabbing at the front of his jacket, fists twisting in the fabric, clinging to him with a desperation you had not shown to anyone in years. Your forehead hit his chest and then, before you knew it, you were letting out full-bodies sobs into his tactical suit.
Dex’s arms tightened around you immediately. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
You buried your face harder against him, shaking so badly you swore your teeth were gonna fall off. “I need you,” you said into his chest, barely audible.
Dex froze for a second, his hand sliding up to the back of your head, holding you there. “I know,” he whispered.
You clutched him harder. “I need you.”
—
Your body had been buzzing with too much adrenaline, your vision swam in and out of existence, and you barely remembered what happened. When you came back to yourself, you were in Dex’s bed.
His studio was small, nothing but one dim lamp in the corner, one chair, and one table. It should have felt temporary, but the sheets smelled like him,and that alone made you feel comfortable enough to ignore everything he had done in the past decade.
You were wearing his old FBI shirt, fabric hanging too loose on your shoulders, logo cracked from years of washing, like a cruel relic from a life neither of you got to keep. Your own clothes were gone: coat, jeans, scarf, and everything that had touched that you, or that warehouse.
The shotgun was gone, too, and you were willing to bet the same for the bodies. All of it had been taken care of by the one man you had spent seven years trying not to need.
Maybe he burned the clothes and sunk the agents. Maybe he sunk the shotgun, too. There was horror, but you felt sick, shameful relief all the same.
He stood near the sink with his shoulders slightly hunched, blood still drying near his mouth. He had washed his hands too many times; you could tell from the red and raw skin around his knuckles, as if even he could not scrub tonight off completely. When he turned the tap off, the apartment went quiet again.
You stared at him, and he stared back, and suddenly seven years were in the room with you. Seven years of pretending he was just another ex. Seven years of saying you hated him because hating him was easier than admitting that some nights you still reached across the bed in your sleep and woke up furious that he was not there to hold you.
You started shaking again. What the fuck were you doing here?
Your whole body felt like it was stuck on vibrate, teeth clenching, hands curled uselessly in the hem of his shirt. You hated yourself, because even after the hard-earned distance you tried to keep, you tried to earn, piece by piece, it was Dex’s room you fell apart in.
Dex walked toward you carefully, as if he had learned the hard way what not to do. He wasn’t going to let himself be taken over by sudden movement, so he just sat on the edge of the mattress, waiting for your next move.
You should have told him to stay away. You should have said thank you and left. You should have put your feet on the floor, gone home, burned his shirt and called this what it was: A mistake, or a relapse. It was just a catastrophic, near career-ending lapse in judgement.
Instead, a little sob came out of you. And that was all it took for his arms to come around your body.
You were so angry at how badly you needed that touch that you grabbed him, by way of both hands in the front of his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric, dragging him close like you were drowning and he was the only source of oxygen left in the world.
You cried into him. It was a heartbroken chest-breaking sob that you couldn’t swallow down. You cried because you had killed three men that hadn’t even been looking at you. You cried because you had wanted Dex to live so badly you have compromised the safety of everyone else in your life.
He held you tighter, hand finding the back of your head like muscle memory, fingers sinking into your hair with a familiarity that hurt so much you might as well have been stabbed.
“Come back to me,” he whispered.
You hated him for saying your line, but you hated more that it fucking helped. So you pressed your face deeper into the crook of his neck, breathing him in like a pathetic kitten that had been abandoned on the side of the road starving for years.
You missed your Dex, and not the one you had made into a monster, and not Bullseye. You missed this one.
“You shouldn’t have helped me,” you said, but it barely came out as a cohesive.
His mouth planted a kiss on your hair.
“I-I shouldn’t have needed you.”
Dex said your name so kindly it didn’t even sound like him.
You pulled back enough to look at his red-rimmed eyes. You had seen men beg before. You had heard confessions, threats, and prayers. You had talked far more dangerous killers into handcuffs and frightened boys away from ledges. But nobody had ever looked at you the way Dex looked at you now.
“But I did,” you whispered, then kept going because you had already bled too much to pretend you were fine.
“I needed you to make it go away. I needed you to know what to do. I needed you to hold me, and I hate that after everything, I still knew you would.”
Dex didn’t look away. “We have always needed each other,” he said.
You wanted to slap him for that, because he was right. Even when you stayed away from the prison,some shameful, locked-up part of you had always known that if the world suddenly wanted to swallow you whole, it was Dex you would look for in the belly of the beast.
Because he was yours. And love, real love, did not follow reason. It didn’t care what made sense or what was deserved. It barely had to read case files or prison records or moral philosophy. It just… endured.
You touched his face with shaking fingers. His eyes closed instantly. You brushed the dried blood away with your thumb.
You leaned in first. Maybe you meant only to press your forehead to his, or you had only meant to sync his breath to his.
But when you felt his breath on yours, you couldn’t help but kiss him.
Dex made a surprised little sound, caught off-guard.
Soon enough, his hand tightened in your hair and he kissed you back. It was desperate and clumsy with relief, his mouth opening against yours as he couldn’t believe you were letting him have you like this again.
You grabbed at him harder, morals be damned.
He shifted closer immediately, angling his body toward yours with one knee pressing into the mattress. His hand slid to your waist through the old shirt.
He was careful, even when you could tell he was losing control. Fuuuuck.
Dex, who had broken into your apartment, tracked you, killed for you, covered up a triple homicide for you, still needed to know that you wanted him as much as he wanted you.
At this point, his lips were split. You tasted blood and yet didn’t pull away. You kissed him until the room blurred into a void. And when you pulled back, you only did it because you had to breathe. Still you didn’t pull back far.
“I… I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered.
He had no answer to that.
You were doing this against your better judgement, against every red flag that had been waved to warn you. But in the end, you were doing it anyway.
“You’re a fucking criminal,” you said, as if thinking out loud. Dex saw it exactly for what it was: you, trying to talk yourself out of this, and failing miserably. Still, you continued, “you were the one who told me once that they’re never reasonable.”
In that moment, you saw the memory pass through him. He remembered it as vividly as you: that first proper meeting on the fifth floor of an abandoned building. You were both much younger then, much more naive in what the world would eventually offer to the two of you.
His hand slid up to the side of your neck, finding your artery and pressing his palms there.
“We’re all people here,” he said.
Oh.
You were just a person. You were just human.
You could not be reduced to a principle or a badge anymore, not when you were willingly staying in the bed of the horrible man you loved, wearing his shirt, unable to regret what you had done to keep him alive. And maybe because you were human, it wasn’t your fault that you could not resist him.
So, this time, when you kissed him again, you kissed him with a genuine smile.
—end.
Note: these are the five songs I listened to over and over again while writing this!
Please send in an ask or message if you want to be added to the dex general / series specific taglist! Comments get lost sometimes! Let me know if I missed anyone!
If you were to ask most sane people, a relationship between a hacker with a penchant for breaking the law and an FBI agent shouldn’t work. And yet, you and Benjamin Poindexter just seem to…well, work. You get each other. You love each other. In fact, it doesn’t take much to see that your boyfriend is completely and utterly obsessed with you.
Unfortunately, Wilson Fisk sees this too, and it isn’t long before it becomes clear just how far Dex is willing to go to keep you with him. And, after tragedy strikes, how far he’ll go to get you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Murder (I mean, it's Bullseye), Blood, Dex is down so bad guys, Smut!!, Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), Slight knife play, Slight gun play, Reader matches Dex’s freak, Vague mentions of mental illness (it's Dex), Angst, Canon-compliant character death, Please please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: And here we have the longest fic I've ever written! I loved writing these two so much that I'm almost sad to post it because I don't get to work on it anymore. Be warned that this fic is going to follow the events of Daredevil season 3 through Born Again season 2, so there will definitely be spoilers! As always, let me know what you guys think!! Your feeback brings me joy and keeps me writing!!
Word Count: 22k
-
It’s almost painfully cliche, how he meets you.
You slam into him, head banging against his shoulder so hard that it might bruise. So hard that your phone clatters to the ground in a chaotic little cacophony of plastic on pavement.
“Shit!” Your voice is a sharp cry in the crowded street, but no one really turns around for this kind of thing in New York. No one offers much more than a backwards glance and a raised eyebrow. He just wanted a damn coffee, and now his shoulder is aching and he’s about to whip around to snap at you for-
Your palm is pressed against your forehead, and your eyes are squeezed shut. You’re in a sweatshirt and jeans. There are subtle bags under your eyes from what he can only assume is a lack of sleep. Your sneakers are worn. There is almost nothing about you that should be in any way memorable.
One eye peeks open, and his heart…stutters.
“I’m sorry. Shit. You okay?”
His heart stops.
He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.
He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.
“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.
“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.
“Not that I know of.”
A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.
“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”
He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.
The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.
His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.
“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.
He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.
Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”
“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-
But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.
He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.
The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.
He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.
-
“Yikes, what happened to you?”
You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.
“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?
You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”
“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.
“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”
“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”
“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.
“So, speaking of which…”
“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”
“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”
“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”
Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.
Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.
“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”
You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”
“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”
“Hm.”
“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”
You raise an eyebrow again.
“Okay, the east coast.”
Your eyebrow climbs higher.
“America?”
You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.
“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”
“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”
You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.
“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”
Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”
And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”
Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?
“Wilson Fisk?”
“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”
Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”
“Foggy.”
He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”
“I haven’t been caught.”
“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”
“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.
So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.
Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.
Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”
“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”
“You said two.”
You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”
-
Watching you work is…fascinating.
It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.
You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.
The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.
When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.
He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.
Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.
But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.
-
It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.
You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.
So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.
And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.
Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.
“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.
Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.
Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.
You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.
“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”
“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”
“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”
“Dex.”
“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”
“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-
You snort. His heart bursts into flames.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-
“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”
-
“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.
“Not really.”
“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”
Actually, yeah. “I have one.”
You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”
“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”
“Aw, come on. Please?”
Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”
You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”
“Letter.”
“What?”
“Pick a letter.”
Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”
The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.
There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.
“Holy shit.”
Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.
“Can you do it again?”
Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.
You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.
But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.
Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.
-
He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.
He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.
He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.
Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-
“You have ice cream on your nose.”
He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.
“What?”
You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.
“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“
You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-
“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”
Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.
So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.
And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.
You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.
When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.
“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.
“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”
-
When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.
“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.
“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.
“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”
“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”
“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”
“But he knows?”
“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”
Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”
Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.
Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.
You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.
When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.
“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”
“Then why did you get them?”
He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”
You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”
Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”
You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”
He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.
Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.
You get him. And he gets you.
You just…work.
-
The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.
You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.
And then the suspension came.
“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.
“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.
“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.
“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.
You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”
He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”
Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.
“Three things you can feel?”
He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”
“Your shirt, technically.”
He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.
“Three things you can hear.”
“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”
You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”
He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.
“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.
“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”
“I know.”
“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”
“Hell of a compliment.”
“I mean it.”
“Me too.”
You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.
“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.
“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”
“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.
“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”
-
“One more.”
The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.
You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.
“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”
“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”
“We have gone all night.”
It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.
Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?
“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.
“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”
How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?
You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.
One more turns into three more.
-
You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.
Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.
You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.
Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.
“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.
What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-
“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.
His hands tighten on you. Fast.
“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.
“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.
He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”
“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”
“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”
You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.
“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”
“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.
“Say it. Please.”
You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”
He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.
You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.
So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.
“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.
“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.
You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.
The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.
Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.
“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.
His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.
“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.
He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”
You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.
He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.
It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.
He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.
“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.
You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.
“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”
He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”
And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.
-
“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”
“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“
“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”
That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”
You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”
Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“
“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”
“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“
“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”
Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.
“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”
You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”
“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“
“No.”
“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”
“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”
And yet…
No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.
Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.
You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…
Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.
-
He killed Ray tonight.
It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.
“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”
“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.
“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”
Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.
If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.
And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.
The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.
-
You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.
So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.
Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.
“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.
You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.
“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”
He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.
You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.
“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”
You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.
“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.
He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.
When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.
His brow furrows, and he pulls back.
You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.
“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.
But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.
That’s all.
-
The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.
And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.
“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”
You would recognize that voice anywhere.
It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.
It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.
You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.
And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.
You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.
Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”
You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.
You nod.
-
“What are you-“
You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-
Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.
That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.
You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.
His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.
He reaches for you, and you step back.
“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”
“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”
Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”
“Dex.”
“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“
You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.
“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”
Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.
“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“
“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”
You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.
“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.
You turn, and walk away.
You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.
You keep walking.
-
He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.
He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.
He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.
It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.
But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.
You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.
And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
-
It’s a nice, normal Friday night.
Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.
You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.
Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.
The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…
Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.
You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”
“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.
“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”
“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.
“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.
“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”
His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.
And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.
“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.
“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-
“Hey, you okay?”
Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”
“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”
Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.
“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.
Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.
Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.
A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.
You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-
“Hey, baby.”
A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.
Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.
He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.
“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.
And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.
He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.
The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.
The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.
The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.
Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.
And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.
And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.
And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.
You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.
You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.
Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-
Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.
“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”
-
ONE YEAR LATER
There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.
You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.
But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.
So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.
The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.
He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.
They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.
-
“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”
Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.
“No.”
“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”
“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”
“They moved him to gen pop.”
You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.
“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.
“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“
“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”
Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.
But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.
-
“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.
You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.
“You killed Foggy Nelson.”
“Your hair is longer.”
“You killed Foggy.”
“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”
“Shut up.”
“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”
You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.
“Do it again.”
“Fuck you.”
“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”
“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”
His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”
“You still love me.”
“No. I don’t.”
“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”
“Fuck. You.”
His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”
“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”
“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”
“You’re trying to get in my head.”
“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”
“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”
He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”
“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”
He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do. I already have.”
“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”
That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”
“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”
“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”
“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”
His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”
And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.
They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.
One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.
The security camera light flickers off.
Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.
You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.
You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.
“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”
For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.
And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.
Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.
The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.
You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.
“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”
“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.
“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”
And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.
There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.
And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.
It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.
It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.
“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”
They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.
-
“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”
Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.
“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”
No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.
And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“I did it for you.”
“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.
“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.
“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?
Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”
For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.
“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”
And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?
“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”
Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.
“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.
“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”
Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”
He’s right. He did. But-
“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.
Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.
“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.
Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.
“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“
But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.
“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”
The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.
Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-
“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”
Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-
You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.
“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.
And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.
Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.
You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.
A bullseye.
-
Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.
You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.
Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.
The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.
Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.
There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.
You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.
“You moved.”
“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”
“I don’t really fall under that definition.”
You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.
“You look tired.”
“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”
“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”
“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.
“You still can.”
You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”
“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.
“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”
“That sounds hard. Really-“
“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”
“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”
You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.
“Was that a fucking knife?”
“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”
“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.
“I would never in a million fucking years-“
“You. Killed. Foggy.”
“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.
“You’re delusional.”
“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.
You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.
In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.
He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.
“I should kill you.”
“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”
“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”
“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”
“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.
You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.
“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”
“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”
“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.
“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”
“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”
“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.
Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.
This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.
You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.
He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.
You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.
You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.
His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.
“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.
He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.
You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.
When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.
“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.
“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.
Kill. Kill.
All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.
Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.
You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.
“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-
“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.
Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.
He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.
Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.
And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.
Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.
“Stop it.” You try. You really do.
He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.
“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.
And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.
Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.
You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.
But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-
“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”
“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”
He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.
“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”
You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.
He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.
When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.
“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.
“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”
The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.
It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.
“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.
He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.
You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.
He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.
Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.
And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.
He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.
He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.
And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.
You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.
He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.
When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.
“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.
You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.
“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.
“What?”
“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“
Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.
“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”
He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.
He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.
“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.
You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.
It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.
“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”
“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.
“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”
He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”
Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.
“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”
“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”
You frown. “It-“
“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”
“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.
Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.
You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.
“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.
He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.
“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”
“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”
-
“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”
“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.
“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.
“I didn’t.”
“You just called me ‘the missus’.”
He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”
You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.
But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.
Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.
You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.
You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.
“You two ready to order?”
The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.
“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”
You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”
His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.
“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.
“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.
He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.
Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?
You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.
Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.
You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.
You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.
You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”
He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.
“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.
“Everybody get on the ground!”
You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.
His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.
“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.
A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.
You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.
“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.
You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.
“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.
Dex turns, and tilts his head.
“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”
He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.
You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.
“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.
“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.
“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”
You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.
-
ONE YEAR EARLIER
“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”
Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.
But you’re still there. You. You. You.
He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.
Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”
And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.
And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.
“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.
Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.
Of you.
His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.
“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.
And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.
You. You. You.
You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.
You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.
His fingers curl against the picture.
“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”
He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.
His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.
“They talk to her about you.”
His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.
“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”
His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.
Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.
“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”
You. You. You.
Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”
Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-
“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”
You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.
“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”
Back to you.
He signs the contract.
-
One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.
Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…
And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.
You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.
You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.
But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…
One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.
No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.
So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.
-
He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.
It was easy. Almost too easy.
But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.
He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.
But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.
-
“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”
She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.
Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.
Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.
There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.
Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.
You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.
You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.
And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.
-
He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.
He misses you. He wishes you were here.
The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.
“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”
“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.
“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.
Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.
The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.
Judgement day ticks ever-closer.
“Dex!”
His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…
There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”
“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….
“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.
“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.
“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”
“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”
Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.
“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”
“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“
The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.
And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.
The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.
“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“
…
-
You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.
Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.
Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.
And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.
“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.
“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.
“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.
“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”
Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.
“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.
“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.
“He killed Foggy.”
“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”
-
He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.
He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.
“Hey, baby.”
He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.
He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.
“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages.
He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”
You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.
“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.
“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.
He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.
“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”
“Balancing the scales.”
“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”
“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.
“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.
“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.
“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.
You pull back, and push it in harder.
“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”
Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.
“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”
“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.
“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”
You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”
He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.
“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”
You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.
He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.
“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.
“Feels better.”
“Liar.”
He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”
“You are touching me.”
“Let me touch you more.”
You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.
He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.
“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.
“No.”
He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”
“I could cuff your other hand.”
He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.
“Off.”
You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.
“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.
“Doesn’t hurt.”
It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.
“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.
“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”
You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.
You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.
One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.
And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.
“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.
You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.
“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.
“No. Don’t move.”
“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”
He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.
“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.
“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”
Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”
“Both cuffs, and no touching.”
He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”
-
When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.
You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.
“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.
You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.
“Uncuff me.”
“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.
He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.
“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”
“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.
“Your shirt is on inside out.”
You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.
“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”
“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.
“Shut up.”
“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.
He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.
But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.
He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.
And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”
Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.
“What do you need me to do?”
-
The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.
Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…
And then lowered out of pure confusion.
A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.
“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”
Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-
“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.
Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.
He goes down.
She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.
And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.
Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.
And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.
The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.
“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.
Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.
The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.
He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.
-
“Holy shit.”
“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.
Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.
“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”
Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”
“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”
Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”
“Says the guy who broke out of it.”
“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”
You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.
He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.
The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.
You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.
A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.
“What’re you up to?”
Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.
“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”
“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.
“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”
“Never.”
“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.
“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.
“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”
You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.
That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.
And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…
It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.
Home, to him.
You smile back, and meet his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
-
Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.
The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying - but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.
Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.
Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.
He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.
“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-
He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.
And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.
No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.
He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.
But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.
“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”
The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.
Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
stalker!benjamin poindexter x female!reader [9.5k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on an freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon (it’s supposed to be an au of what happens after dex breaks out of prison); she/her pronouns for reader; dex is temporarily homeless; loneliness & depression; brief hints at ending his own life and dying in general; stalker behavior; obsessive behavior; discussion of murder & violence; kidnapping; non-con use of a sleeping drug; anxiety & panic attacks; dark!dex (dubious morality); pathetic & quite creepy!dex (he’s pretty unstable in this); smut (dub-con); oral (f receiving); fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); creampie.
A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍
trick or tease masterlist
Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.
Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.
It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.
People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.
Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.
That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...
The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.
The ease.
The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.
No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.
They belong somewhere.
Everyone belongs somewhere except him.
There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.
Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.
And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.
At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.
It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.
Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.
Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.
How long would it take before anyone noticed?
Longer than it should, probably.
Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.
Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.
The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.
And that would be it.
No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.
That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.
Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.
They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.
Perhaps that’s why he notices you.
At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.
Instead he finds himself lingering.
The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.
And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.
That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.
It reminds him of himself.
Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day.
Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.
The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.
Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.
He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.
The city is still alive around him.
Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.
Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.
See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.
That’s when he sees you.
Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.
Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.
Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.
But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.
No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.
You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.
Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.
At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
Tired of moving.
Tired of hiding.
Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.
The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.
Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.
Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.
They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.
Dex’s eyes snap open.
You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.
You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.
It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.
Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.
“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.
The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.
Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.
Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.
His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.
Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.
When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.
You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.
He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.
By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.
“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.
The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.
He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.
Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.
The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.
When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.
The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.
If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.
There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.
The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.
Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.
One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.
A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.
Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.
That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.
Long story short, life carried on.
You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.
Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.
Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.
None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.
If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.
That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.
The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.
You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.
You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.
But something still feels off.
Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.
You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.
You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.
Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.
With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed.
And then… the smell.
At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time.
This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left.
But you live alone...
From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.
That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.
Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.
There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.
One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid.
A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.
A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.
You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.
Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.
But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.
The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted.
“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.
“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery.
There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.
“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”
Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.
Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.
“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.
The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.
When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.
The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.
The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.
Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.
There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.
Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.
A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.
Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.
You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.
Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.
And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.
You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.
The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.
A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.
The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.
He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.
A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.
“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.
“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.
You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.
There is nowhere else to go.
His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.
“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”
You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.
Another day.
Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.
“You need to drink some water.”
There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.
The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.
“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”
The room tilts again.
Forty-eight hours.
Your gaze snaps back to his face.
“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.
His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.
“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.
“You had me worried for a while.”
You had him worried.
As though he has any right to be worried about you.
As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.
It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.
Your apartment.
The smell that didn’t belong.
The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.
The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.
The overwhelming heaviness that followed.
Darkness.
Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.
The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.
You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.
The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.
His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away.
“Oh.”
The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.
It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.
“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.
“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”
Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.
He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.
For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.
“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”
Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?
And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.
When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.
“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”
The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.
Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.
Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.
Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.
The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.
His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.
“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”
For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.
Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.
You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning.
The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.
“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.
“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”
His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”
You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.
“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.
There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.
The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.
“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.
Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.
“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”
The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.
“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.
Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.
“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.
The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.
“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.
The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.
Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture.
Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.
“We’ve met before.”
Your lips part uselessly, confused.
“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”
Cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.
“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”
His face brightens, pleased that you do.
“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.
“You walked right past me at first.”
Your throat tightens at his quiet comment.
“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”
You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes.
“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”
The air changes with his expression.
“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.
“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”
A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.
“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.
“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.
“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”
His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.
“But you’re not alone anymore.”
Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.
“Dex—”
“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.
Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.
“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.
You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”
The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.
To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.
Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.
Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.
“I couldn’t leave you there.”
His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.
Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.
His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.
But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.
Right over your heartbeat.
The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.
He doesn’t speak anymore.
He just stays there, still, listening.
“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”
Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.
“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”
You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.
“Get off me.”
Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.
“Oh.”
He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.
The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.
“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”
He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.
“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”
Again that detached tone.
You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.
His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.
“You’re still afraid.”
A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.
“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”
Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?
His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.
His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.
“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”
Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.
“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists.
“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”
His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.
“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”
That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.
“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.
“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”
The lump in your throat is suffocating you.
“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”
Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.
Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.
After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.
“What do you want?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor.
“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.
Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.
“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”
“But I didn’t mean—”
“We can go,” his words tighten again with urgency. “Anywhere you want. Anything you want, I’ll make it happen.”
His voice lowers.
“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”
Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.
And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.
He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”
He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.
When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.
“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”
You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary.
“I just…” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.
“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not with me here.”
You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.
Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different.
But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.
Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.
Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.
But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks.
His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.
From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.
You should turn your head.
You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.
Instead, you remain perfectly still.
When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.
For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.
The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.
You don’t know what to make of any of this.
The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.
You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.
You truly are pathetic.
Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”
After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.
Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.
“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat.
A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.
With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.
It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.
These creeps never learn their lesson…
Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state.
Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.
Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back.
“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”
When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.
You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go.
Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”
Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.
Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face.
“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.
He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.
“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.
“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.
“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.
A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.
Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.
“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.
“You’re my good girl now.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”
“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.
His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him.
Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.
“Gonna fill you up, baby.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full.
You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.
For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.
He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.
Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks.
Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
🏷️ general dex taglist: @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @erina00 @star-yawnznn
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdock’s arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.
WORD COUNT. 8.4K
WARNINGS. canon adjacent, wounded dex, mentions of blood, minor injury details and treatment, doctor/patient setup, emotional dependency, jealousy (dex is a jealous bitch), possessiveness, morally messy dynamics, matt murdock cameo, platonic matt, set after the events of episode 5 of DDBA S2, references to foggy’s and vanessa’s death, suicidal ideation/passive death wish from dex (canon😭), MDNI, explicit sexual content, praise, possessive language, riding, groping, tit play, unprotected pnv, creampie, soft aftercare, needy!dex, dex being a feral wounded dog of a man, no use of y/n.
KIE’S NOTES. I’ve been writing this on and off since episode 5 aired, and this is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Dex is such a complex character to write for holy fuck 😭 there are so many analogies to stray dog, like he just wants to be a good boy, you’ll see
READ ON AO3
A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites.
You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.
Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.
Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.
That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.
Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.
You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.
For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.
Dex.
His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.
Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."
You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.
With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"
Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."
Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."
"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."
"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.
He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."
You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."
Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."
No. Nope.
"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.
Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.
"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."
His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."
Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed.
You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.
You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."
"Flexible," Dex breathes.
"Try alive."
"That's less flexible."
When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.
You hate how much that means to you.
The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."
His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."
"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."
Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."
"I can take care of myself."
The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.
You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."
Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."
Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."
"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.
You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."
He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.
When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.
The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.
"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."
He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it.
You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."
Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"
You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."
His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.
Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.
Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.
You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."
Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."
"Maybe try believing them once in a while."
Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"
You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."
"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room.
Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."
You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.
"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.
Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"
"Please lie down and stop talking."
Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."
Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."
You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."
"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."
Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."
Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.
"He listens to you," Matt says.
"He has limited hobbies."
Dex murmurs, "You."
The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.
Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."
"I went to med school, Matt."
His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight.
You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.
Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."
"I do."
"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."
His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."
You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."
"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."
You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."
Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."
Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."
The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.
You lock the door.
Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."
You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."
"Answer."
Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."
Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."
"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.
You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."
Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"
The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.
Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.
"Dex."
His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth.
"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."
A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."
"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."
The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp.
Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.
"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.
You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."
"Matt ever get the chain?"
Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to.
Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."
You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."
"Can't."
"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."
His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.
You let him.
Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."
You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"
"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."
A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?"
Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."
You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.
"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."
He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"
You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"
Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.
By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.
Dex is awake.
He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.
"You stayed," he says.
Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."
His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."
"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one.
His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."
"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter.
That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight.
"Headache?" you ask.
"Not really."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Vision changes?"
"Ugly curtains."
"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."
Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"
"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."
Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."
The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."
"I was waiting."
"That must have been hard for you."
His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."
You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."
"So I can leave if I want."
"Wrong answer."
The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."
That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.
The chain falls with a dull clink.
Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.
"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.
"You promise?"
"Dex."
With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.
You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs.
When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?"
He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."
Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"
"You get the chain."
He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.
"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."
His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands.
Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.
"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.
You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."
"He touches you like he has rights."
"He touches me like he trusts me."
Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.
"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."
His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed.
"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway.
"Your bedside manner was better last night."
"Last night you were closer to death."
His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."
The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic.
But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more.
You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.
You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?"
His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."
"From the kiss?"
"No."
"Dex."
"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."
The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.
"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."
His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."
That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.
You place his hand over your hip.
A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.
"Mm?"
"You're shaking."
"So are you."
"I have an excuse."
A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."
You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback.
His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.
His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?"
When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.
"Tell me," he says.
"Half-dead, but still you demand."
He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."
The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."
"He ever hear you sound like that?"
You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh.
The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.
Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.
For once, Bullseye looks struck.
You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch.
A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.
"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.
Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."
"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."
A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."
Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him.
When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."
You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.
Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."
"That bad?"
His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."
You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.
"Let me come to you," you offer.
He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."
"You hate being cared for."
"I hate having hands and not able to use them."
That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."
Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now.
One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.
"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."
He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.
He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."
"Demanding, are we?"
His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."
That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.
You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"
"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.
His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.
"I barely moved."
"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock.
"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."
You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."
"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"
"Please." There's just desperation.
You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.
He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.
The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.
Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."
"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."
The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses.
Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.
The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time.
Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.
Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."
His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."
"You are actively proving the opposite."
"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."
Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again.
He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.
His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."
"I want to make you cum."
"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."
His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."
When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls.
Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.
He says something too low for you to catch.
"What?"
His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."
Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."
"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.
Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock.
Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot.
Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.
"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs.
"You like telling me what to do."
"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."
When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."
"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."
His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"
"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying.
Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.
Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.
"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.
Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."
Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.
Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.
"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.
The phone buzzes again.
Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."
You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response.
Still here. Stable.
Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"
"You want a performance review?"
His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."
You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."
He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved."
Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."
Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.
Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.
MY MASTERLIST
EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…
⋆˙⟡ dad’s best-friend: older!rafe cameron x afab!reader.
summary: you shouldn’t feel what you feel for rafe, your dad’s best-friend, but you can’t help it. so when your dad leaves for the weekend, you find yourself at rafe’s house. what started as an innocent day ends up with him fucking you on his couch.
cw: +18. mdni. 2.4k words. rafe’s in his 40s. reader in her 20s. dirty talking. praise. lack of underwear (reader). fingering. light oral sex (rafe receiving). unprotected piv. creampie. sex with feelings. aftercare. a creator's best-friend is reblog, thank you!
taglist: @userhotd @angeldoll1e @nekkiotine @222col @fawnettewinchester @rayrayyyyyyyyyyy @alexxavicry @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd ( to be added )
You knew it was wrong, knew it was dangerous. But when Rafe; your father’s best-friend, leaned against your kitchen counter with that lazy, knowing smirk, arms crossed over his broad chest, something stupid and sweet fizzed in your chest like champagne bubbles.
He had been invited for dinner again and you couldn’t stop looking at him during it; locking gaze with him and smiling. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble dressing like that, sweetheart.” He approached you after dinner, while you were putting rest in the fridge.
You looked down at your sundress—baby pink, barely skimming your thighs, with a little ribbon tied just beneath your chest—and blinked up at him like you didn’t understand. It was a dress you had worn before around him and he had never seemed to have a problem with it.
“Why?” you asked, lip caught between your teeth. “Dad said it looked cute.”
Rafe’s jaw ticked. Just a flicker, but you saw it and it felt like a shock in your belly. He laughed low. “Yeah, I bet he did. He’s not the one looking at you the way I am.”
He said it so soft, so close, you didn’t even realize he’d stepped toward you until you felt the heat of him. Your fingers curled tight around the hem of your dress, trying to look anywhere but his mouth. His hands stayed tucked in his pockets, like he knew better. Like he’d trained himself not to touch. But his eyes—God, his eyes touched everything.
“I should go,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You should.”
And when your dad announced last-minute that he’d be out of town for the weekend after this dinner—some business conference upstate—you already knew exactly where you were gonna be. Exactly who you wanted to see. Because you clearly couldn’t ignore the feelings in your belly whenever you were next to Rafe.
The next morning, Rafe opened the door in a white t-shirt and sweatpants. Casual. Unbothered. But his mouth twitched when he saw you on the porch, your lip gloss catching the porchlight like sugar. You wore another little dress—this one white, thin-strapped, and just dangerous enough to look like you didn’t know better.
“Your dad knows you’re here?” he asked.
You smiled at him. “No.”
He stepped aside. “Get in here, doll.”
It all had started so simple; so innocent. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch some old noir movie, your thighs clenched and down to the couch. Rafe had a beer. You had a soda you barely touched. Every so often, your gaze slid his way. You knew you weren’t being subtle. But then, you never had been around him.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he said after a long silence, “I’m gonna forget how long I’ve been tryin’ to be good.”
You blinked. “You’ve been good?”
“Too good,” he growled, voice low and hard. “You don’t even know how bad I wanna ruin you.” He said, the ghost of a smirk decorating his lips. Your stomach fluttered. “Then do it.”
You weren’t expecting him to move so fast or to act on his words, but he did. One moment he was across the couch, and the next he was in front of you, big hand under your chin, thumb stroking over your glossed lips.
“You say that so easy,” he murmured. “Don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
You blinked up at him, all wide-eyed and wet-mouthed. “Then show me.” That’s what you wanted and had been wanting for months now. For Rafe to be all over you; his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, his fingers inside you. You wanted that and so much more; even if it shouldn’t happen.
His thumb pressed into your lips and onto your tongue, and you opened for him instinctively, tasting salt and beer and skin. His eyes darkened, other hand stroking down the column of your throat just to feel you.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Mouth open like a good little girl. You gonna let me play with you, sweetheart?”
You nodded; it was a want and a need.
He leaned in, voice against your ear now. “What about your dad? What would he say if he saw you like this? His baby girl on my couch with spit on her lips and her dress pushed up like a whore.”
A soft whimper caught in your throat. “He’s not here.” He wasn’t here to see how much you wanted his best friend to fuck you. How much you had been thinking about it for months.
“Exactly,” Rafe rasped, pulling back just enough to look at you—truly look at you—before slipping his fingers between your thighs. All he had to do was lift the hem of your dress up to your belly and you were already spreading for him. Your thighs opened, showing the skin of your core, the wetness pooling between your folds and Rafe could almost feel the warmth.
“You’re not wearin’ any panties,” he said, breath caught like a punch. You looked up at him, biting down on your lips. “They showed through.”
He hissed through his teeth. “Jesus Christ.”
His fingers dipped into your folds—slick, needy—and he groaned like it hurt. His thumb rubbed your wetness around like experimenting, trying to see what would make you feel good. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. You been sittin’ next to me like this the whole time?”
You nodded, embarrassed and dazed. “Just wanted you to touch me.” You truly did, so much that your stomach already tightened at the thought. It’s all you could think about during the movie–movie that was still playing in the background.
“Oh, I’m gonna do more than that.”
Rafe leaned in and spit—slow and wet—right onto your cunt, watching it drip down to mix with your slick. You gasped, thighs twitching, but his strong hand held you open. His eyes followed the saliva dripping to your hole, how perverted it was.
“Look at that mess,” he said, rubbing his fingers through it. “Goddamn, you’re perfect. All wet and soft and mine.”
You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. All you could do was whimper as he pressed two fingers into you—slow, deep, deliberate—and watched your mouth fall open. His fingers stretched your gummy walls, burning so sweetly that your head almost rolled over to the ceiling.
“Fuck, that tight little pussy,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “You ever put anything in here before?”
You took a deep breath at his question before nodding your head. “M’not a virgin but… just my fingers sometimes. Thinking about you.”
He smiled, wicked. “You filthy girl. I bet you do that a lot, uh.”
He worked you open slowly, curling his fingers until your hips bucked up into his hand. Your moans were high, desperate. You could barely keep your eyes open as Rafe’s fingers rubbed into your walls, searching already for that one spot. He opened his fingers inside you, making a scissoring motion that made you whine out loud.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmured, kissing your jaw. “Take it for me. You were made for this.” You clawed at his shirt, needing something—anything—to hold onto. “Rafe—”
“I know, baby,” he cooed. “You wanna make me feel good too, don’t you?” You nodded quickly. “Please.”
He chuckled. “You’re so sweet. Get on your knees, doll.”
You scrambled down between his legs, dizzy and desperate to please him while feeling his fingers leave the warmth of your cunt. His sweatpants were already tented, cock heavy and thick under the fabric. You looked up at him through your lashes. The burning feeling of your knees against the carpet made you realize how much you wanted this; how fast your heart was beating inside your chest.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna be good at it,” you whispered. “I haven’t done this a lot before…”
Rafe cupped your cheek. “Doesn’t matter, just let me use your mouth a little, yeah? Show you how good you make me feel.”
You helped him pull his sweatpants down, eyes widening at the sheer size of him—long, thick, flushed red at the tip and already leaking. His veins ran along the length of his shaft, twitching already with impatience. You licked your lips instinctively.
Rafe caught your face in his hand again, thumb pressing into your cheek. “Open up for me.” You did, thighs pressing against the other, trying to rub yourself.
He spit into your mouth, slow and deliberate, and you moaned as you swallowed.
“That’s my good girl,” he growled. “Now suck.”
You wrapped your lips around him, and he groaned—loud, raw, like it shocked him. The tip was heavy in your mouth, pressing onto your tongue as you sucked onto it. There was a faint taste of salt and sweat that made all your thoughts disappear immediately. You hummed around his tip before taking more of him into your mouth.
“Fuck, baby. That mouth—”
He didn’t force you. He guided you. One hand tangled in your hair, the other stroking your cheek while he started to rock his hips slowly and gently, letting you learn the rhythm of it. You moaned again around him, so wet and eager, your thighs rubbing together faster as your drool coated his cock.
Your lips tightened the seal around his shaft, your tongue rubbing against his veins in an up and down motion. “Just like that,” he murmured. “Pretty little thing… look at you, takin’ my cock like a fuckin’ angel.”
You whimpered when he pulled you off, eyes glassy and lips swollen. You licked your lips, tasting his pre-cum with a whine.
“Can’t wait anymore,” he said roughly. “Get on the couch.”
Your body moved onto the couch and he laid you back so gently it almost made you cry. Like you were precious. Breakable. His hands slid your dress up again, kissed down your thighs, worshipped every inch of you. Rafe grabbed his heavy cock inside his hand, rubbing the tip of it against your wet clit. The feeling made you arch.
But when he lined himself up at your entrance, it was with the kind of reverence that made your heart stutter. “You sure, baby?” he whispered, cockhead already nudging against your hole, almost teasing with a few pushes.
You nodded, fingers clutching his shoulders. “Want it. Want you.”
He then pushed in slowly, groaning like he was in pain. You gasped, feeling the stretch, the burn, your cunt fluttering around him in protest and desperate need. You arched even more, your thighs spreading for Rafe to come closer as he pushed his cock inside your hole.
“Fuck,” he hissed, “so tight. So perfect. Just let me in, sweetheart… Relax, yeah?”
You cried out when he bottomed out, too full, too much—but you didn’t want it to stop. He felt heavy inside your pussy, stretching your gummy walls, making you feel full. Rafe kissed your forehead, your cheek, your lips. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. So fuckin’ good for me.”
He started to move, slow and careful, grinding into you with deep, heavy thrusts that made your eyes roll back. His hips slammed yours so gently as he moved, making sure he was deep inside you.
“I’m gonna wreck this pussy,” he murmured against your throat. “Gonna fill it up, fuck it stupid. You want that, doll?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Please—want you to come inside—want it so bad—” He fucked you harder then, gripping your thighs, his body caging yours. His hands were strong, almost bruising in a way that made you clench around him.
You felt his fingers gripping at the fat of your hips, bringing you along as he fucked your hole; almost using your body. Your arms moved to wrap around his neck, bringing him closer to you.
“You’re mine now,” he growled. “Gonna stuff this sweet cunt full and keep you dumb and dripping. You’ll be thinkin’ about me every time you sit down.” One of his hands moved between your body to slap your clit a few times, eliciting gasps from your mouth.
The sharp pain mixed with the pleasure you felt and before you knew it, Rafe was now rubbing your nub in circles. Your pussy clenched around his cock, gripping him in.
You were already there—gone, wrecked, dizzy with how good it felt. Then, his hips angled up and his tip started to hit onto that special spot inside your pussy, making your eyes widen and lips part in shock. Your eyes locked with Rafe’s as you spoke. “M’coming! There, just… please!”
And when he started grinding deeper as a reply, rutting into you with rough little snaps, you screamed his name with your orgasm; head rolling back on the couch, legs shaking and breathing labored. Your pussy immediately clenched around him, trying to keep him inside.
Rafe came next with a groan, spilling deep inside you; hips jerking as he fucked it in with slow, possessive thrusts. You clung to him, ruined and full and sweating on his couch.
He kissed your cheek, your temple, your parted lips. Slowly, he pushed himself out of you and you felt the deep emptiness he left there. You sighed, feeling his semen dripping out of your hole, mixed with your own juices. Rafe looked down at it before back at your face.
“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispered. “We’re so fucked.”
And you—dizzy, stuffed full, marked and dripping—couldn’t help but smile. “We can just keep this a secret.” You said, shrugging, still laying on your back as Rafe got up to grab tissues from the table and walked back to you. “Naughty girl.” He replied as his hands moved to your thighs; slowly, gently, tenderly cleaning you up.
When he was done, he threw the tissues onto the coffee table and brushed strands of your hair away from your face and smiled. “Just hope you know it’s not just about sex to me.” He seemed sincere and you had never thought of him as a liar anyway, you were glad your feelings were reciprocated. “It’s not about sex for me either.”
Rafe smiled and moved closer to you, almost laying on your body as he kissed your lips again. That time, it felt like something had shifted between the two of you. He wasn’t just your dad’s best-friend but more.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄. heavy making out. irritation. mentions of jealousy. possessiveness. strong language. dom!sub dynamics.
𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘. this is a repost. but it’s been revamped (!). originally uploaded on deansbeer ( 01/21/2024 ). this duo was my everything back then i’m upset at myself for abandoning my babies :(
𝐃𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. my beloved nai baby @st4rfckerz <3
you slip into the kitchen where anakin is bustling about working on some new prototype. sliding your arms around his waist from behind, you press a kiss to the center of his back between his shoulder blades. “how’s it going in here, handsome?”
he turns with a brilliant grin, still tinkering as he talks. “just fine tuning some upgrades. got paired with lydia for the engineering project and she has some innovative ideas i want to test out. speaking of, i should give her a call and we can brainstorm some more.”
your smile falters slightly at the mention of lydia. you know she’s a notorious nerd, just like anakin, but something about them working so closely together rubs you the wrong way. “right, your partner. do you have to call her right now?” you pout, pulling him in for an embrace.
anakin chuckles, nuzzling your nose. “yes sweetheart, we’re trying to stay on track to finish early like the good students we are. don’t worry, you know you’re the only girl for me.” he pecks your lips softly before slipping from your arms to grab his phone.
reluctantly, you follow anakin to the couch and flop down beside him with a huff. his call connects and lydia’s face popped up on the screen, pale skin and dark hair framed by thick glasses like usual.
“hey, anakin!” she greets excitedly, straightening her cardigan.
“hey, my girlfriend’s here too.” he smiles, sliding an arm around your shoulders. you force a tight lipped grin and wave. lydia smiles politely in return but her eyes linger on anakin a moment too long for your liking.
“so, tell me more about these water filtration designs you were working on,” anakin prompts, always eager to delve into his passion. lydia launches into an enthusiastic ramble about her concepts that has anakin hanging onto every word with rapt attention.
you try to contain your rising irritation as they converse in advanced terminology far over your head. anakin’s eyes sparkle with interest and admiration for lydia’s brilliant mind and you feel increasingly out of place. her cheeks flush under his praise and gaze.
that’s the final straw. subtlety clearly isn’t working so you decide on a new approach. shifting into anakin’s lap, you drape yourself over him and start peppering his jaw and neck with heated kisses. he inhales sharply in surprise.
“babe, wh-what are you doing?” he stammers breathily as you continue your affectionate assault. you raise your eyes to the screen and smirk at lydia, who watches with parted lips and pink cheeks of her own.
“sorry to interrupt,” you say feigning your innocence, grinding down into anakin’s lap. he suppresses a soft groan, hands coming to grasp your hips unconsciously. lydia averts her eyes, clearing her throat awkwardly.
“i can see you two are, umm, busy. maybe i should let you go.” she mumbles, shuffling her organized notes in front of her screen. anakin nods frantically, eyes fuzzy with desire. “y-yeah, probably for the best. we’ll, um, talk some more tomorrow. bye!”
you end the call with a tap of your finger before he can prolong it further. capturing anakin’s lips hungrily, you roll your hips firmly into his growing erection. he melts into the kiss with a whiny moan.
“shit, what’s gotten into you today? not that i’m complaining,” he pants as you drag open mouthed kisses along his jaw. you nip at his earlobe teasingly. “just reminding you who you belong to, honey. now, shall we take this discussion to the bedroom?”
without awaiting his response, you tug anakin to his feet and backward down the hall. he obeys willingly, worshipping your neck and shoulders all the way. you push him down onto the mattress, quickly removing your clothes in a flurry.
anakin lays watching with blown pupils and parted lips, bulge prominent in his pants. “god, you’re so beautiful.” you crawl over him like a lioness, pinning his body down and rocking your sensitive core against his clothed bulge.
“say it,” you command breathily. “say you’re mine.” anakin moans at the delicious contact, already a ball of putty in your hands. “‘m yours, and only yours, baby.” satisfaction blooms in your chest at his submission.
you make good and sure to brand that fact into his memory, until he’s left whimpering your name in a blissful puddle. no one, not even lydia, would ever come between you again if you had anything to say about it.
Could you write exhusband rafe and reader leading up to the divorce? I find myself sympathizing with rafe and his yearning for reader wayyyy too much I need to know what kind of shithead he was before the divorce lol
THE LAST DAY (throwback)
ex-husband!rafe x ex-wife!reader
summary: the build up of a normal day, leading up to the most unexpected (not really) ending...
word count: 7.4k (...) (i REALLY tried i swear)
warnings: language. use of y/n (UGHH). exhaustion. arguing. nothing else? (as always English isn't my first language so apologies for any possible grammatical errors).
author's note: yea you ate with this request bc i'm literally the same way and i'm the one writing it🤠
You don't move when Rafe's alarm goes off every single morning at 6:15 now. You used to, you tried to hold onto him, maybe kiss his jaw in the way that he always loved, you would try to make him stay.
But you don't try anymore.
It's Monday. Again. This day used to be Rafe's long day at the office, just Mondays.
All days are Mondays now, apparently. You weren't informed of it, no one notified you, it just started happening and you couldn't have a voice in it.
Rafe groans, because he's still tired after a weekend of trying to disconnect with your family. He spent most of his time on his phone every time the kids weren't all over him. Yesterday had been rough for you two, no fight had happened but he felt the anger and disappointment in your eyes every time he picked up a call.
There was a point where you didn't even flinch anymore. You just... didn't care.
He unwrapped his arm from around your waist and the weight that's lifted from you it's more than just his arm. You don't open your eyes to catch a last glimpse, you haven't done it in a long time now, you don't know if he had noticed.
You don't move, you just concentrate in your breathing, not on the perfectly quiet steps he has mastered over the years of getting ready in the dark while you were still asleep. Like always, he locks himself in the bathroom, washes his face, his teeth. You don't remember his bathroom routine that much, it's been a minute since you saw him doing it.
You only go back to sleep once he leaves the room, he makes sure to be extra careful on closing the door. He knows he ended the night on your last nerve and he's staying there.
Rafe makes his way downstairs, passing over the kids room while he tied his tie around his neck with a perfect robotism, he doesn't look down to make sure it's well done, he knows it is.
He checks on Olivia, asleep. He checks on Parker, asleep.
He sighed, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes with one of his hand, the other slipped to his back pocket for his phone. He used to keep it in the front, until he caught that faint frown you’d make every time the rectangular outline broke the line of his pants. You never said a word about it, but he noticed. So, he changed it.
He makes coffee first, like every single morning while he checks his messages. Unread emails flood the screen—offers, follow-ups, contracts, reminders. Numbers and names, money and motion, calendar packed with even more things to take care of. His kind of thing. He leans against the counter, waiting. The coffee dripped slow and steady, exactly what he hasn't been in a long time, it feels almost like it's on purpose.
The thought of it already makes him roll his eyes. He puts the phone down on the marble and the screen fades to black.
Then, silence.
The house is quiet, too quiet. He used to have so much noise around him and he loved it. Kids running around, laughing, fighting at times, you yelling at them to keep them at ease and him wrapping an arm around you to keep you from running behind them.
It's not like the house doesn't have that anymore, it's just that by the time he's around, it doesn't. Kids asleep for the night or mornings (like now) where they have another hour of dreams.
He glanced toward the hallway. The walls were lined with frames, perfectly spaced and organized by you, a collection of faces frozen in moments he can’t get back. You, the kids, his arm around all of you. He’d picked that wall himself, said it made the place feel warm. Now it just stared back at him and he doesn't know what to say to it.
But, like always. Time is money and he can't afford to waste it, so his nostalgia leaves as fast as it appeared.
He was out the door at 6:50 am.
By the time you woke up, the sun had the decency of being out. It's still the soft version of it, not as yellow as it is at noon. It's already 8:00 am and the kids need to be on the car, seat belts on by 8:55.
And it's a kind of dance you are a professional at. You've been over the steps over and over again, usually it changes when the kids start to get older, normally it gets easier (or harder, depending on how you view it) but for the past school year, you've done it all on your own without counting Rafe almost in any single morning.
So, you made it your choreography. Your steps, your break, your waiting times, your turns and pirouettes. You are a beautiful ballerina at this point, almost two months before school ends and you get dragged into the long days of summer where no entertainment seems to be enough for anyone.
You go to Parker's first, he's already pretty fast at getting dressed in his own. You need to wake him up delicately. Just like Rafe, he's not a morning person and has even the same character, short and temperamental. You decided you can take a few extra minutes of your morning on just waking up Parker in order to avoid a tantrum.
Once he's up, eyes barely open and head still hanging on his shoulder with tiredness, you go over to Olivia's room.
She's much different, not exactly a morning person either but she does need the extra energy to start day or else she'll just mop around like a plant. You tickle her, kiss her cheek, shake her arm a little bit and she's eyes wide open with a soft smile on her face already.
Beautiful.
Both of them sit on the couch with their breakfasts, the only one actually talking is Olivia. She has this thing where she has to tell everyone her most recent dream with full details that she invents right on the spot to fill the empty voids she can't remember.
Parker just... nods. He doesn't have the energy to do anything about it right now.
Breakfast is done, so are that snacks on their backpacks. You take your time on doing Olivia's hair.
At 8:55? You're already on the road, your boy tries to catch up on some more sleep, but the chatting between you and Olivia stop him from it.
"Miss Glinda—" Her name is not actually Glinda but Olivia is never able to remember her actual name. "Said we were going to, uhm... draw people."
"Today?" You asked, attentively listening while you take a turn.
"I don't know." She shrugged, freeing herself from the responsibility of knowing the full information. "She just said it."
You laughed, they always make you disconnect from the tensions inside of you, the conversations that were had or the ones that weren't with Rafe that always pull your strings just a little bit much. These kids make you forget that.
Rafe has been at the office for a while now. When he arrived, the building hummed with quiet precision— screens lighting up, shoes clicking across marble floors, the low murmur of ambition echoing down the hall.
He didn't stopped to greet anyone. Almost never does, it's not like he owns it to anyone there. Just nodded, the kind of polite acknowledgment that said I’m already thinking about something else.
His office is on the top floor, where he is at right now, glass walls that had big curtains whenever he needed a fucking minute, which was quite often lately.
The island spitting out behind him, he can see a lot. He's at the center of Outer Banks, after all. It's always a busy street, not like in summer season, you can barely walk when the heat has finally landed. Tourists and students on summer vacation invade the whole place.
Rafe looked behind him, it was magical how almost every window in every house or building had a view to the beach.
But even with the skyline stretching open before him, he keeps looking at his reflection in the glass, he has a frown almost all that time now. He used to like this view, the kids love the beach, you love it. Now it just reminds him how far he’s standing from home.
He pushes the thought to the back of his head, he convinced himself to make those intrusive feelings an afterthought. He doesn't have time for them, not right now.
"Mr. Cameron?" His assistant’s voice cuts in from the doorway. "You’ve got the Henderson call in five."
He nods once. "Yeah. I’ll be there."
She leaves, and the silence folds back around him, all knowing.
He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes dragging once more over the skyline.
He’s built something solid, unshakable—offices, deals, numbers, a name that carries weight.
And for what.
He gets up, grabs his phone and walks out of his office, doing the same thing he always does: anxiously rubs the wedding band resting on his finger, the one that hasn't moved for almost ten years.
Back at home, you're doing the same thing. Same gesture.
The laptop hums quietly in front of you— the same one that holds years of your work, the one you finally decided to dust off and come back to. It wasn’t just about missing music; it was about the pull of it, that quiet anticipation that meant soon, you’d have to start moving again. Work.
You bite the inside of your cheek, glance at the time. Almost eleven. He should be free at some point. You know that around noon he gets a lunch break he never actually takes, but that’s when he usually answers—briefly, distractedly, but still, he answers.
Swallowing your discomfort, you type.
You: heyy, when are u coming home today?
It was simple. Also casual enough to avoid the bitter feeling you get on your mouth every single time you have to ask. You haven't had a consistent answer in months.
You know he won't text you back now. He never does. You could call him— you used to. Back when it was an excuse to hear his voice, to make him pause for a minute in the middle of his day.
But you don’t call anymore. You’re not even sure if he’d pick up.
You stare at the screen a second longer, watching the message hang there— blue bubble, no response. It’s nothing new, but it still hits the same way every time: ignored.
You close the laptop halfway, just to dull its glow. The house is still. Too still. Even the fridge hum sounds too loud.
You get up and go to refill your coffee because it has gone cold already. You turn the machine at the same time you watch the old one go down the drain, you pick up in every little thing that could resemble freedom and relief in your life, just to keep going.
You take a sip, lean against the counter, glance at the clock. Eleven-twenty. You tell yourself not to check your phone, but you do anyway. Still nothing.
He makes you anxious. You hate it. You’re already anxious enough without him. You've always lived with anxiety and Rafe knows it, for the past year it has started to turn exhausting for everyone in the house, not just you anymore. The tiredness of keeping still makes you so restless you naturally chase whatever that can keep you occupied.
It's intense, you know it.
You try to work. Open a file, let the first few notes play. They sound foreign, like someone else wrote them. You listen, adjust a chord, delete it, try again. The rhythm doesn’t come. It sounds so bad.
Your phone lights up on the desk, and your heart jumps too quickly. But it's not him and it's just a simple but painful reminder.
You exhale, long and quiet.
There’s a certain kind of tired that doesn’t come from doing too much—it comes from waiting, waiting and waiting.
You sit back, fingers tracing the keyboard absently. You think about calling him, about breaking that rule you made for yourself weeks ago: don’t chase the silence.
By the time you finally forget about your phone, it’s already noon and you have to pick up the kids soon. The music’s still looping—soft, repetitive, like something to hold on to. You’ve settled into the rhythm of pretending not to wait.
Then the vibration breaks through the room, small but sharp. You freeze. You reach for it too quickly, already hating yourself for the way your pulse jumps but you can't help it.
Rafe: Hey baby
Might be late. Got a meeting at 4. Don’t wait up.
Yeah, you never do anyways.
Three sentences. No punctuation, no softness. You read it twice anyway, like maybe you missed something hidden between the words. You didn’t.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, ready to type something—anything—but what’s left to say? Every answer feels pathetic.
So you don’t send anything. You just let the screen fade back to black.
You think about how it used to sound when he called you in the middle of the day— his voice low, the soft background noise of his office, the way he’d say your name, honey dripping, eager to see you again.
Now it’s just three sentences.
He sends the text and stares at it for a second before locking his phone. It’s easier that way—short, clean, detached. Fuck, when did he start needing to sound detach from his wife? But at the same time it is easier. Easier than saying I don’t know when I’ll stop working. He knows you hate excuses, so he might as well tell you the truth: he's got work.
The office hums around him in a way that used to be overwhelming when he wasn't the one in charge of everything. People moving, doors opening and closing, voices low and clipped. Deals being made. Money moving.
He should feel proud. He does, sometimes. Just not today.
Everything has been harder since Rafe finally got the company all to himself almost two years ago. He's finally the boss, the goddamn CEO he always dreamt of being, taking after his father. But this job just takes, takes and it takes. The position he's in now it's obviously more demanding, everyone needs him at all times. Or maybe his employees are fucking stupid, he has no idea at this point.
Sure, even more money ends up in his pocket, he knows it's not a problem you have at home. The problem at home isn't even there at all, and that's him.
The reflection of himself in the computer is almost too much. It's tired but all pulled together in a neat and expensive suit. The kind of man that gets things done, except he doesn't know how to fix the one thing that actually matters: his marriage.
But it's not like he can do something about it right now, he thinks. He doesn't have the time to even breathe before he gets another scheduled call.
The day slips away without you really noticing, today is one of those lucky days, where you don't think about it too much. One moment it’s morning light pouring through the kitchen, and the next, the sky outside is already beginning to fade.
Five p.m.
And you know damn well he’s still in that meeting. Probably hasn’t even looked at his phone. Probably won’t for a while, you already know it.
The kids are home, shoes kicked off near the door, snacks already half-eaten on the counter. Parker’s talking about soccer again—his new team, the one he joined a few months ago after Rafe took him to a soccer match and ended up fascinated. You nod, smile, ask the right questions, you keep your mind here, where it matters, where you're needed.
Olivia’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, tongue poking out in concentration. She's also in art classes, another teacher she calls Miss Glinda, whose real name is actually Lisa, introduced last week.
You tell her it’s beautiful, and it is, but you can’t quite shake the ache in your chest that you're the only one seeing it.
By six, the house quiets again. Parker’s at practice, Olivia’s in her room humming softly as she plays. You clean the kitchen even though it doesn’t need cleaning. Reorganize a drawer. Fold a few shirts that didn’t need folding.
Seven-thirty comes and you hop up on the car again with Olivia to pick up her brother from practice. The sky outside bruises purple, the air heavy with that end-of-day stillness and you get caught on with how beautiful it is.
By eight-twenty, you pull into the driveway, headlights brushing against the front of the house, it's already dark outside. Olivia’s half-asleep in the backseat, clutching her stuffed animal. Parker’s sweaty and content, still chattering about how his team finally won a match in practice.
You look up and see the porch light’s on. His car’s already there.
Your heart dips— somewhere between relief and dread. You weren’t expecting him to be home this early, though eight-twenty hardly counts as early anymore.
You're tired of taking whatever you can get.
You unlock the door with your elbow, balancing Parker’s gear bag that's heavy with his water bottle, his shoes, the keys, Olivia’s teddy and a dozen small pieces of your life that somehow always end up in your hands.
You're overloaded, you don't have space anymore.
The house smells faintly like his cologne and the coffee he makes too late in the day already. You're already infected by him and you haven't even seen him.
He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, a glass of water in one hand, phone in the other like always. The overhead light makes him look tired, sharper around the edges.
He looks up when you walk in, hearing the commotion. “Where were you?”
It’s not rude. Just… blank. But still, it stings. It somehow makes it worse.
You blink, stunned and also predictable as you set the bags down. “Parker had practice.” You sighed tiredly, looking around.
He frowns slightly, like he’s trying to remember. He looks at the calendar in the fridge, a useless magnet. “Right. On Mondays?” You *know* he doesn't remember even tho he's the one who took him to his first practice.
“Since February." You answer quietly, too obvious, and you hate how small your voice sounds.
Parker runs past you, dumping his hoodie by the door, already yelling something about needing another snack. Olivia trails behind, dragging her jacket, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“You should’ve told me you’d be out.” He says again, not looking up from the fridge this time.
"Didn't think I had to." You said flatly. You drop your keys into the bowl by the counter. “You were in meetings all day, didn’t want to bother you.” You hide your indifference under caring, as if you still fucking care he spends the entire day on meetings.
“That’s not—” He sighs, straightens, looking away from the fridge. “I’m not saying you bother me.”
“Didn’t say you did.” You walked past him to the living room.
Rafe's eyes follow you, he doesn't what this form of your body language means. Sure, you're tired but he doesn't have the ability to read you that well anymore and the tone in your voice is pissing him off.
The air shifts, just slightly. Olivia’s humming somewhere down the hall, Parker’s asking for yogurt from the pantry before he runs off to his room again. The house sounds alive again, but it doesn’t feel like it.
Rafe leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “I just like knowing where you guys are. That’s all.” He scratched the back of his neck, same gesture every time he doesn't know what to do with you, what's the right thing to say.
You nod, slowly as you try to come up with an answer that is good enough to stop an argument. “You could, if you asked sometimes.” But it's impossible.
His jaw tightens and he frowns, not liking what he's hearing. He doesn’t answer right away and he won't admit how thrown off he is by the comment. “I do ask.”
You internally groan as you walk over to the dining table, pausing before you can reach for your laptop. “About work.” You tell him. “About schedules, meetings, new listings. Not about us.” You swallow the imminent need of start screaming at him.
He looks at you then, eyes tired and unreadable. Maybe he turned like that to match you, he hasn't been able to understand you in so long. “That’s not fair.” He exhaled, shaking his head.
You chuckled softly, humourlessly and in disbelief that he's the one telling you this. "It never is, Rafe." You said before turning around. *What a victim he is, huh*.
He exhales, quiet, steady. Runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth saying what’s in his head. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” He tries to explain, to remind you he hasn't forgotten about you he's just busy.
“I know,” You say quickly, cutting him off before the familiar list starts—calls, clients, deadlines, numbers. You know it all. “You always do.” Your voice has been getting totally good at touching irony but never really using it. "But so do I."
There’s a silence that sits between you—soft, fragile, like glass. You both keep your voices low, careful not to alert the kids, but it’s not really about them. It’s about everything you’ve been avoiding breaking and it's turning unsustainable.
He noticed your hand, the way it reaches out eagerly to grab your laptop, the one resting with a promise inside of it. "You're working again?" He asked, rising a brow, not daring to get closer.
You look behind you, getting the device on your hands. "Trying to." You said shortly, looking like you've been caught red handed on your attempts of getting yourself back on your feet.
As if he could ever say something bad about it. Or anything at all, really.
"That's good." He nodded without adding anything further. Polite, practiced— it sounds like a line in a script he keeps failing to deliver.
The silence stretches, but it’s not comfortable. It’s full of all the things you used to say without thinking —how was your day, you look tired, I missed you— now replaced by the kind of small talk that doesn’t touch anything real.
Rafe cleared his throat again, still from his place on the kitchen.
You repeat his action, walking over to where he is, laptop in hand and leaving it on the kitchen island so you can refill Parker's bottle and put it back in the fridge.
He stops you before you can do anything else, you guys hadn't even greeted each other since you stepped inside. Wrapping a consistent arm around your waist, he pulls you closer. "Hey." He said quietly, crunching down to catch your eyes, in that way that says let's calm down.
You look up at him, hand naturally coming to rest on his chest when he pulled you closer. You don't exhale the air of exhaustion when you lock eyes. "Hey." You whisper. And you don't pull him away either when he leans down to give you a kiss because you did miss him. The problem is, you always do, you're used to it.
A kiss would normally pump your energy up again after such a long day. It would make you want to keep up and stay up with him. It doesn't really work this time around.
"I'll... make dinner." He said in the same quite and guilty way.
You nod, touching his nose with yours for a moment before leaving him alone for shower time.
Dinner goes by in a blur for you, you don't really talk. It doesn't pass as fast for Rafe, he tries to keep up with whatever tired and half-asleep things the kids eagerly tell him about their day. His eyes keep drifting back to you every single time they tell him something he didn't know about.
He does the dishes, the least he can do on the few hours he actually spends at home and before you even know it, you hear the particular door of his at home office being closed, probably locking himself up with the intention of checking on a few last emails, paperwork, texts before bed.
You're downstairs, remembering to ask Rafe to come with you on Wednesday to take the kids to have their blood drawn for a test, just their Vitamin levels, just a routine check.
You're already in your head anticipating how the conversation is going to go when you ask him while you start preparing the kids' backpacks for the next day.
It’s muscle memory at this point: check the notebooks, refill the pencil cases, tuck away their snack money. You take your time with it, it's not like Rafe is waiting for you in bed.
There it was, the drawing Olivia mentioned they were going to do this morning.
'Family' was the title with messy handwriting and orange pencil.
And underneath it, the picture: you and her in the center, hands joined. Parker on your other side, smiling with his wild little hair sticking up. And then —off to the left, small, distant— Rafe. A briefcase in his hand. Not touching anyone.
It looks almost like a punishment of your reality the more you look at it.
Your heart drops so fast it almost feels like guilt. You blink at it once, then again, as if maybe the lines will rearrange themselves if you just give them time, if someone tried hard enough.
They don’t.
Before you can think too hard about it, you reach for Parker’s. His drawing is messier, his colors darker, bold strokes that fill the page. But there’s no sign of Rafe at all and your heart quickens.
Just you. Him and Olivia. The house. The dog that died two summers ago.
Oh, shit.
You press your lips together, your throat tight.
You knew this was coming, in some quiet part of you. But seeing it drawn by the kids: seeing the distance in color and space, how Parker doesn't even count Rafe anymore, that’s what hurts the most.
You close the books and lean against the table, palms flat against the wood, eyes unfocused.
What are you supposed to do now?
You take a deep breath at the same time you take the drawings with you. You make your way upstairs, shaky and scared to ask for more as you walked.
You don't knock, you don't wait for him to answer, he never will if you do.
You just open his door, barging inside because you also own this place. This office, so Rafe and calculated thoughts still belongs to the house. You can be here.
"Rafe—" You say and before you get another word he cuts you off.
He was on the phone, walking around the office as he gesticulated with his hand but he stops just for a moment when he sees you. He lowers the phone, pressing it against his shoulder as he gives you his pleading eyes. "Baby, I'm on the phone, I'll be there—" He starts to promise.
"Rafe, I need to talk to you—" You start with indignation.
"Baby—"
"Rafe!"
He sighed, putting his phone up to his ear again as he muttered some "I'll call you back." to whoever he was talking to. No, you won't you wanted to say.
"What?” He asks, bracing himself against his desk, flipping through papers that don’t need to be touched— anything to avoid your eyes.
You decide to give him a chance, the last one. You ran out of them a long time ago, but this is Rafe we're talking about here. Of course you would get chances out of your ass just for the sake of your marriage.
You swallow, hands shaking as you grip the drawings you're hiding behind your back. "I need you to come with me to the hospital in Wednesday. The twins are getting their blood tested—"
"I can't go on Wednesday." He immediately says, and he says it with such a natural and immediate reaction. He hasn't even touched you that fast in weeks.
You exhale, trying to make it through the sentence. "Well, make time, I need you there—"
"I can't." He repeated as if you hadn't listened. "I got a meeting with the Spanish investors—"
"Then move it." You demand.
"I can't move it—"
"Well, I can't go on my own, Parker's gonna faint—" You tried to explain. Your boy, as energetic and fast he is, he's also terrified of needles. The only time he was ever conscious when he was vaccinated, he fainted. Just like Rafe would.
"He doesn't faint—"
"Yes, he does, you know this!" You voice came out with frustration.
He immediately remembered. Of course he does. The first time Parker fainted during a vaccine, Rafe had been the one to catch him before he hit the floor. He’d laughed about it later, about how his son inherited that from him of all things.
Now, he just runs a hand through his hair and mutters, eyes blinking with exhaustion. “Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, ashamed.
The silence that follows is sharp enough to hurt. You can still hear the faint buzz of his phone on the desk, another call lighting up the screen and you've never been so close to kill him. Does the damn thing never gives it a rest?
He doesn’t look at you when he says, quieter now, because he knows it's not what you eat to hear. “I’ll see if I can move it.” You want immediate solutions.
You don’t believe him, and he knows it.
“Don’t see, Rafe. Just do it.” Your voice cracked with the frustration you've been trying to hide behind a mask for almost two years, and you can't make it stick to your skin for much longer.
He finally lifts his gaze— tired, distant, but still your husband somewhere under all that static. “I said I’ll try, okay?”
But you're so tired of just trying, you haven't been trying to do anything on your own for months now, you just did it, no excuses because there's no space for it.
You scoffed, patience running so thin is cracking beneath your ribs, attempting to escape and slap him. "I'm supposed to deal with a fainted kid and the other one crying because she thinks her brother is dead—" It seemed so dramatic but that's literally what happens. Olivia doesn't understand the difference between fainting and dying yet.
Goddamn it, he can't deal with your planning and you're anxious anticipation right now. His heart always clenches when he sees you drowned in it but he really can't do it right now. "Why are you always thinking the worst is gonna happen? Why are you so dramatic—"
"I'm not fucking dramatic, it's what happens every single time—" You sigh and cut your own sentence before finishing it. You decided that you're not going to protect him from the truth anymore.
So, with a trembling hand, you pull the drawings from behind you, slamming them harshly on the desk as you clench your jaw. You put the reality in front of him like betting in poker, it all means something.
He frowns, confused, until his eyes land on them. He sees Olivia's drawing first, his face twitches with something that resembles an early grief and he doesn't even know it.
He then sees Parker’s— you, Olivia, the house.
No Rafe.
He stares at them, jaw clenching, throat working hard like he’s swallowing down something bitter. “What is this supposed to be?” He finally asks, his voice quiet and defensive like someone is setting him up for failure.
“This...” You start, voice tight as an elastic as you try not to let go and let the tone hit him like a whip. “...is what our kids see when they think of family.”
He looks up, anger flashing just under the surface at what you just said. “Don’t put that on me—”
“I’m not putting anything on you, Rafe. You did this yourself.” You said with no regrets, without mincing words for the first time in months. It feels fucking relieving.
He runs a hand through his hair, steps back and shakes his head, incapable of actually admitting on what the kids have done because of him. “You think I don’t care? You think I’m not doing everything I can for them—for you?”
You shake your head. “You’re doing everything for a version of us that doesn’t even exist anymore, Rafe." You won't let him twist your arm in this.
“That’s not fair.”
“No.” You swallow while regaining energy to continue, voice quiet but steady now. “What’s not fair is them growing up thinking their dad’s a stranger.”
He looks at you— the kind of look that’s both furious and scared, the one that always came before he tried to talk you down. “Don’t do this right now, okay? Not over some drawings—”
You laugh under your breath, sharp and broken. “It’s not about drawings, Rafe. It’s about everything else in our lives." You can't believe that Rafe, your Rafe, is saying all this denial bullshit. The man who is always recognized for being upfront and straight to the point can't handle it when they do the same to him.
"They're kids." He tried to take some pressure off it so he can have some common ground with you. "You're reading too much into it—"
"Rafe, this is what they see." You got close and grabbed Parker's drawing, moving it in front of his face like mocking. As if he was a goddamn bull and you were holding a red flag. His jaw clenches at the gesture. "You stopped coming to dinner, you stopped being here on weekends, you're on your fucking phone all the time."
"Because I'm working!" He snapped at you, desperate to make you see his side of the story the more he noticed you drifting away from him in a way he has never experimented before. "Can't you fucking see it? I'm trying to make it all work for us—" He gestured the entire place.
You know, you know how hard it has been having to manage an entire empire all by himself after his father was the one commanding everything for so long. You know it's not easy, you know he drowns in help and responsibility sometimes. You know how hard he works.
But you would've never expected your family to be the one losing in all of this.
"Us?!" You asked with indignation. "You don't even see us anymore! When was the last time we actually did something?!" You yelled at him, throat flexing with effort the more agitated you get with this conversation.
"Fine, I'll move the fucking meeting!" He gave up, sighing as his face fells with exhaustion. You saw the way his shoulders slumped, completely surrendered.
You bit the inside of your cheek, hot tears blurring your vision the way rain does with car windows, making it impossible to see. "No, you know what, don't cancel anything, just—"
This isn't what you wanted. Not like this, you don't want Rafe making it look like cancelling a meeting is a sacrifice in trade of taking care of his responsibilities as a father. You hate the way it makes you look like you're asking for too much, as if this isn't what he promised and vowed to when you got married.
It seemed like so long ago.
Rafe gave up, body sagging with defeat after your words. He doesn't know what to do to make you happy. He knows he's been absent, he's very conscious of it but how else is he going to start fixing what he did if you don't let him?
There's some things that can't be fixed.
"Then what do you want, please tell me, because—"
"I want a divorce."
It makes you nauseous, the words come out of you like a protective reflex. Like coughing, your body trying to clear the way when something irritates you so you can breathe.
This is like that. Your throat closed and you try to control your chest, you have years of singing lessons all for this moment. You know how to control your lungs... but fuck, it's impossible right now.
Rafe goes still. He can't move, those are the forbidden words, something he promised to never say or ask for. It's the closest thing he ever felt to a heart attack but the one thing attacking him was heartbreak. Sharp and direct, knowing exactly where to go to once it's aimed.
Then, you see the surrender on his body, the way he collapses momentarily with a helpless expression. He can't say he didn't see it coming.
But he would be a fucking loser if he doesn't try to make you stay.
His face goes blank for a moment, you finally reseted him like you wanted. He takes a second to decide if he heard you right or not. "You don't mean that." He said quietly.
"I do."
Oh, those words were used against him now, huh. I do, I do, I do.
"(Y/N)—" He takes a step closer, searching for the eyes that have drove him crazy for almost fourteen years now. He doesn't want to stop seeing them.
You step back, putting a hand between you while you shake your head, the tears falling on your cheeks are unstoppable now. "I can't do this anymore." You said in a little voice, defeated. "I can't keep pretending."
"We're not pretending anything, we're married." Rafe reminded you, voice straining with pain, he could barely talk. "You're my wife."
"Well, you haven't been treating me like one." You said, eyes looking up at him. The glistening in them reflect the image of the current Rafe, the one he turned himself into.
You sigh, closing your eyes for a second in disbelief of what you just said. This is Rafe, which is also the reason you can't take it from him anymore. He wasn't supposed to ever do this to you. He was supposed to be the one that would never, ever hurt you. Yet, here he is.
"I want a divorce." You repeated, words mean and foreign, acting like a slap on both of your faces. "I'll call a lawyer." You turned around, walking away from the cursed office as you left him stunned on his feet.
He stood there, just a glimpse of his despair. No words, no sounds. Just... nothing.
He snapped out of his trance a moment later, you were already reaching the next floor, the one that led to your room. He hurried, he felt like a doctor running in the ER, trying to stop a heart from crashing. He never thought it would be his.
“Wait—hey, hey.” Rafe calls after you, his footsteps quick on the stairs as he sees your figure more away from him. “Can you just stop for a second?”
You don’t. You head straight for your room, pulling open the door as you walked inside of it. You want to sink in your bed and cry until you're dehydrated.
“Rafe, I said everything I needed to say.” You tried not to keep crying.
He comes up behind you, voice rough. “No, you didn’t. You threw a grenade in my face and walked away.” He complains, demanding you to change your mind.
“I didn’t throw anything. I told you the truth.”
He catches your wrist when you move past him, not hard— just enough to make you stop. “You can’t just say you want a divorce out of nowhere.”
“It’s not out of nowhere." You shoot back, pulling free. “You just didn’t want to see it coming.” This wasn't the first time you thought about it, the idea has being flowing around you, haunting you like a chore in the middle of the night.
That's the problem, *he's not surprised*. He is stunned that you really dare to ask him for one.
He exhales, frustrated while he attempts to get closer. “Come on, baby, don’t do this.” He's begging for you, his entire body aches in pain at the idea of not having you with him.
“Don’t call me that." You set the painful boundary. You can't have him talking to you like that in the middle of an emotional tsunami.
He moves closer anyway, his hand finding your waist like the instinct he had for over a decade. “You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You’ll feel different tomorrow.” He tried to convince both of you, knowing it's a lie.
You shake your head, eyes wet but steady. “No, Rafe. Don't try to turn this around on me being emotional or something—" You gasp for air. "Tomorrow you’ll be gone again and I'll have to take care of everything again!" You pointed at him accusingly as you followed the beat of your heart, the one that was telling you to keep going with this. This is... what you need.
That lands, a bomb straight to his chest. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop for half a second before he tries to recover. “You think I don’t hate that? You think I don’t know I’m not around enough?”
“Then fix it!”
“I’m trying!" He says again, louder this time. “What the hell do you want me to do? Quit everything?”
“I want you to show up!”
Rafe tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he tries to hold onto the last seconds of you in his arms. He knows it's ending. It has been for a while. He's tired too. "I get it. You're angry—" But he still fights a lost battle.
You push his hand off. “I’m not angry, Rafe. I’m done.” You make it clear, your voice doesn't wave with nerves now.
He grabs your face then, both hands against your cheeks, desperate, eyes glassy. “Look at me." He begs to see your eyes. He hates that the resentment in them has never been so clear, it was always a shadow, a single touch. Your eyes are full of it now. "You... love me." He says with pain. The mere idea destroys him. "Alright? I know you do, you love me. You don't walk away from that."
"And what about me?" The pain that threats to kill your voice is almost too much to handle. "When do I get to feel loved? I haven't felt in months, years!"
"I love you! I never stopped, I swear." His voice cracks for the first time, the desperation on proving his love is so strong he can barely control it himself. "Don't leave me. Just let me fix it. Give me a week, I'll be here."
"I don't have a week!" You snapped at him, heart pounding with misunderstanding. "Don't you get it? I'm done. I'm done with your disappearing, I'm done with your excuses. I don't have any more space for them. I've ran out of it." And fuck, you actually feel cruel for claiming what you want, what you deserve.
"Don't fucking do this." He tries to use that tone, the corporative one. As if that could ever work with you.
“I already did.” Your voice is calm, final. The second he tried to twist it, tried to scare you into staying, you knew— it’s over.
“Find somewhere else to stay tonight.” You give him a deadline, an ultimatum, the kind of line that leaves no room for negotiation. Anything that marks the end, you take it.
"We already know you're fucking good at it."
Just like that.
You don’t look back. And you surely don’t argue. You simply turn and walk out of the bedroom— not out of his life entirely, but to the guest room. Enough distance to give him the time to leave the house tonight.
Summary: You were so desperate to make Rafe Cameron yours that you never thought a day would come where you didn't want him to be.
Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of blood, loss of virginity, witchcraft, yandere behavior, morally ambiguous reader, pogue!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies
☾
You didn’t actually think it would work and that was your first mistake.
Rafe Cameron was the first and only son of Ward Cameron. He was handsome and rich and way out of your league, and you knew that he would never look at you in a million years. That didn’t stop your gaze from landing on him though anytime he was in the vicinity, and there was a point when you felt ashamed of your little crush, but now it hardly mattered to you. It’s not like he would ever actually be interested in you, so you saw no harm in indulging in silly fantasies.
…but then you started to wonder what it would actually be like.
What it would be like to be looked at by him like he looked at so many other girls—skinnier girls, richer girls, prettier girls. What it would be like to hold his hand and even kiss him. It was harmless, yes, but it was happening often enough to distract you, and you felt yourself being pulled from your thoughts.
“We’re about to head back to John B.’s for the night,” JJ told you after tapping you on the shoulder.
You gave him a nod, reluctantly following after him, but not without a last glance over your shoulder. You looked back just in time to watch as Rafe followed some girl up the stairs, one hand holding hers and the other holding a drink. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched them disappear, and you only forced yourself to move when JJ called your name.
You knew that your friends would think there was something wrong with you if you voiced these thoughts. The only one that might try to understand would be Kie. She was a girl like you who wasn’t related to him, and so she might be able to sympathize with why you couldn't just see him as some asshole.
And he was certainly an asshole.
There was never any wool over your eyes about that. You’d witnessed enough of his interactions with your friends to come to that conclusion yourself, and you were sure you too would've been on the receiving end of his ire if he ever took the time to actually notice you. As it were, you were practically invisible to the blond, and you still couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse, but that indecisiveness didn’t last much longer as you later came to the conclusion that it was indeed a curse.
A curse you could no longer live with.
“This is so stupid,” Sarah laughed one night, flipping through the book Kie had thrifted. “Look, look, this is one for how to get rich.”
“It’s not like you need that one,” the dark-haired girl teased, snatching it back.
“Neither do you,” you told her, reaching for it.
Kie laughed at you as you stood shoulder to shoulder, flipping through it. Her mocking gasp made you pause at the page y’all flipped to, and you didn’t join in right away as she laughed again.
“Look at this one,” she grinned, facing the pages towards Sarah. “A love spell!”
Sarah found it just as funny, taking the book and smiling at the page.
“Are you and John B. having any problems?” Kie joked.
“Are you and JJ having any problems?” she threw back, tone just as light. “...because now we know how to fix any.”
You were quiet as you took the book from the blonde, looking over it as Kie stood over your shoulder.
“Huh,” she commented. “It’s surprisingly simple. A little blood, their name on some paper, and a red candle and boom!”
“Sounds too easy to be true,” Sarah replied, taking the book back with a sigh. “You think they have one in here for a fat ass?”
You all laughed at that, but your mind was still stuck on that silly love spell. While Sarah found one for longer hair that she was willing to try, you kept thinking about Kie’s comment. You’d read it yourself, and it was surprisingly simple—easy to do—and it wasn’t like you’d be going completely out of your way to try it. It would take what? All of five minutes? Sarah was certainly having fun with it, currently brushing cinnamon through her hair, so why couldn’t you try some silly little love spell?
Worst case scenario, nothing came of it.
It’s not like that would be some devastating loss for you. Rafe already didn’t notice you, and it wouldn’t hurt you if he continued to not notice you. You’d learned to live with it for years, now, and it’s not as if you were expecting some miracle from some book Kie bought for laughs. You just wanted to try it, wanted to see what would happen.
“If my hair is down to my butt in two weeks, I owe you twenty dollars, Kie.”
Kie responded with something you couldn’t quite make out, your attention on your phone as you flipped through the book she’d left on the couch. They were none the wiser as you took a picture, telling yourself there was a chance you wouldn’t even do it, but wanting the option in case you changed your mind. Deep down though, you knew that you were lying to yourself.
Over the years, your harmless crush had morphed into something just a tad more desperate, and you couldn’t ignore the small voice in the back of your mind whispering to you what if it did work. What if you could make Rafe see you? Talk to you? Pursue you like you often dreamt about? The possibility filled you with butterflies, and you ignored the silly spell in your phone for all of a week.
You told Sarah that you weren’t feeling too well when she invited you to stay over. She hoped you felt better and asked you if you needed anything, but beyond that, she didn’t find your sudden ailment suspicious. Only you knew that you would never pass up an opportunity to see Rafe, even in passing, health be damned.
You felt somewhat foolish as you sat on your bedroom floor, a red candle lit next to a bowl of water. Truthfully, you didn’t know why. It’s not like anyone was around to witness this, but you would be lying if you said your desperation didn’t make you feel just a tad pathetic. Either way, it’s not like it stopped you from writing his first and last name on that paper, hand shaking as you did.
You thought that the blood would be the hardest hurdle to jump through, but it turns out that little thing in your brain that made it hard to hurt yourself decided to take a break for the night. Or maybe your desperation was just stronger. It took nothing at all to press a safety pin into your finger, and moments later Rafe’s name was covered in both your blood and the red candle wax.
You only started to feel unsure when you picked up the slip of paper.
What if it did actually work? While you weren’t sure what you believed in exactly, you did believe in something. You believed that some higher power did indeed exist and played a part in everything that happened in this world…and what if that higher power made this work? What if you woke up tomorrow and Rafe was knocking on your door to take you out on a date? What would you do? Your desires were so beyond out of reach that it had never occurred to you what you would actually do should you get what you wanted.
Your train of thought made you chuckle, rolling your eyes in the quiet room. You believed in something, sure, but magic didn’t exist. You believed in energy and faith backed actions, but you didn’t think you believed in magic. Either way, telling yourself it was pure curiosity, you held the piece of paper over the flame.
“We’re looking for John B.,” Sarah told you with a sigh. “Pope drank too much, so we gotta call it a night.”
“I think he was in the kitchen,” you let her know.
“Can you check the backyard just in case he had to pee or something? I’ll text you if I find him so we can go.”
You both went in opposite directions, and you squeezed your way through bodies as you made your way outside. Mostly everybody seemed to be inside though with the exception of a few people, so it wasn’t hard to see pretty quickly that he wasn’t in the backyard anywhere. Not wanting to push your way past bodies again, you made the decision to just make your way to the van.
Your trek was interrupted by a very familiar blond.
“Woah,” he drunkenly said, having almost run into you. “Someone’s on a mission.”
You were stumped.
Not once had Rafe Cameron ever spoken to you—not even a word—and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at him in a mixture of shock and awe. You felt your lips part, and you knew that you were staring at him like some kind of idiot, but you were finding it really hard to fathom that Rafe Cameron was talking to you.
The guy in question frowned at you, eyes narrowing a bit as he snapped his fingers in your face.
“You good?”
Acknowledging that you needed to speak and that you probably looked all kinds of unwell, you blinked.
“I..I’m sorry, I… What?”
He thought you were funny, apparently, chuckling at you with this haughty drunken smile on his lips. He tilted his head at you, dirty blond strands falling onto his forehead.
“I said are you good,” he slowly repeated.
“Yeah,” you hurried to reply, not wanting to look any more foolish in front of him. “Sorry. My friend…he’s kind of not feeling good, and I’m just trying to round everybody up.”
You felt like you were standing on air, having a somewhat out of body experience. Were you actually holding a conversation with Rafe Cameron? Someone who had never acknowledged you a day in your life? It felt like a dream, and you could only stare at him as he softly laughed to himself. You only noticed the blunt in his hand when he brought it up to his lips.
“Sarah drink too much?”
You frowned at him, and you felt confused. You and Sarah were friends, but you didn’t know that he knew that. You didn’t even know that he knew you knew her. Your silence must have stretched on for too long because he was speaking again.
“You are one of her little friends, right?”
For the second time that night, you were stumped.
“Yeah…I am,” you slowly told him, hurrying to defend Sarah after you processed what he said. “...and no. We’re looking for someone else.”
Feeling completely out of your element, you started to walk past him, wondering if you were hallucinating. Rafe Cameron never talked to you, never even so much as looked at you, and in one night you’d had a whole conversation with him.
“You don’t seem like the partying type.”
Make that two.
“What?” you wondered, facing him again.
You watched smoke swirl between his lips for a while before he exhaled.
“You don’t seem like the partying type,” he repeated. “You seem like you’d rather have your head in a book somewhere.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that so you simply said:
“I can’t like both?”
Rafe’s only response was a slow smile, and something about it made your stomach twist—in both a good and bad way. Before he could say anything else thoguh—and before you could further embarrass yourself—you heard your name being called. It sounded like Sarah, and giving Rafe one last look, you ran off to find her.
It turns out she’d texted you that she found John B., and you’d been so distracted by Rafe that you hadn’t felt the vibration. You were distracted by him for the rest of the night in fact, even as you rubbed Pope’s back as he threw up in the toilet. Rafe Cameron had talked to you, and it still didn’t feel real. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that you dreamt the whole thing up, but the goosebumps still on your skin said otherwise.
A brief thought of a red candle and some blood passed through your mind, and you shook your head. You actually scoffed out loud to yourself, telling yourself that Rafe was drunk and high out of his mind, and he just happened to run into you outside. Even if magic was real, it wouldn’t be in the form of some spell done by some silly nineteen year old girl. That’s what you told yourself anyway, but you were having second thoughts about that when Rafe Cameron stood at your door only a few days later.
“I just wanted to do the old fashioned and respectful thing…”
You stood in the living room with your lips parted, looking over your father’s shoulder as he faced the blond—the blond who had shown up at your doorstep with flowers and candy and a charming smile on his face asking your father for permission to take you out on a date. It was so outdated and so unlike him, and you could only avoid your mother’s gaze as she looked at you in confusion.
“Well, that’s…that’s very admirable of you, Rafe.”
When your father turned to you, you didn’t need to be a genius to see that Rafe’s chivalry had gotten to him. Normally so over protective, your father instead stepped out of the way for you, and you remembered that it was you Rafe was asking out. It was your response he needed, and you cleared your throat.
“We’ll be on the porch,” you softly said to the older man as you moved past him, quietly shutting the door behind you.
You took the flowers and the box of chocolates, but frowned when you did. The box felt weirdly light, but before you could comment on that, Rafe was speaking.
“It’s old school, I know, but…” he shrugged at you. “My ego can’t take not being liked by your parents.”
“Rafe, what are you doing?”
You jumped right to it, voicing your confusion and uncertainty and questioning his actions.
“Asking you out,” he said like it was obvious.
It was.
“Why?” you wondered, a deep frown between your brows.
“...because I want to take you out.”
Again, he said it like it was obvious.
“Why? We’ve had two conversations, including this one,” you reminded him.
“...and I can’t want to change that?” he wondered, voice dropping, and you hated the way your heart skipped a beat.
You looked down at the flowers in your hand, completely in shock.
This wasn’t like Rafe, at all, and you’d watched him enough to know. The entire thing was strange and unsettling, and you almost wanted to reject him but… Wasn’t this what you wanted? Hadn’t you watched Rafe for years just wishing that he would see you? Talk to you? Hadn’t you fantasized to have him look at you as he was currently looking at you?
Hadn’t you bled for that wish?
The thought that that silly little spell actually worked made your head spin, and even still, you didn’t want to believe it. There just had to be some other explanation, but nothing else made any sense. Didn’t this bring his consent in the matter into question? Wasn’t this beyond ethically bankrupt? Did you care?
It was wrong, so wrong, because deep down you knew where all of this was coming from. You’d wanted this for years, and here it was literally at your doorstep. Rafe Cameron was asking you out and wanting to pursue you and you were questioning it because of the ethics of witchcraft? Who were you to say no? It was so beyond selfish, but if Rafe could be selfish his whole life, why couldn’t you for five minutes?
You bit your lip and tightened your grip on the flowers.
“Okay,” you whispered, lifting your gaze. “I’ll go out with you.”
The look on Rafe’s face was one you’d wanted to see for ages, and any guilt that you felt was forgotten as he leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheek.
Rafe’s lips were harsh against yours as he kissed you on the bed of his truck. The cool night air was barely felt as he ran his hands over you, unable to keep them in one place and you were glad for it. The blond moaned into your mouth as he pressed himself against you, fitting comfortably between your legs. You felt like you were living in your wildest of dreams, and you couldn’t believe it.
Sarah had said something similar only days earlier.
“I don’t believe this,” she’d scoffed. “You and Rafe are going on a date?”
“He asked and I said yes. It happened so fast that I didn’t even consider how it might make you feel until after,” you’d honestly told her.
If all of this was really the result of some stupid book, you didn’t want to sell any more of your soul by being a bad friend too. You’d watched as the blonde ran her hands through her hair, seemingly in shock. She seemed like she had a lot she wanted to say, but she probably kept it to herself for your benefit.
“If this is what you want, what can I even say, you know? I didn’t even know you liked him like that,” she murmured to herself. “Although I suppose I can see why you never said anything.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”
“I don’t know if okay is the right word, but…” she shrugged. “I can’t tell you or him what to do.”
Your talk with the other blonde definitely made you feel better about answering the door when Rafe arrived at your house. The date went well enough, Rafe taking you to some restaurant you’d never be able to afford, and giving you his undivided attention the entire time. His heavy gaze kept your face warm the entire night, and you reminded yourself that this is what you wanted and you got it.
“I don’t want to take you home just yet,” he’d murmured outside of the restaurant, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.
You hadn’t wanted to go home just yet either, not wanting this night to end.
“Okay.”
…and that was how you found yourselves parked in some abandoned field with Rafe on top of you in the back of his truck. A thick blanket was underneath you, and it was hard to remember how long you’d been kissing him. His tongue tasted the inside of your mouth and his hand was on your jaw. Every so often you’d lift your hips and he’d groan against your lips. Two weeks ago you had never said one word to him, and now here you were.
Rafe’s lips traveled to your neck, giving you a moment of reprieve, and you gasped for air. Your heart was racing in your chest, and you ran your fingers through his dirty blond strands, head thrown back. Every open mouthed kiss he left on your throat made your heart flutter, and you once again couldn’t believe that this was your life.
When his hand reached for the top of your dress, however, you reminded yourself that not only was this the first date, but that your mother was no doubt waiting up to make sure you made it home safe. As much as you wanted all of Rafe, the speed at which this had all progressed was definitely making your head spin.
“It’s getting late…”
Your words didn’t affect Rafe none, and you gasped when he nipped at the top of your chest.
“Rafe,” you said, reaching for him.
Only then did he pause, looking up at you from his position, and it took everything in you to keep your head on straight. The blond looked like he wanted to eat you alive, and that made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t used to.
“I think I should head home, now.”
He stared at you for too long to be comfortable, but he eventually moved.
“You want to go home?” he asked you, running his hand through his hair.
At your nod, it was like something in him shifted, and he became a lot more relaxed. His shoulders dropped, and he looked between your eyes, and Rafe appeared a lot more docile in the span of a second. It was crazy to witness the sudden shift, and in that moment you accepted that you had done this. There was nothing natural at all about any of this, and you swallowed, hating that you didn’t care.
Rafe was the perfect gentleman as he righted your dress and helped you down. The ride home was silent yet comfortable, his hand on your thigh the entire way, and every so often you felt his eyes on you. On the occasion you met his gaze, he always returned it with a smile. Rafe seemed happy to be here, so how awful could this really be?
You glanced down at the diamond bracelet on your wrist, recalling the shock you’d felt to find it inside the box of chocolates instead of candy. Rafe had said something about wanting to impress you when you brought it to the date, unable to find it in yourself to stop him when he took the box back before putting the jewelry on you himself.
You’d looked at him in a mixture of awe and worry. You should’ve accepted then that nothing about this was natural, but you were still in denial. After all, if what you did was actually real and all of this was the result of that, what did that make you? How far were you willing to take this?
Those questions were still on your mind when he walked you to your door, and again, Rafe was the perfect gentleman as he placed a kiss at the corner of your mouth. You stared after him as he walked back to his truck, tugging his jacket closer. You liked to think that you weren’t some horrible person, and you told yourself that you’d enjoy this for a little while longer before finding a way to undo what you’d done.
Rafe Cameron was your boyfriend, and you liked it.
You didn’t just like that he was your boyfriend, but you liked what that meant for you. You liked the privilege that came with the relationship. You liked walking into doors you would’ve never been able to walk through otherwise. You liked when he spent money on you and bought you the kinds of things you could only dream about owning.
…and the girls.
You liked the way they looked at you.
It didn’t take long for Rafe’s exclusiveness to become noticeable, for it to become apparent that the once ladies’ man and heavy partier had done a 180. Girls he used to spend every weekend with no longer got so much as a glance from him. Phone calls and texts went ignored before those numbers were eventually blocked altogether, and when you were out and about, it was clear that you were to blame.
Rafe was absolutely obsessed with you, and you relished in the way some of his former lovers looked at you.
You, who had never so much as had a single boyfriend, was now on the receiving end of the most envious looks you’d ever seen in your life. You knew that if any of those girls had access to the kind of magic you had, you would’ve been dead a long time ago. You were always overlooked by boys and barely even seen as a woman in their eyes, and now you were with Rafe Cameron and he looked at you like you hung the moon.
“I won’t lie…I definitely expected this to crash and burn,” Sarah admitted. “Through no fault of yours, of course.”
Kie snorted at that, and you took a sip of your drink.
“I’m serious,” she said, “He’s like a completely different person. Part of me wants to ask what you did, but another part of me is scared of the answer.”
Her and Kie thought that was funny, and you could only hold back your smile.
“He literally worships the ground you walk on,” Kie commented, slightly disgusted. “...and that’s the only reason the guys are even respectful about any of this.”
It was true.
Rafe gave into your every whim and he answered your every beck and call. Sometimes he felt more like a servant than a boyfriend, asking you what you needed and running you hot baths and kneading his fingers into your shoulders after you had a long day. With that kind of behavior, how could you deny him for much longer?
You hadn’t planned on sleeping with him, telling yourself it was a line you just couldn’t cross considering the circumstances, but it happened so seamlessly. One moment he was kissing your face and telling you how beautiful you were, and the next his fingers were inside of you and massaging your walls so good that it had you clinging to him.
Rafe was a man starved.
“I’ve never…” you had trailed off, somewhat embarrassed to admit to him your lack of experience.
Rafe had only grinned at you before kissing you.
“I feel honored,” he’d whispered against your lips. “To be your first and your last.”
His words had given you pause, but then he was pushing his cock into you, and your nails were digging into his skin, and they were forgotten.
You’d anticipated the pain, and that surely didn’t disappoint, but you hadn’t anticipated just how good it could feel. That honestly could've just been Rafe though. It’s not like he didn’t have a reputation, and you quickly realized that it was not without reason. His lips stayed on you the entire time you had sex, and it was just enough to not be overstimulating.
Every curve of his hips into yours had you gasping, and you were so happy that your parents wouldn’t be home for hours. Having him inside of you felt nothing like your fingers or his. It was a different experience entirely, and Rafe was ravenous as he fucked you and tasted you. One of his hands was behind your neck as he repeatedly pressed his lips to yours while the other was tight on your waist.
“Do you like that?” he whispered, and you could barely get a word out.
You could only nod, and that seemed to satisfy his curiosity, and you swore that you heard a low growl escape his throat as he stretched you around his cock. He looked down between you where you connected, his hair hanging onto his forehead, and you couldn’t hold in your moans. You’d been dating for months, but it was finally setting in.
Rafe Cameron was yours.
You’d daydreamt about it for years—harmless and silly fantasies—but now it was your reality. Rafe held your hand and kissed you and paraded you around town for all to see, making you the envy of just about every girl who’d ever so much as looked at him. He doted on you and called you beautiful and said all of the things and looked at you in a way you wanted him to for years.
…and now he was in your bed and making love to you and giving you your first experience.
You were on cloud 9, and you allowed yourself to bask in it. You threw your head back as he bit at your neck, and your chest arched up into his as he thrust into you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him closer, and Rafe moaned at the action. It seemed like he wanted to be as close to you as possible too, and he slid his knees underneath your thighs.
“Rafe,” you sighed, breath hitching as he filled you to the hilt.
Every time he pulled his hips back, only the tip of him remained, and when he surged forward he filled you up again. It was driving you crazy in the best way, and your nails scraped down his back and arms. The blond hissed at the action, and his teeth grew rougher on your skin. You came around him once, but that wasn’t enough for him, and you swore that when you came around him for the third and final time, he told you he loved you.
Rafe was obsessed with you.
It was like once he had you, it was never enough. The first night you slept together blended into one long night. You came around him too many times to count, small naps in between, and he only left a few minutes before your parents came home, but you were sneaking him back in a few hours later as soon as they were asleep. He wouldn’t stop kissing you the moment he climbed through your window.
“Are you going to chew it for her too?” Sarah wondered one day when Rafe cut up your omelet for you.
Her tone was teasing, and you threw her an equally teasing glare, but Rafe hadn’t responded outside of a scathing look towards his sister. His behavior was glaringly obvious for all to see, and you couldn’t say you hated it. Your life had become a fairytale overnight, and you’d happily ate your food while he sat next to you, his seat so close to yours that his arm rested over your shoulder as he watched you eat.
“Honey, I’m just worried,” your mother had said another day. “It just seems like you spend all of your time with him these days and you hardly see your friends.”
Her concern was understandable, but you assured her that you were fine.
“I do see them,” you’d told her. “Rafe has just never gotten along with them too well, and it’s not like that’s changed now that we’re together.”
It wasn’t a complete lie.
Your friends were cordial with Rafe, now, and you appreciated that, but Rafe loved having you to himself. Any time you convinced him to be around your friends, it never lasted long before he was convincing you to sneak off with him somewhere, and the blond could be very persuasive.
“Five more minutes,” he said to you in the middle of the night.
His head was between your legs and your thighs were aching from being bent so long and a thin layer of sweat covered your skin. Rafe’s fingers were pressed into you as he held you in place, and you shuddered when his breath blew along your folds. You’d never been this wet in your life, and you were scared to look at the time and see just how long he’d had his mouth and tongue against your cunt.
You were exhausted and out of breath and Rafe refused to let you go.
You told yourself that it was fine, that it was just what came with that honeymoon phase of every new relationship. Granted, it’s not like you would know, but you figured that things would calm down between you the longer you were together. A time would come where you were more normal about each other and he didn’t want to spend every waking moment on you or in you.
You thought that, at least, but you were woken up in the middle of the night a month later. The knocking on the door was incessant, and you’d thought that something was wrong, that some kind of emergency was happening. Your parents beat you to the door, and no one was more shocked or horrified than you to see that it was Rafe on the other side.
Your father glanced at you with the kind of anger you’d never been on the receiving end of, and your mother looked between you with a disturbed frown.
“Rafe?” you wondered in shock. “What…?”
“I had to see you,” was his only excuse, and you shrank under your father’s withering gaze.
“Dad, I… I don’t know what’s…”
Your words died in the air, unable to understand what was happening. However, despite how much he’d grown to like Rafe, you could see your father’s patience thinning. You hurried to deescalate something before it began, profusely apologizing to your parents as you told them you’d handle this.
“Something could be wrong,” you hurried to say to him. “Five minutes and then I’m inside.”
Your father didn’t say a word, but the way his mustache twitched told you enough. Your mother was the only one to linger a bit before eventually leaving too.
“Five minutes,” were her soft parting words.
Rafe’s hand was tight on yours as you forced him off of the porch, wide eyes on him.
“I wanted to see you,” he said, and you blinked.
“Is something wrong? Is it Sarah?” you worriedly asked him.
His scoff made your frown deepen.
“No, Sarah’s…fine,” he waved that off. “I was thinking about you and…I just had to see you.”
You stared at him for a long time, mouth falling open when you processed his words.
“You were thinking about me and you just had to see me? Rafe, it’s three in the morning. You woke up my parents—they have jobs they have to go to tomorrow,” you told him, voice rising in pitch.
“I wanted to see you,” he repeated.
“I get that, but…this isn’t okay. You have to go home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Technically you’d see him later on today, but that didn’t need to be pointed out.
“...but I don’t want to go home,” Rafe said with a frown, and you blinked at him.
“Rafe…”
“I’m not going home.”
His tone was strong with conviction, and you swallowed. You looked over your shoulder before glancing behind him. You didn’t see his truck, so you guessed that he’d parked it somewhere before sneaking over here. His hand was still tight on yours, and when you looked at him again, he hadn’t looked away from you once.
“I’ll meet you at my window…okay…?”
That was the right thing to say, and Rafe gave you a crooked smile before kissing you. You pulled away before it could become heated, and you hurried inside, sure that your five minutes was up. Your mother was in the hall as you locked the door, and you apologized to her several times before wishing her a good night.
Like you agreed on, Rafe was at your window when you shut your room door, and he didn’t hesitate to climb inside the moment you opened it.
“Rafe, my parents are home, okay? Do you understand what that means?”
The way you were talking to him felt strange.
“Of course,” he said with a nod and a small smirk. “I just wanted to see you.”
He kissed you again, arms wrapped around you, and you kissed him back after a while. His hold on you was tight, and when he broke the kiss, he briefly kissed your cheek.
“Just want to sleep next to you, tonight…”
His words made you less tense, and you felt your face soften as you separated. You helped him get undressed, only his boxers remaining, and you watched him slide into your bed after you. He didn’t give you any time before reaching for you and pulling you closer, and Rafe only seemed to relax when your head was comfortably on his chest.
You traced patterns into his skin, and you bit your lip as you told yourself this was nothing.
“Rafe,” you warned, but he didn’t hear you.
Or chose not to, it was hard to tell these days.
One of his hands was curved around your throat while the other held your wrists against the small of your back. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in the kitchen, and you squeezed your eyes shut from both the pleasure he was giving you and the nervousness that filled you. Rafe was getting harder and harder to say no to, and he didn’t seem keen on listening to your concerns when he started kissing you in his kitchen.
“No one’s home,” he’d said.
“...but they could walk through that door,” was your response.
“...but I need to be inside of you,” he replied.
The blond loudly groaned behind you as he filled you up, slowly pushing his cock into you as he held you down against the counter top. Every dip of his cock past your folds had you gasping, but despite how good it felt, you couldn’t stop worrying about someone walking through that door. Everyone was out, now, but it wouldn’t be the first time Rafe was inside of you in a not so private place when someone came home.
You’d never been caught yet, but you never liked to chance it.
He pulled you back until his chest was against you, and the strain in your arms made you wince. Rafe hummed, leaning over and pressing his lips to yours. You were dripping around him and the sound it made every time he pushed his cock into you was loud in the otherwise quiet room. You whimpered when he tightened his hold on your throat, and you both knew that he was the only thing keeping you upright.
This was the fifth time you’d had sex today.
You were worn out—and even a little sore—and it seemed that it was never enough for Rafe. He liked to get his hands on you at every opportunity, and what you thought was a honeymoon phase turned out to be something beyond that. Every day several times a day was the new normal for you, and when Rafe couldn’t be in you, he had to be with you and touching you in some way.
…and he was the only one allowed to.
You still thought about the boy whose arm he broke only last month for pulling out your chair. It was a terrifying and embarrassing debacle, one that was solved with a little bit of money from Rafe. You’d stared at him in horror, and he’d acted as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Or when he’d rammed his truck into Topper’s jeep, citing it as a drunken accident, but you knew better. You’d seen the look on his face when Topper gave you a hug goodbye.
Rafe was equally possessive as he was obsessive, and the more it escalated, the closer you were pushed to facing the truth.
Nothing about his behavior was normal or explainable, but you didn’t want to accept that this was your fault. When he snuck into your room in the early hours of the morning or when he picked out your clothes and put them on you or when he cut the brakes on some guy’s car who’d looked at you for too long for his liking.
You didn’t want to accept responsibility for any of this.
…but when you woke up in the middle of the night to find him staring at you in the darkness for the umpteenth time…you knew. You knew that this was all your fault, and you stared back at him with a sinking feeling in your heart. You’d played God, and you’d had your fun, but now you had to find a way to undo this.
“Kie…what happened to that book you bought a while back?” you asked her the next day when you finally had some time to yourself.
The other girl frowned at you, and you elaborated.
“You know, the one with the love spells and stuff.”
Her face evened out as she remembered.
“Oh, that thing? I tossed it,” she waved off.
You stared at her, stomach dropping.
“You what?”
Your tone must have given her pause because she looked at you.
“It was bullshit,” she shrugged. “Something somebody made when they were bored, because it’s not like it worked. Sarah’s hair is shorter now than it was then. I keep telling her she needs to just cut those split ends…”
The rest of Kie’s words were lost to you as you looked away, mind going a mile a minute as you thought about what you were going to do. You had long accepted that you did this to Rafe, and you’d told yourself you were only going to take it so far, but you’d loved being Rafe’s girlfriend and loved having him all to yourself as you’d always wanted. Now, you had him all to yourself, and you were terrified out of your mind.
“I was only at Kie’s for an hour,” you told the man in question later in the day.
His arms were wrapped around you from behind and his face was pressed into the crook of your neck.
“I know…but I missed you. I always miss you,” he murmured, kissing your skin.
“Do you ever think about why you miss me so much?”
“Because I love you,” he said to you as if you were silly for asking.
With difficulty, you pulled away from him, facing him. You looked into Rafe’s eyes with worry, and you noted that they were completely dilated. You pulled your lip between your teeth, at war with yourself.
“...but why do you love me? Do you ever think about that, Rafe—why you love me so much? Don't you think it came out of nowhere?”
The blond seemed to think on it for a minute.
“No,” he answered, and you frowned. “I woke up one day…and you were just there.”
You swallowed as he touched your cheek.
“...and I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I had to have you and I did.”
You blinked at him.
“I always get what I want.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of you as he said that, and he grabbed your arm before you could take a step back. He threaded his fingers through yours, and he brought the back of your hand up to his lips. Rafe’s eyes held yours the entire time, the blue of them hardly visible, and the gravity of what you did finally settled on your shoulders.
“...and I’ll never not want you.”
You stared after your friends through the crowd, Rafe’s arm feeling like a weighted belt around you. There was hardly a difference between his arms and chains these days, and you forced yourself to look away from their fun. You hadn’t hung out with them in what felt like ages, and while Kie and Sarah assured you there was no hard feelings—seeing firsthand how needy Rafe could be—you still felt like shit in more ways than one.
“You okay? Are you cold?”
Rafe didn’t give you a chance to say no, already slipping out of his jacket. You accepted it with a small smile, and he returned it before giving you a heated kiss. His friends were used to his public displays of affection by now, but considering your relationship at the moment, you were beyond uncomfortable.
You needed to break up with Rafe…and you were terrified to do so.
Kie had thrown out that book, and everything you looked into that didn’t seem like some cheesy gimmick all basically said the same thing—you had to let it run its course. What did that even mean? Did it mean he’d eventually get tired of you? How long would that be? Did it mean you had to tell him the truth? Get him to break up with you? Break up with him?
In the beginning of all of this, you felt so…powerful. You’d snagged the Rafe Cameron, and you’d had him eating out of the palm of your hand and hanging onto your every word. You’d had other girls green with envy, and you'd been basking in all that came with being his girlfriend. Now, though?
Now, you were frazzled and drained. Rafe was fucking you and kissing you more often than he was not. You spent more nights at his house than your own despite what you wanted because he was going to get what he wanted regardless if your parents were home or not, and the Camerons were much more relaxed about certain things than your parents. He stuck to you like a shadow, even leaning against the door and talking to you when you had to go to the bathroom.
You never thought you’d long for the day when you could cut up your own food and dress yourself and speak for yourself. He was doting and sweet yes, but Rafe was also insatiable and violent and suffocating. It was driving you to your breaking point, and you were silent the entire ride home.
When you asked him to take you to your house, he obliged, but you should’ve known that he expected to come inside with you.
“Rafe, I…I think I want to be alone tonight.”
It was like he didn’t process your words, at all, staring at you with a blank look, and you sighed.
“My parents are going to be home in like an hour…”
Again…nothing.
You glanced away, feeling completely unnerved, before taking his hand. The corner of his lips curved upwards into a small smirk, and he walked you inside. Your thoughts seemed so loud in the quiet house as you considered what you had to do. There was no hesitation in Rafe as he walked towards your room, and you eventually followed him.
You pulled your lip between your teeth as you took off his jacket.
“Rafe…I don’t think that we should see each other anymore.”
It was the nicest way you could say it, and Rafe still looked at you like you’d told him the craziest thing. The snort that left him made your jaw clench, and you took a deep breath.
“I’m serious,” you said, voice shaking. “You’re not in love with me.”
“Of course, I am,” he fired back.
“No, you’re not. Rafe…”
You felt like you were going to be sick, and you were acutely aware of his heavy stare.
“I did something to make you love me.”
“I know you did,” he said with a smile, reaching for you.
“No!” you moved away from him. “I did something wrong, okay? I made you love me. I had a candle and I had some blood, and I made you feel how you feel about me…”
Rafe was frowning at you, now, and you hoped that he was getting it.
“Before this, you never even looked at me, Rafe. Remember? I was invisible to you—I was nothing! Nothing, and then you suddenly can’t stop thinking about me? I’m the only girl you want to be with? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
The room was silent as you just stared at him, gaze pleading as you hoped and prayed you got through to him. Rafe slowly blinked at you, and in a matter of seconds, you watched his expression shift. It was hard to place, but you knew that it made you uncomfortable, and a shiver crawled up your spine.
“What’s odd is you coming up with this nonsense—this bullshit—to try and leave me.”
You let out a sigh of defeat, pressing your hand to your forehead.
“Rafe, please hear what I’m saying–.”
“I hear you.”
“No, Rafe, no. This isn’t natural. I…I messed up,” you tearfully said. “I was wrong, and I shouldn’t have done it, but part of me didn’t think it would work and another part of me hoped it would, but now… I don’t know how to undo it.”
He was moving towards you, and you stumbled back.
“You’re not leaving me,” he quietly told you.
“Rafe, please hear what I’m saying. Please, fight it because I don’t…I don’t know how to make it stop,” you cried. “...but you’re so you, and you have to still be in there. You have to be!”
You felt like you were talking to a wall, and you pushed at his hands as he reached for you.
“Rafe, please,” you begged.
When his hand pulled at your shirt, tearing it, it was sinking in.
There was no leaving him, no getting away, and you brought your knee up. You didn’t stay to see if he was okay, stumbling into the hall and running for the door. Your name was loud in the air as he shouted it, and it made you flinch. You were running past his truck when you heard the door bounce off of the wall, and tears blurred your vision as you ran across the yard.
You’d never run so fast in your life, but Rafe’s legs were longer—or he was simply more determined, fueled by something other to catch you—and he caught up with you sooner than you would have liked. You both fell to the ground, a grunt leaving you as he tightly held onto you. Your hands pulled at the grass to get away, ripping out a few blades as Rafe pulled you back.
You kicked at him, crying and screaming, and Rafe yanked you back so hard that it hurt your hands. One of his hands was tight in your hair, pulling your head back before slamming it back down. The action made you see stars, damn near knocking you out, and you groaned in pain. The sound of that seemed to trigger something in Rafe, and he let you go.
“I’m sorry, baby,” you heard him whisper, turning you over.
Your vision was spinning, and you could just barely make him out as he leaned over you.
“I’m sorry,” he quietly said to you, leaning in to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. “...but you can’t leave me.”
His hands were all over you, now, and you felt him press kisses to your chest, your shirt tearing some more to make room for them.
“I love you,” he breathed, kissing you. “...and you love me.”
You weakly pushed at his chest.
“Why would I let you leave me? Why would you want to?”
“Rafe…I’m sorry,” you mumbled, trying to sit up.
The blond shoved you back down, and your struggle continued.
“I forgive you,” he hummed, nipping at your skin and settling in between your legs.
“No, no….”
He thought you were apologizing for something else, and you couldn’t stop crying. You shoved at his face and tried to back away, but he gripped your wrists, moving his mouth against yours. The breeze from the water cooled your skin, and the clouds hid what little light there would’ve been from the moon. The sound of tearing fabric made your heart race, and you cried harder, unable to get him off of you.
Rafe moaned like a man starved when he finally managed to sheath himself inside of you, holding himself there with parted lips before pulling his hips back. One of his hands held your wrist to your stomach, and the other slid behind your head as he pulled you in for another kiss. The kiss was salty from your tears, but Rafe didn’t mind it.
He fucked you against the grass, unconcerned about where you were. If you didn’t know any better, he was more hungry for you now than he was the first night you slept together. His grunts and moans were loud in your ear, and you squeezed your eyes shut.
“What were you thinking, baby? Hmm?”
He slammed his hips against yours, letting your wrists go to reach underneath your thigh.
“Rafe,” you gasped, trying one last time to undo what you did. “This isn’t you.”
He only pushed your leg back, hungrily kissing at your jaw and neck and chest.
“Please, listen to me,” you sobbed.
Your words went ignored, and more tears fell as he thrust into you, losing himself in the feeling. His hand behind your head slid to your neck, and it tightened around your throat as he lifted his head to look at you. His blue eyes did not look away from yours once.
“If you try to leave me again,” Rafe quietly started, blond strands kissing your forehead. “I might have to lock you away until you come to your senses.”
He said it with a laugh, but you knew he was entirely serious, and you blinked back tears as he kissed you again.
no pressure, but the first few months of you and rafe knowing you’re pregnant but it’s only the two of you that knows so you guys are just in your own little world and in love
the morning light warmed the small apartment you and rafe shared, a cozy space you’d made your own after moving in together a few months ago. at nine weeks pregnant, the secret you carried felt like a fragile, precious thing, known only to you and rafe. it wrapped you both in a quiet bubble of love, untouched by the outside world.
you sat on the couch, curled up in one of his oversized t-shirts, your hands wrapped around a mug of ginger tea to settle the nausea that came and went like a tide. your heart was full but heavy, the weight of this new reality both thrilling and terrifying.
rafe was in the kitchen, barefoot in sweatpants, his broad shoulders tense as he focused on not burning the eggs he was cooking. he’d been like this since you told him about the baby three weeks ago—hovering, attentive, like he was trying to prove he could be everything you needed. “baby, you sure you’re good with eggs?” he called, his voice soft but laced with that nervous edge he got when he thought you weren’t eating enough. “i can grab somethin’ else if you want. whatever you’re craving.”
you smiled, your chest tightening at how much he cared. “eggs are fine,” you said, your voice quiet. “you don’t have to fuss, rafe. i’m okay.”
he turned, his eyes finding yours, and the way he looked at you—soft, adoring, a little scared—made your breath catch. “i’m gonna fuss,” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “you’re carryin’ my kid. that’s worth fussin’ over.” he plated the eggs and joined you on the couch, sitting close, his hand immediately finding yours. his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, and he squeezed gently, like he was anchoring himself to you.
“how’s it feelin’ today?” he asked, his free hand resting on your stomach, his touch light but deliberate. “you still sick?”
“a little,” you admitted, leaning into his side, letting his warmth ease the nervous flutter in your chest. “but it’s not bad. mostly just… surreal. like, i keep thinking about how there’s a whole person growing in there.” you glanced down at his hand, still on your stomach, and your voice softened. “our person.”
rafe’s eyes lit up, a mix of awe and pride, and he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “yeah,” he murmured, his lips lingering against your skin. “ours. i still can’t wrap my head around it.” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, trying to hide the emotion, but you saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes glistened. “you’re doin’ somethin’ incredible, baby. i’m… i’m so fuckin’ lucky.”
you felt tears prick your eyes, the hormones making it harder to keep your emotions in check. you turned to face him, your hand cupping his cheek, feeling the faint stubble under your fingers. “i’m scared, rafe,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. “what if i’m not good at this? what if i mess it up?”
his brows furrowed, and he shook his head, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, his arms wrapping around you. “hey, no,” he said firmly, his voice rough but gentle. “you’re not gonna mess this up. you’re gonna be the best mom, you hear me? you’re smart, and you’re kind, and you love so hard. our kid’s lucky to have you.” he paused, his hand sliding up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “and i’m here. we’re doin’ this together. every step.”
you nodded, your throat tight, and leaned into his touch, letting his words sink in. “i just… i want to be enough,” you said, your voice barely audible. “for you. for the baby.”
“you are,” he said, his voice fierce with conviction. “you’re more than enough. you’re everything.” he kissed you then, slow and deep, his lips soft against yours, like he was pouring all his love into it. you melted into him, your hands sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. the kiss was unhurried, each movement deliberate, a silent promise that you were in this together.
when you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “nobody else knows,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “just us. i like that. feels like… like we’ve got this special thing, y’know?”
you smiled, your heart swelling. “yeah,” you whispered. “our secret.” you loved the way it felt, like the baby was a piece of magic only you and rafe shared, a bond nobody else could touch.
he grinned, a rare, boyish smile that made him look softer, younger. “we gotta come up with a nickname,” he said, his hand returning to your stomach. “like… munchkin or somethin’. what d’you think?”
you laughed, the sound easing the tension in your chest. “munchkin?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “that’s the best you got?”
“okay, okay,” he said, chuckling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “we’ll work on it. but i’m serious, baby. we’re gonna figure this all out. names, cribs, all of it.” he paused, his expression turning serious again. “i’m not goin’ anywhere. you’re stuck with me.”
you felt a tear slip down your cheek, and he wiped it away with his thumb, his touch so gentle it made your heart ache. “i want to be stuck with you,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “i love you, rafe.”
his eyes widened, like he still couldn’t believe you’d say it, and he pulled you into another kiss, this one deeper, more urgent, but still so tender it felt like a vow. “i love you too,” he murmured against your lips. “both of you. so fucking much.”
the day unfolded slowly, wrapped in the quiet joy of your shared secret. rafe stayed close, always touching you—a hand on your back, his fingers brushing yours, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead or neck. when your nausea flared, he ran to the store for ginger ale and saltines, insisting you rest while he hovered, asking if you needed a blanket or more tea.
you spent the afternoon curled up together, talking about the future—baby names you liked, whether you’d stay in the apartment or need more space, how rafe wanted to teach the kid to gold someday. he was already planning, his voice bright with excitement, and you let yourself get lost in it, letting his hope carry you.
that evening, you lay in bed, rafe’s arms around you, his chest pressed against your back. his hand rested on your stomach, a constant anchor, and he whispered against your hair, “we’re gonna be okay, baby. better than okay.” you believed him, not because it was certain, but because with him, it felt possible. in your little world, just the two of you and the life you were building, love was enough.
could you do like a heart wrenching pogue!reader and rafe? idk what like maybe rafe didn’t realize how hard his girl had it until he sees something. or how embarrassed she gets when people bring up their class differences. how she does interesting things to try and save money or make things last longer. idk up to you!
you watched rafe pull his truck into the gravel lot outside your small, weathered house on the cut. it was a far cry from tannyhill, with its peeling paint and sagging porch, but to you, it was home—a place you’d fought to keep together since your mom left and your dad started spending more time at the bar than at work.
you’d been dating rafe for three months, a secret kept from most of the island, because a kook prince and a pogue girl didn’t mix without whispers and judgment. but rafe didn’t care about the gossip, and you… you were trying not to care, even though every mention of your differences felt like a knife twisting in your gut.
you were sitting on the porch steps when he arrived, your hands busy mending an old pair of jeans with a needle and thread you’d scavenged from a thrift store sewing kit. the jeans were frayed at the knees, the denim thin from years of wear, but you were determined to make them last another season. beside you was a jar of homemade laundry detergent—dish soap, baking soda, and a splash of vinegar you’d mixed yourself to save a few bucks.
your hair was tied back with a scrap of fabric from an old t-shirt, and your fingers moved with practiced precision, though your cheeks flushed when you saw rafe’s truck.
“hey, baby,” rafe called, climbing out, his voice warm but carrying that edge of confidence that always made you feel a little out of place. he was in a crisp polo and khakis, looking like he’d stepped out of a yacht club, while you were in a faded tank top and those patched jeans, your bare feet dusty from the porch. he strode over, his eyes softening as he took you in, but you quickly tucked the sewing under a folded blanket, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“hey,” you said, forcing a smile as you stood, brushing your hands on your thighs. “didn’t expect you so early.” your voice was light, but your stomach churned with the familiar embarrassment that came with him seeing your world—the chipped mugs on the porch, the cracked window you’d taped over with plastic wrap to keep out the rain, the way everything here screamed struggle.
rafe shrugged, his hands in his pockets. “got done with dad’s meeting early. thought i’d surprise you.” he leaned in, kissing your forehead, and you relaxed into his touch for a moment before pulling back, hyper-aware of the neighbors’ eyes that might be watching from across the street.
“c’mon inside,” you said, leading him into the house. the living room was lit by a single lamp you’d rewired yourself after finding it curbside. the couch was patched with duct tape, and the coffee table wobbled on a stack of old magazines you’d shoved under one leg to stabilize it. you’d done your best to make it cozy—thrifted curtains, a rug you’d bartered for at the flea market—but it was nothing like the polished grandeur of tannyhill. you caught rafe’s eyes lingering on the table, and your face burned.
“want something to drink?” you asked quickly, moving to the kitchen before he could answer. you opened the fridge, revealing a half-empty jug of water and a jar of homemade iced tea you’d brewed with tea bags you’d reused twice to stretch them further. “i’ve got tea. or water.”
rafe followed you, his brows furrowing slightly as he leaned against the counter. “tea’s good, baby,” he said, but his gaze was drifting—to the cracked linoleum floor, the shelf where you’d neatly arranged cans of soup and beans you’d bought in bulk with coupons. “you, uh… you okay here? like, you got enough food and stuff?”
the question caught you off guard, and your hand froze on the jar. your throat tightened with a mix of shame and defensiveness. “yeah, i’m fine,” you said, a little too sharply, pouring the tea into a mismatched glass. “i’m not starving, rafe. i get by.”
“i didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his voice soft. “just… you know, i worry about you.” he stepped closer, his hand brushing your arm, but you turned away, busying yourself with wiping down the already-clean counter. you hated when people brought up your situation—hated the pity, the assumptions, the way it made you feel small.
“i’m good,” you said, quieter now, but your hands shook slightly as you set the glass in front of him. “you don’t need to worry.”
rafe didn’t push, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching the way you moved, the way you avoided looking at him. he took the glass, his fingers brushing yours, and you felt that familiar pull—wanting to lean into him, to let him hold you, but also wanting to hide every part of your life that screamed pogue.
it wasn’t until later, when you were both sitting on the couch, that it all unraveled. rafe had pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapped around you, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured about how much he’d missed you. you were starting to relax, to let yourself believe that maybe he didn’t care about the differences between you, when he reached for the blanket you’d tucked your sewing under earlier.
it fell away, revealing the jeans, the needle still threaded through the denim, and a small pile of buttons you’d saved from old clothes to reuse.
rafe’s hand stilled, his eyes locking on the jeans. “what’s this?” he asked, his voice curious but gentle.
your face flushed hot, and you reached to snatch the jeans away, but he held them out of reach, his brows knitting together. “it’s nothing,” you muttered, your voice thick with embarrassment. “just… fixing some stuff.”
he looked at the jeans, then at you, his expression shifting as he took in the careful stitches, the worn fabric. “you’re mending these?” he asked, and there was something in his tone—not pity, but something heavier, like realization. his eyes darted around the room again, lingering on the taped window, the jar of homemade detergent you’d left on the counter, the way you’d cut the sleeves off an old flannel to make cleaning rags. “baby… how long you been doing stuff like this?”
you pulled back, sliding off his lap, your heart pounding. “it’s not a big deal,” you said, your voice tight. “everybody does it. you make things last, you know? it’s just… how it is.” you crossed your arms, trying to hide the shame burning through you. “not all of us can afford to just buy new shit all the time, rafe.”
he flinched, like your words had stung, and set the jeans down carefully. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice low. “i just… i didn’t know it was like this for you.”
“of course you didn’t,” you snapped, then immediately regretted it. your eyes stung, and you turned away, pressing your lips together to keep from crying. “you don’t have to know. you live in your big house with your fancy cars, and i’m… i’m here, cutting coupons and reusing tea bags because i can’t afford to waste anything. it’s humiliating, okay? i don’t want you to see this.”
rafe stood, his movements slow, like he was approaching something fragile. “sweetheart, don’t,” he said softly, his hands hovering near your shoulders. “don’t be embarrassed. not with me.” his voice cracked, and when you finally looked at him, his eyes were glassy, his jaw tight. “i didn’t know. i mean, i knew you had it rough, but… i didn’t see it. i should’ve.”
you shook your head, tears spilling over despite your efforts to hold them back. “it’s not your job to fix my life, rafe,” you whispered. “i’ve been doing this forever. i save every penny, i make my own detergent, i fix my clothes, i buy dented cans because they’re cheaper. it’s just… it’s who i am. and i hate that you’re seeing it, because i know it’s not what you’re used to.”
he stepped closer, his hands finally settling on your arms, gentle but firm. “i don’t care what i’m used to,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “i care about you. and it kills me that you’ve been carrying this by yourself, that you feel like you have to hide it.” he swallowed hard, his thumbs brushing your skin. “i’m such an idiot. i’ve been running around, not even thinking about how hard this is for you. i should’ve asked. i should’ve noticed.”
you looked down, your tears dripping onto the floor. “i didn’t want you to,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “i didn’t want you to look at me and see… this. the broke pogue girl who can’t keep up with your world.”
“hey, stop,” he said, his voice breaking as he cupped your face, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. they were wet now, too, and the sight of rafe cameron—kook royalty, tough and untouchable—crying because of you made your heart twist. “you’re not just some pogue, okay? you’re you. you’re my girl. and i’m so damn sorry i didn’t see how much you were holding together. you’re so strong, baby, and i… i don’t deserve you.”
you shook your head, trying to pull away, but he held you gently, his hands trembling. “i’m not strong,” you whispered, your voice thick with tears. “i’m just surviving. and i’m so scared you’re gonna wake up one day and realize i’m not enough. that i’m too… this.” you gestured vaguely at the room, at the patched couch, the cracked walls, the life you’d pieced together with scraps and stubbornness.
rafe’s face crumpled, and he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe. “don’t say that,” he said, his voice raw. “you’re more than enough. you’re everything. i’m the one who’s not enough, okay? i’m the one who didn’t see you, didn’t get it.” he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, desperate and pleading. “i love you. i love you so much, and i don’t care about the money or the houses or any of it. i just want you.”
you sobbed then, the sound breaking free despite your efforts to hold it in. you buried your face in his chest, clinging to his shirt, and he held you, his hand stroking your hair, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple. “i’m here,” he murmured, over and over, like a promise. “i’m not going anywhere. and i’m gonna start paying attention, okay? i’m gonna help, if you’ll let me.”
you didn’t know how to let him in, not fully—not when you’d spent so long building walls to keep people from seeing your struggles. but his arms around you, his voice thick with emotion, made you want to try. “i’m just… i’m scared,” you whispered against his chest. “i don’t want to be your charity case.”
“you’re not,” he said fiercely, pulling back to cup your face again. “you’re my girl. my home. and i’m gonna do better, baby. i promise.” he kissed you then, soft and slow, his lips tasting of salt from both your tears. it wasn’t a fix, not yet, but it was a start—a fragile bridge between your worlds, built on his willingness to see you and your willingness to let him.
you stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, the quiet of the cut.
SUMMARY he’s your best friend you boyfriend the man you plan to marry so you try to believe he’s changed—but the promises start breaking again. one rough night, everything falls apart, and you realize maybe loving him isn’t enough to save him (1.8k)
WARNINGS drug use, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, angst, hurt/comfort, rafe being rafe, heavy themes, slightly suggestive/smutty content
NOTES hi lovely people this is the prologue to the series taking it back to where it all started. this chapter shows the moment everything began to fall apart and the reason reader ended up leaving him. hope you enjoy the mess <3
it’s okay, he’s just misunderstood you told yourself the first time he came home with bloodshot eyes and peterkin’s blood on his clothes.
you told yourself he was going through a lot, that his dad was the problem, that he just needed a break.
and you wanted to believe that. you had to when he stumbled in at 1:00 a.m. hands trembling, drunk, nose still stained with white powder—you convinced yourself it was just a rough patch.
you remembered how he used to laugh, how he’d sneak up behind you in the kitchen and wrap his arms around your waist, whispering promises in your ear. you clung to those memories, even as they slipped further away with each promise he broke.
every time he got violent—not with you, but with the glassware around the house, the walls—you told yourself it was okay. he needed to release all that pain somehow even when it made you burst into tears later when you tucked him into bed, holding him as he murmured incoherently in his sleep, begging you to stay close, you kept convincing yourself this was temporary. he would change. he would finally act on his promises.
but all that convincing shattered the night you came home after a long night out with your girls.
you could still smell the perfume from the club on your skin, the faint scent of fried food and cheap vodka clinging to your hair. the apartment was dark, except for the neon blue glow of the tv. and there he was—bong set up on the table, bags of white substance beside it, heavy bass pounding through the speakers, and a gun lying right in front of him as he cleaned it like it was a toy, completely unaware of your presence until you tossed your bag aside and switched off the music.
he flinched, eyes snapping to you—red, wide, guilt and defiance swirling in his gaze.
he had promised this would be the last time. promised he’d get rid of the gun. promised he would get better, that last time was gonna to be the last time.
you stood in front of the table, shoulders sagging as you stared at him, trying to understand, trying to control yourself. the room smelled like sweat and stale smoke, and underneath it all, the faintest trace of his cologne—something warm and spicy that used to make you feel safe.
“you promised,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, no longer the confident girl you once were.
“yeah, well, when life fucks you uh up sometimes . . . you gotta break some promises,” he sniffed, staring blankly, acting like he’d done nothing wrong.
your heart pounded as you reached for the bags of white powder, trying to steady yourself. before you could touch it, he stood, towering over you, grabbing your wrist.
“what are you doing?”
“getting rid of this. I need to clean up,” you said, trying to sound calm. trying to sound normal but your hand still shook in his grasp.
“no, baby, you’re not doing that.” his eyes darkened, and a cold fear settled over you. you knew he wouldn’t hurt you, but right now, this wasn’t the man you loved. right now, he could do anything.
“it’s either you get rid of this, clean up, or you leave,” you said, voice shaking, tears threatening to spill.
he let out a bitter laugh, slumping back into the chair. “we’re not doing that. come on, don’t be a bore. had a shitty day today.”
“is this how you’re gonna play? after you fucking promised me, rafe?” Your voice cracked, tears spilling freely now.
“for the current time being, yes. i need to loosen up a little,” he muttered, rubbing his temple like you were the reason for all his problems.
you looked at him, searching for the boy you fell in love with—the one who used to bring you wildflowers from the side of the road, who’d dance with you in the kitchen at midnight, barefoot and laughing. where had he gone?
“you said it was gonna be the last time,” you whispered. he just stared at you, your words passing through him like you were a bother.
it stung.
“get the fuck out!” a sob tore from your chest, raw and desperate. you slammed the table over, sending everything crashing to the floor. your chest heaved with sobs as you stared at the man before you—not the man who brought you fell in love with once, but a ghost of the man you once knew, eyes cold and unfamiliar.
“the fuck did you just do?”his voice was calm—too calm—the type of calm that came right before a storm. he approached slowly, and you backed toward the door, desperate for distance.
“get the fuck out of my house, i said.” you yelled at him again, expecting him to yell back. he didn’t. you almost wished he did. instead, he laughed—a low, bitter sound, like something inside him had snapped.
“fuckin’ dramatic, aren’t you?” he stood, looking at you like you were an inconvenience. sober rafe wouldn’t look at you like this. sober rafe wouldn’t mask his emotions with hurtful words.
your hand trembled as you reached for the door. he saw it, and something in his expression shifted—sharp, cold.
you whispered, voice breaking, “you said you wanted to build a life with me. I don’t want anything with you if it’s gonna be like this,” your eyes flicking to the mess on the floor as you sniffled.
he stared at you, and it wasn’t the loving gaze he usually had.
“mrs Perfect huh? You don’t get to walk in here and act like some fuckin’ angel when all you ever did was make me feel like shit for not being fixed fast enough for you.” his words were slurred, the haze of intoxication clear.
you opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. his words stung too much.
“you know what?” his voice dropped, quieter but sharper. “go. walk out. like everyone else did. go run back to your perfect little friends—my fucking sister—and tell them what a mess i am. that’s what you’re good at, right? running when shit gets real.”
your throat burned, but you refused to cry again. just opened the door wider, decision made. and he walked out, because it was killing him to do this to his sweet girl.
before he could let it all out on you, he left for good.
hours passed.
the sun beamed through the curtains you don’t know how long you’ve been curled up in your bed, burying yourself in pillows that still smelled like him. the sheets were cold where he used to sleep. you sobbed into them, wondering what went wrong. what happened to your sweet boy.
You remembered the first time he said he loved you—how nervous he was, how he tripped over his words and blushed, how you laughed and kissed him until he forgot to be scared. you remembered the way he’d look at you, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense. you missed that boy more than anything.
but he wasn’t here with you anymore.
it didn’t matter how many times you told yourself it was fine, that it was over, that he didn’t mean the hurtful things he said. the pain still lingered—his words, his actions, the way he changed when he was like that.
what hurt most was that he was supposed to be your best friend, the one you wanted to spend your life with. the one you were going to marry one day.
just as your eyes began to close, you heard the door open—the key jiggling in the lock. you knew it was him; you had given him a key long ago. he’s the only person you’ve ever given a key to.
his footsteps stumbled toward the bed, a heavy weight finally settling behind you as he clutched onto you like he was afraid to let go. you exhaled slowly, wiping your tears, waiting stiffly for him to say something.
“’m sorry,” his voice was rough, broken by sniffles.
you stayed silent. there was nothing to say.
“i hate you right now,” you murmured through tears, wishing things were different, wishing he could get better, wishing he wouldn’t keep breaking your heart like this.
“i know,” he said softly after a pause. “let me make it up to you.”
he kissed your shoulder with such tenderness it overwhelmed you. he held you like you were fragile, like he was scared you’d disappear. his fingers curled around your thighs, his lips pressing slow, apologetic kisses to your shoulder, the right side of your neck, his voice hoarse as if he’d been crying on the way here.
“let me take care of you,” he whispered against your skin.
you didn’t answer, only nodded, letting him. your eyes burned as he trailed down your body, settling between your legs. you let him because this might be the last time, because this was the only way you could forget.
he gently removed your pajamas, then your panties, murmuring sweet words as his tongue flicked and licked you slowly, making you shiver. when he heard your breathy moan and felt your fingers sink into his hair, he groaned low and needy, eating you like he was starving, like he could stay there forever and never get enough.
“taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmured, high off your sounds, completely lost.
youu cried out, sniffling at the intimacy and everything that had happened. he apologized as he continued—desperate, broken—like it tore something open inside him. his tongue moved faster, fingers curling inside you with practiced ease, making your back arch, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.
“that’s it,” he breathed, voice gravelly with guilt. “just like that, angel . . give it to me.”
when you came, it was intense—too much and not enough all at once. your thighs shook, his hands bruised your skin, holding you down like he needed you to fall apart for him. your moans were breathless, broken, and he didn’t stop—not until you whimpered, trying to close your legs, and even then he stayed, kissing softly through the aftershocks.
he crawled up your body, messy mouth glistening, pupils blown wide.
“ ’m sorry, baby. i’m so fucking sorry. i swear i’ll do better, won’t happen again,” he whispered—a lie you knew too well.
you reached down, pulling him out of his sweats. his breath hitched as he let you guide him inside you with one long, deep push that left you both gasping.
“fuck—missed this, missed you. ’m sorry,” he murmured into your neck, rocking slowly, like trying to memorize how your body fit around his.
you held him close, legs wrapped tight around his waist, clinging like it would keep this moment from ending. his thrusts grew rougher, more frantic, like he was falling apart inside you.
your nails dug into his back. he moaned your name like it was the only word he remembered.
“you’re mine,” he breathed into your mouth, hips snapping harder, pace ragged. “always been mine. my girl.”
the ‘m not your girl anymore’ line is right at the tip of your tongue but you nod against him, swallowing it down.
a choked sound escaped him as you unraveled again—clenching so tight around him he stuttered and cursed, forehead pressed to yours.
“fuck, I’m gonna—” he gasped, slamming into you once, twice, then spilling inside with a broken moan, hips grinding through it as you both rode the waves, breathless. tears left both your eyes, and he kissed each one off your face.
you said nothing. just laid there, chest to chest, the silence thick with sweat and unsaid things. the room was quiet now, except for your breathing, the faint hum of the wind outside, and the ache in your chest.
he held you—arms locked tight around your waist—as if letting go now would make you disappear forever.
you let him hold you because this might be the last time.
he doesn’t know what the morning will bring, or how he’s gonna face you, or what will happen to the diamond ring tucked away in his drawer.
you don’t know if you’ll still be by his side come dawn.
but one thing is certain—you’re ready to let go by tomorrow. the sweet boy you fell in love with has changed too much. he’s broken, and you can’t fix him if he won’t fix himself. it’s time to let him go for good by the morning.
but for tonight, you let yourself hold onto him one last time.
summary: a masked killer is stalking students at Kildare University. the parties keep happening. the bodies keep showing up. Rafe Cameron? he throws the one that changes everything. people are dead. someone’s lying. and you? you might be kissing the killer.
pairing: rafe cameron x college!reader.
cw: murder, blood, trauma, stalking, manipulation, grief, unreliable narrator, implied sex, emotionally toxic dynamics, knife imagery, fear of death, survivor’s guilt, gaslighting, power imbalance, use of y/n sometimes.
join our newsletter for more information right now! @imperishablereverie, @userhotd, @lvve-talks, @prismozo, @bluestrd, @shahabaqsa0310, @222col, @yardofbrunettes, @lexiiscorect, @rafesgreasycurtainbangs, @peachy-skully, @nonbeliever1, @tinythebunni, @cherryzweig, @davinashifts333 @deansbeer @a-lovers-card @rafe-cameronswife @challengers4ev
You’d planned everything for Mira.
You were going to meet her by the steps of Langley Hall because that's where she usually was. You’d show her the photo. The messages. Tell her what Devin told you about that night and force her to tell the truth, for once.
You’d look her in the eye and ask, “Where the hell were you?”
But when you got there, she wasn’t, which was weird. So you texted Jess and asked her to meet you to talk about it. Something was wrong and you couldn't explain what.
Jess had dark circles under her eyes when she met you in the quad. Her iced coffee was shaking in her hand like it was trying to escape. “She’s not answering me either,” she said.
You blinked at her. “Lisa is still her roommate? You went to check?”
“Yep,” Jess muttered, dragging her nails down her sleeve. “But she’s gone. Like—her bed’s made. Drawers empty. I thought she was just... mad. But now? I don’t know.” You swallowed hard. The wind stung. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
Jess hesitated. “The night you two fought. That’s it.”
After parting ways with Jess, you decided to text Lisa; Mira's roommate and somewhat of an acquaintance to you.
She’d vanished.
No social media activity. No calls. No gym check-ins. Nothing. And the longer you sat with it, the more it itched—like something crawling just under your skin.
Was she hiding?
Or had someone made her disappear? Did she really went to visit her family? That seemed too big to be the case.
You tried to talk to Rafe the next morning, but he was cagey. Avoiding your eyes. He said, “I’ve got people I need to check on,” and disappeared into a Jeep. He seemed weird since the archives, like he wanted to hide something too. You didn't know what to think.
In the afternoon, Jess' voice cracked over the phone.
“It’s my brother. Someone broke into his car last night. He’s fine, but... they left something.”
You almost didn’t want to ask. “Left what?”
There was pause that made you want to throw up.
“Your student ID. Burned.” Your heart skipped a beat as you turned around in the room. Phone to your phone as you messed up with the things in your bag just to realize that your student ID wasn't there.
You threw up after the call.
You weren’t sleeping that night. Not because you were scared. Because you were obsessed.
You kept seeing the article you’d found at the library's archives—Kildare, 2003. You kept rereading every name in that file, every blurred-out face, every victims.
And then you remembered her.
Sabrina Hale. Graduating senior. Creative writing major. Survived three stab wounds. Dropped out in ‘04. Still alive. Still in-state.
You found an old address in a faculty report uploaded to the university archives. It was an hour outside campus. And you didn’t tell anyone where you were going.
The house was small, overgrown with vines. No doorbell. Just a weathered “NO TRESPASSING” sign and a cracked porch light flickering like it wanted to die. You knocked anyway, it took three tries before the door opened.
Sabrina Hale had short, choppy hair and a twisted scar running from her shoulder to her forearm. She didn’t look surprised to see you. Just... tired.
“You’re from Kildare,” she said like she already knew what was happening again.
You nodded.
“I’ve been waiting for this.” She pushed herself to the side so you would enter the old house.
Inside, the air was warm but stale. Like she hadn’t opened a window in years. You perched on the edge of a plaid couch, your heart a caged animal. Sabrina sank into the opposite chair and said, “Who’s dead?”
You blinked. “What?”
“There’s always a catalyst. That’s how he worked.” You took a breath. “Six people, one of my friend. Maybe more. And I think it’s connected to what happened to you.” She closed her eyes.
“Of course it is.”
You asked her everything. She answered like she’d rehearsed it for decades.
“I'm sure he wasn’t just some rando. He was part of the school. Someone who knew things.” She told you, even though the police never caught him. But Sabrina seemed to be suspiscious of things.
“He stalked us for weeks before anyone died. I remember getting notes and pictures of myself in my dorm.”
It felt you both talked for hours after that. “I was targeted because I tried to investigate. Just like you. He disappeared after the final attack. Like he’d never existed. And the school? They buried it. Deep.” You looked at her, hands cold in your lap.
“Do you think... he’s back? That it's the same guy?”
Her voice was flat.
“No. I think someone wants to finish what he started.”
You decided to leave after getting her help, thanking her again and again for what she had told you. You didn’t make it five steps off her property before your phone buzzed.
It was a text from the same unknown number.
You turned your phone off before getting back to the university.
By the time you made it back to campus and to your room, your student email had a new message:
You stared at the screen, your reflection warped in the glass.
Sasha was dead. Mira was gone. Someone close to you had been targeted. The past was clawing its way up through the dirt.
And now, even the school was against you, like they were trying to stop you from digging through the dirt. But all you could think about—beneath the fear, beneath the exhaustion—was one thing:
summary: a masked killer is stalking students at Kildare University. the parties keep happening. the bodies keep showing up. Rafe Cameron? he throws the one that changes everything. people are dead. someone’s lying. and you? you might be kissing the killer.
pairing: rafe cameron x college!reader.
cw: murder, blood, trauma, stalking, manipulation, grief, unreliable narrator, implied sex, emotionally toxic dynamics, knife imagery, fear of death, survivor’s guilt, gaslighting, power imbalance.
join our newsletter for more information right now! @imperishablereverie, @userhotd, @lvve-talks, @prismozo, @bluestrd, @shahabaqsa0310, @222col, @yardofbrunettes, @lexiiscorect, @rafesgreasycurtainbangs, @peachy-skully, @nonbeliever1, @tinythebunni, @cherryzweig, @davinashifts333 @deansbeer @a-lovers-card @rafe-cameronswife @challengers4ev
It’s been two days since Mira told you to your face that you were insane. No yelling, no dramatic tears. Just her voice, flat and distant—like she was reciting a line she’d practiced a hundred times before.
“You really think I planned all that? God, you sound unwell. This is exactly why people talked about you in high school.”
You hadn’t meant to corner her. Not really. You just wanted the truth.
You had woken up with it clinging to your skin like sweat—her disappearance during the party; again. How she just… vanished before the screams. How she reappeared the next morning acting like she hadn’t missed the single most horrifying night of your lives.
But when you tried to talk to her? She didn’t explain. She didn’t deny. She just made you feel crazy. And worst of all—you almost believed her. But everything must be connected and you felt like it was your job to discover how and why.
Classes were still canceled after everything and Jess was out with friends that day. You tried your best to occupy yourself during the free hours you had but it was harder than you thought when all you could think about was Mira, Ghostface, and Sasha's death.
You ended up texting Jess after a while.
You were still stewing in the aftermath when Devin Carter—a quiet, practically invisible guy from your chemistry class—texted you out of nowhere. He was the kind of guy that everyone liked but mostly kept to himself. He occasionally came to parties but it wasn't really his scene.
You stared at the message for a long time, unsure if it was a prank or something worse. But it couldn't be... Not from him.
It was exactly 5:12PM when you met Devin in the Science Hall. It was mostly empty except for a few students that chose that space to study.
The sky was graying out by the time you found him. He looked even more tired than usual—hood up, sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes darting around like he was afraid someone else was watching.
“Thanks for coming,” he said softly. “I didn’t know if you would.”
“I almost didn’t,” you admitted. “What is this about?”
He shifted uncomfortably and scratched his neck. “I wasn’t spying or anything. I was just outside smoking when I saw her. Mira. She came out of the back door of the frat house. I don't think she saw me.”
Your pulse flicked. “When?”
“Right before the screaming. Like, maybe ten minutes before everything went to shit. She was walking fast. Didn’t look scared. She was looking over her shoulder like she didn’t want to be seen. I went back inside after that, so I don't know what happened.”
You took a step closer. “You’re sure it was her?”
He nodded. “The black jacket with the bat print on the back. She wore it in chem that day.”
There was a long, heavy silence. You could feel your stomach sinking, slow and cold. “I don’t know what it means,” he said. “But… you’re the only one I’ve seen actually asking questions.”
That night, you couldn’t sleep.
Not because you were scared, but because your thoughts wouldn’t stop circling. Mira was suspiscous. She had left before the murders; she had told you and Jess about it, yes but... Everything was weird about it. Devin had seen her. And now she was pretending you were crazy about it all.
What else was she lying about? What else was everyone lying about?
The next morning, you decided to do some researches on your own. Surely, there would be articles about other murders in the Outer Banks. Maybe this killer wasn't hitting for the first time? Maybe it was occured somewhere else before?
You didn't know and maybe Mira was right. Maybe you were going insane with all of this.
You ended up in the campus' library, asking your way into the archives. It was surprisingly easy to access them and yet, the place was giving you the chills. Like someone was right behind you, watching your every moves. You didn't feel safe and grabbed your phone to text Rafe.
You sighed as Rafe texted he was on his way. You almost expected him to tell you how stupid you were being... Because you were.
You didn't wait for him as you made your way to the old computers area. It was full of dust, as if no one came here anymore. No one probably did.
The computer terminals down here are dusty and forgotten. No one uses them anymore unless they’re desperate. You log into the public archive using an old guest password that was written on a piece of paper on the side, then click your way through file after file until your eyes hurt.
And then you find it.
The mask described in the article?
White. Hollow eyes. Elongated mouth. You knew that face.
Ghostface.
Rafe’s footsteps echo softly as he makes his way toward your screen, bringing you out of your thoughts. You don’t look at him right away. You’re still reading—still trying to process the body count.
“Did you know about this?” you ask. He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s quiet. “I’ve heard rumors,” he says. “Old frat legends. Stuff older brothers say to scare pledges.”
“This isn’t a legend.”
“I know.”
You finally turn to him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Rafe looks down, jaw tight. “Because I didn’t think anyone would believe it. Or want to.”
There’s a pause. You ask, “Why?”
He shrugs. “I'm not known to be the most serious guy around.”
And he's right, you can't take that away from him. The both of you fell into a silence before you asked if he could help you out. Rafe decided it wouldn't be that much of a good idea and you both left the library a few minutes later.
The sun was setting when you got back to the campus and you parted ways with Rafe, promising to text him as soon as you were in your dormroom.
The air feels different when you step outside. Like something’s shifted again. The people around you are still laughing, still pretending everything is normal—but you can feel it now. Pressing in closer. Watching.
There’s a trail of bodies behind you and a story no one wants to remember. But you’re not going to stop. Because whoever’s behind the mask?
They’ve done this before.
And this time—you’re going to be the one who unmasks them.
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