ive accepted myself for less than i am

"M- what?!"

You hold back an insult that was just waiting to be said.

Dunk straightens in his seat and clears his throat, "I... I will be training your brother as usual, then I'll be tending to my horses in the stables."

"Would you chaperone me to the tailor's shop instead?"

His eyes widen, "p-pardon?"

"I have a dress I need to be fitted into and normally my tailor comes here but lately I've preferred going to their shop."

He is dumbfounded, so much so he turns to Egg for some sort of confirmation he wasn't just hearing things. He is glad when the boy asks you, "why do you want him to come with you?"

You shrug, "Aerion would not go with me."

Dunk further dumbfounded.

"Are you fighting again?" Egg asks.

You shake your head, "no, he's just being a little bitch."

Egg tilts his head, "isn't he always?"

"He has his moments, Aegon."

"Maybe with you, because you're twins."

"I-Is there-" Dunk blurts, then clears his throat again, "is there any reason you want me to join you, highness?"

You look at him for a moment, trying to think of a reason. You settle with, "no."

"No?" He raises his brows in disbelief and sighs while wiping his face, "seven hells."

You purse your lips at that, "you can say no."

"I can?" his brows curl as he raises his brows.

Your left eye narrows. You raise a hand, "you might be slightly stupid, so let's just pretend that I never asked."

Just as you turn around, Dunk starts to a stand, "no, wait!"

You look back at him.

"I'll do it!"

And that's how he ended up being swarmed by a gaggle of women, some of which were workers at the shop and some were patrons who were, like most folk, intrigued by Dunk's height.

Of course, the truth was, he was an incredibly comely man who walked into the shop with a princess. The young maids were particularly set on carrying a conversation with him.

He was rather relieved when you called him into the fitting room, eager to escape the determined souls around him.

When he enters, he quickly closes the door, much to the dismay of the women.

"Enjoying the attention?"

Dunk shakes his head and turns to you, "not at-"

His words go dry when he sees you in a deep violet gown. It was not yet finished, as why there was a sheer layer of silver lace around your shoulders.

You purse your lips at his silence, "it is either very good or very bad if it rendered you silent."

Dunk gulps and shakes his head, feeling his face grow warm, "g-good! It's just... It's so... grand. Grander than what you normally wear. And you wear—"

"Well, it ought to be," you turn away and look at yourself in the mirror, "I need fur for the trim. Black fur would be best, don't you think?"

Dunk is about to respond, but the tailor beats him to it and immediately assures you that there will be a shipment of furs to their shop by the day's end.

"And if I may, my princess," the tailor turns to Dunk and throws some fine black fabric on his shoulder, "if you find it in your generous heart that I might borrow your man and have a tunic made for him."

You look over your shoulder, "what?"

The man scrutinizes Dunk, "he caused quite a stir outside the shop while wearing worn rags," he pinches the grey shirt he had on with disinterest, "imagine the stir he'd create wearing one of my designs."

Dunk chuckles nervously and steps back, "you are too kind, milord. But I have no coin to even dream to affo—"

"Did I ask for your coin, you silly thing?"

You begin to feel your blood rise. You snap at one of the servant girls, "get me out of this garb."

The tailor turns to you.

"P-princess?" the girl stammers.

"Are you deaf or just dumb? I said GET ME OUT OF THIS FUCKING GARB!"

The tailor immediately runs to you, "princess, please-"

"Don't fucking you touch me!" you snap at him and begin tearing your dress off, "if it is not enough that I grace your wretched shop with my presence that you wish to draw in flies with a flea from Fleabottom, then I do not want you to dress me!"

The tailor panics and shakes his hand, "oh, but princess, I was only jest—"

You free yourself out of your dress with a final rip. One of the servant girls quickly put you back into your own cloths.

When the knight has the mind to follow after you, he turns to the tailor, who looks incredibly distraught. Dunk says he'll try to reason with you, knowing damn well that's not gone well for him. When he gets outside the shop, he catches you just as you get ink the carriage.

Dunk doesn't know what to do when you storm out. The women outside the room gasp at the princess, and those who were not quick enough to get out of your way collide with your shoulder, causing you to whine as it reignites pain from when it was dislocated.

He runs up to the door just as you slam it shut. He opens the window, "princess-"

"Do not aggravate me more than this, dog," you glare at him.

His chest tightens at your cold words. He feels like he wasted the only chance he'll ever get to ever get on your good side, "please—"

"I cannot stand you," you hiss at him, sticking your head out, "I bet you are pleased that every woman and pillow biter here wants to suck your cock."

Before he can even think to respond, you demand the carriage to leave, and so it does.

Dunk feels like noose was pulling tightly around his neck. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he did wrong. He does know that he needs to go on walk to cry.

‎∵ ᴇɪɢʜᴛʜ ∴

‎It is the dead of night. Dunk is exhausted and yet he can't seem to sleep. He stares wearily at the ceiling, eyes heavy but refusing to close. His room is dark save for the moonlight trickling in from his window. His mind is heavy with thoughts of you. He doesn't know what to do with you, nor how someone that much smaller than him could harbor hatred that swallows him whole.

His head was heavy on his pillow, but his eyelids were heavier. It felt like he could hear his entire body screaming at him to sleep, and yet his eyes refused to stop staring at the dusty, stone ceiling. His mind was especially incessant on replaying the day's event. He could not, for the life of him, figure out where his blunder started and ended.

Dunk was well-aware that he was rather slow, markedly around women— embarrassingly so around a princess... but even he could tell that it wasn't him that was the problem. This was something regarding you. Every jab, every venomous word, it felt personal.

He sighs for probably the hundredth time since he laid down.

At this rate, he'll never fall asleep.

He roughly wipes his calloused hands down his face and forces his eyes to stay closed.

The faintly door creaks open. It is so faint Dunk doesn't hear it.

Ironically, that is was the exact moment he should have kept his eyes open.

You are barefoot as you pad inside You're in your silken dress with your hair undone. You were cold and yet there was sweat killing onto your neck and back. Your breathing was heavy and your hands were trembling. A lone dagger, dangerously sharp and shiny, was sweaty in your right palm.

You swallow a lump in your throat as you close the door with a gentle click.

Dunk feels your approach, though he doesn't realize it is why he opened his eyes. When he sees your haunting figure, approaching him with eerie slowness, he gasps and sits up, screaming, "WHO GOES THERE?"

You shriek in response, raising your armed hand, suddenly charging at him.

He yelps and immediately rolls out of bed, falling on the floor with a nasty thump.

Just in time too, because you flung yourself on the bed and sequentially left a nasty gnash into the feather down, tearing through fabric without any struggle. You growl and look at him, screaming in a language he cannot understand.

You shriek again as you throw the dagger at him, missing him by a damned hair. It bounces from the stone wall and recoils onto his foot, making him yelp when it cuts him. He steps back just as you lunge, claws out and thirsty for blood.

"Princess!" he gasps when he sees your face under the moonlight beating through his window.

You come at his neck, trying to choke the breath out his lungs.

Dunk's eyes are wide and worried, less for himself and more for the rabid look of you. He chokes as he grips your wrists, slowly overpowering you. His voice is broken, "please."

"THIS IS THE ONLY WAY!" you say with far too much certainty. You shudder, incessantly trying to squeeze him, "one of us will live. One of us will die. Both will finally be at peace!"

His eyes water as he decides to finally push you off.

You are easily sent flying back to his bed, your head and body bouncing on the cushions. You wince at the impact, and Dunk feels immediately guilty. He raises a hand and calls out your name.

You huff and glare at him, screeching again as you attack him once more. This time, he does not give you an opportunity to approach; he bolts to the other side of the room and repeatedly begs you to stop.

His voice infuriates you.

"Please, princess. Stop this madness," the knight whines as you chase him.

You grab the first thing you find and chuck it at him.

Just as he's about to exit, he plays in his head what would happen if he runs to Maekar's chambers and reveal this madness you've struck upon him. Your words replay in his mind: this is the only way.

He whines when the corner of a book hits the center of his spine. He instinctively curls and clutches the area, finally making his way to the door.

Only way to what?

Dunk runs past the door and fatefully dodges a flower vase you chuck at him which shatters against a cabinet with a fearful noise.

You unintentionally send glass recoiling to your face. You look away and step back, flinching when your sole presses sharply into a shard.

It's all over for you then.

The floor is plagued with so much broken glass, everywhere you step is a hazard. When you decide to push through the pain, Dunk tackles you into his arms and you immediately begin to thrash.

"ENOUGH!" he snaps, throwing you onto bed.

You had never heard him raise his voice before, so hearing this brings you back into reality.

Dunk stands by the side of his bed, hulking, angry, exhausted. You realize now that it would be so easy for him to kill you... and that he's been holding himself back entirely.

You watch him pace around the room, realizing he had woolen socks on when he lit enough candles.

The glint of your silver dagger catches your eye. You quietly reach for it where it laid beside the foot of the bed just before Dunk warily approaches you. You slip the dagger beneath the sheets.

"I'd like to know my crimes against you which murdered me in my sleep."

"I did not murder you," you snap then grumble, "clearly."

"Because I was not asleep!" he waves his hands in defeat.

You examine him as he continues to come closer. He makes the mistake of sitting at the edge of the bed and giving you a kicked-pup look.

You are immediately upon him, as was your blade that eagerly drew crimson from in between his ribs. The streaming sight was enough to sate most of your blood lust. His blood smelled so strongly of iron that you could almost taste it in your mouth.

"Please, whatever it i—"

You look at him with your own teary eyes, and if one hadn't known any better, it was you who looked like you were being pierced with how distraught your expression was. You whisper, as if confessing your most damning secret— and you were, "if I kill you, my father will make a fuss of me, and if you kill me, he will make a greater fuss-" you laugh then quip harshly, "I win either way!"

Dunk grips your wrist tightly, his breath uneven and his cheeks now cold with tears. He is pushing you back enough that your blade does not puncture him any further but he doesn't entirely shove you away.

"W-Win?" he painfully mutters, grabbing your opposite shoulder with the other hand. He tries to push you back, "win what?"

"My father!" you hiss, shifting on your knees as you try to dig the blade a little deeper into his sternum, "why must a dog like you have him?"

"H-hav-" he winces, "stop!"

"Stop?" you laugh manically, "break my arm then!"

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Well, I'll only stop when your dead!"

Dunk squeezes your wrist a little harder.

"This ends tonight!" you grit your teeth.

Your words send a shiver through his spine.

He agrees.

It has to end tonight.

Dunk speaks your name.

When you do, you fall back on the bed and immediately sit up, thinking he was surely going to lunge at you.

It sounds so disturbing, if makes you recoil.

But he doesn't. He doesn't lunge. He doesn't move. But he does close his eyes.

A shiver runs up your spine and you press a dagger to his throat, "look at me!"

Dunk's blue eyes are reddish and his lips are wobbling.

"Why won't you fight back, yellow-belly?" you prop yourself on your knees, grabbing him by the hair, "my twin will be pleased if I hand him your head come morn."

"I-I-" his voice cracks, "I don't want to die-"

"THEN WHY WON'T YOU FIGHT?!"

"B-because-" his spittle gets into your face, "it is my fault!"

Your blade nicks the skin just by his jaw.

"I knew better than to come to Summerhall," his nostrils flair, "I thought me being here could somehow make up for Baelor's death— I thought Maekar-"

You pull the blade away only to point it to his face, "you're star-eyed cunt! If you think you could ever replac—"

"I know that now," he whimpers, lowering his head, "I wonder often why it had to be him and not me... and now I think the gods account me to my sins."

Your grip on his hair tightens and your blade feels suddenly so heavy.

"If it means anything," Dunk mumbles, "I am just a dog. Prince Maekar granted me a great honor in keeping your brother as a squire."

You release his hair and grab his jaw, forcing him to hold your gaze, "then why can't I find favor as easy as you?"

"I-I-" Dunk's hands shakily find your sides, "I don't think you have to find something you have naturally."

"Naturally?" you chuckle dryly, "you take lessons in things I mastered before I turned ten. Mine own twin failed exams I took in one try yet father was prouder of him when he managed it after the third attempt." You release his jaw, "tell me then where this natural favor lies?"

He watches you sit back and release the blade. He looks down at his shirt, darkened by his blood. His wound was not so bad, as you pricked him in a bony area, but he can feel his rib ache at the pressure you dealt.

"And when you popped my shoulder, ser," you lift your eyes at him. Your tears were freely falling, "I was going to explain how you did it, but he would not have it. He told me uncle Baelor said you were a good man and that I was becoming like my brother."

His face twitches, "Aerion is—"

"Daeron," you mutter, "a disappointment... haunted," you shake your head.

He watches as your shoulder shake from your sobs.

"You are why I am haunted."

You curl your legs into your chest and he watches you resist the urge to wail further. He sighs, "I do not mean to haunt you."

"Yet you do."

He looks down at his ruined clothes, "then I should leave."

You stare at him as he stands. You see the awful thing you did to his chest and feel your throat tighten.

"I care deeply for Egg," he shakes his head, unable to look at you, "he thinks highly of you. I have seen your light from afar, and if my presence dims it," he motions vaguely, "then it is only right that I begone."

You watch him walk off to a cabinet and begin to pack his things.

You should feel relieved, satisfied, but instead, you feel this burning dread ring around your neck. You think of your brother, "and Aegon?"

He huffs, "I'll leave a letter for him saying that—"

"No, you should take him with you!" you blurt.

Dunk looks over his shoulder.

"That was what you intended anyway, no?" you mumble, "to take him away from us and make a hedge knight out of him?"

He feels his chest ache, both from his wound and your words, "I don't mean to take him away from you."

You watch him turn back to you.

"I just..." he shakes his head, "I just want him to grow to be a good man."

"And he won't do that if he's around his family," you whisper.

But he hears you, "I don't think th—"

"We are a rotten bunch," you lean into your knees, "look at what I've done to you!" You cannot stop your wail this time, "and even now you mean to meet me with kindness."

He feels sick. He feels the cut on his chest burn.

As he cleans his wound, you decide to lift your head, gasping when you see him beside the bed again.

Dunk grabs a shirt, avoiding the broken glass on the floor. He finds the wash basin on the corner of the room and takes off his top.

A great shame comes upon you when you see the damage you've done. You feel sick. You turn to the window, "I should go."

He turns just as you stand from the bed. His brows tighten together when you head towards the moon light instead of the door. You brush your hands upon the curtains fully before opening the shutters. He gasps when you begin to climb the sill.

You feel your skin prickle when he calls your name and snatches you back. You have no idea how someone so large moved so quickly. You do not fight back when he reels you back to his bed.

Dunk is beyond distressed as he looks down at you, limply lying down with your silver hair scattered in a twisted halo. He wipes his face roughly, "no one is going to die tonight!"

Your lashes are laced in tears, "but I actually deserve i—"

"Quiet!"

You look at him as he goes back to dressing his wounds, only this time, he does it right beside you.

You stare at the great expanse of his back, finding grey scars and a great many freckles.

You slowly sit up.

He immediately turns to you, wary and on guard.

"Can..." you reach out shaky hands. They care covered in his dried blood, "can I help?"

Dunk does not move.

You begin to think yourself a hypocrite. You hide your bloody palms behind you.

A second after, he hands you the dressing, "do not hurt yourself because of me."

You look at his hands and hesitate take the object from him and frown, "wouldn't it be easier for someone like me to die?"

"For whom?" he mutters, voice low, "easier how?"

You tense and stammer, "no on-ne would t-torment you anymore."

"I would be eternally tormented if you died because you believed your father liked me better."

"He does."

"If he liked me more, why was he cross with me when he found out you left your fitting early?"

You scoff, "I left because I was jealous of the attention you got."

"Your father thinks you stormed off because I wore you down."

You pull your head back.

"That I was not patient enough with you."

"You?" you point, "not patient enough."

Dunk does not respond.

Your forehead curls, "he's a different breed of ridiculous."

He sighs defeatedly, "least you know where you get it from."

Your jaw drops.

He notices and his expression suddenly slips, "I me—"

"Is this why father likes you? You jest freely"

He tenses then shakes his head, "not at all."

"Why then?"

"Because I'm a dog."

"No-" you squeeze his bicep, "you're not a dog, you are-" you shake your head, "a good man."

Dunk clenches his jaw.

"Just as uncle said," you sniffle and shudder, "far too good to me, that is certain."

"Princess."

"Perhaps..." he takes your hands and guides it to his chest, urging you to tend to his injuries, "if you find yourself hurting... you might confide in me instead of hurting me the way you hurt."

You cannot bear to look at him.

You chuckle in disbelief, "confide in you?"

His nostrils flare, "I know what that I—"

"How could I deserve that after what I've done?"

He stares at you.

You sniffle as you wrap the dressings around his chest.

"Deserving it," he mutters, "is not up to you, but me."

You gulp.

"And I would vastly prefer it than another gash to the heart."

You sighs softly and nod, "I hope you can find it in you to forgive me someday."

"I do."

You dare to look at him.

"I forgive you."

‎The next morning, you find Aegon playing hide-and-seek with Daella and Rhae, and grow anxious at the thought that your brother had no training because of what you'd done to Dunk. The boy said the knight told him he didn't sleep well and nothing about your failed assassination attempt.

Your mind raced with worst case scenarios, one was that your father would send you off to Winterfell earlier, and the other was that Dunk would leave with no word.

You wound up playing catch with your younger siblings, mostly to distract from your searing guilt and worry. Aerion popped in halfway and spectated because he was too good to join in childish games. At some point, he tortured you all by taunt repeatedly that you'd miss. Your siblings took turns 'accidentally' hitting their older brother while you deliberately aimed for him enough times that he chased you around.

After the chase, it was clear to you all the game was over.

Pleased with himself, your twin takes your hand and brings it to his arm, "finally. Let's go riding, sister."

You glare at him, "I'm going to have some tea."

Aerion is undeterred as you pull away, "fine. Tea then riding."

Despite his antagonistic nature, your twin was not wholly wretched. Yes, you two fought hard and, just moments ago, he threatened to beat you during your chase, and yet here you were, conversing pleasantly about his new armor and your new dress.

It was then you found Dunk, passing by the hall.

"Ser!" you call out.

Dunk stop, takes a look at both of you and bows.

"Wait here," you tell Aerion.

Aerion snags your arm but you merely pull away and make him hiss. He grumbles and paces in the hall, deciding to lean out the window to scare some of the birds chirping in the trees.

You run up to Dunk, smoothing your skirt once you're in front of him. You sigh and curtsy at him, "good afternoon."

He shakes his hands, "you do not have to bow to me."

You rise and look up at him, "it has occurred to me that I never actually apologized to you last night," you shake your head, "I said I hoped you'd forgive me but-" your eyes fall to his chest. "Did you go to the maester?"

He nods, "aye."

You sigh in relief then shake your head, "I've committed grave transgressions against you. I have been horrid, furious, wrong, and simply irrational towards you. My own hurt made me believe that hurting you was justified, but it is not..." you swallow a lump in your throat, "I understand that you might not find it in you to-"

"I forgive you."

You suck in a sharp breath.

"I hope we can put this behind us."

"Put what behind you?"

You both turn to Aerion as he walks up beside you.

He raises his brows at Dunk and crosses his arms.

Dunk tries to think of something, "n- I- we—"

"I tried to kill him," you turn to your twin.

His expression falls, as does his arms, "and you didn't invite me?!"

You grit your teeth at him, "why would I invite you when you already failed the first time?"

Aerion points a finger at you and hisses back in High Valyrian.

Dunk slowly steps back, disturbed by your bickering.

You notice it and make a show of shooing him away, "what, do you want to die?"

His eyes widen and he immediately scurries off.

Dex doesn’t reply, not even with his usual stilted “Thanks”.

You’re fine with that, totally; you already know Dex is, well, himself—man of few words and composure and too-sharp jawline… So. You assume he’s just ignoring you as usual, which makes you a little bit pleased knowing you’ve probably stupefied your poor coworker into bewilderment once again.

What you don’t know is that you’re exactly right. Twenty feet away, in a sterile cubicle surrounded by discarded tactical gear and stacks of paperwork, Dex is staring at his screen like it personally offended him.

Dex blinks once, finally, slow like a cat watching a ceiling fan.

“…The fuck.”

 The badly edited puppy has a syringe full of mercury pointed into its brain and someone’s holding an orange bottle of ADHD pills behind it. He rereads the sentence, just in case it holds a secret meaning. 

     theyre doing this to me at work tomorrow btw

He leans back in his chair like a man confronting the unknowable void.

“Is this funny?” he mutters. “Do I say something?”

He opens Google.

     “dog on ADHD medication??”

No luck. It sends him to some Instagram pages with dogs he doesn’t care about, and he closes the tab after seeing a bunch of drama on the PetMD forum. Symbolism perhaps? Puppy = you; mercury = brain damage; the cell tower = some kind of conspiracy… at work… the Bureau...? 

Oh fuck it. He gives up.

     Are you ok?      [Sent 10:40 AM]

Aha, so the man responds. You send back four emojis: 💻💀😭🙏

A few minutes later, your phone pings.

     I hope they don’t inject anything into your head.      [Sent 10:45 AM]

You snort, trying to stifle your snicker. You can hear this guy’s voice in your head. thank u king that’s so thoughtful, you send back.

By lunchtime Dex is three articles deep into “Millennial vs Gen Z Humor: A Brief History of Nihilistic Absurdism.” He doesn’t mean to care, really. You’ve probably forgotten about it entirely but he hasn’t. He’s finally gotten the point of the picture you sent, to his satisfaction, but why is the skull emoticon thing everywhere now? 

     skull emoji meaning      Result: “Used to express laughing so hard you’re dead.”

He shakes his head. That doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The next day, you wake up to multiple messages from Dex.

     Thank you for your dog Meme, it’s very funny.      Work is like that sometimes.      Haha      ☠️      [sent 5:10 AM]

You stare at the screen for a long time.

     ☠️

Actually, you think your hands are shaking now. You message back:

     wtf u know how to use emojis????????????

He replies immediately:

     Yes.      I think

Then:

     🔥

Why is there fire now. What does the fire mean. Is he okay. Your face’s gone hot and you screenshot it for maybe nothing in particular but, well, to look back at later on and laugh harder.

It’s Friday, which is a vacation enough in itself but unfortunately that still means you should be working and processing the latest field report Mockta dropped on your desk. But instead, you’re doing something far more dangerous. You’re messing with Dex again. You send him a photo of someone furiously petting a cat’s head.

     Me rubbing the workweek’s pussy so it finishes faster      [Sent 9:48 AM]

Dex is drinking his coffee—straight black, very sad—when he sees the notification. He reads your caption and almost spits into his sleeve.

What did you just send him.

He stares and reads it again.

“Me rubbing the workweek’s… Oh God…” He trails off, rubbing his brow in anguish. He lowers the phone slowly, looking around the bullpen, the hallway, the exit. Then he turns to his laptop and opens Google. God help him.

     pussy rubbing work week 

He hits Enter and immediately regrets it. A new tab opens. A very not-safe-for-work one accessed through the Bureau Wi-Fi. There’s moaning and a lot of exposed skin. One of the women is holding a calendar. He slams his laptop shut so hard the desk rattles, mind racing.

He didn’t read about this shit in any of the articles he read last Tuesday! Staring into the abyss of his screen, Dex messages back:

     ?

     omg dex it’s a joke      i hopeyou did NOT google that      are u okay

There’s a long pause, an eternity really. You sip your coffee, wipe at your eyes. Then, finally:

     Understood.      Thanks for the explanation     I did but i won’t Google anything ever again.      [Sent 10:21 AM]

The mental image of him in a mortified fugue state, recoiling from his screen, is almost too much—but you manage to swallow your laughter as Ray walks past your desk, shooting you a wary look.

The rest of the day is uneventful. You manage to make a small dent in the field reports. Dex doesn’t message you again and you assume you’ve broken him with the dirty joke, which—honestly—fair.

You don’t see him again until you're heading out, bag slung over your shoulder, keys jangling in your hand. You pass Dex’s desk, and he stands up so fast he almost collides with the corner of his desk. 

“Hey,” he says, voice weirdly formal. He wrings his hands. “Uh. Wait a second.”

You stop. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, squinting as he unlocks his phone, and silently holds it out to you. You blink down at the screen.

It’s a Minion. A fucking Minion. The image is so low-res you can count the pixels, jpeg artifacting all over. The Minion’s mid-stride, throwing up a peace sign. The text reads:

     BestfriEND      BoyfriEND      GirlfriEND      Food      Only Food has no END.

There’s a watermark in the corner that says something like “Susan's Recipe Shack,” straight from the Facebook feed of someone’s divorced aunt. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. And then you wheeze, laughing so violently your knees buckle a little. Two people from Cybercrimes glance up. You wave them away, tears in your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “Dex. Dex.”

He’s standing stiffly, eyes flicking nervously around the room, like he didn’t expect you to react. His phone wavers in his hand. “You don’t have to laugh that hard,” he mutters, starting to pull it back.

“No, no—don’t you dare delete that,” you grab his wrist, still breathless. “You made this? Where did you find it?”

He blinks. “Facebook.”

“Christ almighty, you’re going deeper.”

He swallows, ears red and flexing his hands. “You seem to like them.”

You giggle again and this time somebody mutters something about needing to go home. You don’t care. Dex is still standing there like he’s not sure if he should run away, but a smile’s starting to tug at his mouth too.

“Keep going,” you say, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I want more tomorrow.”

“…Alright,” he nods. He’s serious but the blush’s absolutely radiating off his face. “I’ll look for more Minions.”

a/n: this is what i was talking about btw

The first time you saw him, he was watching you.

Not in the way men at bars watch women, sizing them up like something to be consumed. Not in the way strangers glance at beauty before their eyes slip away.

No, he watched you.

Unblinking. Calculated. Predatory.

You had been walking home alone, the cold air biting at your skin, the neon lights of the city painting your path in fractured colors. Something told you to look over your shoulder.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, just under the hum of a flickering streetlamp, dressed in black, eyes pale and cutting as a razor’s edge.

A man who did not look away when you caught him staring.

A man who wanted you to know.

And you did.

You knew, instinctively, that this was not a stranger you could ignore.

This was something else entirely.

—

Benjamin Poindexter was not a man known for restraint.

He was a weapon in human form—something sharp and precise, something built for ruin.

But with you, he took his time.

He followed first.

Letting you feel him at the edges of your world, making you wonder if you were imagining things.

A shadow in the crowd. A presence just behind you. A feeling on your skin that you could not shake.

Then he got closer.

You would turn down a quiet street and see a man leaning against the alley wall, tapping something metallic against his thigh.

A coin. A blade. A bullet.

You could never tell which.

But always, when your eyes found him, his lips would curve in a slow, amused smile.

Like he was playing.

Like he was hungry.

And you—against all reason, against all logic—felt something dark and shivering unfurl in your ribs.

Because this man was dangerous.

And danger had always tasted like wine on your tongue.

—

You met properly on the fifth night.

Not in the street, not in passing—

But in your apartment.

You came home, locked the door, turned on the light—

And there he was, sitting on your couch, as if he belonged there.

Relaxed. At ease.

Turning a knife between his fingers like it was a toy.

You should have screamed.

Should have reached for something sharp, something heavy, something that could fight.

But instead, you exhaled slowly, tilted your head—

And smiled.

"A knife?" Your voice was smooth, unimpressed, barely above a murmur. "Are you flirting with me?"

His lips parted slightly, his head tilting, as if he hadn’t expected that.

Then, the grin.

Wide and wolfish, something carved from bone and sin.

"Doll," he murmured, voice low, fond, "I’ve been flirting with you for weeks."

—

Bullseye had never wanted anything the way he wanted you.

At first, it was simple. A game. A curiosity.

He saw something in you, something rare—something untouchable and unafraid.

You did not fear him.

You should have.

But instead, you met his gaze with a slow smile. Instead, you let him in. Instead, you looked at the monster and did not flinch.

And that—fuck—that ruined him.

Because he wasn’t playing anymore.

This wasn’t a job.

This wasn’t a kill.

This was you.

And he needed you like he needed air.

—

He started pushing.

Seeing how far he could go before you broke.

A knife at your throat, cold steel kissing warm skin—your pulse steady beneath it, unshaken.

A hand around your wrist, pulling you flush against him—your breath hitching, but your eyes alight with something dangerous.

He grabbed you, cornered you, toyed with you—

And you laughed.

You—who should have been running, who should have been trembling, who should have feared him—

Only smiled.

"You don’t scare me, Benjamin."

His fingers curled tight in your hair, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Give me time, doll," he murmured, voice dripping with promise. "You will."

—

But you didn’t.

And worse, you started pushing back.

Testing him the way he tested you.

Late nights with him pressed against you, the heat of his breath on your skin, your fingers teasing the knife from his belt.

Spinning it in your hand, mirroring his movements—

Smirking up at him as you flirted with his weapon.

It drove him insane.

No one had ever met him like this.

No one had ever dared.

And it made him want to ruin you.

—

When he kissed you, it wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t careful.

It was consumption.

Teeth and breath and the sharp edge of his control fraying into something wild.

His hands held you like he might never let go, like he was claiming something that had already been his from the moment he set eyes on you.

And you—God, you—

You moaned against his mouth, kissed him back with that same hunger, gripped his shirt like you wanted to tear him apart.

And fuck.

He had never been a religious man, but in that moment, he swore he had found something close to god.

—

You became his.

Not in words. Not in titles.

But in the way he looked at you.

The way he hovered near you, always watching, always waiting.

The way his fingers traced absent patterns against your bare skin when he thought you were asleep.

The way he whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like something he could never afford to lose.

—

But you were never his the way he wanted.

Because you didn’t belong to anyone.

And that—

That was the tragedy of it all.

Because Bullseye didn’t share.

And one day—one day soon—he would have to decide.

Let you go.

Or make sure no one else could ever have you.

Ever.

—

It wasn’t just an obsession anymore.

Not some passing fixation, not just the high of the chase, not just the thrill of knowing he could break you if he wanted to.

No, this was addiction.

And Benjamin Poindexter was a man who had never known how to handle his addictions.

—

It started with the nights.

At first, they were occasional.

He would slip into your apartment like a shadow, his presence a silent promise in the dark. You’d wake to find him already there, already touching you, already needing.

And fuck, you let him.

Let him take you, let him push you, let him ruin you.

Because this wasn’t love.

It was something filthier. Something darker.

It was teeth and nails and heat and violence.

It was his body pressed against yours, the weight of him keeping you there, caging you beneath the force of his want.

It was the way he held you down, the way he whispered filth in your ear, the way he smirked when you gasped, when you whimpered, when you shuddered against him like you hated how much you wanted it.

And he—fuck—he lived for it.

For the way you clawed at him, for the way you trembled, for the way you choked his name between gasping breaths.

For the way you took every filthy, twisted thing he gave you and still—still—didn’t run.

That was what sealed it.

That was what fucking broke him.

Because no one had ever stayed.

Not like this.

Not after seeing what he was.

But you—you—

You didn’t just stay.

You smiled.

—

So the nights became routine.

His body covering yours, his hands gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your skin as he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And maybe it was.

Because with every night, with every time he touched you, with every moment he spent inside you, he felt it digging deeper—this need, this hunger, this thing that turned his thoughts into something dangerous.

And soon, it wasn’t just the nights.

It was the days.

The hours between.

The moments where you weren’t beneath him, weren’t gasping against his mouth, weren’t his—

Those were the moments that made him feel like an animal.

Because if he wasn’t with you, then who was?

—

That was how it started.

With the man at the bar.

Some nameless asshole who thought he could touch what wasn’t his.

Who leaned in too close, who smiled too wide, who looked at you like he could.

And maybe—maybe in another life, maybe if things were different, maybe if Dex weren’t Dex—

Maybe you could have.

But things weren’t different.

And Dex was Dex.

So the man never made it home.

And the next time you passed that bar, you didn’t see him there.

And you knew.

Even if he never said a word.

Even if he only smirked when your eyes met his in the neon light.

Even if, that night, when he shoved you up against the alley wall and fucked you hard enough to make your head spin, he only murmured—

"Mine."

—

But it wasn’t just one man.

It was every man.

The ones who looked too long. The ones who smiled too soft.

The ones who thought you were beautiful.

Because you were.

And that was the fucking problem.

Because beauty made men stupid.

Made them forget that some things weren’t theirs to touch.

And Bullseye—

Bullseye never forgot.

So the bodies kept piling up.

A man you barely remembered would brush your hand in passing—three days later, his body was found in the river.

Someone would compliment your dress—two nights after, they’d disappear.

You would catch a stranger looking at you across a crowded room—by the end of the week, there would be an accident.

And Dex—Dex—

Would never mention it.

Would never bring it up.

Would never say a word.

But then, later, when he had you pressed up against some grimy bathroom sink, when his hands were fisted in your hair, when he was panting against your throat and groaning into your skin, he would bite out—

"No one else. You fucking get that?"

And you would only smirk.

And he would growl—grip you tighter, thrust into you harder, make you feel it.

Make sure you knew.

Because you were his.

Whether you fucking liked it or not.

—

And maybe—maybe in the beginning, it had been a game.

Maybe at first, it had just been about the thrill, about the chase, about the way you smiled at the danger.

But not anymore.

Not now.

Because now, when he touched you, it wasn’t just want.

It was need.

And now, when you looked at him, it wasn’t just defiance.

It was understanding.

Because you knew what he was.

You knew what he did.

You knew he was ruining you.

And you—

You let him.

And fuck.

That was what made it worse.

That was what broke him.

Because if you had fought him, if you had run, if you had been afraid—

Then maybe he could have let you go.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You smiled.

You laughed.

And that meant you belonged to him.

And Dex—

He doesn’t remember the fight that much - it had been an extremely long and painful night involving the Hand and he had gotten a pretty decent concussion - but he does remember coming back to his apartment to find every trace of you gone and your key on his coffee table. It had been clear you had left him and Matt’s bitterness and anger at Everything had him making the decision that he wasn’t going to chase after you.

Maybe, if hadn’t been so stubborn and bullheaded, he would have let himself patrol by your apartment. He had avoided everywhere you liked to frequent and it was easy to not think of what he was doing. He hasn't had a moment's rest in months between his day life and nightlife. He kept himself too busy to let himself think about you.

Maybe, if he didn’t have the Devil in him he would have tried to call you. Foggy and Karen pestered at him until he snapped and threw his cell phone through a wall. They didn't mention you after that and he assumes they think you were avoiding them.

Maybe, if he wasn't such a fuck up.

Maybe, if he had done anything.

Check in.

Talk to you.

Maybe - just maybe - he would have realized your apartment has been empty for weeks.

That your phone goes straight to voicemail.

That you had dropped out of your production and hadn’t shown up to your gym since then. None of your friends had seen you.

He had filed a missing person’s report and it had been Mahoney who flatly told him you weren't missing - you had willingly decided to disappear. You weren't breaking any laws - all your bills were up to speed - so there was nothing to be done.

Case closed.

Maybe, if he had listened when Karen had insisted something was wrong he would have pushed more, but you Left and he could not take it.

Maybe, just maybe.

Matt stands frozen at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen with his heart in his throat, listening as your sweet, light laugh mixes with that of Benjamin Poindexter’s.

He knows you know all about Bullseye. Matt has told you all about Bullseye.

He knows you know his name, his face, what he did, what he does, and that the man should be locked away where no sunlight can ever reach him. Matt knows you know every detail about Benjamin Poindexter because he has sat up in bed with you countless nights telling you about his nightmares about the man.

That monster shouldn’t be walking down the street with you, with his arm slung around your shoulder like you have some sort of casual relationship with him. You shouldn't be smiling and leaning into his hold, talking about nonsense while holding boutique shopping bags while he hides various weapons under his clothes.

You shouldn't be so intimate with Benjamin Poindexter.

You shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

Matt wants to run to you and pull you from Poindexter, then beat the man to a pulp for daring to even look at you, but he can’t move. He can’t move because he doesn’t understand why any of this is happening. It feels like his brain is breaking - or like his body has just had a factory reset and he needs to reboot.

“Do you want a coffee?” you ask Poindexter - exactly like you used to ask Matt every time you passed a coffee shop. It is sweet and tempting and incredibly clear that you are the one who wants coffee. You always want coffee.

Poindexter lifts his arm - checking his watch, Matt thinks - before answering in his faux Civilian voice that hides the monster he is, “it’s almost nine.”

“Like that means anything,” you fire back, your voice so light and happy as you bump your shoulder against Poindexter’s chest. “Please?”

The man laughs, almost sounding genuine with it and Matt’s hackles raise. He wants to storm over and rip out Bullseye’s voicebox, but he remains rooted to his spot in his Rage.

“You know I’ll never deny you anything, angel.”

Poindexter pretends to be a gentleman - he opens the door to the coffee shop for you, and when you get to the counter, he asks for a medium drip coffee and your preferred order. He pays with cash while Matt tries to not let out a feral scream.

He shouldn’t know how you take your coffee.

He shouldn’t have his arm around you.

He shouldn’t be calling you ‘angel’.

Matt finally gets his body to listen to him and he crosses the boundary out of the Kitchen, racing across rooftops and trying to figure out how the hell to get you to safety. Poindexter would have no qualms about killing you and everyone in the area and he can't allow that to happen.

He needs to lure the danger away from you.

But you don't seem to get you are in danger because as you wait for your coffee, you press yourself against Poindexter’s side again.

“Do you want to finish watching that movie?” You ask softly and Matt can practically taste the sweetness in your voice. He lets himself growl at it.

“I don't know, are you going to stay awake for it?”

“Dex!”

Matt hates that he can hear you smiling. He hates he can hear Poindexter smiling.

Then so suddenly it all changes.

Matt's best guess is you see something on the TV that is playing in the shop, as you are facing that way. Your heart starts pounding in your chest while the rest of you tenses up.

Your lower lip wobbles as you shakily gasp out the most terrified sound Matt has ever heard in his life.

His heart shatters at the word that slips from your lips.

“Dex.”

Bullseye is already moving.

He grabs you by the arm before you finish saying his name and he's three steps already towards the door. The barista looks on with confusion as the both of you practically run out the door, leaving your coffee behind.

The Devil in Matt roars to life and he pushes body to move faster.

Whatever you saw on the television is driving you into a full blown panic attack. Bullseye is marching you down the street at a brisk pace and you are right at his heels, clutching onto him almost as tightly as he is clutching onto you.

You keep repeating his name quietly, pleading and begging - but not in fear of him. You are asking him to help you.

You want his protection.

And Matt doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how you could ever be in the same space as Benjamin Poindexter. How you could interact so easily with him.

What had he done to you?

Stockholm syndrome wasn't supposed to be real but he knows Poindexter is an excellent manipulator. He tricked the FBI all those years into believing he was a person instead of a monster.

“It's going to be okay,” Bullseye firmly tells you. Gone is the fake ‘aren't I charming?’ voice. This is the hard voice of the man who killed Father Lantom without blinking an eye. The hand that isn't holding you is already holding three throwing knives and his eyes are darting around, looking for any excuse to use them.

He will mow down anyone in his way.

And Matt's still too far away to stop him.

By The Grace of God, no one tries to stop them.

It's not uncommon to see people running down the street, especially in a busier area like this. To anyone who might be bothered by the running, they just appear to be in a hurry.

Matt follows you deeper into Midtown and - to his great surprise - an upscale hotel. With actual security. You have to flash your key card at the entry before they will open the door and he is honestly surprised Bullseye doesn't kill the guard.

He ends his chase in the building across the street. He will need to figure out a way in without causing a scene.

He can't let Poindexter kill more people.

You quickly end up in the elevator, and Matt just stands there as you go higher and higher into the sky. The suite you swipe your door key at is around the corner from the stairwell and Matt doubts that by chance. Bullseye probably has every centimeter of the place mapped and it isn't going to be easy to get in.

Matt becomes lost in his planning, forgetting to focus on the fact you and Poindexter are now alone.

He doesn't expect it when you rip his heart out by swirling around and throwing yourself at Poindexter.

He, of course, catches you because he was already reaching for you. He crushes you to his chest with one arm while the other buries itself in your hair. He presses his forehead to the top of your head, which is hidden against his neck.

He silently squeezes you in the tightest bearhug he can before without hurting you while you weep. You crumble apart the seams and Matt can do nothing.

He is rooted to the roof of some department store as the man who almost ruined his life cradles the lover who walked out on him.

He cries along with the both of you.

He cries because he feels betrayed.

He cries because he doesn't know how this came to be.

He cries because he doesn't know why you are crying, but Benjamin Poindexter does.

Only when your body starts to give out and your sobs slow does Bullseye speak. His voice is raspy - he has been crying as well but Matt doesn't give a fuck about that - as he begs, “Please let me kill him. Please. I'll be quick, I'll be good. No suffering. Please. Let me kill all of them. Please.”

The words jolt Matt from his own thoughts and his breathing stops, waiting for your reply.

“No,” you reply, sounding so broken and exhausted. You dip your head and nuzzle yourself into his chest while he still holds you in a tight grip.

Matt can tell you've had this conversation before.

He’s starting to go numb inside. He doesn't understand what is going on. He doesn't understand why you are acting like this.

What had that monster done to you to desensitize you to death? Why didn't this bother you??

“Why?” Bullseye demands, his anger starting to become uncontrollable. His voice is becoming hard and he still has blades in his hands.

Matt needs to move, needs to stop him.

But he just stands there and listens.

You sigh, then step impossibly closer to Poindexter - you've slotted yourself completely between his thighs and your head is tucked under his chin. It's almost as close as you can be with clothes on and without fucking. The monster responds by filling any missing holes by hugging you that much tighter.

You are going to be covered in bruises.

“It will hurt more,” you barely breathe out. “If he's gone, it will hurt more. If he's just…. If he's just there, I can.” You are nodding as you are talking, like you are trying to convince yourself of your words.

Matt doesn't understand why you are trying to reason with Bullseye why Matt shouldn't be murdered in cold blood.

This isn't who you are.

What did he do to you?

“I can,” you start again, “ just ignore it. Hell's Kitchen just doesn't exist. That's what we said, yeah? It's not there.”

Matt’s weeping again.

What has happened to you in these five weeks that you sound so broken?

How could he have allowed this to happen? He was so sure he had been abandoned yet again that he let his Anger overshadow the fact that he was supposed to protect the people he loved.

He had purposefully ignored you and this was his sick punishment.

God had seen his wickedness and had sent the false Devil to punish him.

But it wasn't enough according to Poindexter.

“He deserves to be punished,” the man spits. “He hurt you. Let me kill him. I'll choke the life out of him. All of them.”

What did he do?

What did Matt do?

He missed a ballet performance - which is a little hard to follow without sight - so he could stop some lingering members of the Hand from getting dragon bones. He didn't deserve Death for that, however horrible he felt about it.

“It will hurt more,” you repeat softly and Matt does not understand this argument. You should be very clearly telling Bullseye not to kill Matt.

“If they are gone it will hurt more.” There's a beat of silence, then you ask in an almost sultry whisper. “Do you want me to hurt more, Dex?”

Matt understands what is happening.

You know how to manipulate Poindexter right back. You know you're his North Star and you know exactly what that means to him.

Morality won't work on Bullseye - he has no morals - but he is a practical slave to his obsession.

That's how you keep him from killing Matt.

Matt doesn't know if he should be grateful or if he should throw up.

This isn't you, this isn't how you act. Matt doesn't know what is wrong with you and that angers him and scares him.

You aren't pretending to be his North Star. You aren't saying the right things to keep him on the right path. This isn't an act.

Your words are true.

For whatever reason, you want to avoid Matt and cuddle up to Bullseye instead.

“N-never,” Poindexter stutters out, his entire demeanor shifting into something more submissive than aggressive. “They aren't going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” You are genuine in your words and Poindexter seems to sense that. He relaxes just slightly, and after a moment, pulls his head back so he can place his forehead against yours.

“Let me make you coffee. You go shower. We’ll watch your movie until you fall asleep on me. In the morning, we'll go anywhere you like.”

Matt's stomach turns as you start to pluck at Poindexter’s t-shirt. You've stopped crying, but your voice is still wet when you mumble, “I don't want to go out tomorrow.”

“Then we'll stay in.”

Matt drops to one knee as you pull away from Poindexter and head towards the shower. Your movements are sluggish and he's pretty sure you are starting to turn on auto-pilot.

Something about the idea of spying on you bathing doesn't sit well with him, so he focuses on the monster still in the bedroom.

Poindexter waits until the water starts before he moves. Then, in lighting fast steps, he's across the room and screaming into a pillow.

Matt doesn't care about his grief or rage. He just knows he needs to hurt Bullseye enough that he can be arrested and put back into a very deep hole.

Once the monster pretends to be a man again, Matt just keeps sitting there as Poindexter starts making coffee in the hotel provided pot. The grounds are store bought from a little bakery down the street from your old gym. They are your favorite.

Once the coffee is going, the shopping bags are unpacked - they had been dropped when you had entered the room. Poindexter shakes out everything, then neatly refolds it before setting all the garments in the laundry bag in the closet. His moments are precise.

Calculated.

OCD.

Your shower ends far quicker than expected. Less than five minutes from the door closing to the door opening.

You step out of the bathroom with your hair wet and completely nude. Your soap is scented like honey and oat. It's organic. It clings to your skin.

You haven't used it since you learned about Matt's senses.

The Devil in Matt's chest seeps down to his fist and they begin to shake as you walk towards Poindexter, who is openly oogling you. His eyes go right to your chest and he swallows like a nervous teenager.

“Can I have your shirt?”

The question is shy and hesitant and honest and Matt wants to break each and every one of Bullseye’s ribs.

Poindexter gives you his shirt like it was an order and he is a Good Soldier. You pull it on, and wearing only it, take the monster’s hand and lead him to bed.

There is no sex, despite what Matt was expecting.

You curl up on the bed, your head on his chest, and turn on a movie.

You fall asleep within minutes and Bullseye lays there and watches you sleep for the length of the movie.

Matt sits and keeps his senses focused on nothing else.

After the credits roll, Poindexter rewinds the movie back to exactly the point where you fell asleep before turning off the TV.

He's surprisingly gentle as he moves you to be sleeping on a pillow instead of his bare chest. He tucks you in under the blanket, then after a moment of hesitation, runs the back of his index finger over your cheek. “Good night, angel. I'll keep you safe.”

Matt's going to make sure to cut off his hand the next time they encounter each other.

Poindexter turns off all the lights in the room then moves to stand in the most defensively strategic point in the room. He falls into the relaxed stance of an ever alert soldier guarding the most precious of treasures - like he expects someone to come and he is ready for them.

Poindexter stays at his post all night and only when does the sun start to rise is when Matt's feet finally move.

As he returns to his apartment, Matt begins to question if Benjamin Poindexter is going to be the one to Damn him.

Just like how Dex won’t last any longer if this reporter kept clinging on to him. Some amateur writer eager to get a juicy headline instead of a hard hitting story. Dex barely remembers her name but she’s hanging off of his arm, going on and on about how excellent of an agent he is. He doesn't need telling, Dex knows. But he also knows this is a social networking event. Knows that there are cameras all around taking pictures of this interaction. Dex runs his hand down his face, thinking about how the media will spin it this time around.

The woman is too close, too much and too unlike you. Dex's mind is screaming at him. It's taking everything in him to not lose control and throw the glass he's holding to the wall. The grip on his drink makes his knuckles turn white. 

Dex remembers his mantra to be good, good for you. He can't lose control in public or leave a trail of dead bodies again. Not when your teary eyes and wobbly lips flashes behind his eyes every time some dumb motherfucker tries it. The memory of you being the only one there for him, besides Ray, when he was being used as a scapegoat. The evidence on his side was flimsy, and yet you stood strong beside him. Letting the goodness of your heart blind you to his true nature.

His violent tendencies remain shackled only because of you, your pretty hands and soft smiles that bring him back into the light. But it's so hard to be good when the reporter won't take the hint and loops her arm with his. Dex has to close his eyes and think of your perfectly imperfect smile, the melody of your laughter. His other hand not holding the glass faintly twitches, as if he's reaching out to your body in his prayers. But when he soothes the urge to throw something and cracks open his eyes, you aren't in his eyesight anymore.

There’s a faint buzzing in his ear.

He politely (as politely as he can, rage thrumming beneath his fingertips) separates his body from the reporter. Putting on his mask of a charming smile, spouting an excuse about “duty calling” as Dex points towards his boss.

The mask immediately drops as he turns back, shuffling his feet quickly over to where Ray is.

“We caught the culprit in- oh Dex?”

“Where is she?”

Colleagues stiffen at his interruption, stories of his eagerness to use lethal force spreading easily around the office. Ray takes notice of Dex’s rapidly blinking eyes, knows how much he depends on you.

“You just missed her, man. She left for the restroom, it's on the left past the hallway.” Ray supplies it with an easy smile, hoping to calm Dex.

He mutters out a thanks before making his way over to the restroom area. It’s more quiet in the hallway, thick walls muffling the jazz music in the ballroom. Dex thinks he hears a hint of an impact landing and frowns. Picking up his pace, he rounds the corner on the left just as you pull back the door to the ladies.

Dex feels his shoulders relax.

The furrow in his brows vanishing.

Buzzing softening in his ears until it's completely silent.

“Oh!” You jump slightly by his sudden appearance.

“Thought I lost you back there angel. You alright?” 

“Of course, my love. Just had to touch my makeup real quick.” A pretty smile forms on your lips, Dex feels like a lovesick teenager as the nickname falls from it.

Nothing he had worry about, Dex smiles to himself.

Except when you pull the door back a little wider to join Dex outside, his eyes flick up past your head. 

One of the sink mirrors is shattered, he notices.

A glance that ends as quickly as it started, as you tug his arm along. Leading the both of you back to the ballroom, your heels clicking against the hallway floor.

The confusion breezes past his mind when your familiar warmth envelops his bicep. Dex had nothing to worry about.

Dex has everything to worry about. Your routine’s completely changed the past 2 weeks. It started off small. The first week was closing your browser whenever he came around your office cubicle. Turning your phone off and setting it screen down on the table as he joined you on his couch. Dex’s jaw clenched everytime it happened.

The next week had him rescheduling your night dates. Citing extra workload and last minute cases. Dex would stare at your messages, as if burning holes into his phone would make you change your texts.

- My Angel -

sent Tuesday, 5.43 P.M. 

“my lovee, im so sorry but boss just pulled me in a meeting. think its a case briefing, can we reschedule? :((“

sent Thursday, 6.14 P.M.

“sorry lovey !! rookie from forensics messed up the field report and boss is being bitchy. gonna have to move our date.“

sent Sunday, 8.22 P.M.

“dex sorry but i had to go over to rays real quick. his wife called because sammy’s sick and ray’s obviously on that mission with you. don't wait up for me.”

Dex?

Since when the fuck did you call him Dex?

He’d read this specific message over and over. Grip tight around his phone. Not just because of you forgetting the nickname, but because Dex knew Sammy wasn't sick that night. He had bumped into Ray in the locker room while the married man was facetiming his wife. His partner in justice was the only friend he had, so Dex had begrudgingly gotten into frame when Ray beckoned him over. Even shyly entertained his wife’s questions about inviting you over for dinner again. Sammy had popped into frame at the mention of you, complaining that it had been too long since you had showed off your kitchen skills.

“Can she help teach dad how to butcher a turkey properly when you guys visit again? It was like a murder scene when dad tr- Ow!” Sammy’s rambling getting cut off by a soft smack on the head.

This morning was what pulled the last thread of his sanity apart.

Dex tried not to be overcontrolling and paranoid once you had accepted his (obsessive) love, and had started sleeping over at his black and white home sometimes. But that's proving difficult now, the 2 past weeks rattling the system in his brain. The wires fraying, close to snapping. 

Especially when a prime opportunity presented itself.

You were rushing to work on his off day, moving around too fast to notice your daily journal being left behind. It was unlike you to be late, but you'd been more tired lately. Yawning in the office, head drooping in meetings. You take 3 coffees now instead of 2. 5 shots of espresso now instead of 3. 

Dex wonders what's been keeping you away from sleep recently. He wishes he could go back to when he was stalking you. The time he knew where you were, what you were doing throughout the night. Was sure you were safe because he kept an eye on you himself.

His fingers twitch. The urge to reach out and just read your secrets growing.

Dex is just keeping you safe.

Yes, that's right. He’s doing this for your own good.

He gives in to the voice, opening your worn journal. Flipping to the past week and checking your whereabouts.

The buzzing is back.

Tuesday : 

Dunkin Donuts !!

Office - rmb to check evidence and restraining order for case #2937

The Bulletin 

Pizza hut

Birch Street, Higgins Drive Apartments, #09-213

It festers at the back of his mind.

Thursday :

Jimmy’s Breakfast Stop

Office 

Home Depot - supply run

Josie’s

Birch Street, Higgins Drive Apartments, #09-213

Drapes itself over his brain, darkness clouding his judgement.

Sunday :

Krispy Kreme

Office

Birch Street, Higgins Drive Apartments, #09-213 ♡

Dex can’t hear his heartbeat anymore.

He’s spiraling. The thumping of his heart clawing its way into his throat. The buzzing in his ears won't stop even when he presses his palms to his eyes. Dex is losing you. He’s lost you. So he lets that darkness guide him in the absence of your light. 

The familiarity of the scene doesn't surprise Dex. Him waiting out in his car to catch a glimpse of you. It does, however, make him nauseous. He thought he had made so much progress with you. For you. And now Dex is back to stalking you from afar. 

As if you hadn't looked up at him with gentle devotion.

As if you hadn't cradled his face, leaned your forehead against him in an act of sincere adoration. 

As if you hadn't interlocked your hands with his. His hands that he can never truly wash the blood off of. The interlocked hands that you kissed, like you could absolve him of the blood he’s spilt.

Dex inhales sharply when he spots you. Despite his mind descending into madness, he still recognises your shape, your white dress, you. Dex checks his gun one last time. It's not for you. No, never. He could never lay a hand on you. The bullet is for the other person. Whoever that stole you from him. You couldn't have initiated this. No, no. You must have been manipulated. Yes. Yes that must be it. You were coerced into this, and Dex is here to save you. Of course he is. How could you ever live without him ? How could he ever live without you?

A total of 10 minutes has passed. Dex figures now's the time to catch you in the act. Catch his angel by the wings.

He exits the car, gun safely tucked into the side of him.

Dex calmly makes his way over to the building. Thoughts hovering in his clouded mind.

How would he do it?

Dex presses all the buttons on the intercom, someone’s always waiting for someone.

Should he do it fast, a bullet through the heart?

The buzzing of the gate mixes with the buzzing in his head, and he enters the building.

Or make it slow and painful, throw a knife into the aorta.

The elevator carrying him ascends, as Dex’s grip on reality descends.

Maybe he should …

The door is ajar, like somebody broke in.

The buzzing in Dex’s mind makes him woozy, his body moving on autopilot to reach you. Forced entry? Are you okay? Is his angel okay?

Dex nearly launches himself at the door. His knees could give out with how relieved he is to see you. But something's wrong. Your dress is red now. You're all bloody. No. No. You're injured. Someone hurt you. Someone hurt his. He moves without his body even realising. Like a machine going back to its default setting. Taking care of you. Dex nearly trips over something but he doesn't care. All that matters right now is you. His angel. He scans your face and gets the blood splatter all over his hands. He’ll kill whoever was responsible for hurting you. He’d kill himself if he was the reason for this.

But something’s not making sense. Dex can't figure out where the blood is coming from. And you don't seem hurt, distraught or even surprised that he knew where you were. In fact, you look like you're glowing. Like you're coming off from a high. Dex tries to take a step back to examine you as a whole, but he feels something beneath his shoe.

It's a hand.

The buzzing reels back, slowly unveiling his eyes.

Two hands to be exact.

It untangles the claws in his brain.

Sitting in a sea of red.

Retreats to the back of his head.

Dex flicks his eyes to the right.

To the body.

It's the reporter.

Finally, silence.

"Well I figured ... if she couldn't keep her hands to herself ... then she didn't really deserve to have them no? That should teach her a lesson to not touch what's mine".

The words falling out of your mouth should send a chill down dex’s spine. Warning bells should sound off in the back of his mind. But Dex thinks you've never been more beautiful than at this moment.

Your white dress, a canvas for the blood that's still fresh and dripping down from the hem. The bloodlust in your eyes, sparkling with hunger. Chest heaving, sweat trickling down your face from the physical exertion. Your smile is sickeningly sweet.

The clash of your voice against the image of you, like sweet little red riding hood masquerading as the wolf in the enchanted forest.  

Dex removes his hold from your cheeks, letting them fall. He interlocks his fingers with yours, more blood smearing onto his hands. Bringing them close to his lips, he leans down a little. Planting a kiss to your bloody knuckles.

You were Dex’s salvation. And now he’ll be yours. 

A fallen angel. His fallen angel. Dex wants to trace the scars from the wings on your back, get lost in the void of your sinful eyes. Dex would gladly fall down, down, down into the depths of depravity if it meant he could burn right alongside you.

a/n : hehe did you catch the easter egg of jessica jones's childhood home address ? hope the sprinkles of reader's true nature peeking through was easy to understand too :)

He doesn’t remember the fight that much - it had been an extremely long and painful night involving the Hand and he had gotten a pretty decent concussion - but he does remember coming back to his apartment to find every trace of you gone and your key on his coffee table. It had been clear you had left him and Matt’s bitterness and anger at Everything had him making the decision that he wasn’t going to chase after you.

Maybe, if hadn’t been so stubborn and bullheaded, he would have let himself patrol by your apartment. He had avoided everywhere you liked to frequent and it was easy to not think of what he was doing. He hasn't had a moment's rest in months between his day life and nightlife. He kept himself too busy to let himself think about you.

Maybe, if he didn’t have the Devil in him he would have tried to call you. Foggy and Karen pestered at him until he snapped and threw his cell phone through a wall. They didn't mention you after that and he assumes they think you were avoiding them.

Maybe, if he wasn't such a fuck up.

Maybe, if he had done anything.

Check in.

Talk to you.

Maybe - just maybe - he would have realized your apartment has been empty for weeks.

That your phone goes straight to voicemail.

That you had dropped out of your production and hadn’t shown up to your gym since then. None of your friends had seen you.

He had filed a missing person’s report and it had been Mahoney who flatly told him you weren't missing - you had willingly decided to disappear. You weren't breaking any laws - all your bills were up to speed - so there was nothing to be done.

Case closed.

Maybe, if he had listened when Karen had insisted something was wrong he would have pushed more, but you Left and he could not take it.

Maybe, just maybe.

Matt stands frozen at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen with his heart in his throat, listening as your sweet, light laugh mixes with that of Benjamin Poindexter’s.

He knows you know all about Bullseye. Matt has told you all about Bullseye.

He knows you know his name, his face, what he did, what he does, and that the man should be locked away where no sunlight can ever reach him. Matt knows you know every detail about Benjamin Poindexter because he has sat up in bed with you countless nights telling you about his nightmares about the man.

That monster shouldn’t be walking down the street with you, with his arm slung around your shoulder like you have some sort of casual relationship with him. You shouldn't be smiling and leaning into his hold, talking about nonsense while holding boutique shopping bags while he hides various weapons under his clothes.

You shouldn't be so intimate with Benjamin Poindexter.

You shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

Matt wants to run to you and pull you from Poindexter, then beat the man to a pulp for daring to even look at you, but he can’t move. He can’t move because he doesn’t understand why any of this is happening. It feels like his brain is breaking - or like his body has just had a factory reset and he needs to reboot.

“Do you want a coffee?” you ask Poindexter - exactly like you used to ask Matt every time you passed a coffee shop. It is sweet and tempting and incredibly clear that you are the one who wants coffee. You always want coffee.

Poindexter lifts his arm - checking his watch, Matt thinks - before answering in his faux Civilian voice that hides the monster he is, “it’s almost nine.”

“Like that means anything,” you fire back, your voice so light and happy as you bump your shoulder against Poindexter’s chest. “Please?”

The man laughs, almost sounding genuine with it and Matt’s hackles raise. He wants to storm over and rip out Bullseye’s voicebox, but he remains rooted to his spot in his Rage.

“You know I’ll never deny you anything, angel.”

Poindexter pretends to be a gentleman - he opens the door to the coffee shop for you, and when you get to the counter, he asks for a medium drip coffee and your preferred order. He pays with cash while Matt tries to not let out a feral scream.

He shouldn’t know how you take your coffee.

He shouldn’t have his arm around you.

He shouldn’t be calling you ‘angel’.

Matt finally gets his body to listen to him and he crosses the boundary out of the Kitchen, racing across rooftops and trying to figure out how the hell to get you to safety. Poindexter would have no qualms about killing you and everyone in the area and he can't allow that to happen.

He needs to lure the danger away from you.

But you don't seem to get you are in danger because as you wait for your coffee, you press yourself against Poindexter’s side again.

“Do you want to finish watching that movie?” You ask softly and Matt can practically taste the sweetness in your voice. He lets himself growl at it.

“I don't know, are you going to stay awake for it?”

“Dex!”

Matt hates that he can hear you smiling. He hates he can hear Poindexter smiling.

Then so suddenly it all changes.

Matt's best guess is you see something on the TV that is playing in the shop, as you are facing that way. Your heart starts pounding in your chest while the rest of you tenses up.

Your lower lip wobbles as you shakily gasp out the most terrified sound Matt has ever heard in his life.

His heart shatters at the word that slips from your lips.

“Dex.”

Bullseye is already moving.

He grabs you by the arm before you finish saying his name and he's three steps already towards the door. The barista looks on with confusion as the both of you practically run out the door, leaving your coffee behind.

The Devil in Matt roars to life and he pushes body to move faster.

Whatever you saw on the television is driving you into a full blown panic attack. Bullseye is marching you down the street at a brisk pace and you are right at his heels, clutching onto him almost as tightly as he is clutching onto you.

You keep repeating his name quietly, pleading and begging - but not in fear of him. You are asking him to help you.

You want his protection.

And Matt doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how you could ever be in the same space as Benjamin Poindexter. How you could interact so easily with him.

What had he done to you?

Stockholm syndrome wasn't supposed to be real but he knows Poindexter is an excellent manipulator. He tricked the FBI all those years into believing he was a person instead of a monster.

“It's going to be okay,” Bullseye firmly tells you. Gone is the fake ‘aren't I charming?’ voice. This is the hard voice of the man who killed Father Lantom without blinking an eye. The hand that isn't holding you is already holding three throwing knives and his eyes are darting around, looking for any excuse to use them.

He will mow down anyone in his way.

And Matt's still too far away to stop him.

By The Grace of God, no one tries to intervene.

It's not uncommon to see people running down the street, especially in a busier area like this. To anyone who might be bothered by the running, you just appear to be in a hurry.

Matt follows you deeper into Midtown and - to his great surprise - an upscale hotel. With actual security. You have to flash your key card at the entry before they will open the door and he is honestly surprised Bullseye doesn't kill the guard.

He ends his chase in the building across the street. He will need to figure out a way in without causing a scene.

He can't let Poindexter kill more people.

You quickly end up in the elevator, and Matt just stands there as you go higher and higher into the sky. The suite you swipe your door key at is around the corner from the stairwell and Matt doubts that by chance. Bullseye probably has every centimeter of the place mapped and it isn't going to be easy to get in.

Matt becomes lost in his planning, forgetting to focus on the fact you and Poindexter are now alone.

He doesn't expect it when you rip his heart out by swirling around and throwing yourself at Poindexter.

He, of course, catches you because he was already reaching for you. He crushes you to his chest with one arm while the other buries itself in your hair. He presses his forehead to the top of your head, which is hidden against his neck.

He silently squeezes you in the tightest bearhug he can before without hurting you while you weep. You crumble apart the seams and Matt can do nothing.

He is rooted to the roof of some department store as the man who almost ruined his life cradles the lover who walked out on him.

He cries along with the both of you.

He cries because he feels betrayed.

He cries because he doesn't know how this came to be.

He cries because he doesn't know why you are crying, but Benjamin Poindexter does.

Only when your body starts to give out and your sobs slow does Bullseye speak. His voice is raspy - he has been crying as well but Matt doesn't give a fuck about that - as he begs, “Please let me kill him. Please. I'll be quick, I'll be good. No suffering. Please. Let me kill all of them. Please.”

The words jolt Matt from his own thoughts and his breathing stops, waiting for your reply.

“No,” you mumble, sounding so broken and exhausted. You dip your head and nuzzle yourself into his chest while he still holds you in a tight grip.

Matt can tell you've had this conversation before.

He’s starting to go numb inside. He doesn't understand what is going on. He doesn't understand why you are acting like this.

What had that monster done to you to desensitize you to death? Why didn't this bother you?

“Why?” Bullseye demands, his anger starting to become uncontrollable. His voice is getting hard and he still has blades in his hands.

Matt needs to move, needs to stop him.

But he just stands there and listens.

You sigh, then step impossibly closer to Poindexter - you've slotted yourself completely between his thighs and your head is tucked under his chin. It's almost as close as you can be with clothes on and without fucking. The monster responds by filling any missing holes by hugging you that much tighter.

You are going to be covered in bruises.

“It will hurt more,” you barely breathe out. “If he's gone, it will hurt more. If he's just…. If he's just there, I can.” You are nodding as you are talking, like you are trying to convince yourself of your words.

Matt doesn't understand why you are trying to reason with Bullseye why Matt shouldn't be murdered in cold blood.

This isn't who you are.

What did he do to you?

“I can,” you start again, “just ignore it. Hell's Kitchen just doesn't exist. That's what we said, yeah? It's not there.”

Matt’s weeping again.

What has happened to you in these five weeks that you sound so broken?

How could he have allowed this to happen? He was so sure he had been abandoned yet again that he let his Anger overshadow the fact that he was supposed to protect the people he loved.

He had purposefully ignored you and this was his sick punishment.

God had seen his wickedness and had sent the false Devil to punish him.

But it wasn't enough according to Poindexter.

“He deserves to be punished,” the man spits. “He hurt you. Let me kill him. I'll choke the life out of him. All of them.”

What did he do?

What did Matt do?

He missed a ballet performance - which is a little hard to follow without sight - so he could stop some lingering members of the Hand from getting dragon bones. He didn't deserve Death for that, however horrible he felt about it.

“It will hurt more,” you repeat softly and Matt does not understand this argument. You should be very clearly telling Bullseye not to kill Matt.

“If they are gone it will hurt more.” There's a beat of silence, then you ask in an almost sultry whisper. “Do you want me to hurt more, Dex?”

Matt understands what is happening.

You know how to manipulate Poindexter right back. You know you're his North Star and you know exactly what that means to him.

Morality won't work on Bullseye - he has no morals - but he is a practical slave to his obsession.

That's how you keep him from killing Matt.

Matt doesn't know if he should be grateful or if he should throw up.

This isn't you, this isn't how you act. Matt doesn't know what is wrong with you and that angers him and scares him.

You aren't pretending to be his North Star. You aren't saying the right things to keep him on the right path. This isn't an act.

Your words are true.

For whatever reason, you want to avoid Matt and cuddle up to Bullseye instead.

“N-never,” Poindexter stutters out, his entire demeanor shifting into something more submissive than aggressive. “They aren't going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” You are genuine in your words and Poindexter seems to sense that. He relaxes just slightly, and after a moment, pulls his head back so he can place his forehead against yours.

“Let me make you coffee. You go shower. We’ll watch your movie until you fall asleep on me. In the morning, we'll go anywhere you like.”

Matt's stomach turns as you start to pluck at Poindexter’s t-shirt. You've stopped crying, but your voice is still wet when you mumble, “I don't want to go out tomorrow.”

“Then we'll stay in.”

Matt drops to one knee as you pull away from Poindexter and head towards the shower. Your movements are sluggish and he's pretty sure you are starting to turn on auto-pilot.

Something about the idea of spying on you bathing doesn't sit well with him, so he focuses on the monster still in the bedroom.

Poindexter waits until the water starts before he moves. Then, in lighting fast steps, he's across the room and screaming into a pillow.

Matt doesn't care about his grief or rage. He just knows he needs to hurt Bullseye enough that he can be arrested and put back into a very deep hole.

Once the monster pretends to be a man again, Matt just keeps sitting there as Poindexter starts making coffee in the hotel provided pot. The grounds are store bought from a little bakery down the street from your old gym. They are your favorite.

Once the coffee is going, the shopping bags are unpacked - they had been dropped when you had entered the room. Poindexter shakes out everything, then neatly refolds it before setting all the garments in the laundry bag in the closet. His moments are precise.

Calculated.

OCD.

Your shower ends far quicker than expected. Less than five minutes from the door closing to the door opening.

You step out of the bathroom with your hair wet and completely nude. Your soap is scented like honey and oat. It's organic. It clings to your skin.

You haven't used it since you learned about Matt's senses.

The Devil in Matt's chest seeps down to his fist and they begin to shake as you walk towards Poindexter, who is openly oogling you. His eyes go right to your chest and he swallows like a nervous teenager.

“Can I have your shirt?”

The question is shy and hesitant and honest and Matt wants to break each and every one of Bullseye’s ribs.

Poindexter gives you his shirt like it was an order and he is a Good Soldier. You pull it on, and wearing only it, take the monster’s hand and lead him to bed.

There is no sex, despite what Matt was expecting.

You curl up, your head on his chest, and turn on a movie.

You fall asleep within minutes and Bullseye lays there and watches you sleep for the remainder of the film.

Matt sits and keeps his senses focused on nothing else.

After the credits roll, Poindexter rewinds the movie back to exactly the point where you fell asleep before turning off the TV.

He's surprisingly gentle as he moves you to be sleeping on a pillow instead of his bare chest. He tucks you in under the blanket, then after a moment of hesitation, runs the back of his index finger over your cheek. “Good night, angel. I'll keep you safe.”

Matt's going to make sure to cut off his hand the next time they encounter each other.

Poindexter turns off all the lights in the room then moves to stand in the most defensively strategic point in the room. He falls into the relaxed stance of an ever alert soldier guarding the most precious of treasures - like he expects someone to come and he is ready for them.

Poindexter stays at his post all night and only when the sun start to rise is when Matt's feet finally move.

As he returns to his apartment, Matt begins to question if Benjamin Poindexter is going to be the one to Damn him.

  you happily accept, sighing into the kiss. you pull away, huffing as you kick your shoes off and drop your keys into the dish. " it's too damn hot, " you moan, leaning against the small table by the door, slightly bent over as you soak up the slightly cooler air of the his place. " can barely keep my thoughts together, "

  Wade's an easy man to get going — his eyes landing on your slightly bent over figure, watching you pant a little as you try to cool down — and he already finds himself eager to help you out.

  he crowds you from behind, slender hands grabbing your hips as he leans down to press kisses to your bare shoulders and the back of your neck. his lips slightly sliding against the sweaty skin. he never minded, if anything it got him going even more. " i know a way you can relax, " he trails, pulling your hips against his.

  you drop your head as you breathe in the heated pleasure of his lips and hips. " 's too warm, " you moan, shaking your head. 

  one of his large hands trails up your front, till his slender fingers loosely wrap around your throat, pulling your back flush against him. " do you trust me? " he mutters, lips dragging against your sweaty throat. 

  you pant against him, " 'course i do, Wade, " you breathe.

  he grins against your skin, " then trust that this'll both cool you off and relax you, real good, baby. " 

  you shudder at his words, one of your hands coming up to cup his hand that's covering your throat. you give his hand a squeeze, and he answers with a squeeze of his fingers, pulling a strained sound from you at the pressure around your throat. " okay, " you pant, pushing your hips back into his.

  Wade grins wickedly, he's got a few tricks up his sleeve to cool you down.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

  and that's how you ended up here — wrists cuffed to the bedframe, your legs draped over Wade's hips as he fills you so damn good, while dragging ice cubes across your hot skin. it's been going on for nearly an hour.

  you squirm against his thighs, aching for him to move, to fuck you deep and rough, but he remains still — occasionally bucking his hips up into yours when you clench around him.

  " that's it, pretty girl, i told you i'd cool you down? fuuck, you're doin’ so well, baby. " he groans, trailing the ice cube with his fingers around your tits, leaving cold water in its wake. 

  you moan, pulsing around him. you're so painfully close from this alone, the icy sting from the ice cube and the absolutely stuffed-full feeling from his twitching cock is sending your brain into a frenzy. " so- full, " you pant, squirming against the cuffs. " can't-- " you moan as he bucks his hips into yours, " can't think, "

  Wade grins at your words, pulling back his hips a little so he can slam up into again. " don't worry, i'll make sure you're so full you don't have room to think, " he grunts, leaning down to press his lips to yours, the ice cube slipping between his lips and into yours. you let out the most lewd moan at the feeling, your tongue fighting his over the cold cube.

  he pulls away, cold water dripping from his lips to yours. " i'll do all the thinkin’ for you, yeah? " his hand slides up your throat again, fingers splaying against the skin before gently squeezing.

  you clench around him, causing him to buck up into you. " you want me to help you cum, sweet thing? " he pants, slowly rocking his hips back and forth. he let's out a guttural groan, " god, with the way you're squeezin' me i don't think you need much longer, " the statement causing you to clench around him again. " yeah? you gonna cum from me barely doing anything? c'mon, baby. fuuuckk, that's it. "

  your face contorts with pure pleasure as his hips rock against yours, cock dragging deliciously against your walls. you can't do anything but sputter out nonsense, the feeling of a new ice cube dragging around your hardened nipples sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

  your hips tremble under the drag of the ice cube, slowly trailing down your stomach. a strained moan is pulled from your throat as the ice cube trails down between your thighs, the contact of the cold water against your clit driving you over the edge. " oh fuck- shit-- " you're moan, Wade's moans swirling around yours as your walls spasm around him.

  with each rock of his hips he finds himself getting closer and closer, aching cock twitching as you cum around him. " that's it, pretty girl. oh that's it, c'mon give it all to me, " he groans, his hips picking up his pace. he doesn't last long after you've cum, brows furrowing as he nears his climax. he leans down to press his lips against yours, an ice cube slipping back and forth between each others lips.

  he stills his hips with a final rough thrust, his cock twitching against yours walls as he paints them with his spend, thick ropes fill you up. 

  Wade pulls back from the kiss, letting you savour the ice cube between your own as he leans his forehead against yours. you both pant, sweaty chests heaving as they're pressed together. he leans down again, his tongue dipping between your lips to slip the ice cube back into his mouth. you clench around him at the action, eyes falling shut as he drags his lips down your sternum with the ice cube trailing along.

  he drags his lips back up, lining every feature on your face with his cold, wet lips before pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. he leans back, big hands clicking the cuffs loose as he pulls your hands free. your arms around around his neck in an instant, pulling his sweaty figure to atop you with his face buried against your neck. " fuckin’ hell, " you pant, dragging your nails through his hair.

  he chuckles against your skin, " i told you i'd make you relax and cool you down, didn't i? " he teasingly nips at your skin, the action rewarding him with a low moan from your lips. " now, how 'bout a nice cool bath to get you clean, sweet thing? i'll rub those sore muscles o’yours, 'n take care of you, " he trails kisses across the expanse of your throat, trailing down your collarbones.

  you lift his head by gently tugging on his hair, pulling his lips against yours. " that sounds amazing, honey, " you moan, hips shuddering as you can feel him slowly harden again inside you, his hips slowly dragging back and forth.

  he grins against your lips, " i promise i'll be sweet 'n gentle, " he pants, his hips pressing himself deeper inside you before slowly pulling out again. " i'll take such good care o'you, baby, fuck- i promise, "

「 authors note,, the temperature has been picking up where i live, so this felt perfect to write 🫠🫠. ꜜwade taglist,, @imnez-daydreams @karinas-void.」

    " that's it, pretty girl, i told you i'd cool you down? fuuck, you're doin’ so well, baby. " he groans, trailing the ice cube with his fingers around your tits, leaving cold water in its wake. 

pretty girl is sooo hehehe. rahhh somehow wade tasing reader with ice cubes while not moving his hips is kinda more hotter than if he was. nice.

  Wade grins at your words, pulling back his hips a little so he can slam up into again. " don't worry, i'll make sure you're so full you don't have room to think, " he grunts, leaning down to press his lips to yours, the ice cube slipping between his lips and into yours. you let out the most lewd moan at the feeling, your tongue fighting his over the cold cube.

  he pulls away, cold water dripping from his lips to yours. " i'll do all the thinkin’ for you, yeah? " his hand slides up your throat again, fingers splaying against the skin before gently squeezing.

AAA dumbification kink go brrr. wade telling reader they dont have to think, just feel. "ill do all the thinking for you" is MMMM. and then and then omg the ice cube !! wade and reader kissing and sharing the ice cube in between their tongues. omygawddd thats so hottt.

  with each rock of his hips he finds himself getting closer and closer, aching cock twitching as you cum around him. " that's it, pretty girl. oh that's it, c'mon give it all to me, " he groans, his hips picking up his pace. he doesn't last long after you've cum, brows furrowing as he nears his climax. he leans down to press his lips against yours, an ice cube slipping back and forth between each others lips.

pretty girl !!! the ice cube sharing again aaa makes me kick my feet and twirl my hair !!

  Wade pulls back from the kiss, letting you savour the ice cube between your own as he leans his forehead against yours. you both pant, sweaty chests heaving as they're pressed together. he leans down again, his tongue dipping between your lips to slip the ice cube back into his mouth. you clench around him at the action, eyes falling shut as he drags his lips down your sternum with the ice cube trailing along.

GRRRR stop this country boy !! hes making me weak in the knees !! awhh the aftercare at the end is so sweet :")) need that yeehaw man that can never keep his shirt on for longer than 0.2 seconds so bad.

Maybe it's true — This new backbone is trying to eat the old Dex. 

You look at it every time he's shirtless; the scar is rugged, like any other, but something about it makes you feel weird. It's not disgust, it's so different from that. Disgust would be good. 

You didn't think you'd see him again after everything fell apart. You didn't even know about his sentence; it all happened incredibly fast, and you weren't even that close before. Your thing was more private and quiet, with gentle hands helping him undress and offering him a snack afterward — It always amazed you that a man with more years on him than you looked to you for comfort. He liked how distantly kind you were. 

And one day, he just stopped showing up at your door. You wait for him to do the same thing now, but he is yet here after two weeks. 

Dex is just as clean and neat, so it's like you're still the only one living in the place, at least during the day. When night falls, it's a whole different story. You don't have a couch to offer him, so he sleeps next to you in your tiny bed, your arms and legs colliding. When he sweats, it's your clothes that get soaked. You haven't been able to sleep well since, and you don't even want to broach the subject of all the times you've woken up and found Dex watching you sleep, as if making sure you're not going anywhere. 

It takes you a while to notice it, even when you've had this same apartment from the moment you left the nest. But when you do, your teacup drops to the floor with a crash, and the hot liquid splashes your clothes. Dex rushes toward you with a dishtowel, worry marking his age-hardened features. He dries your pants, kneeling in front of you, so frantically that it seems theatrical.

“Why is there a scalpel here?” you ask, and the sentence is so strange it feels like you're reading it off a piece of paper that's been through several hands before, Courier 12 bleeding. The man's head moves mechanically toward your nightstand. His eyebrows raise perfectly and his fingers fiddle with the band of your pajamas. 

“I thought we were ready to try something other than needles” he mutters, as if it were something obvious. “You really liked them”. He had to figure it out for you first, and he did from a while back when you both tried to make this work like normal people and go on a friendly outing together. You are always away from others, but most of all, away from you. Your calm nature hides something else that he noticed the first time he saw you in Di Fara's line and that is what attracted him to you in the first place. 

You frown slightly and arrange his wheat blond locks that were disarranged with his urgency. You hope he doesn't notice that your palms have started to sweat again and your cheeks have flushed.

“I think we should talk about it another time, dear” you suggest gently. Rejection is a touchy subject for him and you know it. “It's been a long week, I'm pretty sure there are cops making rounds nearby.”

Dex's expression freezes, his lips forming a pout for a moment before he fixes his face and gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Of course.”

He lets it rest for a while. The days grow longer between you especially as you leave the apartment and see oddly straight people around every corner. Outside, things are going to hell not so gradually. The anti-vigilante task force has shown a brutality that makes your hair stand on end, but there is a certain comfort in knowing you have Dex here with you. The last time you were questioned years ago you made it very clear that there was nothing sentimental between you, but then they were regular useless cops. Not that it was a lie; there was nothing sentimental between you and anyone. He was the guy you met at a pizzeria and had sex with from time to time. You didn't go into too much detail, it's not like you were going to talk about how you were choking Dex with a belt and it caused gratification for both of you. It would have been like feeding the vultures, sooner or later reaching tabloid reporters who couldn't get enough of kicking the corpse of the once award-winning FBI agent's reputation.

You keep noticing policemen in the area. You ponder inviting them over for coffee leaning on the kitchen counter, a package of cookies you never buy, new and open for them while Dex hides under your bed. It would be a risky move, but at least whatever had to happen would happen and you could finally rest knowing whether you were imagining being watched or not.

The nights that follow are even more unsettling. Unlike Dex, you're not used to being sleep deprived. You find yourself standing in front of your sink during the mornings, eyes cast down and shoulders hunched. Dex is breathing down the back of your neck, his hands on your waist and eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror. He is waiting. You try to resist, you really think crossing that line would be terrible for both of you. Dex has been through enough. But all this pressure is eating you up. You've never been one to have nightmares on a regular basis, until now. You've always kept yourself out of a lot of things — held back. Maybe it's the warmth of Dex's body next to you; it's like creating a culture with all that heat that only gets worse after the ensuing blackouts the Mayor has the city cowed with. 

It is during one of these power outages that you actually feel it. Dex's sweaty back is pressed against yours, you feel him breathing without you being fully asleep. You're somewhere between the line so thin between sleep and consciousness that you feel it like an electric shock on the back of your neck. Something moves in his back against yours. You swallow and lie still, trying to convince yourself it's a bad dream. But you felt it, you still feel it. You don't want to turn around and lift his shirt to feel his naked back. You don't want to know if it's all in your head or not even though you know you're being totally irrational.  

You breathe heavily against your pillow, your heart hammering in your chest so hard that it rumbles in your ears. Your eyes travel to your nightstand where you didn't dare touch that scalpel since you noticed it and that Dex didn't bother to put away either. You swallow and close your eyes tightly. These are just silly ideas. There's nothing under the blond man's skin that isn't tissue, cold bones, muscle and blood. 

That dries your mouth. 

Your hand stretches out on its own, trembling and with gnawed fingernails. Just as you feel the cool metal between your fingers, you feel Dex turn in his sleep, so you pull your hand back toward your chest to hide it there. 

If you were to turn, you would notice the perfectly open eyes of the man next to you.

After that, you try to keep your distance. You know something else is going on, but you don't dare confront him about it. He needs you, you can't just let him down like the rest of the people in his life.

Dex follows you to the door when you tell him you'll get dinner the next night, his bent knuckles twitching nervously as you kiss his cheek ever so lightly. Everything will be fine, you tell yourself, catching out of the corner of your eye the glint of the earring on the inner cartilage fold of his ear.

It's a silly thing that does it. 

Local businesses are going into a crisis thanks to the chaos in the city, so you can't really blame them for the price increase. The problem is, your favorite pizza now doesn't end in a round, closed number. Ninety-nine cents, not a full fucking dollar. Why not charge the full dollar? You stare at the guy behind the cash register like he just spit in your face. 

Shaking like a leaf, you return defeated to your apartment with a pizza box half broccoli and sausage, half just cheese, eight in the evening with a minute late, almost on time for curfew. 

“You okey there?” Dex asks you with a worried expression that makes him look like a kicked puppy. You nod, neck contracted and lips tight.

“Peachy” you reply, voice shaky. You drop the pizza box on the kitchen counter. “I just need a shower.” 

You strip, folding your clothes to perfection before you start shivering, crumpling them into a ball and tossing them towards the empty laundry basket. Under the stream of hot water, you let your skin turn red, eyes fixed on your clean, neatly trimmed toenails. You're not angry, just... disconcerted. Change has never been easy. You end up crouched under the shower head, the scalding drops hitting your back. You hear Dex's footsteps heading for the door and roll your shoulders. His heaviness is contagious. 

You emerge wrapped in your fluffy towel and Dex steps back a few steps, his distraught expression tight on his face. 

“You're acting weird.... you know you can talk to me” he begins, reaching out his hands to you to cradle your face. This new confidence of his gives you chills. “Did something happen outside?” 

In his brown eyes you find that need to please that dries your mouth and keeps you from pulling away from him. But you feel yourself start to crack.

“I noticed,” you say, your teeth chewing on the words. “There's something inside your back.” You don't know how to explain it, it's like you're boned too, feet light as you walk to your bedside table and pick up the scalpel. “I need to know.”

You expect him to be horrified by your implication, but his eyes darken in the same way they did last time. This is something he wanted and got somehow. Such a brat, he's already taking off his shirt and lying on the bed face down. That should set all the alarm bells in your head ringing, but you're already far gone. 

You doubt, doubt like any ordinary person who has a fugitive who has tried to assassinate the mayor, among other crimes, hiding in their home. You can almost laugh at your own absurdity. And even so, you end up on top of him, your legs imprisoning his hips, hands running over the man's incredibly smooth skin, his perfect shoulder blades and chiseled muscles. 

“Dex” you call his name, foreign voice. "Dex I... I don't want to hurt you. Not like this... this is not..."

“But I want you to” is not gentle the way he makes it clear to you. It's a demand. 

Your breath quickens and you know you can't have a margin for error when it comes to any of his whims. You should stay collected, do things properly, go get some gloves and just make it all as clinical as before. But deep down, you want to make a mess of it. And that's the truth and has been the truth for a while. Always so composed, someday you had to throw in the towel.

You stay unusually quiet for a long while and Dex remains on your bed as immovable as a dead man. You are not ignorant of your own heavy breathing, the tightness in your chest from the way your heart pumps so hard. When you press the sharp blade against the start of his scar, you clearly hear his little whimper before you can even open his skin. So sensitive. A bead of sweat runs down your temple and your eyes are so fixed on the thickened skin that you swear it's getting bigger. 

You both are surrounded by heat. Between your legs you feel your flesh throbbing and rub yourself against his round ass. He turns his face, cheek flattened against the mattress and eyelashes fluttering. "Please" he begs, knowing you don't know how to say no when asked so sweetly. "I need to feel you really inside me".

Sweet things like him are your weakness. You want to feel them against your tongue, swallow them whole.

You feel the tiredness that's been building up on your shoulders all these days. Getting done with this is how you can finally rest. You fool yourself like you fool others because these excuses only get you to the end of an alley while Dex's enormous figure follows close behind. You press the blade again, drawing shapes without actually cutting. The hairs on the back of the man's neck stand up; you hear him babble before stopping again. Doubt is easy, doubt is an old friend.

You close your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply to try to find that rationality in you that has characterized you so much all your life. But you know better than this. You want to. Dex sniffs your fear and rolls his hips against the mattress, a raging erection that has already begun to leak precum soaking your sheets. You should think about that, about how dirty everything will be afterwards with his fluids, but as you do, you only feel your crotch throbbing harder. Desire knocks you down with the force of a typhoon and the only refuge you have left is inside Dex's flesh. 

You want to feel it; you want to feel the moist, hot interior covering you completely, a warmly wet, slimy blanket you can wear over your own skin so as not to leave it bare - You and Dex are each other's refuge. 

Bleary-eyed and biting your lower lip, you make the incision with one trembling hand holding the scalpel and another sweaty one pressed against the blond's shoulder blades to keep him in place. You almost let out a squeal when Dex moves only to make friction on his cock as you make him bleed. You don't go that deep, you don't want to risk it. But that inner soft and pale pink barrier between bone and skin makes you start drooling in earnest. You can't help it, you end up leaning over him, lapping on him, tongue pressed against the wound as if it were a cunt. The salty, metallic tang floods you, barely the tip and your senses are already immersed in its taste. 

You know if you don't stop you can do real damage. Your sight returns to your hands, the one holding the instrument and the other sweaty and now drenched with Dex's blood. Your tongue is the same, orange red slime and more excuses to give. 

“That's enough” you say, even as the puddle in your lower belly begs you not to stop. “I... I'm not built like you.” 

You can't see Dex's reaction and honestly, you prefer it that way. If he was looking at you with his big brown, pleading eyes you know you'd do worse. You pull back gently, clutching the scalpel like it's the only real thing in this room. He joins you too, his arm shooting out at you to keep you from leaving.

“I'm sorry” he murmurs with urgency, preventing you from separating from him, fingers like a hook holding you in place. “I just wanted to make you happy.”

You shake your head, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. You feel like a horrible person. So fucked up you're afraid of how much you really liked this. Needles and body modifications are one thing, the folks who do them do it with care and restraint and sometimes they just do it for the art they can do with the human body. What you felt you were doing was nothing like that. 

“It's not your fault” you reply quietly. 

“I was thinking about what you told me last time...that you would give me your teeth so I wouldn't have to hurt myself” he reminds you. "This is what I thought we were doing here. If you do it with me, I don't have to do it. If I did it it wouldn't feel right, it wouldn't be this."

Neither of you know how to comfort the other the way normal people do. You want to help him, to hug him. But you know that won't help. 

“If it helps, if anything you can have from me helps, you know you can take it,” you assure him, your stained hand positioning itself over the area of his back you didn't cut to caress it with care. Gentle, you've always been a helper when it comes to him.

Always getting it right must feel more than good. Sometimes you think about asking Dex if it's the same as having an orgasm. The satisfaction in his gaze when you offer yourself up again should give you a more concrete answer than he could make up to answer you. You lie back on the bed, your towel already dry covering your bed as you let the ends fall to your sides to expose yourself. Dex looks down at you, barely able to hide his cocky grin. He can now clearly see all your soft, wet parts and ready to be mauled by him. 

There is no foreplay for you, as there was none for him.

Dex has you bend your knees on the bed, soles of your feet flat on the mattress, almost as if it were some kind of medical exam. Nothing between you two has ever felt more clinical. He rubs the tip of his cock against your entrance, moistening you with his precum. He feels the accelerated rhythm of your heart in your hole, throbbing and trembling. At least this time he gives you a little time to adjust to him before going deeper, his eyes fixed on yours. He wants to see that overflowing joy when it starts to get uncomfortable for you, his girth making you grit your teeth.

He's a sack of bricks on top of you. His weight sinks your mattress and his hands spread your legs apart — you've changed too. Hand still clutching the scalpel shakily, this old you that you have always been you and this new him that has even more empty parts than the old him, overlap over each other. He wants you to accompany him in his solitude and fear yourself. Dex can't face the deep water abyss alone so he prefers to make you see the most unpleasant parts in you. Fear is good, he will be there to hug you tightly and tell you that he will guard you from yourself. He will have a new and exclusive use for you. 

He is tearing you a little but feels good; like picking off a scab that wasn't ready yet, pink flesh you touch. Flossing your teeth with too much malice until your gums turn red, washing your hands with a stiff bristle brush, applying baking soda as a remedy for canker sores. Your legs are still shaking and the pain is the only thing you've ever enjoyed. Purple dark skin and red bruises on Dex's neck, this is almost the same thing but inflicted on you. 

He gently removes the scalpel from your hand so you don't hurt yourself and then presses it against your cheek, his gaze fixed on your big, bright eyes. 

“Let me see your tongue” he mutters with his breath caught in his throat, the edge of the instrument now against the corner of your mouth. “If you could love me... I need you to love me like this.”

You open your mouth, stick out your tongue, drool dripping from its tip. Dex caresses your slimy muscle with the blade, if you move he could make you bleed out with the wrong cut. One of his big hands keeps you in place so you don't make that mistake as he fucks you against the mattress with difficulty. You keep clutching him like a claw even this second time. He doesn't expect you to get used to it when he thrust this hard.

You feel his member drag inside you, making more and more room for him as you hold as still as you can, chest rising and falling like you're running but you can't run from him or from you. Even the vibration of his heavy balls slapping against you doesn't bring you as much pleasure as the scalpel against your tongue and one of your slippery hands pressing the cut on his back.

His strong legs can barely keep him in by falling on top of you as you press your finger inside his wound, stroking circles with your tip fingers, rubbing it until you're really inside him. 

“Shitshitshitshitshit” he mumbles while you stay quiet, going dry. You exhale his hot breath. “I need you to… I need…” He can barely talk, bottoming you out he doesn't know anything but your insides and never wants to leave.

It's a sound like fabric tearing, as he gives you the perfect cut and splits the tip of your tongue in two. 

“Fuck!” he moans, cumming inside you with a horrified expression that at this point you no longer know how honest it is. “Shit, I'm so sorry.”

You stare at him, eyes no longer anything but big and open. In your mouth his blood and yours are blended.

In the bathroom at Josie's (piv sex)

Blacksuit matt takes you appart with his tongue, one hole at a time. (Cunnilingus, fingering/light ass play)

Giving matt some under the desk support (blowjob)

His patrol disrupts date night, its only fair you get some compensation (face riding)

When matt doesn't listen you need to teach him a lesson.. (Bound handjob/makeout)

Sometimes you get loud when matt just wants to listen.. (Fingering/mouth covering)

Riding him like a good girl (piv sex)

Matt fucks you through it (piv sex/light overstim)

Begging matt to cum inside (needy!matt/piv sex/creampie)

Blacksuit matt fucking his fist to the thought of you

Bonus pic bc i cannot resist 😵‍💫 and another

so it makes perfect sense for dex's penchant for noticing to seep into your shared bedroom too. he needs to remember everything, he needs to file away every little sound, every facial expression. keeps it in the folders of his mind, locked away for nobody else to see. only unlocking these memories when he's hard at work, away from his angel. clings to the image of you, the sound of you like a lifeline. counts the seconds down to when he can finally lock up his place of worship again because you're back in his arms. but its not just for himself, to keep his hunger satiated. its for you too. so he can replay your reactions to everything he does and says. analyse what made you feel good. what can make you feel even better. let you float up to the same high he gets from watching you, being with you. don't worry, he'll be there to catch you in his protective embrace when you land back down.

the first time he sunk to his knees for you, he never took his eyes away from you. couldn't bear to, not when your face was so beautifully contorted in pleasure, pleasure he was giving to you. the rising pitch of your voice, the up and down movement of your chest, the low tilt of your eyes to keep that eye contact with him going. when you absentmindedly reach for dex's hair, tugging the short hairs at the back while begging with that sweet saccharine voice of yours,

"pl- please dex, i can't anymore. i need, ohmygod, i need it please, i need you dex"

it takes every. single. cell. in dex's body to not roll his eyes to the back of his skull and finish in his pants then and there. his years of military training, experience as FBI-SWAT all lead up to this moment. to practice that honed skill of restraint. he can't let go until you have, until you've reached that peak. when you do, you collapse backwards with a heaving chest. dex unclenches his bruising (posessive) grip on you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. not to waste a single drop, he licks his hand clean while slowly standing back up from his place of worship.

the sight that greets dex has him believing in God.

your hair is tousled just above your head like a halo.

your eyes that look up at him are completely glossed over, a single tear slowly cascading down the right side of your face.

your smile, oh, your sweet loving smile. directed at him, only him as if he was the answers to your prayers.

those aren't what drives dex over the edge though, oh no.

its you.

you looking like the epitome of an angel.

slowly hiking up your legs, opening them up shyly.

"more? please, dex?"

if this is how dex dies, he believes its worth it.

It pours.

Outside apartment number 17 in some building in Camden, the rain is falling like rocks over the city. Your closed curtained windows are fogged up, the A/C in your place humming harshly. You're on your bed, your back against the wall, completely naked apart from your underwear — goosebumps making your skin feel tight. You've got an eight ball ready on a disposable plastic tray, a can of old fashioned Tip Top and your hand between your legs. This Tuesday night is going to be rad. 

You're not trying to jerk off, you're just playing with the coarse hair to figure out if you've got a little trimming to do yet. With your free hand, you swipe at the powder and rub it against your gums, enjoying the satisfying fizzing sensation. Cracking open the can, you tear off the ring to make some lines later. Life is good.

You deeply inhale the blend of chlorine and something else that has clung to every corner of your home, familiar and comforting. You want the smell to linger on before you stop feeling your face.  You take a long swig from the can, feeling the bubbles roll not in your belly, but down your back. You plop down to lie fully on the bed, crawling caterpillar-like to the opposite side to let your head hang over the edge. You rock your head from side to side, eyes closed, letting the alcohol rise up into you more efficiently.  

The noise from the air conditioner is shrill, but not loud enough for you to miss wet footsteps coming from your living room. You keep your eyes closed, the bourbon humming. Well fuck. You really need to get a new chain lock. Your door slams open and there's a cloaked silhouette in a black hoodie in front of you in a matter of seconds. Well, double fuck.

“You again,” you complain. “Shouldn't you be in Rikers?”

Bullseye mumbles something between his teeth, shuffling his soggy feet and closing behind him. He turns on the light in your room and you hiss dramatically, rolling onto your stomach to lie face down. 

“Can you raise the temperature of this shit? I'm freezing” Dex bitches as he tends to do. 

“No? Were you raised by animals? Have some respect, the first time was fun but you can't just show up every time you get around to it.”

Bullseye curses under his breath. He pulls off his hoodie and throws it towards you angrily, his pants dropping in a heavy plop, leaving a puddle of water in his trail. You let out a whimper of annoyance when you feel his gun on the back of your head, but you don't even tense up. It's getting old. 

“You're fucking braindead, I don't need to waste my manners on you.”

“But I was never sent to jail, right? Which is saying a lot for you” you scoff, head still hanging. “Besides, you wasted my time helping you come up with a better idea for your suit.”

“I didn't have time” Bullseye finds himself justifying himself and it irks him. He doesn't have to explain himself to anyone, least of all you. “But now it's blue. Navy blue.”

You let out another grunt of annoyance and raise your face, his gun retreating with you. He's not really here to kill you, you know that. He's looking for the warm embrace of the red insides out of someone who would fuck a stranger who breaks into their house. Dex has a funny feeling that you've probably done it more times than he's aware of.

“To what do I owe the honor of you coming here instead of finding another hole to rot in?”

“This is cheaper than going somewhere else”.

Even now, he likes to lie that much. Yet, it is not as amusing as it was the first time. 

He still wants you. If he's honest, you're still the best head he's ever had. It's clear in every line of his face and that unspoken answer is good enough for you. Not that big Bullseye is going to praise you in any way. He likes the curve of your ass, the shape of your mouth and your sparkling eyes like you're always having the time of your life. Even when you remind him of a corpse, he can't put his finger on why — Maybe it's because it's obvious you haven't been under the sun in quite some time or because that chemical, abrasive smell permeating through your skin.  

You're still alive because the most tender parts of your body are appealing to him.

“I need to stay under the radar for a while and no one would look for me in your shitty place. By this time, they should be mobilizing everyone in New York to find me.”

Ah yes, he's important like that. You roll your eyes as you roll over to lie face up again on your bed. You move like a rag doll, legs and arms heavy. 

“Fine, make yourself comfortable in the living room if you want. But if there's a SWAT team destroying my place you better kill everyone.” You grab his hoodie and throw it back towards him before it wets your bed and Dex catches it in mid-air with ease. 

“Deal” Bullseye agrees, plopping down on your bed. You wrinkle your nose in displeasure as you feel his wet body touch you. He doesn't know why you're so sensitive about it, knowing that you don't even really sleep here. He has come at least three other times after your first encounter. One of those, the living room and bedroom were empty so he decided to take a bath first while he waited for you to return from wherever you were. And then he saw you in the tub, submerged in something that looked like water but Bullseye knew it wasn't because of the astringent smell. All still and weightless. It made his stomach shrink. 

He tries to not think about it that much. Especially when he is touching you. 

Your skin is warm against his — he's the cold one in all this.

You turn to your nightstand and take another long swig of your drink, leaving only a third of it left. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the liquid warming your throat. Him fucking your face was funny, but you've cooled down about it. He's still incredibly handsome even with his new scars and the new layer of disdain in his brown eyes. Maybe that makes him even hotter. 

You don't offer him some of your fix, you're not feeling generous today. Those almost four grams cost you a week of hard work. It doesn't matter if you wore gloves, you feel that under your fingernails your skin has turned into iron. When you ponder this, you know that being associated with Bullseye will become a problem in the long run. You don't need any feds sniffing your trail. And it's not like you can tell blondie to go to hell either, knowing how sensitive he is about rejection. Such a diva. For a tiny moment, you remember about the thing under your mattress, but you stop dead in your tracks. 

“Sometimes I wonder what you even have in there” Dex interrupts your train of thought, grabbing your arm to pull you towards him to tap one of your temples. You are his cocksleeve, he doesn't need you thinking up stupid shit. 

“Awww, so you do think of me then.”

You don't think about him when he is not around, though. He knows that. 

He grabs you by the throat and slams you into the mattress, your head bounces slightly and his thumb presses hard on your windpipe. He sinks down on the bed, looming over you. He doesn't need his gun, he doesn't need anything but his two hands to put you down. He knows you can't fight. “Don't play coy. This has been a crappy day and I had the courtesy to take you on to do something useful and be a good host for me, so cut your bullshit. Don’t try me today.”

Bullseye is right; you're not going to fight. You don't want to fight; you're not like that. You're a weird amalgam of a sexdoll and something that looks like it came out of a lab, all sterile and obedient. Trained. Maybe he doesn't like you so much because you're probably easier to fuck than he is on a normal day and he doesn't like competition.  

“Ah, come on. I wasn't really going to do anything.” You raise your hands to show your open palms. You don't even try to scratch his arm to get him to release you; you like this and so does he. 

You get that look again that dries the man's mouth. 

This is what you are made for and you should always keep it in mind whenever he decides to visit. Dex wishes he could be something like that too. Maybe he is. Murdock also grabbed him just as hard, inhaled his breath in the same erratic way Bullseye behaves with you. He knows what it's like to be just wanted in the dark, even if he's not as chill about it as you are. 

“I'm just warning you,” he emphasizes. He doesn't loosen his grip, instead, with his free hand, he awkwardly pulls down your underwear. You lift your hips to help him. So lithe, so happy to please. 

“Do you have any condoms?” you ask curiously, eyes all gooey. 

“I would never put my dick in you” he states huskily, hard against your hip. You laugh lightly, not taking it personally. This man couldn't top someone to save his own life and neither could you, so there are no hard feelings between the two of you about it. 

“Fine, fine. Then what?” you ask, mostly wanting to know if this will be fast so you can return to your original plans for the night. 

He shrugs. 

“I thought about it many times,” Dex admits. “I've jerked off at the memory of your mouth, many times. Several. But, what really makes me come is the thought of choking you with my cock.” He is mad, has been for a long time since he was thrown off that rooftop. 

“That would be fine, I have strong lungs I’ve been told,” you admit, settling your hands on your belly, drumming your fingers there. Bullseye follows the shape of your ribs, making sure you're breathing. In the back of his mind, he keeps thinking about you in that bathtub. If he were to fuck you, he wonders what he'd feel inside you. You make him all revolted, his palms sweating on your skin. 

“But you're not really in the mood tonight, are you?” He asks, licking his lips, because despite everything, he's still a gentleman with you. As gentlemanly as the best marksman in the world can be with a two-bit sick whore who gives him the willies. 

“No sir, Bullseye, sir,” you reply, batting your eyelashes. Dex chuckles. His gaze drifts down to your crotch, the trail of hair to your navel. He wants to suck you off, despite himself. But he won't. He's not here to make you come. Still, he's gentle. 

He asked you once what you liked. I like everything, I like everyone. I like what others like me to like. I like to hurt myself, I like to hurt others, I like others to hurt me. I like anything, you said. 

What don't you like, would have been a better question. 

You don't like boredom. You don't like crying or throwing up — you can’t. You don't like it when people smell bad. You don't like kissing. 

You provoke this twisted need in him. Even though you are less than nothing to Dex, you make him have this visceral reaction: he wants to hug you. To hug you and feel your ragged, clammy, flammable body close to his. He wonders that if he slices your skin with the scalpel he knows you have hidden, he'll find a secret Virchow incision already sewn up. 

Bullseye pulls his cock out, barely pulling down his boxers enough for it to spring free. His member shivers at being out in the open. Your place is always so cold to him, like you are fucking living in a refrigerator. Your eyes follow the movement of his stomach, his breathing agitated. Your hand slides down your torso to his length, taking it firmly. He gives you a warning squeeze and you smile playfully; your gums are so perfectly pink, he notices. 

Dex pulls your hand away roughly only to spit on it. Dripping on you, you take his cock again to stroke it, your thumbnail scraping it across each pump of your fist. When you press the heel of your palm against his sensitive tip, he grits his teeth. It's been a while since anyone has touched him like this, maybe that's why his eyes water easily as you rub circles at the junction of his member's head and the rest of his length. He spreads his legs wider, his balls taut and throat tight.

You have a good rhythm, you make him shudder and breathe heavily. But it's not enough for him. 

Finally he lets go of your throat and pulls your hand away again. You make a sound of protest and he gives you a firm slap on your thigh. He moves off your side, pulling your legs apart to settle between them. You look confused, but no less discouraged. It's still raining outside, the clogged sewers creating streams in the streets that carry trash from one part of the city to another. He moves his free hand up to your left rib and presses under your chest, your erect nipples quiver as he pushes against the soft flesh. 

He wants you covered with his semen because maybe no one has ever done it like this with you before. Why would they? With your mouth and every hole in you willing. They're not like him, no one is like him. Dex wants you to know that because at least you're not going to sell him out. He's also no less than nothing to you for you to do so.

This doesn't feel like fucking. You stare at him intently with blank eyes, because behind all your good humor, there's nothing but hollow bones and tight skin— this feels more like open-heart surgery. He pumps his cock belligerently, his skin chafing. It's almost painful, how tight he has his grip on himself. He's still mad, not with you, no. You are okay, despite everything you make him feel and the scent that irritates his nose. He thinks about the asshole in the Devil suit, he thinks about how Murdock would do something like this to him because he wouldn't be down to fuck him all the way because he's a pussy. 

No one is willing to screw him because they are all pussies. At least you have the guts to fuck him. You just don't mind, you never mind. 

You like everything, don't you? You said so. You said so.

You say you like him. Once in a while, when it comes to having your pants down, you like him. More people should be like you and always want to please him. He doesn't like the idea of you liking someone more than him so much anymore. He wonders if you were to meet Daredevil would you prefer him over Dex. He might have to do it then.

When he eventually has to pull the trigger, he wonders what would come out of you. 

He only hopes is red. 

He cums on your belly then, chest heaving and eyes completely darkened. He can only focus on his spunk all over your warm, so warm skin. His hands and body are still cold; he is still freezing. When he brings his gaze up to your face again, he's still seeing you in that tub.

“Well... that was... fast.” You wipe yourself with your hand, sighing. This isn't the white you were planning on getting dirty with tonight, but whatever. Bullseye takes your discarded underwear and wipes your smeared palm, as meticulously as the sticky liquid allows him to. With the post-orgasm clarity, he remembers you have more than one use.

You are so annoyingly helpful. Surely in one of your junk boxes you must have the information of someone who has what he needs now. 

“You're helping me make that suit, now seriously,” he states in a breathy voice. “New York is about to learn to respect me.”

Your eyes light up. Dex is fun again and that's the way things should be.

Even if this time he does put a bullet in your head at the end of it all, you don't care. That would be later, on another day, another time. You know he never really wants to do it, but he tries to convince himself that it's an act of benevolence not to do it instead of admitting that he's thinking with everything but his head when it comes to you.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other and clear your throat, trying to soften your voice so as not to sound rude. "I really don't understand what you're saying with all that in your face."

Bullseye feels the terrible urge to just pull the trigger and shut your mouth, but you actually have a point. You blink, with every second feeling more and more aware that you are naked in front of a complete stranger. This is so humiliating for both of you that it seems to break the ice long enough for Dex to lower his gun; he's decided he's going to kill you with his bare hands rather than waste a bullet on an idiot.

"I didn't come here to have a conversation with you, Moore" he accents each word, trying to sound as clear as possible. Too kind of him, Dex considers. 

Your mouth turns into an 'o' and you take a few seconds to respond. "Oh well" you start ", that's not... that's not my last name. That's the last name of the rude guy who lives in apartment eleven." You clear your throat awkwardly, your eyes lowering to your own wet feet. He'd roll his eyes if he wasn't desperately trying to maintain his professionalism. You are not the first, nor will you be the only one to try cheap tricks to save your own skin. However, he lets you continue to see how resourceful you get. 

"I think you've got the wrong department," you tentatively suggest. "Do I even look like a Moore? Be honest."

"I don't make mistakes." How he says it makes you feel a shiver, all your skin turning to goose bumps and your nipples are erect from the cold. You realize that this guy can and probably will end up killing you if you're not a little more careful. 

Oh well. 

"You're probably right, yeah" you nod. "I mean, maybe not you but someone made a mistake. Did they give you a picture? Anything else to identify who you really have to kill? Because I'm really far from being a private investigator."

Again, you have a point. No, there was no photo, no file or anything at all. This is actually a small side job during the dry season and the only reason Dex took it is because he is bored out of his mind. He practically just got a pat on the back directing him to an area of Camden where there have been disappearances in the last few months, a piece of paper with a name and apartment number written on it in blue ink. It almost sounds like the start of a bad stand-up routine. 

"You do look like a private investigator and all this crap just confirms it" he says, as derogatory as he can sound with his mask smothering his words. 

Your head shoots into your walls and you let out a sheepish laugh. "No, that's not what you think it is. That's all a research."

Bullseye takes a deep breath, feeling the visceral revulsion squeezing his lungs. 

"In short: you're one of those crazy fanatics who idolize 'superheroes'. In my book, that doesn't make you any less murderable, asshole." 

Your lips pucker and you simply snort. "I have an engineering degree in industrial design," you reply slowly. "All those papers are files and documents with prototypes and notations. My name is on there too."

He raises a bushy eyebrow, skeptical. He gives you a long look, keeping his eyes above your neck. Lying to him would be a more than stupid move, but you don't strike him as the sharpest pencil in the box, if he's honest. Reluctantly, he runs his gaze over the shelves you have installed on your walls in an unsuccessful attempt to make your home a little more accommodating. The only thing that seems to interrupt the cardboard monotony is a sony camcorder that catches his eye - it's been a long time since he's seen one. Still, the whole picture it paints is not at all flattering. 

It's always the same gray, gloomy apartments, the same pricks with wives and kids crammed into those sardine cans. Maybe they really deserve to die not for their involvement in the underworld but for their bad taste in tapestry. 

Dex unceremoniously opens one of the filing boxes, choses the first journals he finds and lets out a grunt of annoyance. Everything is written in shorthand - every note, every jot, and to make matters worse, it's all crammed together, using every line double-filled. Fuck this and fuck you too. 

"I forgot how to write normally" you mention, just to appease him. "But I can explain."

The assassin tosses the pocket notebook to the floor and you let out an indignant yelp.

"You're right. You're not the person I've been sent to eliminate. However, I think I'm going to do it just because I think you're too annoying."

Moreover, because it would be too embarrassing to leave a witness of his little slip-up. 

"I thought you were some kind of supercool assassin but I guess the suit must have given me a clue that that's not the case" you mutter, almost to yourself. With a more than dramatic sigh, you shuffle your feet until you are in front of him, leaving a trail of water behind you. "Go ahead, you've already ruined my plans for tonight anyway."

"How witty of the talking corpse." Dex raises his gun again and now the silencer is resting on your forehead. "You can masturbate to pictures of superheroes in hell, if that's any consolation."

"I don't do that!" you shout, slapping him on the chest. He sees your hand, almost incredulous that you just did that. "I told you: it's a study. I study their tools and their suits, which are a thousand times better than yours, by the way. But... they still lack style anyway."

Dex lowers his gun again. Yeah, it definitely won't be a bullet that kills you. "What would you know about that?"

You cough, hiding a chuckle and point to all the boxes piled up in the living room leaving no space for anything more than a dining table with two chairs and a patched bean bag. It's redundant, but necessary. "All of that, that's my research, silly. You can read them after you kill me and maybe then you'll get an idea of how to put together a proper fucking suit instead of going out and making a fool of yourself dressed like the bastard son of a diver and the purple Among Us."

Oh you are so so dead. 

"I can make my own suit without the help of some little freak that walks naked in front of strangers".

"This is my place and I didn't expect any visitors tonight. Besides, all my towels and bed clothes are drying up in the building's laundry basement. And well, your choices until now just show a lack of experience in creating something functional. Unlike me, of course."

For some reason, Dex has yet to grab you by the neck and wring it like a chicken's until you croak like the annoying feathered outrageous animal you are. Instead, he must admit he's a little intrigued at what your 'experience' might bring him. That does the trick for him.

"Show me some ideas to improve this crap and maybe I'll have the mercy to blow your brains out instead of drowning you in your toilet." 

"I'm actually not against any of those particular options" you mutter, almost dragging out the words and batting your eyelashes at him. "I mean, if that's what you have to do, maybe you should, I don't know… get creative? May I suggest a beheading and then set it all on fire?"

"What a great idea, maybe I'll just set you on fire after cutting off your tongue because you're getting on my nerves." He gives you a long look full of apathy even though your every word has created a path of fire from his neck to in between his legs. "But first, I'm actually willing to put myself in an unpleasant situation and listen to your suggestions, fucking creep."

You look confused, but are quick to nod. It's not the fact that he's sparing your life for the moment, but the fact that you can show your notes to someone else, that makes you look so excited. Life doesn't get any better than this. 

"Sooooooo, can I go get dressed or would you rather compare sizes first?"

Dex's jaw hardens and one of his eyes threatens to start twitching, so he simply barks at you to go off and put on a shirt and you rush to comply with his order.

In your absence, he leans on your table to readjust the straps of his knives harnesses. The wood looks shiny and when his gloves touch the surface, he notices that it is somewhat sticky. Dex pulls his hands away and frowns distastefully. If it were anyone else, he would simply walk away. There's something about you that just doesn't sit right with him. And yeah, the whole set up of the filing boxes, the way he can hear your footsteps splashing around inside the other room like this is all an empty shell and the damn camera, it all makes his hair stand on end. 

"So do you have something I can call you by?" you ask as you walk out of what he assumes is your room: a thick black cranny protected by a door that for some reason, even seeing it out of the corner of his eye gives him the creeps. 

"Do you also want me to say five things about me, my favorite color and birthday?" he retorts, sarcasm dripping from his every word. 

"Ha-ha. Then I'll just call you The Purple Among Us" you suggest with a shit-eating grin and shuffling your now bare feet until you're face to face with the assassin so you can touch his mask-covered nose. "Boop. You're the Impostor!" 

Dex gnashes his teeth and practically barks at you, "Bullseye. Call me Bullseye."

"Bullseye" you repeat, trying to contain a mocking smile. "Like Hawkeye?"

The marksman closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose to resist the urge to throw a punch. This is his life now: being mistaken for a moron with arrows by a stupid bastard who thinks 'getting dressed' is putting on a tank top and underwear. 

"Hawkeye? Sweetheart, I don't even need arrows or a gun. I can kill that loser with a penny without him even noticing. He'd be dead before he hits the ground" Dex spits, his hot breath against your face. "There's no aim that beats mine."

There's an immediate shift in the air as soon as he utters those words. You look up at him and he can't describe your eyes as anything but shrewd. 

"Well of course. I mean, what's the point of being anything at all if you're not the best?"

And finally, you both seem to be speaking the same language. 

"Come, sit" you invite him, turning away from him and scouring your shelf for a specific box. "Let's fix this."

Dex takes a seat just because the damn suit is starting to make him itch and maybe he can disguise scratching himself under the table without making a fool of himself and save himself one of your moronic comments. Honestly, he's not really looking forward to watching you but it would be naïve of him to avert his gaze from you, even if all you're doing is goofing around. You run your hand over the cardboard, your nails scratching and sending pleasant shivers down the back of the marksman's neck. The way you move, the way you talk, feels so unnatural that it reminds Dex a little of himself. He has a small, brief image of you in front of a mirror in the mornings, gesticulating and gesturing, preparing you for a full day of appearing. But, he doesn't think you actually grieve it. He envies you a little for it: he'd like to embrace the performance too and rotate his shoulders, show his chest, stomp around in patent leather shoes. How stupid, there must be something in the vents of this packed place that makes him think nonsense. 

You return to him with a long, semi-transparent, porous plastic case and a journal similar to the one he took but a little bigger. You plop down in the other chair with a sigh of relief and place the open notebook in front of both of you, open the case and offer him a pen. 

"Let us begin, shall we? But first can you uncover your mouth? You're really not very clear".

This must be the most bizarre hit he's ever been on, so far. Well, technically it's not anymore. He's not getting paid to kill you. God, he'd do it for free if the way you look at him from under your eyelashes didn't make his skin crawl and his cock twitch.

Dex practically snatches the pen out of your hand. He looks at the blank page for a moment for a moment before turning to you. "Isn't a sketch done in pencil first?"

"Yes, of course! And then I can get you some crayons and markers so we can color and maybe add a sun and a few trees!"

"Keep talking to me like that and I'm going to shoot you in the foot."

You let out a dramatic sigh and stretch, leaning back in your chair. "Come on, baby. It's not that hard to do a better job than they did on you in that suit. I mean, that's not real leather, definitely not. So, tell me, how much do you like leather? We can do something better with that material than those awful harnesses that don't even match the rest of that... burning garbage."

"That wasn't a fashion choice" he mumbles, crossing his arms and scowling as you can't really see more than his eyes. "The color is okay I guess, but, not something I'd go for. Pure black is better."

"Why not choose the classic three piece then?"

"Not my choice either" he growls.

"So you let them sell you as a cheap thing, uh. How much for your services? Bet I can pay for an hour at least" you say with a sideways grin. "Stand up a little, babygirl. Your pretty eyes are not enough to distract people from the smell of polyester once you start sweating."

Dex lets you prattle on some more about better fabric options that will let him sweat in peace and not make his enemies smell him from a block away. As you make notes about materials and nonsense, he starts doodling on the page to the right. He draws an aiming target with thick, precise lines, without separating the tip from the paper he creates the silhouette of a head leaving the symbol on the forehead. It doesn't look too bad.  

"Oh, you're really good, I wish I had those clean lines. Art is not my strength, really, I prefer to do, let 's say, structure. But I like it, I like it. What about your tools?"

"I don't need that much space for weapons."

"Even if it's some compartment for ammunition?"

"The point of all this is that I don't look like an idiot, right? Besides, I can use this pen right now to pierce your throat and I'd only have to throw it gently." Dex points out, overflowing with his cockiness. 

"Suuuureeee" you say, raising your eyebrows. "But, I'm right next to you.... Nothing too awesome and an advantage you're not going to have every time."

Bullseye rolls his eyes and snatches your own pen now. He gives you a cocky grin as he tosses it towards the corner of the room, it bounces off and ends up stuck just inches in front of you. 

"... What the fuuuuck" you squeak, eyes wide and bright. Dex's grin widens, but you don't let him hold it for long. "You work in a circus too? Man, assassin life is hard."

"Oh fuck, you. I know you're going to be thinking about this for a long time afterwards."

"Fine, fine, you got me there" you agree, raising your hands in surrender. "Why don't you continue with your drawing and I'll do the adaptations to it later."

Dex nods, feeling a little less apprehensive. He does another full body silhouette now, re-creates the mask with the symbol, adding two rings at the collarbones and chest that leaves unfilled. He smacks his lips, bumping his current mask. Looking sideways at you while you continue to make other notes and designs of protectors as alternatives for bulletproof vests, he finally decides to lower the part of the suit that covers his mouth. What a relief, he can actually breathe better now. 

"What a nice chin you have" you comment, your face blank as you continue scribbling things down in shorthand. "Would you like some water?"

"Shut up" he mumbles and continues with his drawing. "And yes, thank you."

He gives you a sidelong glance as you get up and when you open the refrigerator he notices there's nothing but bottles of water and some vacuum-sealed bags with things he can't make out but feels strangely familiar. It makes him feel like he's inside a carcass, for some reason. 

After a full hour in which you haven't stopped shooting him looks and he's only taken pauses to clear his throat and look at your collarbones, you both have got the near-perfect blueprint for his suit. You give a satisfying clap and he has another empty water bottle next to him. 

"We should celebrate!" you say encouragingly and get back up to rummage through your frugal kitchenette cabinets for something. "Have you ever had a cigar before? Nothing competes with a good Arturo Fuente. "

"Don't you have a regular cigarette?" Dex stretches, rotating his shoulders. "I'm not a mobster."

"Don't be silly!" you snort, placing the cigar in front of him as you sit back down, pulling your chair closer towards his this time. "Here, I'll let you do the honors and cut it. It's a perfect one. See the way the end is rolled at the end? This is good stuff, so don't mess it up."

"It looks like an uncircumcised dick" Dex points out and you let out a little ear-irritating laugh.

"Oh yes, I bet you've seen a lot" you mutter under your breath and pass him a cigar cutter that looks like it's worth more than a month's rent of your screwed up apartment.

He's seen people he's worked for smoke cigars before and wrinkle his nose at the thick tobacco aroma. It's just a bigger and overprized cigarette and certainly too smelly. He doesn't even think there is any difference other than presentation between them. He can’t be missing out on much having refrained so many times from accepting one from some asshole too friendly to wrap up a meeting efficiently. Besides, now that he's decided to let loose a little and smoke, he doesn't plan to pay for more than the cheapest cigs they have in the sleazy 24-hour stores. God, they should bring back cigarettes vending machines. 

He unceremoniously cuts it off, you light one of the grill matches you brought with you, taking the time to toast the tip as it burns and Dex can't believe someone would take a full minute to light a glorified fucking cig, just roasting until is consumed.

"Here, don't try to inhale it like a normal stick. Let it sit in your mouth for a while."

"What does it taste like this?" Bullseye licks his lips after his first puff, feeling the woody, spicy flavor. Maybe the filtered cigarettes were a mistake. 

"It's the Cameroon wrapper" you clarify, your fingers brushing his to get him to grant you your turn.

"Who the fuck you stole this from?" Dex sighs out a curtain of smoke, feeling his whole body pleasantly unclench. Shit, this is actually better than a regular cigar. 

You carefully take it from him, like taking a bottle from a crying baby. You take a puff and sigh. You'd offer him coffee, but you're out of coffee for now and honestly, that's enough hospitality for tonight. As you place it against your lips, you watch the man pupils dilate and you give him a half smile. 

"Ok so, now I need to take some measurements from you." You hand the cigar back to him and he almost looks thankful. Rotating your neck from side to side, you scratch your lower back and return to the black hole that is your room. Dex is tempted to question why you don't turn on the lights besides the kitchen light, but it's not his house, or his problem. 

Bullseye gets up when he hears your footsteps and the door closing and opening again. He stands in the middle of the room and takes another puff, smoke coming out of his nose. You extend the tape measure with numbers that have faded over time and ask the marksman in front of you for permission to touch him directly. He nods and as you do your thing, he analyzes you carefully. You are a really pretty thing, when you keep your mouth shut.

You are on your knees. You run the tape measure down one of his thighs first and the back of your wrist brushes his crotch lightly. Your tongue gets twisted as you try to apologize, but immediately you realize something. He is hard.

Oh oh oh.

"Uuuuuuuuh" is all you manage to articulate as you raise your gaze to him. "I think I should pass you the tape right now and you tell me the measurements to write them down."

Dex gives you a sidelong glance, not deigning to lower his chin for you. The corner of his lip lifts slightly and you swallow.

"You know what? I think it's time you do something worthwhile with that smart mouth of yours." He watches your reaction closely, if he has misread the signals he will simply turn away and walk out your department, but seeing how your eyes light up, he is now certain you both are on the same page.

"Yes sir, Bullseye sir" you practically squeak.

Your hands practically rip his belt off, causing his knife harness to fall to the floor. He helps you pull down his cargo pants and you tuck your hair behind your ears. Your chin rests on one of his thighs, expectantly. With trembling hands, the assassin is the one who pulls down his boxers by himself.

Dex swallows, feeling suddenly self-conscious; he is the image of a whore with his thighs ajar, his cargo pants pulled down to his ankles. He hisses as he feels the temperature change in his most sensitive areas. He is heavy, leaking and quite pink. 

Bullseye follows the movement of your mouth, the way you run your tongue over your lips. What a trashy thing you are, too. 

"A natural blondie, huh" you comment and he wants to slap you right there. Instead, he lifts his hips toward you impatiently and pushes your head with one of his gloved hands.

"I didn't pull it out so you could get chatty with it. Get to work" he demands you, voice hoarse.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a seat. Your legs aren't going to hold out much," you suggest with a pretentious smile that Dex wants to bite it off.

So there he is now, sitting on a bean bag, his pants and underwear discarded, cigar between his fingers. The tip of your tongue touches the hole of his member and your pupils are fixed on his as you roll the wetness over his meatus, making his thighs quiver as if you've just given him a touch of pure electricity. You hold his base, his pubic hair tickling you and one of your thumbs traces circles in the middle of his heavy balls, causing him to spill more precum. You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as your nose touches his belly, jaw relaxed. Your bottom teeth scrap his skin each time you bob your head, his sack tightening.

Oh that's... that's so goddamn good. The best he's ever had, if he's generous enough to admit it. Dex throws his head back, sinking deeper into the bean bag. He grunts as you pull away from him, your eyes crystallized and eager.

"I think you're the only one having fun here" you mention sheepishly, drool dripping from your mouth and cheeks red.

"Sorry?" Dex questions, more interested in getting back to being balls-deep in your throat to whatever nonsense you want to say. 

"I want... I want to ask for something really simple." Bullseye grants you a pause so you can continue babbling and you swallow, opening and closing your fists nervously. "Can you like... put your gun to my head while I do it?"

What. The. Fuck.

"Are you kidding me?" he breaths out with gritted teeth.

"Never so not kidding" you reply, voice choked. "I want to... if you can."

The logical decision would be to send you to hell, pull you away from him and maybe say two or three not-so-friendly things to you, however, the liquid heat spreading across the man's lower belly stops him. Dex licks his lips and runs a hand over his covered forehead. It's so fucking hot in here. You move your lips trying to pull back, but he simply removes the silencer from his SIG Sauer and sticks the barrel to your chin. Your eyes widen and your pupils dilate almost to the point where the iris disappears and he gets a shiver down his adamantium spine. He can't believe he could get even harder. 

Dex doesn't even put the safety on and he doesn't think you care much either. Your breath hitches and thanks to your skimpy clothing and your decision to wear the whitest underwear you could, he can see what pressing his gun hard against your temple does between your legs. You are a fucking mess and so is he. 

"Keep going" he instructs you.

You nod and spit into your hand, taking its tip between your lips, sucking shallowly. You stroke his length with just enough pressure to make his toes curl up. He relaxes again and takes another puff on his cigar, the smoke rising. Beneath his wet blond lashes, he smiles at you as you massage his balls. Who is the cheap thing now. 

This should be his life: smoking cigars after a long day of killing and having an eager-to-please trained pet between his legs, making him touch the sky without waiting for him to return the favor. Getting fucked hard against a mattress and simply enjoying himself while someone sweats on top of him. 

One of your free hands squeezes the inside of his thighs for support as you take him deep, his tip hitting the curve of your throat. Dex feels his heart pounding in his windpipe as you move again and the head of his cock returns to be the focus of your attention and you suck it as if you want to milk him dry. He lets out a breathy moan and his legs tremble, he plants his feet flat against the floor trying to steady himself while his fingers end up in your hair -ashes falling, pushing you back to take him in his full length, the barrel of his gun pressing more insistently.

With a wet pop, you release the tip of his cock, your chin dripping. You keep stroking him, crooked smile and lean in again, but to nibble between his thighs, your tongue running under his testicles. Dex grunts and nudges your head with the gun, returning you to your knees.

"If I wanted you to eat me out I'd fucking tell you" his voice comes out thick and raspy, trying to sound firm despite his panting. 

"You wouldn't last that long" you scoff. 

He tries to calm down, but seeing you with flushed cheeks, reddened and wet lips, hair sticking to your forehead with a thin layer of sweat, feeling the heat radiating from your crotch against one of his legs, isn't much help. Even so, you look so smug that he just wants to fuck that expression out of you. 

"Stay still" he commands you, rising from the bean bag. "And don't dare to bite me. I won't let you keep fooling around."

He sees the cigar burning between his fingers and then the way your mouth twitches. Someone should teach you a lesson about respect. Dex brings the burning tip close to your face and you don't even flinch. He gives you a chance to pull away and when the cigar touches your skin, just below your lip and only for a few moments; you let out a sound that's somewhere between a whimper and a moan, though that doesn't seem to discourage you one bit. He needs his free hand after all. The assassin ends up turning off the cig on his boots and you let out a breathless little laugh. 

You rearrange yourself, your knees already red-spotted. You look at Bullseye and simply open your mouth, relaxing your jaw and throat. 

"Such a dutiful thing" he says under his breath and tightens his grip on your hair, sliding his cock into your mouth in a smooth stroke until he bottoms out and you let out a strangled sound. His sack bump against your chin and your nails dig into his legs. 

He fucks you hard and relentlessly, your nose being buried in his hair-covered lower belly one instant and the next you're coughing in the few seconds he lets you breathe. You try to bob your head at your own pace, but Dex gives you a warning jerk. Your teeth scrape his member by accident and he hisses, your chest rises and falls with anticipation and he sinks balls-deep back down your throat until your eyes water.

Hips snapping, Bullseye drags his cock, tip to base, the salty taste and musky smell becomes all you know, your head dizzy. He pulls back for a moment, just to avoid cumming so fast, but you already have the tip of your tongue swirling over his hole, pleasure coursing from his pink, swollen, drooling head to the nape of his neck. Dex wants to pull away, but it's too late. His balls tighten for the last time for the night and empty outside your mouth, the spurt of cum splattering all over your face.

"Fuck" you both say at the same time. Dex plops back down on the bean bag and covers his face with his gloved palms. 

"You know what other disadvantage your suit has? I can actually see your erect nipples" you tell him, wiping all of his sticky business as best you can with the back of your hand.