spring daffodils -Â Platonic Task Force 141 & Fem!Reader
Years after the tragic death of your husband and daughter, something in a mission causes you to breakdown in front of the rest of the task force.
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Old Works
Old stuff I don't really write for anymore but can't bring myself to delete. Some of them are linked below but all of them can still be found on my AO3.
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If you were to ask most sane people, a relationship between a hacker with a penchant for breaking the law and an FBI agent shouldnât work. And yet, you and Benjamin Poindexter just seem toâŠwell, work. You get each other. You love each other. In fact, it doesnât take much to see that your boyfriend is completely and utterly obsessed with you.
Unfortunately, Wilson Fisk sees this too, and it isnât long before it becomes clear just how far Dex is willing to go to keep you with him. And, after tragedy strikes, how far heâll go to get you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Murder (I mean, it's Bullseye), Blood, Dex is down so bad guys, Smut!!, Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), Slight knife play, Slight gun play, Reader matches Dexâs freak, Vague mentions of mental illness (it's Dex), Angst, Canon-compliant character death, Please please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: And here we have the longest fic I've ever written! I loved writing these two so much that I'm almost sad to post it because I don't get to work on it anymore. Be warned that this fic is going to follow the events of Daredevil season 3 through Born Again season 2, so there will definitely be spoilers! As always, let me know what you guys think!! Your feeback brings me joy and keeps me writing!!
Word Count: 22k
-
Itâs almost painfully cliche, how he meets you.
You slam into him, head banging against his shoulder so hard that it might bruise. So hard that your phone clatters to the ground in a chaotic little cacophony of plastic on pavement.
âShit!â Your voice is a sharp cry in the crowded street, but no one really turns around for this kind of thing in New York. No one offers much more than a backwards glance and a raised eyebrow. He just wanted a damn coffee, and now his shoulder is aching and heâs about to whip around to snap at you for-
Your palm is pressed against your forehead, and your eyes are squeezed shut. Youâre in a sweatshirt and jeans. There are subtle bags under your eyes from what he can only assume is a lack of sleep. Your sneakers are worn. There is almost nothing about you that should be in any way memorable.
One eye peeks open, and his heartâŠstutters.
âIâm sorry. Shit. You okay?â
His heart stops.
He isnât sure why. He canât exactly place it, but itâs justâŠthere you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if heâs okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.
He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.
âIâm fine.â He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.
âAre you made of concrete or something?â You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. Heâs staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.
âNot that I know of.â
A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesnât know exactly what it is he needs, but itâs overwhelming to the point of near-pain.
âIâm sorry about that.â You say again, and you mean it. âIf I left a bruise, donât sue me.â You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. âOrâŠarrest me.â
He canât remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to actâŠnormal. He canât just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.
The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, itâs all gone. Itâs just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.
His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.
âDonât have my cuffs on me, so I guess youâre safe.â And you smile at the joke, and itâs perfect.
Heâll buy you coffee. Heâll talk to you. Heâll make you smile more.
Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. âShit. I gotta go.â You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. âSorry again. Really.â
âItâsâŠokay.â But itâs not. You canât leave. You canât walk away from him he just found you heâs not done-
But youâre gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You canât leave.
He doesnât move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.
The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. Thatâs where you are. Where youâre going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.
He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.
-
âYikes, what happened to you?â
Youâre rubbing your forehead. Youâre hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.
âToo embarrassing.â You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. âDonât make me say it.â
âWell now I have to know.â You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?
You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. âI was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.â
âFBI?â Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. Heâs so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.
âYeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.â
âYour jokes arenât as funny as you think they are, you know.â
âNeither are yours, and weâre still friends.â You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dexâs heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.
âSo, speaking of whichâŠâ
âI knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.â
âWe hang out and get coffee all the time.â
âThe ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.â
Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? Youâre kind. Youâre good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like heâs supposed to.
Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent âgo onâ gesture that Dex canât help but find painfully charming.
âI have a case. This guyâŠâ Nelson slides a file towards you, âdidnât do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didnât commit. Theyâre trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kidsâ elementary school graduation.â You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. âAnd middle school. And high school. AndâŠcollege. The point is theyâre gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didnât do it.â
You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. âFinancial crimes?â
âJust saying, a little bit ofâŠevidence towards his innocence will really help.â
âHm.â
âAnd it shouldnât be a problem for the best hacker in New York.â
You raise an eyebrow again.
âOkay, the east coast.â
Your eyebrow climbs higher.
âAmerica?â
You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.
âYouâre gonna have to start paying me soon.â
âAnd if I do, it becomes illegal.â
You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.
âI want one of your momâs sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.â
Nelson grins, wide. âDone and done.â
And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. âDoes this have anything to do with Fisk?â
Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail heâs about to be stuck on?
âWilson Fisk?â
âNo, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.â
Nelson rolls his eyes. âStill not funny.â
âFoggy.â
He hesitates, and frowns. âNo. But donâtâŠjust stay away from that, okay? Weâll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency toâŠpiss people like that offâŠâ
âI havenât been caught.â
âYou will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. Thereâs only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.â
âThose companies donât notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.â Your tone is sharp. Defensive.
So youâre a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it⊠thatâs good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.
Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.
Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation youâve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing wonât get him too far. âJustâŠdonât get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.â
âVague.â You grumble, but youâre sliding the file into your bag. âSandwich with the provolone, three am.â
âYou said two.â
You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. âThis oneâs gonna take a while.â
-
Watching you work isâŠfascinating.
Itâs a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You donât click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.
You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.
The sun is going to rise, soon. Youâre still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he canât make himself look away.
When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.
He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you canât figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.
Perfect. Youâre perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like theyâre weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until heâs positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.
But for now, he watches. He stays, long after youâve fallen asleep, and he watches.
-
It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.
You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.
So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.
And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.
Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - heâs still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an âoomphâ, and just like that youâre close to him. Youâre touching him. Heâs touching you. Youâre here. With him.
âOh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.â Youâre not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that youâre just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.
Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.
Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just canât help it. âWeâve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.â Heâs practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.
You laugh. At his joke. At his line that heâs practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.
âI know you.â You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but youâre still laughing. âHave I said Iâm sorry yet?â
âYou did.â He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he canât be holding you like this. You donât know him yet. Not yet. âNever got your name, though.â
âI never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.â
âDex.â
âDex.â You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. âNice to meet you, Dex.â
âNice to meet youâŠpublic hazard.â Lame joke. Bad joke. He just canât string a fucking thought together when youâre near him and-
You snort. His heart bursts into flames.
âDo you want to get out of here?â Fuck. Itâs too soon. Way too soon. Youâre gonna say no, and leave, and heâs-
âYeah.â You set your drink down. âYeah, I do.â
-
âSoâŠhobbies?â You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he canât stop looking at you.
âNot really.â
âHm.â You donât seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. Heâs not lying to you. He doesnât have to. Youâre meant to be together, after all. He doesnât have to lie about himself. Right? âOkay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?â
Actually, yeah. âI have one.â
You perk up, raise an eyebrow. âReally?â
He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. âThink youâre ready for it?â
âNah.â He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. âDonât think you are.â
âAw, come on. Please?â
Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. âPick somethinâ.â
You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesnât budge to give you any more information. âOkayâŠ.street sign. That one right there.â
âLetter.â
âWhat?â
âPick a letter.â
Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. âT.â
The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.
Thereâs a dent in the T. Itâs so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.
âHoly shit.â
Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.
âCan you do it again?â
Yes. Yes of course he can. Heâll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.
You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesnât want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.
But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until itâs locked into his memory forever.
Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.
-
He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.
Heâs walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and youâre standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesnât know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. Heâs kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because thatâs what youâre supposed to do, and never reallyâŠfelt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup heâs ever had.
He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. Heâs looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.
Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-
âYou have ice cream on your nose.â
He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.
âWhat?â
You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.
âShit.â He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. âShit. Iâm sorry. I-â
You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that heâs actually freaking out a little. Because itâs not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because thatâs the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now youâre-
âWoah, hey. Hey.â You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. âHey, itâs okay. Iâm sorry, it was cute. JustâŠtry again.â
Try again. Yeah, heâŠhe can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.
So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.
And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything heâs ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like heâs trying to devour you with a passion he didnât know he possessed.
You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And thisâŠthis is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didnât need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.
When you finally break apart, heâs out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.
âWow.â You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.
âYeah.â He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. âWow.â
-
When you see the caller id, you canât help but smile at the screen.
âGeez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.â Foggyâs voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.
âFBI guy?â Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.
âHis name is Dex.â Foggyâs eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. âI dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.â
âHeâs in the FBI. Youâre a pretty notorious hacker.â
âSo we donât talk about work.â You take a sip of your drink. âPlus, heâs not gonna turn me in. Iâm too good in bed.â
âBut he knows?â
âOf course he knows.â You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like youâre explaining something imperative. âOne you start having sex with someone, itâs important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.â
Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. âYouâre insane.â And then, curious and caring as ever, âso whatâs he like, if heâs got you risking federal prison?â
Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. âCute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, butâŠI like it.â You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.
Sometimes his emotions are a littleâŠintense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesnât seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whateverâs bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.
You justâŠwork. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in betweenâŠit works.
When you get back to his place tonight, heâs holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.
âI donât get this.â He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. âTheyâre just gonna die in a couple of days.â
âThen why did you get them?â
He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. âThey did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.â
You smile now. Wide. âYou know, youâre kinda cute, Poindexter.â
Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. âDo you not like the flowers?â
You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. âI like them. You did good. Really good.â
He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing heâs ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.
Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why youâre with him.
You get him. And he gets you.
You justâŠwork.
-
The newspaper sits on the counter, Dexâs picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.
You try not to talk about work with him. After all, youâre technically a criminal and heâs in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. Itâs unjust, Dex says, and you believe him becauseâŠwell, of course you do. Itâs Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that youâve met since youâve been dating have confirmed it.
And then the suspension came.
âItâs bullshit. Itâs fucking bullshit.â In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second thereâs a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.
âShit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.â You breathe, and Dexâs eyes whip back to yours.
âBreathe, Poindexter.â You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.
âDonât.â He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes donât leave you. Heâs breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.
You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. âYou gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.â
He freezes, eyes scanning your face like heâs trying to tell if youâre kidding or not, before he speaks. âYour eyes.â He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. âYour noseâŠyour mouth.â
Okay, itâs usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.
âThree things you can feel?â
He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. âYour skin.â He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. âYour hairâŠâ his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. âYour shirt.â
âYour shirt, technically.â
He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.
âThree things you can hear.â
âYour voice.â You hum in response, and he presses closer. âYour heartbeat. Your breathing.â
You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. âYour breathing is better, see?â
He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. Itâs slow, hard and desperate, like heâs trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.
âDo you feel better?â You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.
âIâm still being framed.â He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. âItâs still bullshit.â
âI know.â
âYou make it better.â His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. âYou make everything better.â
âHell of a compliment.â
âI mean it.â
âMe too.â
You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.
âBedroom?â You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.
âHere.â He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. âPlease.â
âThatâs my line, I think.â Youâre breathless, his lips are trailing higher.
âNo, itâs not.â His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. âItâs mine.â
-
âOne more.â
The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.
You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.
âI think one more will kill me.â You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. âSeriously, how do you have so much stamina?â
âMm, itâs just you.â He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. âI can go all night.â
âWe have gone all night.â
Itâs been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with DexâsâŠability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and youâre spending the next day aching in all the best ways.
Which is why youâre pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that heâs going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?
âDexâŠâ you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.
âOne more.â He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. âYou can do it. Just give me one more. Please.â
How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?
You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.
One more turns into three more.
-
You canât get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.
Their names arenât on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so thatâs something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you donât blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.
You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.
Dex shows up around midnight, and youâve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Mattâs been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. Thereâs only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, itâs going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.
âHey, where are you going? Whatâs wrong?â Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.
What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently heâs gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but Iâm absolutely fucking positive that it wasnât him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-
âIâveâŠgotta go.â You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.
His hands tighten on you. Fast.
âWhere? Where do you have to go?â Heâs holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.
âDex, let me go.â You canât tell him. Of course you canât. You have to figure this out on your own.
He doesnât. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. âYou canât leave. You canât leave me.â
âIâm-huh?â You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like heâs sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. âDex, whatâs going on?â
âI need you here, okay?â Heâs breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. âIâŠyou need to be here.â
You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.
âOkay. Hey, itâs okay.â He wasnât able to help tonight. Thatâs it. Heâs just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didnât realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. âWhatâs wrong? Whatâs going on?â
He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. âTell me you need me.â
âDex-â you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. Itâs not aggressive, not quite, but itâs firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.
âSay it. Please.â
You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. âI need you.â
He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.
You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure theyâre okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and theyâll probably need your help because you just had to learn Mattâs secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.
So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, theyâll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. Youâll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriendâs trembling hands arenât pulling at your clothes and his lips arenât trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.
âWhatâs wrong?â You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.
âYou make it quiet.â He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isnât like him. âYou make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.â His voice is shaking. Desperate.
Youâre not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.
The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.
Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.
âD-Dex.â Youâre so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesnât stop kissing you. Doesnât slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.
His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. Heâs still shaking.
âHey, stay with me.â You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesnât need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.
He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. âIâm here. Iâm good.â
You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that heâs telling the truth. Heâs here. Heâs with you.
He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.
Itâs slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.
He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like heâs trying to memorize the feeling of you.
âDo you think Iâm a good man?â His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.
You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like heâs worried youâll bolt.
âOf course.â You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. âYouâre a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.â
He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like youâre the most precious thing in the world. âI love you.â
âI love you, too.â You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. âYouâre gonna be okay.â
And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.
-
âI need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.â
âOh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. Itâs good to see you too, Matt. Iâve been great, how about-â
âThe man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.â
That shuts you up, right the fuck away. âVery funny.â
âIâm not joking. Heâs working for Fisk. Heâs killing for him, and framing me.â
You feel cold. âNo, heâs not. He wouldnât do that.â
Mattâs expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. âHe would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-â
âStop.â You snap, holding up a hand you know he wonât see. Heâll feel it though, or whatever. âStop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.â
âYou know thatâs not true, and we donât have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-â
âItâs not him.â Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. âHeâsâŠheâs a little intense. Heâs a little weird, sure. But he wouldnâtâŠhe wouldnât do that.â
Mattâs jaw tightens. He shakes his head.
âYou look into it the way you know how. You know. Youâll see it.â Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like heâs genuinely worried and didnât call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. âIâm sorry. I havenât been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But Iâm here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.â
You pull back, and shake your head again. âIâŠno. You have the wrong guy, Matt. HeâsâŠyouâre wrong. Weâll find whoâs doing this, but itâs not Dex.â
âWe can keep you safe. You can hide-â
âNo.â
âPlease. Heâs unpredictable. Heâs dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.â
âI donât know. I know youâreâŠyouâre wrong.â He is wrong. He has to be wrong. âIâll find out who it is, okay? But itâs not Dex. JustâŠitâs not Dex.â
And yetâŠ
No. No. Itâs not possible. Thereâs no way.
Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him youâll go home, and youâll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.
You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if⊠if he couldâŠ
Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.
-
He killed Ray tonight.
It doesnât bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.
âHeâs lying. Heâs using you. Heâs using her.â Dexâs hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. âYou think heâs gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, heâll hurt her the second itâs convenient for him, and heâll take you out too.â
âYou need to stop talking about her, Ray.â Dexâs voice is low. Quiet.
âWhen she finds out, you think sheâs gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?â
Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, youâll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, youâll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you donât have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.
If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things heâs done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.
And youâll still love him, right? Right. Youâre meant to be together.
The shot lands perfectly between his former friendâs eyes. And, once itâs all said and done, he goes home to you.
-
Youâre on the couch when he walks through the door. Youâre chewing on your nails. Youâre staring at your computer screen.
So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like heâs all yours.
Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like itâs about to overwhelm him.
âWhatâre you doing?â He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.
Youâre tense. Somethingâs bothering you. He can fix that.
âLooking something up.â You murmur, soft and hesitant. âOrâŠI should be. I canâtâŠmake myself do it.â
He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. Youâre still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.
Youâre wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just canât help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.
âHm, you know youâre not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.â He jokes, but you donât smile like you usually would. Donât tease him back. âMight incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know thereâs only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.â
You do smile now, though thereâs something in your eyes that he canât place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isnât you.
âOr, you know. Put me in cuffs.â And you hum, and smile a little more.
He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. Itâs warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.
When itâs over, and heâs pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.
His brow furrows, and he pulls back.
You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. âYouâre a good man.â You whisper, and you sound like youâre talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.
âI love you.â He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. âI love you.â
âI love you too.â You murmur, and thereâs never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He canât quite place it.
But youâre overwhelmed by your love for him, too. Thatâs all.
Thatâs all.
-
The worst part of it all is that you know youâre going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.
And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.
âHello, Karen. Itâs nice to see you again.â
You would recognize that voice anywhere.
It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.
It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people heâs killed. The people heâs manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isnât. You just have to look.
You didnât look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, youâve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.
And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeemâs video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.
You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they werenât here. They didnât check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.
Foggyâs hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. âCan you do it?â
You donât look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.
You nod.
-
âWhat are you-â
You arenât supposed to be here. You arenât supposed to be here. You arenât-
Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesnât do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he wonât hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.
That doesnât make him any less dangerous.
You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesnât matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.
His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesnât have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.
He reaches for you, and you step back.
âWhat the hell are you doing?â He asks, something in his face cracking a little. âCome here. Please.â
âTell me itâs not true. Please, tell me itâs not true.â
Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. âCome here.â
âDex.â
âItâs not true.â He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. âItâs not true. None of itâs true. Just-â
You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeemâs confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.
âIn three hours, itâs going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.â Your voice is tight, shaking. âYouâre not gonna stop it.â
Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.
âDonât touch me. Do not fucking touch me.â
âDonât do this.â He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. Youâre going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you canât think. Youâve never felt more stupid in your life. âDonât you dare do this. Donât leave me. You canât leave me. You promised.â His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.
âDonât touch me.â
âDonât leave me. Baby, donât do this. You love me. I love you. We can-â
âWhat is this, fucking Barney?!â You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. âYouâve been murdering people.â
Youâre fully in the street, now. Youâre still shaking. Heâs still approaching.
âIf you come any closer, Iâll scream.â You mean it. He looks like heâs about to risk it. Like heâs moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.
You turn, and walk away.
You hear him scream from a block away. Itâs loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.
You keep walking.
-
He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where youâre curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.
He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Mattâs Daredevil costume. Itâs on the news. Itâs on film.
He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.
It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.
But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.
You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josieâs on a Tuesday. They donât mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.
And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.
Or at least, thatâs what you tell yourself.
-
Itâs a nice, normal Friday night.
Cherryâs retirement party is fun. Youâre having fun. Youâre laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggyâs attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.
You donât think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or justâŠwatching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.
Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.
The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The wayâŠ
Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.
You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. âMorning.â
âSâthe middle of the night.â You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.
âFive forty-five.â He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. âGotta get ready for work.â
âPlay hooky.â You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.
âWould if I could.â He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.
âYouâre reinstated and promoted nowâŠâ you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. âTheir apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.â
His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like heâs thinking about it.
And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.
âI canât.â He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.
âGoody two shoes.â You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a littleâŠdifferent. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-
âHey, you okay?â
Your eyes whip up, reflected in Mattâs glasses. You swallow. Smile. âHm?â
âYourâŠâ he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, âyour heart is racing.â
Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.
âIâm fine.â And you are. Youâre fine. Youâre absolutely, totally fine.
Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.
Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.
A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.
Youâre frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-
âHey, baby.â
A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.
Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but youâre still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.
Heâs wearing a mask, but youâd recognize his eyes anywhere. Youâve never seen them so fucking crazed.
âI missed you.â His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.
And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like itâs drawn there by a gravitational pull. Itâs been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you canât help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.
He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesnât even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.
The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because itâs fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.
The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.
The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you canât get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.
Your ears are ringing. You canât think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you canât think.
And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.
And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.
And you donât scream. You donât cry. You still donât even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dexâs toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dexâs body just hit the pavement behind you.
You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.
You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.
Dead. Heâs dead. Oh God, Foggy isnât breathing and nowâŠand now DexâŠheâs-
Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didnât even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.
âWhat did you do?â You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesnât let you go. âDex, what did you do?â
-
ONE YEAR LATER
There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. Heâs even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like heâs allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.
Youâre here for Foggy. You havenât seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.
But youâre here. Maybe you shouldnât be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.
So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still canât understand.
The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You canât hide your flinch at the sound. Dexâs eyes move right over to you, and lock in.
He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.
They take him away, and he doesnât stop smiling at you.
-
âHe refuses to speak unless youâre in the room.â
Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Mattâs face.
âNo.â
âI need information. We need information. Heâll be cuffed the entire time. He wonât touch you.â
âIâm not worried about that. I donât want to speak to him.â
âThey moved him to gen pop.â
You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And itâs Matt, so thereâs no use pretending.
âIsâŠdid theyâŠâ Gen pop. Theyâll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldnât be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.
âThey will. He wonât last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.â Mattâs hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. âWe need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-â
âI want him out of gen pop.â You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like youâre going to be sick. âI want you to get him back in protective custody.â
Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You donât blame him.
But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.
-
âHi, baby.â His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like heâs filing away every inch.
You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, heâs not going to get to. Never again.
âYou killed Foggy Nelson.â
âYour hair is longer.â
âYou killed Foggy.â
âDo you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?â
âShut up.â
âIâve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.â His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. âI wonder what else tastes just like I remember.â
You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesnât fall.
âDo it again.â
âFuck you.â
âGet me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.â
âIf you think Iâll ever, ever let you touch me again, youâre more fucked in the head than I thought.â
His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. âDonât talk like that.â
âWhy did you kill Foggy Nelson?â
âYou still love me.â
âNo. I donât.â
âYouâre lying.â Heâs still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. âSay it.â
âFuck. You.â
His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. âFuck, I missed your voice.â
âYou said youâd speak if I came here. Answer me.â
âDo you remember our three month anniversary?â He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. âChinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.â Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. âI took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.â His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. âThink about them every night, but you know it doesnât compare to the real thing.â
âYouâre trying to get in my head.â
âIâm already in your head. Just like youâre in mine. Weâre connected, forever.â
âDid you kill Foggy to punish me?â
He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. âNo. But you shouldnât have left me.â
âSo what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?â
He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. âWhen I get out of here, Iâm not going to hurt you.â The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. âBut youâre not leaving me again. Ever.â
âYou donât get to decide that.â
âI do. I already have.â
âFuck this.â You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. âFuck you.â
That gets to him. âYouâre not leaving. Weâre not done.â
âWeâre done.â You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. âWeâre done, Dex.â
âI havenât seen you in a year. You canât walk out like this.â
âAnd youâre not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.â
His voice is a low, violent growl. âDonât say that.â
And, because youâre a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldnât do.
They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didnât confiscate your watch.
One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldnât use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.
The security camera light flickers off.
Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you donât want to think about. Not right now.
You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.
You lean closer. You donât break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.
âIf you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love againâŠâ you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like heâs silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. âI will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?â
For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.
And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.
Your eyes drop down to Dexâs right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.
The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.
You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course heâs fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an âoomphâ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.
âShhh, shh.â His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. Youâre a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. âIâve got you.â
âThatâs the problem.â You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.
âI did it for you.â He whispers, reverent. âI bought my freedom with it. For you.â
And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.
Thereâs a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.
And then the door opens, and he doesnât let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.
It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. Heâs smiling. Wide.
Itâs only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadnât expected that. Like he hadnât even considered that you would be leaving again.
âNo. Donât take her. Stop it.â He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. âDonât take her from me again. Stop it!â
They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.
-
âYou didnât do it. You didnât help him.â
Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.
âWhat are you doing here?â He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. âHave you slept?â
No. No, you havenât. But youâre not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and itâs getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that itâs because you want answers.
And you have them, now. Because you couldnât help it. You couldnât ignore it anymore.
âI did it for you.â
âItâs not exactly an invitation you can refuse.â Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and youâre going to crawl out of your skin. âAnd yes. Iâve slept.â You donât care that he knows that youâre lying.
âI-â heâs going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. Youâll probably be dead soon, too. So whatâs the fucking point? Whatâs the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You werenât careful when you looked into all of this. You didnât cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. Youâll be in the ground in a week at best.
âIt was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.â You donât even lower your voice. Youâre exhausted, and youâre hurting, and youâre angry, and who fucking cares anymore?
Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. âStop. They know I know. They know what I do. Thatâs why Iâm here. Theyâre probably gonna kill me too, tonight.â
For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.
âItâs fine. Itâs a long time coming, right?â You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. âDo you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?â
And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?
âBut itâs fine, right? At least the âweapon of mass destructionâ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didnât deserve help. I didnât deserve to ask for it. Not for him.â
Mattâs hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but youâve cried all night and the tears wonât come anymore. Youâve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.
âKeep it down.â Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.
âI know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldnât even hold the pen right.â
Matt Murdockâs jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. âHe still did it.â
Heâs right. He did. But-
âYou donât know him. HeâŠhe doesnât think like other people. They got to him. They did this.â Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. âIâm not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. ButâŠâ and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.
Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And theyâre dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They donât care. Sure, you donât care. Youâre numb. Youâre hurting and confused enough that you donât care what happens to you, but them⊠these people did all of this, and theyâre happy about it.
âThey did this.â You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.
Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.
âYouâre delirious.â He says, voice low and grip tight. âYouâre acting irrationally. Donât-â
But youâve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.
âBenjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.â
The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what heâs saying over the rapid beat of your heart.
Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-
âWe have to get you out of here.â Mattâs voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked andâŠrelieved to even force your own feet to move. âHeâll be coming for you.â
Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-
You may not have Mattâs senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.
âNot me.â You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.
And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.
Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and youâre trying to get to him but youâre being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before youâre saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you canât see the shape on the balcony anymore.
You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasnât there before.
A bullseye.
-
Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what youâre going to find.
You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.
Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.
The power is still out. Youâre exhausted. Thereâs still blood on your dress.
Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.
Thereâs a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.
You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.
âYou moved.â
âYeah.â You say, voice steadier than it should be. âMy boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.â
âI donât really fall under that definition.â
You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.
âYou look tired.â
âYouâre missing a tooth.â You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. âYou gonna kill me now?â
âStop saying that.â Itâs still dark, you still canât see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like theyâre gritted out through his teeth. âI love you.â
âI trusted you.â You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.
âYou still can.â
You take another swig, and lean against the counter. âNow thatâs funny. Didnât know they taught comedy classes in prison.â
âI thought about you every day. Every minute.â His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.
âFunny. I thought about Foggy.â
âThat sounds hard. Really-â
âShut the fuck up.â And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Mattâs number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, thereâs a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. âGet out.â
âYou donât really want me to.â It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. âYou still love me.â
You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.
âWas that a fucking knife?â
âBottle cap. I donât wanna cut you.â
âBut youâll shoot at me.â Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.
âI would never in a million fucking years-â
âYou. Killed. Foggy.â
âAnd weâll work past it, baby. We can work past it.â And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.
âYouâre delusional.â
âYou want me. Say it. Please.â Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.
You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.
In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.
He smiles, and you wonder if heâs always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.
âI should kill you.â
âIâd let you.â He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. âBut you wonât.â
âI donât have Daredevilâs moral code.â
âNo.â His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. âYou love me.â
âI donât.â But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and heâs bleeding and he doesnât seem to care.
You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.
âYou asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.â He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. âDidnât work, but I appreciate the thought.â The confirmation. âHelped me get back to you.â
âI didnât want you to get back to me.â
âLiar, liar.â He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he canât help himself.
âI thought you were dead.â You donât mean to say it. You donât mean to acknowledge it. âMatt left you to die.â
âAnd you mourned me.â Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. Heâs fucking batshit insane. âI saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.â
âI donât know what I was gonna do.â You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesnât belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.
Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.
This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise thatâs almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.
You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like youâre trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.
He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he canât get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.
You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.
You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.
His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like heâs trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.
âSay my name.â He whispers, rough, and you donât. You fucking moan his name, a sound youâve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.
He doesnât leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until youâre trembling against him. Until youâre gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until theyâre curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.
You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and canât find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.
When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer thatâs ever been uttered.
âFuck.â He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.
âNever miss.â He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and youâre going to fucking kill him.
Kill. Kill.
All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.
Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.
Youâre just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesnât even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.
âWhy?â He asks, but he knows. He knows and heâs goading you and you need to make yourself-
âI hate you.â It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. Youâre still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.
Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.
He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.
Something flashes in his eyes. Something you canât place. You donât know whatâs in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.
And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.
Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like heâs worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.
âStop it.â You try. You really do.
He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.
âDex.â Itâs supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.
And then heâs right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense itâs going to drown you.
Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like heâs desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesnât do much. Doesnât muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.
You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like itâs the hardest thing heâs ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.
But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it heâs rolled you onto your back and youâre ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-
âTell me you want this.â He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. âTell me.â
âI want this.â Itâs a sick, horrible confession, but itâs true. âI want you.â
He groans, like itâs the most wonderful thing heâs ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.
âI love you.â He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. âI love you.â
You wonât say it back. You canât say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.
He holds you like heâs trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You canât stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until youâre sobbing his name on every breath.
When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesnât stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.
âDex.â You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until youâre practically sobbing.
âOne more.â He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. âGive me one more.â
The third time, heâs right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.
It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.
âI love you.â You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and heâs more than happy to relapse.
He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.
You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.
He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.
Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. Youâre probably going to be assassinated soon.
And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, itâs all so familiar that you ache.
He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldnât bring yourself to throw away.
He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.
And then, when heâs cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.
You make love again. You donât think either of you even mean to. It isnât as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until heâs shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then heâs sliding them off, and youâre unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until youâre writhing against him.
He doesnât tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until heâs hoarse with it.
When itâs over, and youâre lying together in the rumpled sheets and heâs breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.
âWeâre not back together.â You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldnât care less. Like itâs such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.
You frown, but you donât double down. Thereâs no point, really. You know him. You know heâs not letting you go anywhere.
âHow do I fix it?â He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.
âWhat?â
âHow do I make you forgive me? For Fog-â
Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.
âDonât say his name.â You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. Youâre lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you donât feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. âYou still donât get to say his name.â
He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.
He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.
âWhat do I do?â He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.
You donât know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.
It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.
âHe was good.â You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. âFoggy was soâŠgood.â
âYou said I was good, once.â Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when heâs trying to understand something.
âI did.â You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. âI thinkâŠI think you can be. You can be good.â
He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. âIâll be anything you want. Iâll do anything for you.â
Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldnât, and youâre fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How heâs been manipulated and hurt and how heâs hurt others and you still fucking love him.
âI want to kill Fisk.â You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. âI want them both dead. And I donât want itâŠI donât want it for the right reasons, I think.â
âWhy do you want it?â
âRevenge.â You whisper. âThe greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.â
âHm.â He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. âIf I help you kill themâŠit balances the scales.â
You frown. âIt-â
âA good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?â He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. âIt balances out. Youâll forgive me.â
âI canât forgive you.â You canât. You shouldnât. You wonât.
Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.
You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.
âWeâre probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.â You murmur, and brush your lips over his.
He smiles. âWeâll move.â We. You and him.
âIf we do this, you donât do it for me. Iâm not making you do anything.â
âI do everything for you.â He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. âBut okay. Letâs kill âem all.â
-
âSuch a sweet boy.â The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say âTonyâ. Sometimes you think heâs enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her catâs bowl. âAnd what are you two up to?â
âTakinâ the missus to lunch.â He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.
âYou have got to stop telling her weâre married.â You chastise, and he doesnât let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless manâs cup.
âI didnât.â
âYou just called me âthe missusâ.â
Heâs smiling, a little too proud of himself. âCould mean anything.â
You still insist that youâre not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.
But fuck, heâs like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.
Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and heâs just waiting for you to admit it.
You donât know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of whatâs about to happen, but you would say itâs safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because itâs him and heâs an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.
You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.
âYou two ready to order?â
The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like heâs been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much heâs changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much youâve changed.
âMy wife and I will have aâŠbanana milkshake, then.â He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. âDoes that sound good, sweetheart?â
You snort. âSounds perfect, darling.â
His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.
âCute. Iâll be right back with that.â The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.
âMenace.â You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.
He makes the worst, least convincing phone call youâve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says âoh shit, heâs got a gunâ in the most monotone voice youâve ever heard. His eyes donât leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when youâre near, heâs locked in on a target.
Then again, hasnât it always been that way?
You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.
Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.
You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.
You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesnât stop smiling. Doesnât look away. And shit, if you donât feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like youâre the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until itâs just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.
You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. âForty five seconds.â
He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.
âArenât you gonna tell me to take cover?â You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.
âNo oneâs gonna touch you.â You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what youâre doing.
âEverybody get on the ground!â
You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dexâs large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.
His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.
âToo much?â You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.
A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officerâs eye, and all hell breaks loose.
You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second heâs on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.
âThat was a really great milkshake.â He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.
You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, itâs also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.
âStand down!â He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.
Dex turns, and tilts his head.
âOw.â You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. âWrong move, dude.â
He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, heâs moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.
You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.
âDogs in restaurants are unsanitary.â He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.
âP-Please donât kill me.â The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.
âDonât worry.â He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. âWeâre the good guys.â
You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.
-
ONE YEAR EARLIER
âThis is no way to live, Benjamin.â
Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.
But youâre still there. You. You. You.
He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.
Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. âYouâre a good man, DexâŠâ
And heâll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.
And thereâs nothing there. And the room is cold.
âI miss you.â Heâll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he wonât hear anything back.
Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.
Of you.
His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They wonât let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his âvictimsâ. He hasnât seen your face in so long.
âShe misses you.â And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.
And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.
You. You. You.
You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. Youâre with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. Youâre smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.
You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.
His fingers curl against the picture.
âI know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels likeâŠâ Vanessaâs voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex canât stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. âLike a hollowness in your soul.â
He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.
His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.
âThey talk to her about you.â
His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.
âThey tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that itâs true.â Vanessa leans forward, earnest. âIf you want her, you cannot let that happen.â
His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.
Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesnât look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.
âYou can have her again. I only need oneâŠfavor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.â
You. You. You.
Vanessaâs manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. âI need you to kill him, and one of his clients.â
Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-
âThey are poisoning her mind.â Vanessa repeats. âI do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.â
You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.
âWith your freedom, you can get back to her.â
Back to you.
He signs the contract.
-
One good deed, and itâs all better. And you forgive him.
Not like you havenât already. Even if you wonât admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when heâs got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wallâŠ
And when you eat breakfast together, and heâs staring at you and youâre grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.
Youâre out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. Youâll be back in ten minutes, tops.
Youâre gonna be mad at him. He hates that.
But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and youâre gonna come home to that wreck and worry butâŠ
One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesnât move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? Whatâs the point of living if itâs in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he canât help but fear a day when you decide that you canât forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just canât seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.
No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.
So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that youâll forgive him.
-Â
He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisksâs swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fiskâs temple.
It was easy. Almost too easy.
But the bullet. Thatâs the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.
Heâs going to bleed out. Youâre going to be upset.
But he did it. One good deed. He didnât kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, sheâs going to die.
-
âMrs. Smithers, please shut up.â
Sheâs screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. âTonyâ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.
Two minutes, and theyâll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.
Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.
There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.
Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.
You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.
You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.
And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that youâre not too late.
-
Heâs bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesnât have long, and Murdock isnât gonna stick around to help him.
He misses you. He wishes you were here.
The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If youâre still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.
âOne last good deed.â He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. âNâthen she forgives me.â
âAsshole.â A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dexâs whole speech about how heâs making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and thatâs all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.
âTake care of her when Iâm gone.â You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. Heâs pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. âYeah, you will.â And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.
Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. Heâs so stressed itâs almost funny, but heâs not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. Itâs time for judgement day.
The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and youâll be okay. You forgave him. You didnât admit it aloud, but he doesnât need that. Never did.
Judgement day ticks ever-closer.
âDex!â
His eyes open, and itâs too bright in the dark room. Heâs too tired, butâŠ
There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. âHey, baby.â
âWake up. Dex, wake up.â You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. YouâŠ.
âDex! Fuck, please wake up. Câmon.â Youâre pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.
âFuck. Why are you so heavy?! Whereâs Matt?â Youâre trying to get your hands under his shoulders. Itâs a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.
âIn the wind.â He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. âYou gotta go, too.â
âFat fucking chance.â You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. âIâm not going anywhere. Iâm not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.â
Oh, thatâs the best thing heâs ever heard. Itâs the first time youâve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.
âMy girl.â Heâs fading. Heâs fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. âNorth StarâŠ.â
âDex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Donât leave me don't you dare leave me-â
The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesnât close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.
And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.
The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.
âMatt?! Matt! Help him! Please-â
âŠ
-
Youâre by his bedside. You have been for hours.
Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dexâs wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.
Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if heâll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.
And then heâs healed. Somewhat. For now. And youâre fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair youâve pulled up to the cot heâs asleep in.
âAre you fucking kidding me?â Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you canât let go of his hand.
âHey, Karen.â The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think youâve been spending too much time with Dex.
âHim?â Matt isnât here. Not now. You see sweat on Dexâs brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.
âYeah.â You donât look away from him. Youâre still covered in his blood. âCute, right?â A lame joke, like heâs some boy you just met at the bar, rather thanâŠwell, fucking Bullseye.
âWeâve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.â
Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. âWellâŠI mean, he kinda did.â However things ended up that night after the party, youâre pretty confident that he wasnât going to let you leave. Not without him.
âAre you sleeping with him?â Youâre getting a little tired of the twenty questions.
âIâm in love with him.â You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.
âHe killed Foggy.â
âI know.â Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. âAnd I still love him. Isnât that fucked up?â
-
He wakes cuffed to the cot. Theyâre worried about what he might do. Honestly, youâre surprised they didnât cuff you too.
He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.
âHey, baby.â
He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.
He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.
âDo your staples hurt?â You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages.Â
He grunts in acknowledgment. âCâmere.â
You do, slowly, and itâs only then that he seems to notice the gun.
âYou gonna shoot me?â He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.
âI might.â You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.
He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.
âYou disappeared.â You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. âYou tried to get yourself killed.â
âBalancing the scales.â
âYou got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.â
âYou love me.â He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.
âI still hate you. For Foggy.â Itâs a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.
âYou love me.â He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.
âI do.â You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.
You pull back, and push it in harder.
âListen to me, Poindexter.â You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. âNever do that shit again. You donât get to leave me. Not now, not ever.â
Words heâs said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.
âNever.â He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. âWanna put that down?â
âI could shoot you.â You donât know why youâre saying it. Youâre smiling too.
âNo bullets.â He hums, pleased. âAnd itâs not loaded.â
You laugh, and wonder just how crazy youâve become. âThe FBI trained you too well.â
He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until thereâs no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.
âNot the FBI. I know you.â He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. âUncuff me.â
You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.
He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.
âYouâre injured.â You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.
âFeels better.â
âLiar.â
He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. âThis feels better. Let me touch you.â
âYou are touching me.â
âLet me touch you more.â
You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.
He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.
âUncuff me.â He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.
âNo.â
He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. âDonât wanna do this with one hand.â
âI could cuff your other hand.â
He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.
âOff.â
You comply, and he leans back to look you over like youâre the most incredible thing heâs ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.
âYour staples.â You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.
âDoesnât hurt.â
Itâs getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.
âLiar, liar.â It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.
âI want it to hurt.â He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. âReminds me Iâm alive.â
You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and heâs here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.
You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. Heâs kissing you like youâre the only oxygen heâs ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries heâs still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.
One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why heâs hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.
And thereâs so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like heâs in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like heâs drinking in the sight of you, too.
âMine.â You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.
You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.
âI have to re-cuff you.â You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.
âNo. Donât move.â
âIf they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, theyâll probably cuff me too.â You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. âThey think Iâm crazy.â
He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.
âLove you.â His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.
âLove you too, psycho.â You kiss his cheek. âNo more suicide missions, or itâs both cuffs.â
Something sparks in his eyes. âPromise?â
âBoth cuffs, and no touching.â
He frowns, and kisses you again like heâs trying to prove that heâs allowed to touch you now. âNo more suicide missions.â
-
When Matt comes an hour or so later, youâre fully dressed and back in your chair at Dexâs bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.
You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.
âFlick your wrist.â Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. Heâs tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that heâs in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.
You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.
âUncuff me.â
âBad boy. Youâre gonna get me in trouble.â
Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.
He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesnât even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.
âLetâs get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.â Dexâs eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he wonât even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. âAnd I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.â
âWoah, hey. Iâm of completely sound mind.â You snap, defensive. Matt doesnât turn around.
âYour shirt is on inside out.â
You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.
âDick.â You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didnât tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. âI didnât uncuff him.â
âNot all the way.â Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.
âShut up.â
âStop. Both of you stop.â Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.
He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dexâs or even yours.
But you saw Mattâs face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldnât fucking lose him.
Heâs angry. Heâs hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesnât make those years of friendship just go away.
And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. âSo, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?â
Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.
âWhat do you need me to do?â
-
The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.
Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, andâŠ
And then lowered out of pure confusion.
A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.
âI-I was just looking for the bathroom.â
Shit. A civilian. Theyâre gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. Thereâs no way she didnât see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-
âWait, please donât shoot! I know what you do, right? Youâre the good guys? You find vigilantes andâŠyou knowâŠâ she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officerâs head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.
Exactly where the woman âshotâ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.
He goes down.
She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.
And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she âfiresâ, another knife flies through the air and hits home.
Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and âshootsâ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.
And then, when all thatâs left is the âfake Bullseyeâ, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.
The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.
âThat was even more fun the third time.â She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.
Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.
The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.
Heâs only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.
-
âHoly shit.â
âHm?â The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.
Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.
âMatt just told everyone heâs Daredevil.â
Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. âAnd?â
âAnd heâs probably gonna go to prison for it.â
Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. âPrisonâs not so bad.â
âSays the guy who broke out of it.â
âFor you.â He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you canât see him smile behind the mask. âFor romance.â
You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. âYouâre a fucking psychooo~â you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.
He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.
The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. Itâs time to go.
You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.
A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.
âWhatâre you up to?â
Dexâs couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.
âTech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.â You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. âNot supposed to talk about it though, remember?â
âCriminal.â He kisses you again, but heâs smiling.
âNot technically.â You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. âYou gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?â
âNever.â
âTime to go.â That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and heâs still so incredibly yours.
âMattâŠâ the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.
âCanât do anything for him now, baby.â His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. âBut if they catch us up here, itâs gonna be a lot worse for him.â
You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.
That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.
And thatâs how it was always gonna go, wasnât it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartmentâŠ
It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.
Home, to him.
You smile back, and meet his eyes.
âWhere are we going?â
-
Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.
The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the âMillion Milers Clubâ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying -Â but you would tell him that itâs rude to glare if you were awake.
Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like heâs some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.
Then again, youâre almost just as unhinged as he is these days.
He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.
âYou two seem happy.â The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because youâre his only his no one else-
Heâs gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, youâre his. And heâs yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.
And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. Youâd leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.
No one suspected that youâd helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.
He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. âYou headed to your honeymoon?â
The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.
But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.
âYeah.â He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. âItâs long overdue.â
The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dexâs attention suddenly couldnât be any less focused on him.
Honeymoon. Yeah, youâll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense itâs taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.
short | fluff | smut | âwiping my drink after himâ
synopsis: you try a trend on jason by wiping your bottle after he takes a sip. clearly he doesnât appreciate it.
a/n: was supposed to be fluff but iâm freaked out sorry
itâs nearly 10pm when jason comes home from patrol. he had planned to get here earlier and switched his shift with dick all because you told him you finished work.
without even asking if you wanted him to do so, he just did it.
âbaby?â he calls out as he shuts the front door.
youâre sitting on your bed, practically buzzing as youâd just been scrolling on tiktok and saw a trend you just had to try on him.
âiâm in here jay,â you reply from your bed, fingers idle on the screen as you quickly place it on the nightstand.
enough to capture the both of you.
heavy footsteps approach the room and he opens the door with sweat wicking his brow. he gives a low hum as he takes on the sight of engulfed in one of his t-shirt, a habit youâd taken when you missed him and wanted him home. curled up in your comforter with just your torso peaking out, jason plops right on top of you. no care in his sweat on your skin now of his weight resting on you entirely. you giggle as you run your fingers through his hair.
âdonât you think you should, i donât know, shower before you come into bed?â no real annoyance behind your words.
he nuzzles even closer to you, shakes his head in the crook of your neck. almost like heâs motorboating your neck.
ânah, iâll wash the sheets in the morning. theyâll need it after iâm done with you.â
the heat reaches your face and a fluttery feeling sits low in your stomach. he always knew how to throw the words back at you. but alas, the show must go on. you stroke his hair back once more, cupping his face with both hands to kiss his sweet face. jason melts into it immediately, but he shrugs like he were shy from this attention. when you pull away, a piece of him was disappointed.
âyou hungry?â you ask him. âi was gonna make something to eat.â
he shakes his head, âdonât worry about it. i came home to take care of you. iâll cook.â
you raise a brow as you reach for your water bottle, ready to play in his face. âtake care of me? iâm a grown adult babe.â
he watches as you lift the bottle to your lips, his eyes trained hard on how they part and press against it. taking in how your throat swallows down the water and he gulps in anticipation as though he was drinking it too. his lips part as he leans in to kiss you again. though this time, you bring the bottle between you and put it to his lips.
âyou look dehydrated,â you say like itâs the easiest thing in the world. tilting your head slightly and watching the gears turn in his head. âhave you been using the bottle i bought you?â
he sighs and nods, âyes but i like using yours.â
sitting up enough to take the bottle and take a long sip. probably draining your ice cold water from how thirsty he was and didnât even realize. he makes a sound of approval and hands it back to you when you do the unspeakable.
you take the bottle from him, lift your opposing hand and wipe it with your sleeve. jason is absolutely dumbstruck. his lips part in confusion as his brows furrow. he looks to you, then the bottle and then back to you again. he scoffs softly and then points at the bottle.
âthe fuck was that?â
heâs blinking hard at you and waiting for a response. you just take a long sip and furrow your brows back.
âwhat do you mean jay? iâm drinking water?â feigning confusion.
âyou just wiped me off of it iâm some freeloader, with germs and shit.â
you canât control your laughter and shake your head at him. âiâm just wiping your spit off of it jason. itâs not a big deal.â
then heâs stammering, pointing between you and the bottle again. âbut babe you just kissed me! how is that any different! wait, does my breath smell?â before he leans back and puts his hand in front of his mouth and breathes out to sniff his breath. âi didnât smoke or anything and i brushed my teeth i swear.â
this only makes you laugh harder, pushing this chest and grasping tightly at he bottle in your hands. jason only seems to get even more confused. he sits up completely and watches you giggle to yourself, finding this entire thing amusing. jason however, does not. but he knows you, and he knows you have never cared about germs with him before. besides, you live in gotham, itâs hardly the cleanliest place to live.
with a loud scoff, he takes the water bottle from your hands and tongues at the mouth piece. he fully lets his tongue fall out of him mouth and licks it all around before pulling back and handing it to you. you grimace a little at the wet sheen on it.
âew jay, what the hell.â holding the bottle like something toxic.
âtake a sip.â he says with the most stern expression youâd ever seen on him.
oh, he was pissed.
you decide to play along longer and shake your head in defiance at him.
he blinks at you, âiâd let you spit in my mouth and youâre sitting here telling me you wonât drink from the same bottle as me?â
âno, not until i wash your slobber off of it.â
thatâs when he huffs out a kid throwing a tantrum and grabs the bottle from your hand, mumbling in his breath. you watch him with genuine confusion while he is the one to take another sip before grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.
he squeezes your cheeks until your lips part and spits the water directly into your mouth. you make a sound of surprise the sudden intrusion makes your eyes widen but you were definitely not opposed. you swallow it down immediately. he keeps his hold on your cheeks as he squints and a small smile begins to take form on his face.
âyou liking this,â he states rather than asks.
the contagious smile takes home on your face as you stare back at him and nod. âitâs a prank.â
âha,â he says flatly, ânow can you lay back down please?â
sighing as you lay down for him, he immediately follows after you. weight resting directly over you like a weighted blanket that wouldnât budge if you tried. when you squirm a little, he wraps his arms over yours so youâre bracketed between him and the mattress. then he really does give you some sloppy, wet kisses that leave a trail in its wake.
heâs mumbling lowly as he starts to tug on your shirt, pulling the fabric up and huffing like heâs still annoyed. kisses getting a little rougher as he starts to bite the flesh beneath it and knead it with his teeth. you canât help but tilt back for him.
âslobber, huh? iâll show you slobber.â murmuring against yours skin enough to tickle you. he pulls his head up to look at you while youâre still giggling, âokay jokes over. was gonna do all the work butââ
jason lifts you from beneath him and places you firm onto his lap. hand tight in your hip as you straddle him and he settles his back on the headboard. he clears his throat and something behind his light eyes darken enough to tell you you were really in for it now. the thick bulge beneath you was unmistakable now. you open your mouth in a gasp and say his name.
âthereâs no way that turned you on.â making the horrible mistake of letting a giggle out again.
he breathes out of his nose and pinches your side to make you jolt. groaning like heâs not the cause of you moving around and tightening his hold on you so youâd stop moving.
âi spat in your mouth. of course iâm hard.â he sighs as his fingers slide across the waistband of your underwear and tug them just to let them snap. you jolt again but he doesnât stop you from moving or say anything about the desperate sound you make at the friction.
instead, jason smiles a little harder, âgo ahead then.â
guiding your hips back and forth until your breath caught in your throat and you grips his shoulders for dear life. you breathe out his name again but itâs barely a whisper. he tsks and bucks up into you, dragging his hard length against your clothed core. you were dangerously close and heâs just grinning like heâs already won. your hips with a mind of his own as you chase your own release, dragging your hands down his chest and pushing him further into the mattress. youâre already a mess, panting heavily and saying his name.
one of his hands come up to the back of your head and pulls you down towards him, whispering lowly in your ear.
âthere you go ma, take whatâs yours.â
movements getting sloppy and uneven while heâs keeping you folded against him. one strong palm kept your faces close and the other moved you in accordance what he knew got you there. he knew you were a gone before you let go, gasping and stilling just for him to continue moving against you.
youâre catching your breath when he finally stops and kisses the side of your face sloppily again. his hands rubbed up and down your back like heâs soothing you. but this time, heâs the one laughing while he whispers in your ear like a coo.
đŹđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
đđ°; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, itâs 6k words long.
đ/đ§: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the coupleâs first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
âWe managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.â
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
âYouâll be off active duty for several months,â the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. âYouâll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.â
His voice sounds farther away now, as though heâs standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
âOkay,â you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesnât feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
Thatâs when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediatelyâyou couldâve sworn the menâs and womenâs recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. Thereâs faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes youâre awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression youâre giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
âWhy are you here?â
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
âToo many casualties,â he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. âHospitalâs full. Had to stick you in a spare room.â
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
âOkay.â
And just like that, silence returns.
ââ*:ă»
You canât sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You canât walkânot yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. âWhat happened to you?â
He doesnât look at you this time.
âGot shot,â his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. âUpper abdomen,â he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
âOh, fuck,â you mutter weakly.
âYeah,â despite hisâstill flatâtone, thereâs dry humor buried underneath it. âDidnât hit anything vital, though.â
âLucky, I guess.â
âStill feels like shit.â
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
âWhatâs your rank?â you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
âLieutenant.â
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
âSAS?â you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesnât ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
âYouâre Simon Riley?â
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
âIâm pretty sure itâs you,â you continue, voice quieter now. âOnly lieutenant whose face Iâve never seen.â
For a moment, he just stares at you. âYes. Itâs me.â
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
Thatâs one hell of a roommate assignment.
ââ*:ă»
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
âYouâre staring,â he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. âJust making sure youâre real.â
His visible eye narrows slightly. âDisappointed?â
âA little,â you admit. âThought youâd be uglier.â A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
âYou always this chatty?â he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but thereâs still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
âJust heavily medicated, don't get used to it,â you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way thatâs starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting wayâhe got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skinâs paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
âYou're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.â
Simonâs brow furrows almost immediately.
âYou're dramatic.â
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, âyou've got quite the reputation.â
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, âprobably terrorize recruits with it.â
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The painâs still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
âYou look less murderous now.â
You crack one eye open toward him. âDonât worry,â you mumble sleepily. âStill judging your face.â
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laughânot a full one, though. He probably hasnât laughed properly since birth, but itâs there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
ââ*:ă»
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
âGo back to sleep,â you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
âTempting,â he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterwardânot awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
âFirst time being benched?â he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrongâbeing this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?â
âA bit.â
You exhale slowly through your nose. âI donât know how to sit still,â the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
âYeah,â he says after a moment. âGets ugly in your head when you stop moving.â
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
ââ*:ă»
 By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isnât there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
âRiley.â
âI got it.â
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
âYou look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.â
â'M fine.â
âI'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.â
His visible eye narrows immediately.
âThought ya leg didnât work.â
âTemporarily,â you shoot back. âUnlike your brain apparently.â
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldnât catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
âCongratulations,â you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
âI was getting water.â
âThere is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.â
âI can do it on my own.â
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.â you say flatly. âYouâre allowed to ask for help, justâgo sit down.â
His mouth twitches faintly at that. Youâre strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didnât make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But thereâs another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, heâs a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesnât feel fair.
ââ*:ă»
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinicalâsort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nursesâ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hitsâone brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
âOh, fuckââ
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. Thereâs the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
âWhat happened?â still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering himâyou really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate thisâhow helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
Youâve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldnât. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like youâre falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomenâhe had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
âHey,â he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeezeâhard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
âDonât,â you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simonâs brows knit slightly.
âWhot?â
âDon't look at me like this,â the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesnât answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
âHowâm I looking at you?â
You donât answer, mostly because you donât know how to explain it. He is looking at you like youâre something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
âYou need a nurse,â he says quietly.
âNo.â
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. Thereâs exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, thereâs something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasnât there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simonâs grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like heâs trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobodyâs ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just fullâheavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
âScared me for a moment,â the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesnât look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldnât even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity thatâs become strangely familiar over the last few days. Youâre beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough toâtiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
âYou should sleep,â he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact heâs still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simonâs eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
â'M fine.â
âGo lay down,â your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said Iâm fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
âHm.â
âYouâre injured.â you debate a second later.
âSoâre you.â
âYes, but Iâm clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.â
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadnât realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because youâre afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesnât want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
âYou donât have to stay over here,â you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
âI know,â the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
âI know.â
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. Heâs already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you bothâall of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simonâs gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
âGo sleep,â you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
âBossy.â
âYou like it.â
ââ*:ă»
 Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bedâadvice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldnât: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomenâfingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
âYouâre staring again,â he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because heâs already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
âYou make it difficult not to,â you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
âShould I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?â he asks eventually.
Thereâs dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
âNo,â the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simonâs expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
âHow bad is it?â
âBetter now.â You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at thatârelief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
âYou stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, âDidnât have anywhere else to be.â
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
âYou know,â you murmur softly, âyouâre not nearly as cold as everyone says.â
Simonâs eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. âYou should sleep,â you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. âEventually.â
You roll your eyes softly. âYouâre impossible.â
âIâve been told.â
Thereâs a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, youâve been staring at for the past three days while Simonâs stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
âWe should go out once weâre discharged.â
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. âAre you asking me out?â
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âThought I was being obvious.â
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
âYou know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?â you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, ânot a problem.â
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, âDate sounds fun."
ten year old Tim Drake having a minor phase of liking archeology bcs of his parents so he starts digging shit up in his garden, but because heâs Tim Fucking Drake he does it too well and accidentally unearths one of the tunnels that connects to the fucking batcave.
ten year old Tim Drake who already knew who Batman and Robin were, finding out he now has a secret tunnel in his garden connecting his house to their lair, and heâs just like âfuck yeah thatâs cool.â and starts exploring.
thirteen year old Jason Todd bored and fucking around alone in the batcave system when he comes across a fucking ten year old who knows his identity, clearly idolises the hell out of him, and is just kinda wandering around the cave system alone and completely chill about it. they see a super dangerous spider and Tim just starts info-dumping on the species. when asked if he has a curfew to go back home by he goes âuh, July i guess? thatâs when mom and dad get back.â it is early February.
thirteen year old Jason Todd who takes a minute and then goes âok this is funny as fuck i promise i wonât snitch to Bruce.â
Jason Todd and Tim Drake being secret cave buddies. Jason Todd and Tim Drake hanging out in the tunnels and making fun of Batman and Nightwing from the shadows. Tim Drake who has to buy a whole new set of night-vision camera lenses for his new photo album thatâs just photos and selfies of him and his new best friend Robin fucking around in the underground pitch-dark.
Jason Todd who dies, gets revived, is told by Talia that Tim Drake has âreplaced himâ unknowing theyâre already friends, and Jason who all he can think of is that time they played hide and seek in the cave system and Tim clung to the fucking ceiling via a stalactite for 45 minutes straight. Jason Todd who just looks at Talia and goes âyeah sounds about right for him.â
Jason Todd being told he has to deliver Damian to Bruce and he decides âabsolutely the fuck notâ to the idea of even touching the front door. they have a Ring camera he is not getting caught on that bullshit.
Jason Todd who just goes to Drake Manor and uses Timâs old entrance to get into the tunnels, his home away from home, dragging Damian along, until he gets to a spot where he can secretly signal into the batcave for Tim to sneak the fuck away.
fifteen year old Tim Drake who gets called into the tunnels to find the Red Hood, unmasked as Jason, presenting to him a random child which he declares to be the son of Batman.
fifteen year old Tim Drake who comes full circle and says âok this is funny as fuck i promise i wonât snitch to Bruce.â
the cave boys are reunited. a third is added to the club. a new photo album is filled. when Tim brings Damian up through the tunnels into the cave he looks Bruce dead in the eyes and says fully straight-faced âthis is your cave son. i found him wandering, he was born from the shadows of the bat.â
eleven year old Damian Al Ghul-Wayne whoâs spent the past three and a half years under Jason Toddâs influence and sombrely declares âthe cave birthed me for you, father. i am darkness. i am your child.â
i forgot to do this before but since i just posted chapter 2 i should say this was turned into a oneshot which then rapidly turned into a way-too-long three-parter. so here :D
The Robincave (DCU) (18372 words) by papayafromtv
Chapters: 2/3
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Characters: Tim Drake (DCU), Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne
Additional Tags: Tim Drake and Jason Todd are Siblings, Kid Tim Drake (DCU), Tim Drake is Robin (DCU), Jason Todd is Robin, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Jason Todd and Damian Wayne Meet in the League of Assassins, Bruce Wayne is So Done, Dick Grayson is So Done, Batcave (DCU), and now introducing: Robincave, because tim and jason wanted a fucking clubhouse, Comedy, Underage Drinking, Jason Todd-centric
Summary:
"That's all?" Jason snorted. "Jesus, how are you still alive, kid?"
"Because I'm mature and know how to take care of myself!" He demanded stubbornly.
"Yeah, sure. Because mature children who know how to take care of themselves end up spelunking over an acre deep into an undocumented cave with absolutely no supervision or safety measures."
~
Exploring the expansive cave system that stretched out from the Batcave, Jason comes to three important realisations.
1: the same caves that connect to the Batcave, also connect to Drake Manor.
2: Timothy Drake has also figured this out, and is just as interested in the caves as Jason is.
3: secret clubhouses inside caves are fucking awesome.
These realisations change things, once he crawls out of his own grave.
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đđšđ§đđđąđ§đŹ â· established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.
Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kindâthe kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing heâd ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.
She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.
And that was saying something.
Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetimeâs worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.
Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.
Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not âstocks and mutual fundsâ money like Bruce. Jasonâs finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as âmission fundingâ when they both knew it was guilt money.
Jason accepted all of it without shame.
And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.
He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldnât survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.
But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.
Apparently that made him public enemy number one.
Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.
Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.
Y/N SENT YOU $10.00
Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.
Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, heâd deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking heâd finally outsmarted her.
The next morning sheâd transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.
Psychotic behavior.
Another time, heâd tried being direct about it.
âYou know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,â he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.
Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. âNormal boyfriends donât source their income like Batmanâs most wanted.â
âThatâs hurtful.â
âThatâs accurate.â
Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. âTake it.â
She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. âI donât want your guilt money from your daddy.â
âItâs not guilt money,â Jason corrected immediately. âItâs drug money.â
Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.
Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.
Because to him, honestly, it did.
Then there were the bills.
God, the bills argument nearly killed him.
It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/nâs apartment wasnât terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham wayâthin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.
She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.
âUgh,â she groaned suddenly into his throat. âMy landlord is up my ass about rent.â
Jasonâs fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.
âHow much?â
âNo.â
âYou donât even know what I was gonna say.â
âYou were gonna offer money.â
âI was gonna offer money.â
She made a triumphant sound against his skin. âExactly. Denied.â
Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. âBaby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.â
âNo.â
âYouâre working doubles.â
âIâll survive.â
âYou shouldnât have to survive,â he muttered.
That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasnât controlling. Wasnât condescending. He wasnât trying to own her.
He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.
âI wanna do things myself,â she said quietly. âI need to prove I can.â
Jason looked at her for a long moment.
Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.
So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.
âYeah,â he murmured. âOkay.â
Which shouldâve worried her.
Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant heâd already decided to do something significantly worse.
The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.
âHey, gorgeous.â
âYou paid my fucking rent?â
Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.
âFor the next six months, yeah.â He checked his gun lazily. âOh, and your carâs in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured Iâd get them replaced.â
There was silence on the other end.
Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.
Jason grinned harder.
âIâm going to kill you.â
âYeah?â
âYou are insane.â
âYou still love me though.â
âIâm considering arson.â
âThatâs my girl.â
The line went dead with an aggressive beep.
Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.
If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.
With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.
âYou know,â he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guyâs wrists, âI buy one woman six monthsâ rent and suddenly Iâm the bad guy.â
The guy had apparently developed a death wish.
âF-females,â he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. âAm I right?â
Jasonâs smile vanished instantly.
Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.
Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.
âThat,â Jason said quietly, âis my girl youâre talking about.â
The criminal went pale.
âAnd trust me,â Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, âyou do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.â
âR-right. Iâm sorry. Sorry.â
Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.
SUMMARY Man-eater? Nah, the only man you want to eat is waiting for you to come home.
PAIRING jason todd x feminine!reader
GENRE fluff, established relationship
WORD COUNT 1k+
CONTENT not proofread, reader dresses femininely and is hot which causes problems, jason loves to tease reader, a conversation surrounding vaguely suggestive topics, explicit language, no use of Y/N and pronouns
AUTHORâS NOTE unashamedly self-indulgent and loosely based off something that happened to me recently lol. anyway, enjoy!
You groan as you toe off your heels with uncalled-for hostility, purse slipping from your shoulder to thrash around your wrist as you do, pissing you off further. Despite the irritation running deep in your grand entrance, it comforts Jason to know that youâre home.
From behind the rim of his steaming cup of tea, he grimaces at you taking deep breaths to regulate yourself, murmuring, âI take that something happened?â
The sight of your boyfriend sitting so comfortably on your sofa makes you wish you had stayed home with him instead of going out. You put your shoulder bag down on the coffee table with as much grace as you can muster right beside his much and the book he had been in the middle of reading. The purse was ones of the first gifts Jason had given you, so of course, you tried not to take your anger out on something so sentimental (and archival).
A faint gust of perfumed air enters his nose as you sit down haphazardly, the mix of that and your natural smell intoxicating him. From his splayed out form on the couch, he sits up to give you his whole attention. You, on the other hand, slouch back on the sofa with your head tilted towards him, your left ankle tucked under your right thigh.
âI cannot believe someone accused me of being a man-eater. Or⊠a man stealer⊠whatever! Like I give a shit about other men!â You scoff, âThey donât even exist to me! We were going around, talking about our ideal types. Yâknow, the usual. After I shared mine, one of my friends whoâs talking to a guy that she really likes told me that heâs similar to my type.â
âWeâre close enough for me to joke with disgust that she can keep him because, number one, I donât care for men. And two, he literally taken and does not fit my bill; I donât care for men who arenât you. And I verbally said all of this, right? Well, except the latter part.â
Jason folds his lips inward, trying not to laugh at your immediate rant. Instead, he nods along to your story, face twitching here and there.
âYou know what she said?â
âWhat did she say, babe?â
âShe said, âyeah, Iâll keep him, alrightâ and glared at me. Glared! I just told her I donât give a fuck about her ugly ass soon-to-be-boyfriend! I wanted to tell them that, âthe only man I want to eat is waiting for me at homeâ!â
Youâre both secure enough and aware that you being a man-eater is so far from the truth, but he understands your relationship with him not being public knowledge and having to make excuses surrounding the topic can frustrate you on a really bad day.
He tries to defuse your anger by fueling it just a tiny bit. He's also really enjoying how riled up you're getting about wanting to talk about him to your friends.
âOh, yeah, and who would this man be?â
You let out a humorless scoff.
âTake a wild fucking guess, babe!â
He bends his torso to grab his mug and takes a sip. Itâs at a perfect temperature. âIs it wrong to admit that I find you really hot right now?â
âYes. Literally, Iâm upset because people can think Iâm hot,â you turn the other direction to prove your point, but you mean nothing by it. Mumbling away, he can hear you say, âHot enough to steal their boyfriends, apparently. Me? Hell no, even if I wasnât in a loving relationship, I would never!â
âI completely forgot that people can perceive me in that way, just so⊠wrongly.â
He sets the mug back down to put a consoling hand on your shoulder, coaxing you back to him. âIâm sorry, baby.â
You huff, unmoved by his affection. âNo, you arenât.â
âNo, I am not. I just so happen to agree with them.â
You sigh, turning back to him just to frown at him. His hand drops to rest it on your thigh. As you bring up a hand to rub your eye, he softly swats it away and shakes his head, prompting your frown to grow deeper. However, it was a vital reminder that you still had your makeup on. Your expression relaxes by the slightest.
Jason leans back in his seat with a growing smirk on his face, taking your silence as an opportunity to prod you. âActually, Iâm curious. What were the traits of your âideal partnerâ?â
You turn your head to the side with so much intensity and sarcasm that it he finds scarily attractive.
âGlad you asked, boyfriend. I said I wanted them goofy, but kindhearted. Makes me laugh, doesnât complain even if Iâm difficult; if they do, itâs out of good nature. Taller than me, strong enough to toss me around.â
The fact that you went on to name all these traits in an ideal partner, only for them to be about him flushes his body with a whole lot of bashfulness. Heâs sure that if you werenât in your riled up state, youâd point out the change of color from his face down to his neck. Heâll do what he does best instead of admitting that your words had an effect on him: feigning nonchalance.
âTo be fair to your friends,â you squint at his words immediately, âthat sounds like a lot of people.â
You let out an exasperated sigh, frustrated as to why no one gets what you mean.
âYeah, but I wasnât thinking of âa lot of peopleâ. I donât care for other people; I was thinking of you!â
For your well-being, he stops picking on you, grabbing your hand to pull you close. His other warm hands slithers around you, rubbing the length of your back. You melt into him as he murmurs, âWe should really tell everyone before our first anniversary.â
âYeah, but itâs so fun to keep them on their toes when I say Iâm going on a date and they ask, âreally?!â And then I just lie and say no.â Your reply is muffled by his chest, both of you unbothered if your makeup transfers to his tee. Thereâs no place youâd rather be.
His chuckle rumbles you both.
âBaby, I love you, but you really are the problem.â
You withdraw from him with a melodramatic gasp. âI am not!â
â Jason trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
!!: request! fluff. fem!reader. no use of y/n. 1.2k words. Sun in Gotham. English is not my first language.
[dc masterlist]
It was one of those weird sunny days in Gotham. Those types of days that felt too strange to be real, and that only happened once in a blue moon.Â
But if the sun comes out, people celebrate. They leave their houses, meet with their friends, family and loved ones outside to spend the day soaking in the rare sunlight. They wear the sun dresses they had buried in the very depths of their closet. They wore the sunglasses they only owned to wear anywhere but in Gotham, to protect their eyes.
And you werenât any different. The original plan was going with Jason to the library. You needed to study for your upcoming exams, but he had insisted on joining you, claiming that he could read something while you memorized the immense paragraphs in your books.Â
It wasnât a proper date, just Jason sitting quietly while you battled against madness, trying to complete with good grades another year of med school.Â
But todayâs weather was too good to let it pass, and your yellow sundress was too tempting to leave locked down in your closet.Â
Calling Jason and changing the plan sounded more than good, it was a fantastic idea. Besides, losing a day of study wasnât going to change much. You could study every day of your life. But having a sunny day in Gotham, with the sun being actually visible in the sky? That was too rare to miss.
With quick and excited hands, you grabbed your phone and dialed Jasonâs number.Â
âHi.â His raspy and deep voice told you that, despite being 3 pm, he had just woken up from his sleep.Â
âGood morning sleeping beauty.â You smiled, looking through the window, to the lovely couples enjoying the sun while walking around the streets of the city. âWerenât you going to join me in my study session."
âShit. Right. Sorry.âÂ
You heard Jasonâs bed sheets moving, he was standing up to get ready as quickly as possible.Â
âIâm sorry, I forgot to put on an alarm. Iâll meet you at the library in ten.âÂ
You let out a giggle. You could hear a lot of movement in the other line, plus Jasonâs sleepy voice slowly waking up.Â
âI was actually going to suggest a change of plans for today.â Your voice had a hint of excitement in it that Jason noticed quickly.Â
âIs that so?âÂ
âHave you seen what the weatherâs like out there?â you asked, curious to know if heâd already opened the blinds in his apartment or if he was still in a room plunged into darkness. It was probably the second option.
Just as you had expected, you heard Jason moving to open the blinds. He let out a groan when the direct sunlightâsomething no Gothamite was used toâhit him squarely in the face.Â
âWow.â Was the only thing Jason could say once his eyes had gotten used to the light from outside.Â
âYeah, wow. I thought we could go for a walk and just enjoy the weather, instead of spending our entire afternoon in the library. What do you think?â Your voice was hopeful, waiting for Jasonâs answer.
He let out a chuckle before talking.Â
âSounds good, Iâll go pick you up in twenty, is that alright?âÂ
Your smile widened âYes. Perfect. See you later, babe.âÂ
You hung up quickly, and started getting ready as fast as possible, because twenty minutes for dress, hair and make up, was possible to work with but not enough.Â
Just like Jason had said, twenty minutes later, he was standing at your door, properly dressed for the weather and with a bouquet of flowers in hand.Â
âAre those for me?â You couldnât hide your smile even if you wanted to.Â
âTulips. Theyâre your favourites right?âÂ
Your smile couldnât grow bigger. You loved that man, he was just perfect.Â
âYes.â you grabbed the bouquet and disappeared into your apartment for a few seconds, just to leave the flowers in a flower pot. âThank you. Now weâre ready to leave.â
The weather was perfect, your company was excellent and the plan was simple but with Jason it felt fantastic.Â
You didn't realize it, but right beside you, Jason was a bundle of nerves. He'd been thinking about telling you how he felt for a while. He liked youâhe liked you a lot. You had become one of the most important people in his life, and he wanted you. He wanted your relationship to be official, for you to be his girlfriend. And maybe today, this sunny day that made you radiate with joy, was the perfect day.Â
He called your name, making you turn around to look at him, who had stopped in his tracks.Â
The place was not the prettiest, the sea could be seen, as well as Gothamâs bridges, but Jason had to let it out right there, right now. Maybe, if you said yes, he could take you to a pretty cafe to make up for this spontaneous confession.Â
âI just wanted to tell you something.âÂ
The sight in front of you was funny: Big, strong Jason Todd was nervous. Shifting his weight from a leg to another, while his hands were in the pockets of his jacket, trying to look nonchalant.Â
But that made you even more nervous, because you really didnât know what he was going to say. You never know with Jason.Â
You nodded, signaling him to continue.Â
âLook, Iâ I donât know how to do this.â His right hand left the pocket of his jacket to rub his face. âI like you a lot. I love you, if you may. And I just wanted to ask you⊠Would you like to be my girlfriend?â
Both of you stayed still, looking at each other. Jason wanted the earth to swallow him, and you were confused, trying to understand what he had just said.
âWhat?â Was the only thing coming out of your mouth.
Jason swallowed hard before repeating his question. âWould you likeâ Can I be your boyfriend?â He rectified.Â
Both of you were confused now. What was even happening right now? You were looking at Jason like he had just grown a second head.
âWerenât we already dating?âÂ
âWhat?â This time Jason was the one confused.
âI thought we were already dating, for months now.â
You had gone in a lot of dates. To the cinema, to small and cozy cafes, even to restaurants for dinner. You had been to his house, he had been in yours. You had just assumed you were dating after all those plans.
âNo. I never asked you properly.âÂ
The roles had inverted now. You wanted to disappear from the planet out of embarrassment and Jason was really confused.Â
âBut I was giving you kisses, small, but kisses; and calling you babe, or baby, or sweetheart⊠And we werenât dating?â Your cheeks were starting to turn red.
âNoâŠâ Jason said. âI thought you did it in a friendly way.â
âWhat do you mean!? Oh my god, Iâm so embarrassed now.â You covered your face with both hands and started laughing at yourself. âWell, then yes, I would love to be your girlfriend, Jason.â
Jasonâs expression softened, smiling. âNow uncover your face. I would like to kiss my girlfriend properly.â
Sunny days in Gotham were weird, they made everyone happy. And today Jason Todd was the happiest man alive, after a lot of months thinking of a proper way to confess while you already thought you were dating.Â
Just had a thought in my head with Jason Todd x reader where they've dated for a while and it's just went on so well like this is too good to be true thing going on but reader hasn't yet known about Jason's vigilante work and also reader is not a vigilante, but the fun part of this is that it's reader who killed the joker (maybe it's when they went on a date and joker that day wanted to torture Todd or just a kidnapping situation, your choice but either way Jason was there when it happened whether as Jason or red hood). Like reader has no idea about her boyfriend's past with the joker, has no ties to the batfamily or other vigilantes, just another civilian and yet she's the one who puts an end to the criminal that's been haunting Gotham for years with maybe just a crowbar to the head (repeatedly out of panic and just to be sure) and he then just drop dead unceremoniously. Love to see just how Jason and batfamily reacts to that cause they have the whole no kill rule floating in the family but since reader is not part of that circle and just ends the joker out of pure defense and all reader knows is if she doesn't act then it's her who's gonna die that day so love to just see how they're thinking of that whole situation. Maybe to add to this for fun maybe reader might not have a run in with the joker directly before but she has just the baddest luck as being one of the casualties after one of joker's crimes like maybe their school got shot down when joker bombed it, joker's goons destroyed her workplace etc just her not having it as bad as joker's other victims but it has impacted her life a lot and she's grown so tired of it being repeated over and over again where joker just haunts her life at every corner so maybe when she talks to Jason one on one about it. Whether he reveals his true identity or maybe some time at the future is up to you but Jason is definitely considering just going down to his knees after what reader has done that meant a lot to him
I've always just find it so interesting of a concept of superheroes having so much baggage from their arch nemesis and that said arch nemesis that's been a thorn on their side is just killed by just a normal everyday person, the aftermath of it if that happens always makes me curious
a/n: this is not as good as I hoped it would be but I hope you still like it
The Unceremonious End
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requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Six months into dating Jason Todd, you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Not because he was badâquite the opposite. He was thoughtful, attentive, surprisingly romantic for someone who looked like he could bench press a car. He remembered your coffee order, showed up with your favorite takeout when you had bad days, and kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
"You're doing it again," Jason said, catching you staring at him across the dinner table.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like you're waiting for me to reveal I'm secretly a serial killer or something."
You laughed, but it was a little forced. "I'm notâokay, maybe a little. You're just... really great. And I keep thinking there has to be something wrong."
"There's plenty wrong with me, trust me." But he was smiling, that crooked smile that made your stomach flip. "I'm just good at hiding it."
"Everyone has baggage. I have baggage."
"Yeah?" Jason took a sip of his beer. "What's your damage?"
You hesitated. It wasn't exactly first-date conversation, but you'd been together six months. He'd met your friends, you'd met some of his family (his brothers were... a lot). Maybe it was time to share the darker stuff.
"You know how Gotham has that thing where everyone's life has been touched by crime at some point?"
Jason's expression shifted slightly. "Yeah. I know."
"I've had a particularly bad run with the Joker specifically." You picked at your food. "Not directly, thank god. But indirectly enough that it's... it's a thing."
"What kind of thing?"
"When I was fifteen, he bombed my high school. I wasn't thereâI'd stayed home sick. But my best friend was. She didn't make it." You swallowed hard. "Then in college, he and his goons shot up the coffee shop where I worked. I was in the back during inventory. Five people died. I heard all of it."
Jason's knuckles were white around his beer bottle.
"And last year, he attacked the bank while I was depositing a check. I hid in a vault. Listened to him torture people for three hours before Batman showed up." You finally met his eyes. "I know other people have it worse. I know his actual victimsâthe ones he targets directlyâhave it so much worse. But it's like he's haunted my entire life. Every major trauma I've had, he's been there in the background, just... destroying things."
"That's not 'not as bad.' That'sâ" Jason's voice was rough. "That's awful. I'm sorry."
"It's Gotham. Everyone has a story." You tried to smile. "I'm just tired of mine always involving the same punchline."
Jason reached across the table, taking your hand. His grip was almost too tight. "If you ever see him againâif you're ever in danger like thatâyou run. You hear me? You don't try to be brave, you don't try to help. You run."
The intensity in his voice startled you. "Jasonâ"
"Promise me."
"Iâokay. I promise." You squeezed his hand back. "Are you okay?"
He blinked, and the intensity faded slightly. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... the Joker's a sore spot for a lot of people in this city. Including me."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not tonight." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Tonight, I just want to have a nice dinner with my girlfriend and pretend Gotham's not a nightmare city for a few hours."
"I can do that."
But you noticed how tense he stayed for the rest of the meal. How his eyes kept drifting to the windows, like he was watching for threats. How he insisted on walking you all the way to your apartment door instead of just to the building.
"You sure you're okay?" You asked as he checked your locksâall three of them.
"I'm fine. Justâbe careful. Okay? Lock everything. Don't open the door for anyone you don't know."
"Jason, I've lived in Gotham my whole life. I know the drill."
He pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair. "I know. I justâI don't want anything to happen to you."
"Nothing's going to happen to me."
You had no idea how wrong you were.
Two weeks later, Jason took you to dinner at a nice restaurant in Old Gotham.
"This place is fancy," you said, looking around at the white tablecloths and actual wine list. "What's the occasion?"
"Can't I just want to take my girlfriend somewhere nice?"
"You can. It's just usually we do pizza and movies, not... is that a sommelier?"
Jason grinned. "I've been saving up. Figured we deserved a real date."
It was perfect. The food was incredible, the wine was probably worth more than your rent, and Jason was relaxed in a way you didn't often see. He told you stories about his brothersâcarefully edited, you suspected, but funny nonetheless. You told him about your new job, your annoying coworker, your plans for the weekend.
Normal couple things.
You were walking back to his car, hand in hand, when you heard it.
Laughter.
Not normal laughter. The kind that made your blood run cold, that triggered every trauma response you'd carefully built up over years of surviving Gotham.
"No," you whispered.
Jason had gone completely rigid beside you. "Get behind me. Now."
"Well, well, well!" The Joker emerged from an alley, and he had a gun. Of course he had a gun. "Isn't this a lovely evening for a stroll! And who do we have hereâ"
He stopped. Stared at Jason. And his smile got wider.
"Oh. Oh, this is just too perfect. Little Jason Todd, all grown up and on a date!" The Joker's laugh was like nails on a chalkboard. "Does she know? Does your pretty girlfriend know what we are to each other?"
"Run," Jason said to you, his voice deadly calm. "Run right now."
But the Joker had already grabbed you, arm around your throat, gun to your head. "No, no, no. She should stay! We're just getting reacquainted! Tell me, Jason, does she know about Ethiopia? About the crowbar? Aboutâ"
Jason's expression was pure murder. "Let her go."
"But we're having such fun! And I've been so bored lately. The Bat won't let me play anymore, always interrupting at the worst moments. But youâ" The Joker pressed the gun harder against your temple. "âyou're not bound by his rules, are you? So let's play. You, me, and your pretty little girlfriend."
You were trying not to panic. Trying to remember self-defense training. Trying to figure out how to get out of this.
The Joker was dragging you backward into the alley. Jason was following, hands up, clearly calculating.
"I'll do whatever you want," Jason said. "Just let her go."
"Oh, I know you will! That's what makes this fun!" The Joker shoved you toward a pile of garbage. "Stay. Good girl. Now, Jason, let's talk aboutâ"
He turned his back on you.
Big mistake.
There was a crowbar leaning against the dumpster. Old, rusted, probably used by the building's maintenance. You grabbed it without thinking.
The Joker was still talking, still waving his gun around, still focused entirely on Jasonâ
You swung.
The crowbar connected with the back of the Joker's skull with a sickening crack.
He dropped.
You hit him again. And again. And again.
Because he'd held a gun to your head. Because he'd killed your best friend. Because he'd destroyed your coffee shop, your bank, your high school. Because you were tired of being afraid. Because if you didn't make sure he was dead, he'd get back up and kill you.
You hit him until your arms were shaking. Until the crowbar was slick with blood. Until someone grabbed your wrists.
"Stop. Stop, it's over. He's dead." Jason's voice, rough and shaking. "He's dead. You can stop."
You looked down. The Joker wasâthere was no question. No chance of survival. His skull was caved in, blood pooling around his body, eyes staring at nothing.
You'd killed him.
You'd killed the Joker.
The crowbar fell from your hands with a clatter.
"Oh god," you whispered. "Oh god, I justâI killedâ"
"Self-defense." Jason's hands were on your shoulders now, forcing you to look at him. "He had a gun to your head. You were defending yourself. This was self-defense."
"I killed someoneâ"
"You killed a mass murderer who was going to kill you. Who was going to kill both of us." Jason pulled you against his chest. "You did what you had to do. You survived. That's all that matters."
You were shaking so hard your teeth were chattering. "Jason, what did he mean? About Ethiopia? About you and himâ"
"Not now." Jason was already pulling out his phone. "Right now, we need toâfuck. Okay. Okay, I need to call my brother. Justâstay with me. Can you do that?"
You nodded, unable to look away from the body. From what you'd done.
Jason was talking into his phone in low, urgent tones. "Dick. I need you at my location right now. Bring Bruce. It'sâno, I'm fine. We're fine. But there'sâjust get here. Now."
He hung up and pulled you further from the body, sitting you down on a clean-ish crate. "Look at me. Not at him. At me."
You forced your eyes to his face. "I don't understand what's happening."
"I know. I'm going to explain everything. But first, my family's going to get here, and they're going to handle this. And you need to let them. Okay?"
"Your family? Jason, we need to call the policeâ"
"My family IS the police. Kind of. It's complicated." He cupped your face. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
You nodded numbly.
Five minutes later, Batman dropped into the alley.
You would have screamed, but you were too in shock.
Batman stopped, staring at the body. Then at you. Then at Jason.
"What happened?" His voice was the Batman voice, deep and gravelly and terrifying.
"Joker tried to grab us. Held her at gunpoint. She defended herself." Jason's arm was around you, protective. "It was self-defense. Completely justified."
Another figure dropped downâNightwing, you recognized the blue and black suit. He looked at the scene and let out a low whistle. "Is thatâis that the Joker?"
"Was," Jason corrected.
"Whoâ" Nightwing looked at you. "Oh. Oh wow. Civilian?"
"My girlfriend," Jason said tightly.
"Your girlfriend killed the Joker with a crowbar." Nightwing sounded almost impressed. "That'sâwow. Okay. Bruce?"
Batman was still staring at the body. At the crowbar. At you.
"Self-defense?" He asked finally.
"He was going to kill us," you said, finding your voice. It came out small, shaky. "He had a gun to my head. I justâI didn't think. I just grabbed the crowbar andâ"
"And put an end to Gotham's worst nightmare," Nightwing finished. "Holy shit."
"Language," Batman said automatically. Then, to you: "Are you injured?"
"No. I don'tâI don't think so."
"We need to process the scene. Self-defense claim will holdâmultiple witnesses can testify to his violent history, and the physical evidence supports your story." Batman was already moving, examining the body with professional detachment. "But there will be questions. Police involvement. Media attention."
"We can handle that," Jason said. "Keep her name out of it. Anonymous civilian defending herself from attack. The Joker's been evading justice for yearsâno one's going to mourn him."
"The public will want to know who killed him," Batman said.
"Then they can stay curious." Jason's voice was hard. "She's not becoming a target because she did what the justice system should have done years ago."
You were still trying to process the fact that Batman was here. In this alley. Apparently working with Jason's family.
"Jason," you said quietly. "Why is Batman taking orders from you?"
The three men exchanged glances.
"That's a longer conversation," Jason said.
"I have time." You stood up, shaky but determined. "I just killed someone. I think I deserve some explanations about what the hell is going on."
Jason looked at Batman. Batman gave a slight nod.
"Okay," Jason said. "Okay. But not here. Let's get you somewhere safe first, then I'll explain everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"Everything" turned out to be a lot.
You were sitting in the Batcave. The actual Batcave. Being offered tea by Alfred Pennyworth, who apparently knew Batman's secret identity because Batman was Bruce Wayne, and also Bruce Wayne was Jason's adoptive father.
Your boyfriend was Red Hood.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Dick Grayson was Nightwing.
There was a whole family of vigilantes, and you'd been dating one of them for six months without knowing.
"So," you said faintly, accepting the tea. "When you said you had baggage..."
"I might have undersold it," Jason admitted. He'd showered and changedâthe Red Hood suit was apparently in a case nearbyâand now looked like regular Jason. Except you knew he wasn't regular anything.
"The Joker. When he mentioned Ethiopia. And the crowbar." You looked at Jason. "What did he do to you?"
"He killed me," Jason said quietly. "When I was fifteen. He beat me to death with a crowbar, then blew up the building. Bruce found me too late. I was dead for six months before I came back."
The tea cup shook in your hands. "He killed you."
"And I've spent every day since wanting to return the favor. But Bruce has this rule. No killing. Not even the Joker. Not even after everything he's done." Jason's eyes met yours. "I've tried. Multiple times. Something always stops me. Batman intervenes, or the Joker escapes, or circumstances prevent it. And I've been angry about it for years. Angry that the man who murdered me gets to keep living. Keep hurting people. Keep haunting Gotham."
"But you killed him," Dick said to you, and there was something like awe in his voice. "You actually did it. Ended him. Just... grabbed a crowbar and finished it."
"I didn'tâI wasn't trying to make a statement. I was just trying to survive." You set down the tea before you dropped it. "He had a gun to my head. I thought he was going to kill me. Kill both of us."
"He was," Bruce said. "Your actions were justified. Self-defense. You saved your own life and Jason's."
"But I killed someoneâ"
"You killed a mass murderer," Jason corrected. "Someone who's murdered hundreds. Who's tortured thousands. Who's escaped justice over and over because the system is broken." He moved closer, kneeling in front of your chair. "You did what the law couldn't. What Batman wouldn't. What I've been trying to do for years."
"I didn't do it for justice. I did it because I was scared."
"That makes it even more justified." Jason took your hands. "You're not a vigilante. Not a trained fighter. You're someone who was attacked by a monster and fought back. That's not murder. That's survival."
You looked at Bruce. "You're not angry? About your no-killing rule?"
"You're not part of my team. You're not bound by my code." Bruce's expression was hard to read. "And while I don't condone killing... I can't say the world isn't better without him in it."
"Bruce," Dick said, surprised.
"I said what I said." Bruce looked at Jason. "Take care of her. She's been through enough tonight."
He left, cape swirling. Dick gave you a small, supportive smile and followed.
Alfred refilled your tea. "You've had quite the evening, miss. Perhaps some rest would be beneficial?"
"I don't think I can sleep."
"Nevertheless. Master Jason, the guest room is prepared."
"Thanks, Alfred."
Once Alfred was gone, it was just you and Jason in the massive cave, surrounded by computers and equipment and reminders that your boyfriend was a vigilante who died and came back to life.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me," you said finally.
"I wanted to. So many times. But this lifeâit's dangerous. The less you knew, the safer you were." Jason's laugh was bitter. "Lot of good that did. The Joker still found you."
"Because of you. He recognized you. That's why he grabbed me."
"Yes. And I will never forgive myself for that." Jason's voice was rough. "If something had happened to you because of my pastâ"
"But it didn't. I'm okay. And he'sâ" You stopped. "He's dead. I killed him."
"You survived him. There's a difference."
You were quiet for a moment. Then: "How do you live with it? Knowing you've killed people?"
Jason was silent for a long moment. "The people I've killed were threats. Murderers, rapists, human traffickers. People who wouldn't stop hurting others. I don't lose sleep over them." He looked at you. "But you're not me. You're not a vigilante. This wasn't your world until tonight."
"I keep seeing it. When I close my eyes. The sound of the crowbar hitting him. The blood." Your hands were shaking again. "I know he was a monster. I know he deserved it. But I still killed someone."
"I know. And that's going to be hard to process. But you're not alone in this." Jason pulled you into his arms. "I'm here. My family's here. We'll help you through it."
"Your family of vigilantes."
"Yeah. We're a weird bunch. But we take care of our own." He pulled back to look at you. "And you're one of us now. Whether you want to be or not."
"I don't want to be a vigilanteâ"
"You don't have to be. You can just be Jason Todd's girlfriend who happens to know his secret. That's enough."
You leaned against him, exhausted. "This is insane."
"Yeah. Welcome to my life."
"Our life now, I guess."
Jason pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I'm sorry. For dragging you into this. For the Joker targeting you because of me. For all of it."
"He didn't target me because of you. He targeted me because I was there. Because that's what he doesâhe hurts people randomly, senselessly. He's been haunting my life for years before I even met you." You pulled back to meet his eyes. "But he can't anymore. Because he's dead. Because I killed him."
"You survived him," Jason corrected gently. "And in doing so, you saved countless future victims. Including me."
"How did I save you?"
"Because I've been carrying the weight of his existence for years. Knowing he's out there, hurting people, and I couldn't stop him. Couldn't kill him without betraying Bruce, without becoming what Bruce feared I'd become." Jason's voice was thick with emotion. "But youâyou weren't bound by those rules. You just did what needed to be done. And now he's gone. Really, truly gone. Because of you."
You started crying then. Not from fear or shock, but from sheer overwhelming emotion. Jason held you through it, silent and steady.
"What happens now?" You asked eventually.
"Now? The GCPD will process the scene. The media will go crazy. The city will either call you a hero or a murderer, depending on who's talking." Jason stroked your hair. "But we'll keep your identity protected. No one outside this family will know it was you."
"And us? You and me?"
"That depends. Can you handle dating Red Hood? Knowing what I do, what I've done, what I might have to do in the future?"
You thought about it. About the man who'd been nothing but kind to you for six months. Who remembered your coffee order and brought you soup when you were sick. Who also happened to be a vigilante who'd died and come back.
"Can you handle dating the woman who killed the Joker with a crowbar?"
Jason's smile was fierce and proud. "Baby, I think I might be in love with you for that."
Despite everything, you laughed. "That's the most disturbing thing you've said all night."
"Fair. But I mean it. What you didâ" His voice got thick again. "You have no idea what that means to me. What it means to finally be free of him. To know he can't hurt anyone else. Can't hurt you."
"I didn't do it for you. I didn't even know aboutâabout everything."
"I know. That's what makes it even more meaningful." Jason cupped your face. "You weren't trying to avenge me or save Gotham. You were just trying to survive. And in doing so, you accomplished what I've been trying to do for years."
"Jasonâ"
"I know it's heavy. I know you're processing. I know this is all insane." He rested his forehead against yours. "But I need you to know that what you did tonightâyou're incredible. Brave. Strong. And I am so grateful you're alive."
You kissed him then, desperate and needy and alive. When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"I'm going to need time," you said. "To process all of this. The Joker, your secret, everything."
"Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
"And therapy. I'm definitely going to need therapy."
"Alfred knows a guy. Specializes in trauma. Very discreet. Treats a lot of vigilantes and their... associates."
"Of course he does." You leaned against Jason's chest. "This is my life now. Dating a vigilante. Knowing Batman's identity. Having killed the Joker."
"If it helps, the Joker thing will probably make you a legend among certain communities."
"That doesn't help at all."
"Worth a shot."
You sat there in the Batcave, processing the impossible night, when Dick came back down.
"Hey, so the GCPD is handling the scene. Gordon's ruling it self-defenseâthe gun, the witnesses, the Joker's history. No charges." He looked at you. "You're clear. Legally, at least."
"That'sâgood. That's good."
"Also, the media's going insane. 'Joker Found Dead,' 'Gotham's Worst Nightmare Ends,' all that. They're calling it the most anticlimactic villain death in history." Dick grinned. "No big showdown with Batman. No dramatic final battle. Just a civilian with a crowbar who'd had enough."
"Dick," Jason warned.
"Sorry. Too soon?"
"Way too soon."
"Right. Well. For what it's worthâ" Dick looked at you seriously. "âwhat you did took guts. And you saved Jason's life. So... thank you. For that."
"I didn'tâI was just trying not to die."
"Yeah, but you saved him anyway. So. Thanks." Dick headed back upstairs. "Alfred's making breakfast if you're hungry!"
Once he was gone, you looked at Jason. "Is your whole family this casual about death?"
"You get used to it in this line of work."
"I'm never getting used to this."
"That's probably healthy." Jason stood, pulling you with him. "Come on. Alfred's breakfast will help. Everything's better after Alfred's pancakes."
"I killed the Joker and you're offering me pancakes."
"Welcome to the Wayne family. We process trauma with carbs."
And somehow, impossibly, you laughed.
Epilogue: Six Months Later
The nightmares came and went. Some nights you slept fine. Some nights you woke up gasping, crowbar in handâmetaphorically speaking.
Therapy helped. So did Jason, who understood trauma in ways most people couldn't.
The media storm had eventually died down. The Joker's death was ruled self-defense by an anonymous civilian. Gordon had been very firm about keeping your identity sealed. Batman's reputation had done the rest.
Gotham was... different without the Joker. Crime didn't stopâit never did. But there was a sense of relief, of one less nightmare haunting the city's streets.
You were still adjusting to knowing Jason's secret. To understanding that when he said he was "working late," he meant patrolling. To accepting that his family was the Batfamily.
But you were adjusting.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Jason asked, finding you on the balcony of his apartment.
"Just thinking about how weird my life got."
"Regrets?"
"About dating you? No. About killing the Joker?" You paused. "I don't know. I'm not glad I did it. But I'm not sorry he's dead."
"That's fair."
You turned to face him. "Do you think about it? About me being the one who killed him?"
"Every day." Jason pulled you close. "Sometimes I still can't believe it. That youâthis incredible, normal person I was lucky enough to dateâended up being the one to finally finish him."
"I was just trying to survive."
"I know. But you survived him. Ended him. Freed me from him in a way I never could have freed myself." Jason's voice got rough. "You have no idea what that means to me."
"You've mentioned it once or twice."
"I'll probably mention it a few thousand more times over the next several decades."
"Decades, huh? Pretty confident about this relationship."
"You killed my murderer with a crowbar. I feel like that's grounds for a long-term commitment."
Despite the dark humor, you smiled. "That's the weirdest relationship milestone ever."
"We're a weird couple."
"Yeah. We really are."
Jason kissed you, sweet and soft. When he pulled back, his expression was serious.
"I love you. You know that, right?"
"I know. I love you too."
"Even though I'm Red Hood and I dragged you into this insane world?"
"Even though. Maybe partly because." You touched his face. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily."
"Good. Because I'm not letting you go."
You stood there on the balcony, watching Gotham's lights, and thought about how your life had changed. How one terrifying night had ended with you killing the city's worst monster and learning your boyfriend's biggest secret.
It was insane.
It was impossible.
It was your life now.
And somehow, impossibly, you were okay with that.
"Hey," Jason said softly. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For surviving. For being here. Forâ" His voice caught. "âfor ending him. For giving me peace I didn't think I'd ever have."
You pulled him into a tight hug. "You don't have to keep thanking me."
"Yeah, I do. Every day for the rest of our lives."
"That's a long time."
"Good thing I plan on spending it with you."
And there, on a Gotham balcony, in the arms of a man who'd died and come back, you felt something you hadn't felt in years when it came to the Joker:
Peace.
Because he was gone. Really gone. And you were the one who'd made sure of it.
Not because you were a hero. Not because you were seeking justice.
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thinking about dex x black widow!reader⊠they would match each others freak
sttttoooooooppp (keep going)
they would 2000% match each others freak, actually i fear dex would get worse if he had a widow north star (assuming you mean a north star!reader too)
and if we want to get a little bit deeper into it (and mind you, you dont have a choice) and look at the differences between a nat era widow vs a yelena era widow, when theyre mind controlled with that red dust because i do think there are stark differences between the two types
you see how after nat âescapedâ shes still a contract killer or at least an assassin. shes still a widow, not out of force or coercion but because thats all she knows how to do, its likely that she thinks itâs all sheâs good for. killing and betraying
where as we see with a yelena era widow, whoâve been mind controlled by that red dust that at least one of them were able to assimilate into a somewhat normal life, get married and have children (being well enough to adopt or get into a relationship with someone who already has a child is huge in my opinion). then of course we have yelena whoâs able to have her own personality (i.e. wardrobe from hawkeye) outside of being an assassin where we never really see nat with any personal style, always sleek, dark and mysterious
but weâre gonna focus on a nat era widow because my brain is tired.
iâd like to think one of them were sent to kill the other. now, if it were the reader sent to kill dex, its more than likely dex would be deadâŠ.
so letâs say its dex who got tasked with taking black widow!reader down. perhaps shes taken out one too many rich white pedos and all the other vile ceos and congressmen (not you bucky ilysm are you even a congressman anymore tho??)
and dex wants to be good, we know this, we've seen this. and he's smart. smart enough to notice the pattern in black widow!reader's kills and admire it the same way he admires karen or matt's moral code. his obsession would start (at least its his excuse) solely from him studying widow!reader's past hitlist, following her around best he could with her being a trained assassin/spy from childhood.
and while widow!reader is insanely aware of her surroundings and would definately clock dex stalking her, especially if she's in eight countries in three months and dex was there for five of them. however, poindexter is equally as good at keeping his distance and blending. he is perfectly content watching her from ten blocks away through the scope of his rifle and the sheer curtains she put up in her most frequented safe house just to stay under her radar, and can be for years.
though, being who he is, he'd also want to impress the black widow. killing is one of the things dex does best, and he gets creative with it, he would project and simply assume his black widow gets that same feeling he does whenever he kills. he knows theyâre meant to be when he sees the same exact blank stare on her face after a kill that he does
bringing it back to widow!reader's hit list. again, dex would study it like its his bible. all her confirmed and unconfirmed kills. if he's still in the fbi(even if he's not i'm sure he'll find a way), he'd sort through the unconfirmed, scoffing at all the terrible guesses and assumptions. half the bodies in the file don't fit her m.o. at all, too messy, too public, too many windows, too much brute strength involved, since when has she ever used a hatchet?
she was not an animal. a monster like him. when she killed it was art, a dance she'd perfected in all its deadly beauty.
all that studying, noting every inconsistence consistency to find her next target. he'd narrow it down to two at first a ceo and a mayor, dex is frustrated how unsure he was after all that work and planning and nearly spiraled into missing his chance when he was at the point to decide.
staked out across the building of some random mayor's office, he watches the area for hours for any sign of his widow, keeping tabs on the pulse of the ceo states away and when news finally hits him that the ceo was found dead in his locked office, dex ditches the rifle to get creative and let his frustration out with the mayor.
and when dex breaks into the building, finding the mayor in full rigor in his office chair, he laughs, turns to the closed door of the mayor's private office and he sees written in the deep lipstick his widow always wore,
"too slow âĄ"
my bad if this isn't exactly what you asked for every time ive tried to write this past week reads like a five year old wrote ts. and thank you so very much for being my first request!
full warning i will finish request hella slow most of the time because my autistic brain freezes whenever something feels like a demand, ik you are demanding anything but thats just how my brain processes it.
i love request i swear, you guys are doing the hardest part for me and i adore it
Behind the Mask. // [benjamin poindexter x reader]
WORD COUNT: 2.5k.
SUMMARY: Youâre the only person on a corrupt task force who knows the "Daredevil" theyâre hunting is actually your co-worker, Special Agent Poindexter. But between the embedded corruption and the way Dex looks at you, you're starting to realize you'd rather be on the wrong side of the law with him.
TAGS/WARNING: enemies-to-lovers vibe, but really itâs just forbidden love, sorta nsfw makeout at the end, reader has no specified gender.
A/N: i haven't caught up on the born again seasons yet, so i'm sorry if stuff doesn't add up, or is inaccurate. it's also my first time writing kinda dirty, let's hope it's enjoyable to read anyway lmao.
The briefing room feels smaller today, the air heavy with stale coffee, the sour breath of the men around you, and the thick, suffocating sense of doom that comes from knowing they're being hunted.
"It's him. Again."
The words don't even need to be said. For the past few weeks, the mission hasnât changed: Catch the Devil. Thatâs what the press calls him now that heâs started dropping bodies, but you know better. The team is chasing a red silhouette, a guy whose face is a mystery to everyone.
Except, of course, for you.
It happened three weeks ago. You found him in the stairwell of a crime scene, breathless and wiping blood from his knuckles, wearing his FBI windbreaker like a disguise.
You two had locked eyes for five seconds. You saw the frantic, almost breached look in his gaze before he smoothed it over with something innocent. You should have reported him right then. You should have told the captain that the man leading the investigation was the one committing the murders.
After that, the "hunted" and the "hunter" roles had blurred until they were practically non-existent. It started with a rooftop in Hellâs Kitchen. A night when the commanding officer told you to provide overwatch for a raid that was doomed from the start. You had him in your sights, the crosshairs steady over his heart, and he had simply... looked up. Instead of running, he leaned against a brick chimney, pulled up his mask, and winked.
Since then, it has become this dangerous, addictive game of hide-and-seek that the rest of your team was too incompetent to notice. And the weight of that secret has been heavy on your chest ever since. But you don't keep his secret because of the attraction, though itâs there. You keep it because youâve finally seen things from his point of view.
You joined this task force to be a good soldier â a savior. But the corpses Dex is dropping aren't random. One by one, your teammates end up in dumpsters, and the deeper you dig, the more you find the rot; your boss isn't a hero; heâs a Fisk asset who contributed to destroying the one thing keeping Dex sane: his North Star, Julie. And no matter how much you wanted what you did to matter, your boss's corrupt intentions were infiltrating every mission. Between the mounting civilian casualties and the way he held no guilt for any of them, youâre starting to think that maybe this isn't the best place to be the nice guy. And Poindexter always knew that.
Which is why you were the only original member left.
On the battlefield, itâs almost planned. Whenever his eyes land on you, the world seems to blur. He throws a shard of glass or fires a round that whistles past your ear, only to find the throat of the corrupt officer standing directly behind you. He doesnât miss, and he doesnât do mercy, making the fact that youâre his only exception a terrifying curiosity.
When the distress signal comes from that motel off 42nd Street, you know itâs a trap, but your new squad is too fresh-faced and arrogant to see it. They actually think they have him cornered, failing to realize that Dex doesnât get cornered unless he wants to be.
As you step out of the cruiser, the neon motel sign flickers "VACANCY" in a stuttering rhythm. Your stomach rolls as you realize heâs finally calling you to him.
You check your sidearm and feel the inutility of it. After all, youâre not really going in there to arrest a serial killer anyway. Youâre going in there to meet the man who decided, for reasons known only to his fractured mind, that you are the only thing in this city worth leaving unharmed.
The plan is, predictably, a masterclass in stupidity. Scatter. Check the rooms. Interrogate the traumatized residents to see if a man armed with knives and forks happened to skip past their peepholes. Because thatâs exactly how a world-class assassin spends his Friday night: taking a brisk walk in a lobby.
You are beyond done. Being the only person with a functioning brain on this team is exhausting, and please do not even mention how the pay isn't high enough to deal with this much concentrated idiocy.
Instead of shouting or kicking down doors, you walk down the hallway, following your instinct that makes you feel like a cold finger is tracing your spine. At the very end, a door sits slightly ajar, flickering lights and cold air hitting you in the face as you get closer.
You step inside. Nobody is in your sight yet. Just the hum of a cheap coffee maker and the smell of a roast that is surprisingly high-quality for a place that definitely has bedbugs. You find Dex standing by the kitchenette, leaning against the counter; heâs been expecting you since the second you stepped onto the property.
"Want some?" he asks, lifting a mug.
The sheer audacity of this man.
You stand there, arms crossed, staring unimpressed. The "good guy" mask is on tight, but the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth almost gives his real face away.
"You're not really good at hiding," you say, skipping the pleasantries, nearly scolding him. "What if one of the geniuses downstairs decided to actually do their job and found you first?"
He takes a slow, deliberate sip, watching you over the rim of the mug before he starts walking toward you with that predatory grace he usually masks with a civilian slouch. "If by 'somebody else' you mean your collection of useful idiots? Sure. They could have," he concedes, taking another sip, "but thereâs really only one person on that team I know that is attracted to the dark side."
He stops just a few inches too close, smiling that innocent, boy-next-door smile that makes your skin itch.
"And oh, I don't mean me," he adds, his voice dropping an octave. "I mean the room. Itâs perfect, isn't it? Tucked away. Rear end of the hallway. Objectively, itâs a terrible place for a masked assassin to hide." He hops up onto the wooden table. "But for an innocent citizen like me? Itâs perfect."
"Right," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "You're deluded."
"And you're late," he counters, his smile widening into something completely smug. He checks a non-existent watch on his wrist. "I almost thought youâd lost your touch. Or worse, that you were actually listening to your boss."
You scoff, your eyes drifting past him to scan the room for that infamous red suit â the one your team is so obsessed with that theyâve probably memorized every stitch of the fabric. But you don't see it. Instead, your gaze lands on a duffel bag that sits zipped halfway open.
Spilling out of the bag isn't red spandex; itâs something matte black, sturdier, and looking far more lethal. You catch a glimpse of a cowl with a stark target logo centered right on the forehead. Itâs different, a far cry from the "Devil" everyone thinks theyâre hunting.
But distraction finds you before you can ask about it. The harsh light from the kitchenette hits him just right, revealing the fresh damage on his face. There is a narrow slice near his eye and a long one across his cheek. But your gaze gets stuck on the one near his mouth. Itâs a messy split that looks like it hurts every time he breathes. You reach out and brush your thumb against the raw edge of the cut.
"You know, these aren't helping the 'innocent' act," you remark. "You've taken too much of a beating to look like a regular guy, Agent Poindexter."
"You care about me now?" he hums cockily.
"I should be the one asking you that," you retort. "Every time we go up against each other, Iâm the only one who walks away without a scratch. You shoot at me, but the bullet always finds the guy three inches to my left. And I know youâve got an agenda. Because youâreâ" you pause, trying to find the right words. "You're not exactly the 'falling in love' type, and⊠I am not very lovable either. You could kill me right now because I know what you look like. So why am I still breathing?"
He doesn't look away. "You don't belong on that team. Youâre a good soldier being used by Fiskâs dogs. You hate them. Youâre more like me than you want to admit."
You let out a scoff. "Right. Because not liking my coworkers makes me a lethal vigilante?"
"You're here." He slides off the table, his boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He steps into your space. Way too close. "Youâre not calling it in. Youâre not reaching for your cuffs. Your hand is right there, but youâre too busy touching my face to bother with the radio."
He reaches out then, but he doesn't touch your skin. Instead, his fingers find the heavy vest youâre wearing. He traces the edge of the Kevlar and hooks a finger under the strap near your shoulder, pulling you just an inch closer.
"This thing," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "It doesn't fit you. Itâs too heavy. Itâs built to protect people who wouldn't hesitate to throw you to the wolves the second you stop being useful."
He looks down at your hands, then back up at your eyes. You should be pushing him away. You should be reaching for the handcuffs like he said.
"You don't know me," you snap, the defensiveness sharp in your voice. "So stop acting like you do." You hate how easily heâs dismantling you. It feels like an attack, mostly because heâs right.
"Oh, I know you enough." He tilts his head slightly. "I know you wake up at 5:00 AM, but you don't actually get out of bed until 5:15. I know you hate the fluorescent lights in the breakroom because they make your head ache, so you spend your lunches in that park three blocks away, sitting on the bench with the chipped green paint. The one without any cameras."
You freeze. Though not in fear.
"I also know that you keep a spare key under the loose brick near your planter," he adds on, his voice a low, confident hum.
Your thumb is still resting near the corner of his mouth. You don't pull away. You know you should run and shout for your team. You really should be afraid of him right now.
"You know, in the real world, most people call that a restraining order," you smirk.
"You aren't 'most people.' You haven't moved an inch. Your heart rate hasn't even spiked."
Heâs right. You are calm. Heck, youâre into it. The fact that he spent his free time memorizing your life should be a red flag, but here you are, turned on.
"You wanted me to know," you realize, the pieces clicking into place. "That's why the door was open. You wanted me to see the work you put into this. Into me."
"I wanted you to see that Iâm the only one who knows exactly who you are," he whispers. "And Iâm still here. Iâm the only one whoâs actually on your side."
Heâs unhinged and obsessed. And heâs right, once again. Youâre just as messed up for finding this romantic. He notices that too. That dangerously smug smile creeps onto his face. He knows exactly how much this is turning you on. And heâs waiting for you to break, his eyes searching yours with a desperate hunger.
"They're going to find us soon," he whispers, his breath hitching as he watches your eyes.
"What, you scared youâre gonna get caught?" You ask, trying to keep the sarcasm in your voice, but it comes out breathier than you intended
"No," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "I just don't like the idea of anybody interrupting me while Iâm finally getting what I want."
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Two people who should be enemies, trapped in a room that smells of betrayal: you to your team and he to his ulterior motives.
All it takes is another cocky quirk of his lips for you to grab his collar and yank him down. When his lips hit yours, he slams you back against the table edge hard enough to knock the wind out of you. His hands aren't gentle either; they lock onto your waist like heâs trying to anchor you. Youâre clawing at him, pulling him in closer â if that's even possible.
You aren't being careful. You want his shirt off. You fumble with the buttons, yanking at the fabric until you can get your palms flat against his chest. Heâs hot, his skin is mapped with scars, and his heart is slamming against his ribs. He lets out a low, rough groan against your mouth, his hands sliding under your shirt and gripping the skin of your back.
You fall back on the table, pulling him between your legs. You dig your nails into the muscle of his back. He groans at the sting, but heâs smiling against your mouth, leaning into the sweet mixture of the twisted pleasure from it. For a minute, his duties and the guys downstairs don't exist. Itâs just the two of you, two broken things fitting together in the dark. Heâs heavy and solid, pressing the unmistakable length of his hardness against you, a wordless demand for everything youâre willing to give. The friction alone is enough to make your body crave more than just a stolen kiss. Youâre reaching for his belt when the heavy, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of boots echoes from the hallway.
"Room 214, clear! Moving to the end of the hall!"
Dex stops mid-breath. "Fuck," he rasps. He drops his head onto your shoulder, his chest heaving. Youâre both burning with a restless heat that makes you want to drag him to the bed and ignore the sirens.
"They're here," you whisper, struggling for air. "Seriously, you couldn't have done this a bit earlier?"
He pulls back, eyes dark. His mouth is a mess, swollen and red. He looks⊠wrecked but controlled. "This isn't over," he says, heavily annoyed that the moment was cut short.
"Well, I hope so," you grumble, pushing him toward the window. You reach for your radio on the counter, and he reaches for the duffel bag. "Now get out of here. I'm not in the mood to arrest you tonight."
Right before dropping down into the dark alley behind the motel, he stops at the ledge. He doesn't give you a kind "see you later" smile â rather a look that's confidently arrogant, as if he will meet you again soon.
Seconds later, your team swarms in, guns leveled. A flashlight beam cuts across the room, landing right on the table you both almost made babies on.
"Hey! Did you find him?" a voice shouts from behind a ballistic shield as the rest of them scan the other rooms.
"No," you say, forcing your breathing to even out. You keep your face blank. "Bastard got away again."
God, you're a terrifyingly good actor.
Down on the street, Poindexter is already walking away, whistling a low tune to himself. Heâs still got that rare, flustered smile on his face â a promise to himself that the next time he manages to get you alone, he isn't going to stop.
everybody knows that i'm a good vigilante, officer (part 1)
summary: working as a detective in gotham city is never boring, especially when a certain masked vigilante keeps annoyingly butting his way into your cases
contains: slowburn rivals to lovers, jason todd is whipped, fem!reader, reader is a little cuckoo bananas when it comes to solving mysteries, special appearance by cop!dick grayson, no use of y/n
t/w: graverobbing, mentions of murder and death, brief mention of domestic abuse, human trafficking, drugs, death of a father figure, breaking and entering, police and cops in general
author's note: so this is less than half of what i've already written, and there's still more to come. i was originally gonna post this all in one part, but a 30k+ word oneshot seems a bit excessive, and also i desperately need motivation to actually finish this damn fic, so comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! i'd also like to thank @euvicodin for beta reading <3
w/c: 10k
Red and blue lights flashed all around you, a familiar sight that may have even become a comfort if it wasnât for the scene they normally accompanied. Before you even stepped out of your car, you could see how much of a crowd had formed at the scene. Yellow tape sectioned off a large portion of the road and sidewalk, and people dressed in various dull colours of winter clothes were gathered around it, each one standing on their toes, trying to see past the gathering of wool-covered heads and into the crime scene, as uniformed officers tried to instruct everyone to stay back and disperse. As much as you would have liked to deny it, a scene like this was all too common in Gotham.
You stepped out of your car with your partner, Andrea, the cold hitting you the second you opened the door. You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself and sighed softly, your breath visible in the chilly air. It would snow soon, you could tell. Gothamites could always tell when the first snow of the year would arrive. They could feel it in the sudden rise in humidity as the snow-carrying clouds approached, hear it in the eerie calmness of the air, and see it in the cloudsâdarker and gloomier than usual, looming with the promise of snowfall.
âAny idea who it is?â Andrea asked as she closed the car door, tying up her thick, jet black hair into a ponytail, like she always did before entering a crime scene.Â
âMaybe itâs a Wayne,â she joked.
She was, of course, talking about the victim. You didnât know much about the scene yet, but you knew from the call on the radio that it was a high profile case. Someone famous or important.
You raised an eyebrow as the pair of you walked towards the yellow tape, pushing past the small crowd.
âGuess weâre about to find out,â you responded.
You reached for the badge on your belt to show the uniformed officer standing at the yellow tape. âWeâre the homicide detectives assigned to this case,â you told her.Â
The officerâwhose name tag, you noticed, read âJordanâânodded, allowing the two of you to pass.Â
âWitnesses say they saw her be pushed,â she told you. âIt checks out. With where she landed, and where she fell from, just jumping wouldnât have been strong enough to create that distance. In fact, itâs more likely that she was⊠Well, thrown.â
Andrea nodded along as you neared the body. You winced slightly at the sight.
See, thatâs something you always hated about cop shows. Hardened cops on TV always seemed to have this certain imperviousness to crime scenes, even the most gruesome ones. In reality, it never got easier. Each new homicide weighed just as much on the heart as the last one. The weight would linger, never really getting lighter until the killer was brought to justice, but even then, it hung around just loosely enough to be impossible to forget. In a lot of ways, that weight was what drove you to be a great detective, to give your all to every case, but you often found yourself wondering whether the persistent impression of the crime scene was worth it.
The woman appeared young. Too young to have died so soon. She was dressed in expensive clothing, and the jewellery that adorned her wrist, fingers and neck spoke to her high status.
âLacey Holland,â Officer Jordan said, putting a name to the victim. âShe was 19 years old, an up and coming pop star born and raised right here in Gotham. Her parents are socialites and philanthropists that live up on the West End. Weâre attempting to contact them as we speak.â
âShit,â you murmured to yourself.
Your mind immediately occupied itself with finding details in the crime scene. Things people often missed at first glance. One of her heels was unbuckled, you supposed that could have happened during a struggle. As could the large tear on the back of her dress, but what it revealed was more curiousâa dainty tattoo of the initials, T.M.
A partner, maybe? You considered. As you knelt down to observe the body at a different angle, you could hear Andrea gathering more initial information from the responding officers, the two of you falling naturally into your discovered roles in the partnership. You werenât as good with people as Andrea was. It was good to have her around to run point on things like this.
You reached for the pen in your pocket to carefully lift the bracelet around Laceyâs wrist to examine it more carefully. A charm bracelet. Most people put personally relevant charms on their charm bracelets. You took a mental note of the charmsâa gold microphone, a crystal daisy, a silver soccer ball, and a gold book. Most of the bracelet was bare, a testament to the amount of life Lacey should have had left to live.
As you worked, your mind pulled you back to over half a decade ago, to memories of another case, another partner, another time entirely. Against your will, you recalled what had been taught to you by the first and only father figure youâd ever had, and how it had all been cut short so brutally.
No. Not now, you told yourself, shaking off the memories. You needed to focus on the case.
You sighed and stood, dusting off your clothes and catching up with Andrea. âWell, itâs not a Wayne,â you said.
Andrea gave you a small yet heavy smile, the kind she always gave you when you were around crime scenes. âDid you find anything?â she asked.
âNot much,â you answered. âJust that she liked daisies, soccer and reading. Iâd have someone look into the people in her life and try and find someone with the initials T.M., though. You?â
Andrea nodded as you responded. âI didnât find much either. Butâ...â Her voice drifted off as her eyes focused on something in the near distance behind you. âYour best friend is here again.â One side of her lips quirked up in an amused smirk.
âMy bestâ?â you began to ask, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before you turned around and your face fell. âFucking hell.â
Red mask. Dressed from head to toe in tactical gear. And an invisible smirk youâd bet money was hiding under that damn helmet. Red Hood.
You grumbled angrily under your breath as you made your way over to where he stood, leaning against your car, just a few feet away from the crowd at the yellow tape. You ducked beneath it, pushing back past the group of people to get to him.
âWhat are you doing here, Red?â you said, glaring at the Red Hood as you came to a stop before him, crossing your arms impatiently.
He shrugged in a way you wer sure was designed specifically to piss you off. âHeard on my police scanner that you got a homicide on your hands here.â
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. âIs that so?â
âMhm,â he hummed, the sound slightly distorted through the filter on his helmet. âThought you might need my help.â
You scoffed in response, rolling your eyes. âAnd why would I need your help?â
âBecause I knew the girl,â Red Hood responded. âWell, I knew of her. And I think I have a pretty good guess at who killed her.â
âLet me guess, it was you?â you responded sardonically.
âDetective, please,â he responded with a scoff of his own. âI kill criminals, not 19-year-old wannabe Britney Spearses.â
âJesus Christ,â you muttered exasperatedly under your breath as you rubbed your temples. âGive me one good reason why I shouldnât cuff you and shove you in the back of a squad car right now.â
The Red Hood only laughed in response. âWell, for one, you wouldnât be able to, but youâre cute for thinking you could.â Your blood boiled, but he went on. âAnd secondly, if you did that, I wouldnât be able to tell you who killed little Miss American Idol there.â He nodded towards the crime scene.
You gritted your teeth as you glared up at him, tapping your foot to try and stay calm. As⊠unpleasant as your feelings towards him were, Red Hood had given you reliable information in the past, and it helped that Commissioner Gordon was all about maintaining a good relationship with the Bats. In fact, he wouldnât shut up to the GCPD benefactors about how yes, indeed, the Red Hood is one of his top detectivesâ confidential informants. Of course, the act of bragging about a CI sort of negated the âconfidentialâ part of that agreement, but you supposed Red Hood was a special case.
Nevertheless, he wasnât one of your CIs. You had tried on numerous occasions to make that very clear, to no avail. He wasnât a CI. Just a really annoying vigilante who kept showing up at your crime scenes.
But besides that, your brain once again involuntarily brought you back to your first partner and mentor, and as you closed your eyes to try to calm yourself, his warm, approachable face materialised on the back of your eyelids.
You knew what Healy wouldâve said. People can be difficult, but it doesnât mean they arenât helpful.
âFine,â you relented, though your glare didnât let up. âWhat information do you have for me?â
You could practically hear the satisfaction rushing through his veins like a cheap high. It made you want to gag, and you never were too good at keeping disgust off your face. You were sure the look on your face was only feeding into Red Hoodâs sick amusement.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
âWell, this is the place,â Jason told you.
Him and you were standing in front of the one place in Gotham that didnât look like somewhere drugs would be exchanged.
He looked over at you with a proud grin, only to be greeted with that death glare of yours that he both loved and feared.
âIâm arresting you for wasting the time of an officer of the law,â you told him.
âWhat?â Jason responded with a scoff. âIâm telling you, this is the place Lacey got her drugs!â
âThis is an old age home, Red!â you yelled back. âUnless she was buying Viagra from someoneâs senile old grandfather, I highly doubt this is where she was getting drugs! In fact, I shouldnât have been stupid enough to believe you about the drugs at all. Everyone in her life said she was straight as an arrow.â
You groaned softly, and checked your watch, rubbing your temples with frustration as you turned to leave. Jason felt something within him fall out of place as you attempted to leave.Â
âStop!â he called, his gloved hand instinctively reaching to clutch your wrist and keep you from leaving. âDetective.â
You turned your head to look back at him with that same adorable exasperated look on your face you seemed to always have when he was around. Jason couldnât help but smile under his mask, grateful you couldnât see it. He always felt this giddy around you. He wasnât sure why it was, but something about you was addicting. It was why he went out of his way to look out for your name and callsign on his police scanner. Why he scrounged around in the lowest of the low places in Gotham to find something, anything that might help you with one of your cases. Sure, his methods were questionable, but his heart was in the right place.
âJust trust me,â Jason said, his voice falling a few decibels, betraying his sarcastic, cool persona. He was desperate to keep you around, and if you looked closely enough, it was painfully obvious. âPlease. If we donât find anything here, I promise you Iâll let you kick me in the balls.â
You let out a rare, restrained huff of laughter. âWhat?â
âIâm serious!â he responded. âI just need you to trust me on this one, okay?â
He watched as you raised an eyebrow at him, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Your eyes darted over his figure, no doubt looking for signs of dishonesty, although he let himself revel in the fantasy that you might have been checking him out. Your eyebrow fell as you let out a relenting sigh.
âFine,â you murmured. âBut I expect you to do good on that deal when it turns out that you were wrong about this place.â
Jason restrained himself from letting out a sigh of relief, though his shoulders visibly deflated from tension. âIâm not wrong about this place,â he said, reluctantly letting go of your wrist as he walked towards the entrance.
He didnât look back at you, but he could practically hear you rolling your eyes at him.
âThis sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, huh?â Jason said playfully as the two of you walked. âA cop and a vigilante walk into a retirement homeâŠâ
He didnât receive a response, yet Jason was certain he heard the quietest, amused exhale escape your nose.
The receptionist, a middle aged man with hair that grayed at the roots, dressed in purple scrubs, glanced up from his magazine, half expecting one of the usual visitors, Jason guessed. He had to do a double take, as if he couldnât quite believe the sight before him. After all, Jason didnât think vigilantes were particularly regular visitors to the retirement home.
You reached for your badge and sighed as you showed it to the receptionist. âGCPD,â you said. âWeâre here investigating the murder of a Lacey Holland? Did you ever see her come through here?â
The receptionist, still visibly dumbstruck, stumbled over his words. âWell, I canât say I recall the name, but I donât normally work the receptionâŠâ he murmured, reaching into a drawer to grab a thick record book. âBut you are welcome to look through the records.â
âOh,â you responded, clearly surprised. Probably about the fact that the receptionist hadnât asked for a warrant. Still, you shrugged and thanked the man.
Jason followed your gaze as you flipped through the book. Each visitor from the beginning of the year to now had signed in. He smirked in triumph as he noticed Laceyâs name repeating over and over again. Almost every week.Â
âFuck,â you muttered before looking up at Jason, before narrowing your eyes. âThis doesnât prove anything, alright? Maybe she has a family member here.â
âThe girlâs family were millionaires, Detective,â Jason said, rolling his eyes and leaning against the reception counter. âI donât think theyâd stick their elderly in a cheap nursing home.â He glanced at the receptionist. âNo offense,â Jason told him.
âA friend, then?â you said, unimpressed, turning your attention back to the record book. âLooks like she came every Thursday to meet a Molly Reefer.â
Jason burst out laughing, earning a few stern looks from the attendants and residents around him, and an even sterner look from you.
âMolly Reefer?â he laughed. âAre you serious? Come on, thatâs obviously a cover name for someone she buys drugs from. They havenât even tried to make it less obvious.â
You closed your eyes for a few seconds and took a few deep breaths, presumably to keep yourself from strangling him. Jasonâs amused grin grew at the sight.
Eyes still closed, you asked the receptionist, âWhatâs the room number for Molly Reefer?â
Jason turned to look at the receptionist, who quickly looked through the records on his computer and answered, â806.â
âAlright then, Detective,â Jason said, already turning towards the elevators. âOff we go to prove I was right about this whole thing.â
You glared at him for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and Jason felt his insides stir again for what felt like the hundredth time that day. It wasnât long before the pair of you stood before room 806. You knocked on the door.
âMs. Reefer?â you called, and Jason stifled laughter again, earning a swift elbow to the midsection from you. âGCPD! We need to talk to you about Lacey Holland!â
When there was the response, Jason shrugged, feigning cluelessness. âMaybe Molly Reefer had a little fall.â
âI really hate you,â you muttered as you flagged down an attendant to ask for a key.
âOh, the door shouldnât be locked,â the attendant responded, swinging the door open for you. âThis room has been unoccupied for months.â
âHas it?â Jason said, his voice laced with victorious amusement.
The attendant, also obviously surprised at the presence of the Red Hood next to a GCPD officer at her place of work, nodded. Her eyes betrayed an air of confusion.
âThank you, miss,â Jason told her as he walked into the unoccupied room with you.
You looked around, taking in the sterility of the room. The sheets were perfectly made, the desk empty and free of any memorabilia or personal items one would expect in an occupied room. It was a complete blank slate.
âNow will you admit I was right?â Jason asked, raising an eyebrow as he sat on the bed, bouncing on it listlessly.
You didnât respond, but Jason watched as you grit your teeth unhappily, a sign of defeat he loved to see more than almost anything else in the world. You carried out a methodical search of the room, and beneath the mattress, you found what you were looking for.
âWell, fuck,â you muttered.
âLanguage, detective,â Jason responded teasingly, just to get you riled up. He turned his head to look over at you on the opposite side of the bed. âWhat is it? What did you find?â
You let the mattress down and put on a pair of gloves from your pocket before lifting it again and pulling out the item in question. A little zip-lock baggie filled with white powder. You held it up and sighed in defeat.
Jason grinned wickedly beneath his helmet. âSay it. I want to hear you say it.â
You grit your teeth again. Your lips hung open for a second before you spoke, as if it was physically painful for you to say the words you said next. âYou were right.â
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
Over the next 2 hours or so, the nursing home had become swarming with police. Each worker was interviewed. Well, each worker except for one, a Thomas Melrose, who had apparently clocked into work at the start of his shift, but was suddenly missing.
Red Hood had been particularly smug about the whole thing, using every possible opportunity he got to gloat to you, and it was making you want to tear all your hair out. He was also certain that Thomas Melrose had been Laceyâs killer. You finally had a few moments of peace when he took his leave to ask his contacts if they knew any drug runners with the name.
âThanks for that, old man,â you murmured to yourself in the silence of the stationâs elevator as you rode up to your office. It was silly, but sometimes you liked to pretend that Healy could hear you from wherever he was now.
It had been almost three years since heâd died, but Healyâs advice and wisdom still guided you through the job.
You sighed softly when you got back to your desk at your station and sank into your admittedly quite uncomfortable office chair. Andrea looked over her computer screen at you from her own desk opposite to yours.
She gave you a knowing smile. âHeard the Red Hood gave you a good assist.â
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. âI hate you.â
Andrea laughed. âThat bad, huh?â she asked.
âNo,â you responded stubbornly. âNo, I can admit when Iâm wrong, you know? Itâs just⊠Heâs such an asshole, Andy.â You sighed, rubbing your temples.
âI donât know,â Andrea replied. âMaybe youâre too tough on him.â
âWhose side are you on?â you said, defensively.
She just rolled her eyes in response. âAnyway,â she said. âI looked into Tom Melrose like you asked me to. Heâs a GothamU student. His parents are pretty wealthy bigshots in the business world. He works at the nursing home for a social service credit. The only connection between him and Lacey is that she also went to GothamU before dropping out. But the tattoo is too big of a coincidence to rule out.â
You nodded along, propping up your elbows on your desk and resting your chin on your fist as your mind reeled with the facts of the case.
Andrea sighed before she added. âThereâs more. The autopsy came back,â she said. âLacey was pregnant when she died. And there were injuries that showed signs of abuse.â
âOh,â you said quietly. âShit. That changes things.â
Your heart broke for that poor girl. You wished you could say a situation like this was uncommon, but the truth was in a city like Gotham, almost every other 911 call was a domestic disturbance, and most of them were ugly situations. Times when the abuser nearly killed or did kill their victim. Every cop in the city knew the feeling of being assigned to a domestic disturbance and the silence in the squad car as they drove over, both them and their partner silently praying they wouldnât be calling in a homicide unit that day.
Andrea nodded solemnly. âIf we can get one of Melroseâs parents to agree to a DNA test, or get a court order for it, weâll be able to tell if he was the father or not.â
âSo, a frat boy decides to rebel against his rich parents by selling drugs. Definitely not unheard of,â you hypothesised. âHe meets a girl at college and gets her into drugs and starts abusing her. She finds out sheâs pregnant and gets clean. She tells him about it and threatens to go to the press about it or tell his parents, or something else that would effectively ruin his life or get him cut off by his parents. He panics and kills her. Then he realises the cops are onto him and makes a run for it.â
âMakes sense,â Andrea affirmed. âBut where would he run?â
You sighed and leaned back in your chair. âThatâs the question, isnât it?â you murmured. âWhere is he now?â
âHave you heard back from your red friend yet?â Andrea asked.
âNo,â you answered. âIâm hoping I wonât either.â You rolled your eyes.
âHe wouldnât be of any help, trust me,â you added. âHeâs an arrogant dickhead who thinks heâs godâs gift, like heâs saving the world. I mean, buddy, you run around town in a silly costume shooting people. Youâre not Batman or Superman, you know. I donât even know how the other Bats put up with him.â
She smiled and chuckled softly to herself, turning her attention back to her computer screen, no doubt hitting refresh on Melroseâs bank records to see if a new expense had popped up.
You narrowed your eyes at her. âWhatâs that laugh about?â
Andrea shook her head. âNothing,â she answered with a cool shrug. âJust that you seem awfully wound up about him.â
âNo,â you said with a sarcastic laugh. âOh no. I know what youâre implying and thatâs not it.â
She only laughed again. âNo? You seem awfully obsessed with him, though,â Andrea teased.
You scoffed. âMe?â you said. âObsessed with him? Come on, you and I both know thatâs crazy. Heâs the one thatâs constantly showing up and undermining our crime scenes. No, if anyone is obsessed with anyone, it's him thatâs obsessed with me.â
âSo defensiveâŠâ Andrea murmured playfully.
You glared. âAgain, whose side are you even on?â
She rolled her eyes. âIâm an adult, babe, I donât play sides.â
You rolled your eyes right back at her. âIâm going to find out who this asshole is,â you declared.
âIs that so?â Andrea responded sarcastically.
âJesus, Andy, you could at least pretend to be supportive,â you responded, crossing your arms defensively.
âI donât like it when you get this obsessive,â she answered frankly. âYou get a little cuckoo.â
âI am not obsessive!â you huffed. âAnd I do not get âa little cuckooâ.â
Andrea only shook her head again in response, deciding that this was a battle sheâd never win. âIâm emailing you Melroseâs bank records,â she said. âMake yourself useful and help me go through them, will you?â
A few weeks passed. Melrose had been missing for long enough to be considered an official missing person, and after obtaining a court order for his fatherâs DNA, the GCPD had been able to conclusively state that Thomas Melrose was the most likely father of Lacey Hollandâs baby. The press coverage around the murder had been relentless, and despite Melrose already having lost in the court of public opinion, the unsolved case ate away at your mind slowly but surely, like all your unsolved cases did. When it came to unsolved cases, you learned fairly quickly that youâd be better off taking a few days off to get your head back on right, otherwise you failed to give your all on other cases.
Still, staying home was its own special kind of torture. You tended to spend so much time at the station and in the field that home was really just a place to sleep. You never really took enough time to make it your own. It was like living inside an interior design magazine cover. Beautiful, spotless and tidy, but unwelcoming, and soulless. It wasnât cozy the way Andrea and her wifeâs house was cozy, or homey in the way that your parentsâ house was homey.Â
It didnât help that the last time youâd stayed at home for so long at a stretch had been right after Healyâs funeral. The death of your mentor had been so emotionally and physically taxing that for a week, you struggled to leave the house, surrounded by the pristine, almost sterile, environment of your house that now only served as a reminder of your immobilised state at the time.
You sighed faintly as you trudged out of your bed one morning to get a start on breakfast, but as you reached your door, you noticed a shadow moving around through the crack between the door and the floor.Â
What kind of an idiot breaks into a copâs house at 7 in the morning? You thought to yourself, instinctively reaching for the place on your hip where your radio would have been before realising you werenât on duty.
You let out a quiet, undignified curse in frustration and reached for your phone to call 911 for backup before arming yourself with your gun and preparing to confront the intruder. Whoever it was, you knew, was about to be a very sorry boy.
âGCPD!â you yelled, bursting through the door and pointing your gun at the intruder. âGet down, put your hands behind your head!â
âJesus, Detective,â the intruder said with an all too familiar laugh. âDidnât realise you were kinky like that.â
Red Hood. Again. You sighed and put down your gun at the sight of his quintessential red helmet. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â you yelled.
âWell, I had to see you, and I couldnât find you at the station,â Red Hood responded with a shrug, as if breaking into your house was an obvious next step that anyone would have taken.
âSo you broke into my house?!â you rebutted. âAre you actually nuts?â
Red Hood didnât respond, only watching as you called 911 again and let the dispatcher know your previous breaking and entering call was a false alarm.
âYou called the cops on me?â he asked.
âWhat did you expect me to do, Red?â you shot back. âAgain, you broke into my house!â
âThis is hardly a house, you know,â he said, looking around, running his fingers over various pristine surfaces and looking up at the art you had hanging from the walls. âWell, I guess it is a house. But itâs definitely not a home. For a while there, I was worried I had the wrong address. Thought this one was staged for an open house or something.â
âAre you just here to insult my interior design choices, or what?â you scoffed, though you had to admit, his snide remark had hit a bit too close to home.
âOf course not,â Red Hood responded, turning to look at you with what you could only assume was the biggest smirk mankind had ever seen. âI also wanted to compliment your PJs.â
You looked down at your faded sleep shirtâan old Star Wars graphic t-shirtâand pajama shorts, before looking back up at Red Hood and angrily throwing a beige couch pillow at him.Â
âGet out of my apartment!â you yelled.
He flinched at the pillow attack and relented. âOkay, okay! Iâm sorry,â Red Hood said, even though he was laughing as he spoke. âI need your help. Iâm serious this time.â
âTake it down to the station, Red, Iâm not working today,â you said.
âCome on, you know I donât trust cops,â he responded.
âNews flash, Red,â you retorted sarcastically. âIâm a cop. Yeah, a real, live cop. Believe it or not.â
âYeah, but youâre different,â he responded, a hint of something that sounded awfully close to sincerity in his voice.Â
You exhaled exasperatedly, finally relenting. âWhat do you need?â
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
âThis is insane,â you murmured as you drove to BlĂŒdhaven. âIf you already have a cop friend in BlĂŒdhaven to help you with this so-called trafficking case, why do you even need me?â
Jason leaned back in the passenger side carseat, getting comfortable for the long drive to Gothamâs sister city. âI told you,â he said. âBecause you arrested three of their goons a year ago. You know more about this case than my other guy.â
You sighed gingerly, but didnât respond. Jason looked over at you to try and read your expression. Your eyes were fixed straight on the road ahead, and your shoulders, which had been tense since this morning, were slowly relaxing. So slowly, in fact, that he wondered if you were even aware of it.Â
Of course, Jason was bending the truth, just a little. He probably wouldâve been fine without you. Maybe you could have shot a quick email to Dick at BPD with the arrest records and information from your previous arrests, but Dick was a perfectly capable cop. He wouldâve been fine with or without you.
Jason just wanted you around. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to do this with you. Maybe if you saw him do this, take down this trafficking ringâpreferably without killing anyone, since you seemed to have a bit of an issue with that, as did Dick and Bruceâmaybe youâd see him in a different light. Maybe youâd see him as more than just some annoying vigilante that always followed you around like some sort of pathetic puppy.
God, he really did feel pathetic. But he couldnât help it.
The need to be around you grew greater with every second he spent around you, his heart never quite satisfied with however much of you he was getting already. He wanted all of you, in a way that heâd never wanted anyone else. He knew now how Dick felt about Kory and it sucked that Jason couldnât tease him about it anymore. It was a silly feeling, really. The silliest.
Jason just couldnât get enough of you.
Of course, it helped that he didnât really know what adult feelings were supposed to feel like. The last time heâd liked a girl was before he died. He was fifteen and hormonal and incredibly stupid. Everything felt like it was so much bigger than it was. He supposed it was possible that a little bit of that fifteen-year-old boy was still inside him and he was just making whatever he felt for you out to be much bigger than it actually was.
Surprisingly, it was you who broke the silence, interrupting him from his thoughts. You cleared your throat somewhat awkwardly.
âI hate driving in silence,â you confessed. âDo you mind if I turn on the radio?â
Jason shook his head. âNo,â he answered. âNo, of course not.â
You gave him an amusing expression, with your lips slightly quirked upwards, like you were trying to smile but werenât quite there yet. Despite himself, Jason found it adorable. Baby steps, he told himself. You were getting more comfortable with him. He wouldnât take that for granted. Jason smiled beneath the helmet as you reached for the centre console to turn on the radio.
It wasnât long before you were parking in Dickâs buildingâs parking lot. Jason led you down the familiar path to the elevator, and up to his brotherâs apartment.
âDickie bird!â Jason announced as he burst through the door with a key that Dick had given him for safekeeping.
âJason?â he called back from somewhere within the apartment. Jason froze at the sound of his nameâhis real nameâbeing called. Beside him, you raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously.
âJason, huh?â you murmured with a playful lilt. âWouldnât have pegged you for a Jason.â
âJesus Christ, Dick, Iâm with company!â Jason yelled frustratedly back into the apartment. Heâd never been more grateful for the helmet than now, knowing you couldnât see the bright red flush that had most likely taken over his face.
Dick walked out of the bedroom, and narrowed his eyes at Jason. âWell, maybe if youâd fucking knocked instead of barging into the house, Iâd have known that,â he shot back, hitting Jason over the back of the head. âI gave you that key for emergencies, not free reign over my apartment.â
âOw!â Jason complained. It hadnât hurt, not really, thanks to the helmet, but it was more about the bruise to his ego than anything. Jason continued to glare at Dick as he introduced you to him. You smiled politely. The same smile you had in all your police and government photosâthe one that never quite reached your eyes. Dick shook your hand.
âSo this is the famous detective,â he said with that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face.
âYou know of me?â you asked curiously, raising an eyebrow. âDoes Redâor, uh, Jasonâtalk about me?â
Dickâs grin grew wicked as he glanced at Jason.
God, please no. Jason thought to himself.
âHeâs⊠talked about you before,â Dick said. âQuite a bit, actually.â
Jason resisted the urge to tackle Dick and shove his face into the stupid green carpet in his living room.
âHuh,â you responded, looking over at Jason. âInteresting.â
Jason cleared his throat, desperate to talk about something, anything, else. âCan we please talk about why weâre actually here?â
âYouâre no fun, Jaybird,â Dick teased. âBesides, we should get to know each other a bit more before we begin, wouldnât you say? After all, you never told me youâd be bringing someone along when you told me about the trafficking ring.â
You raised an eyebrow at the nickname. Jasonâs face burned even brighter. What was he thinking, bringing you right to the lionâs den? Dick loved embarrassing him. He shouldâve known better.
âNo!â Jason insisted, bringing Dick over to sit down at the couch, shooting him a glare from behind the helmet that he prayed his brother had somehow telepathically sensed. âWe need to get to work. Start explaining the plan, Dicko.â
âBummer,â you said with a small smileâa real one this time. âI was hoping to learn a little more about how you got that nickname, Jaybird.â
âYou should come over when he isnât around,â Dick said playfully. âBoy, I have the best stories. Like this one timeââ
Jason cut Dick off. âShe doesnât need to hear any stories, Dick,â he insisted, hoping he didnât sound as desperate as he felt.Â
You rolled your eyes and snickered tacitly before playfully mouthing the words ânext timeâ to Dick.
For a moment, Jason seriously contemplated throwing you over his shoulder and dragging you back to Gotham, but he decided youâd probably tase him. Or bite him. Or kick him in the balls. Or all three.
To his relief, Dick began to actually explain the background of the trafficking ring, talking about how it seemed to have migrated from Gotham to BlĂŒdhaven. Together, the three of you were able to pinpoint the place their headquarters, where they kept all their victims, would most likely be. A warehouse at the docks, down by The Narrows, where one would easily be able to load a bunch of beaten and bloodied girls into a ship bound to Europe or South America in the cover of night, without anyone ever batting an eye.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
âSo, uh⊠You and Dick know each other pretty well?â you asked carefully, not wanting to step on any toes, as you and Red Hoodâor, as youâd recently learned, Jasonâsat on the rooftop of another warehouse near the one the three of you were scoping out. Dick was waiting on the ground, in case he needed to jump into action.
Jason sighed, as if he was expecting this question, but didnât quite know how to answer it. âYou could, uh⊠Well, you could say weâre like brothers,â he responded. His tone indicated there was more to the story than he was telling you, but you knew better than to push.
Still, the cop in you wouldnât let up.
âRight.â You nodded. âItâs just that you have a key to his house and everything.â
Jason groaned this time. You let out a soft laugh. âHowâd you meet him?â you asked.
He was quiet for a few moments, as if debating how much to tell you. âThrough family,â he responded curtly.
âSo he knew you as Jason before he knew you as Red Hood?â you questioned curiously.
âHe did, yeah,â Jason answered.
You took a quick peak through the binoculars and stiffened up. âHeads up, thereâs an armed man walking into the warehouseâŠâÂ
You absent-mindedly passed the pair to Jason so he could look too, letting out a light laugh when you realised he was wearing a helmet that covered his entire face, and therefore couldnât use the binoculars.
âMy bad,â you said through soft snickers, reaching for the radio to alert Dick. âOne entering the building. He is armed, repeat, he is armed.â
âCopy that,â came Dickâs response through the warm crackle of the handheld device. âI see him.â
âShould we call for backup?â you asked.
âNegative,â Dick answered. âWeâll wait until we see some concrete signs that theyâre holding the victims here.â
âCopy thatâŠâ you responded, sighing and placing the radio back down.
There were a few more minutes of waiting before you could hear a gruff voice yelling commands in the distance, getting closer. As the manâs voice got louder, you could hear it accompanied by soft, crying whimpers.
âShit,â you cursed under your breath. âI really hope thatâs not what I think it is.â
Jason reached for the radio to alert Dick as you chewed your lip nervously. Indeed, soon enough, a line of girls who couldnât have been older than twenty came into view, their hands bound with zip ties and mouths covered with duct tape, wearing clothes that were dirty and ripped from struggle. They were led by a large, burly man with an automatic. Your eyebrows furrowed together, the looks on the girlsâ faces were haunting. The fear for their life, the desperation for a miracle to come save them. You tugged at Jasonâs arm before even realising your hand was moving.
âLetâs go,â you said softly.
âWe have to wait for backup,â he whispered back. âWeâre seriously outgunned and outnumbered.â
âIf we wait, those girls could be gone already!â you retorted. You didnât sound strong, or frustrated, or stubborn in the same way you normally did. You were desperate to save these girls. Jason could hear it in your voice.
âItâs too risky,â he said, reluctantly, like the words hurt him to say as much as they hurt you to hear. âI canât lose you, alright? Weâre gonna stay here, where itâs safe.â
Youâd already failed Lacey Holland. You couldnât fail these girls too. This was why you got into the force. To be the protector that these women needed. If you didnât do everything you could to save them, then youâd be failing not just them, but yourself.
âJason,â you said hushedly. âPlease.â
The sound of his real name must have softened him, because Jason sighed under his breath, shaking his head and looking out towards the girls being shoved into the warehouse. âWe wait until he brings them back out,â he conceded. âIf we go into that closed space with guns ablazing, itâs almost certain death.â
You nodded, grateful that Jason had trusted you with this. âOkay.â
A short pause, and then you added, âThank you.â
Sure enough, before too long, the man returned, accompanied by a few compatriots, although he seemed to be the boss amongst them. He stood at the front of the line, with two other men, followed by the girls, moving in a single file line, hands and mouths still bound. You counted 6 of them, with two more men at their tail end.
âIâve only got a nine millimetre," you murmured. âItâs a cop gun. Canât shoot that far.â
âYeah, I donât exactly carry around sniper rifles either,â Jason muttered back, grabbing the radio with one hand and your hand with the other. âCome on, letâs go in.â
âDick, weâre moving in,â Jason told Dick over the radio.
âCopy that,â came Dickâs response. âBackup is 3 minutes out.â
3 minutes.
A lot could happen in 3 minutes.
The pair of you rushed down the stairs to the ground, and Jason led you swiftly, yet soundlessly to duck behind the wall of the warehouse, only a few short metres away from where the girls were being led onto the docks. He peaked out to scope out the fire power the men were carrying.
âAll five have automatics,â he murmured. âWe might stand a chance, but only if we can even the playing field and take at least two of them out.â
You knelt down to shoot from a lower angle. âAndy and I used this move once during a tactical training session. You shoot together on three, it takes down multiple suspects and only alerts them once. Never actually done it out on the field.â
Jason looked down at you and chuckled breathily. âWill it work?â
âDepends,â you answered, taking aim at one of the men. âHow good of a shot are you?âÂ
Jason shook his head, as if the question was redundant. âDetective, please,â he murmured, his tone that of the familiar cockiness youâd grown to expect, taking aim.
You smiled. âThree,â you began the countdown. âTwo⊠One..â
Two gunshots, so precisely timed that one might have mistaken them for a single gunshot. But the pair of immobilised bodies on the floor would beg to differ. Their ringleader and the two at the front of the line immediately turned at the sound as the girls began to whimper and huddle together in fear, each one still too terrified to seize the opportunity and make a run for it.
You stood back up as quickly as you could, pressing your body against the wall as the burly man sent the other two to investigate. You took a deep breath, and your nostrils filled with the all too familiar scent that thickened the air whenever a gun had recently been fired nearby. The bitter, metallic smell of gunpowder paired with the rush of adrenaline through your veins.Â
Jason grabbed the barrel of their gun as the braver of the two, the one in front, turned the corner. Jason pushed it away from the pair of you as the man began firing reflexively, as did his friend. You ducked, instinctively covering your head at the sound of the bullets as Jason managed to wrestle the gun out of the lackeyâs hands and aimed it back at them, firing back at them. His quick, clean and precise shots were a stark contrast to the incessant firing of the other two.
âGrab the other one!â Jason instructed as Dick managed to shoot the remaining ringleader in the leg, giving him an opportunity to disarm him as well.Â
By now, the sound of bullets had alerted the rest of the goons inside the warehouse to join the ensuing fight, but the sound of sirens in the distance assured you that your own backup was close.
âI donât know how to shoot an automatic!â you yelled back over the sound of gunshots.
âThen use your handgun!â Jason responded, firing at a group of maybe five that emerged from the warehouse. âStay down!â
You nodded, your grip on your gun tightening as you shot at the group, who were still yet to pinpoint the location of the gunshots. You took advantage of their cluelessness and fired thrice. Only one of them hit, but you effectively took down one of the men.
âStay here, Iâm going to run around the warehouse and get them from behind,â you told Jason.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Dick engaged in hand to hand struggle with the ringleader. Heâd managed to disarm him and kick away his weapon. You didnât see much, but youâd definitely seen enough to tell he didnât fight like a cop. A curious observation, but one you didnât have time for at present.
You could hear your heart pounding in your ears with adrenaline as you made the long run around the back of the warehouse. The sound of sirens in the distance getting closer and closer was interspersed with the sound of gunfire behind you. The smell of gunpowder still lingered in your nose as you took deep breaths, like you were trained to do. In and out through both your nose and your mouth, to stay cool and run faster.Â
You were out on the other side of the warehouse within secondsâa new record you might have celebrated if not for the circumstances. You shot the man in front of you in the leg and tackled him from behind when he buckled down, kicking away his weapon and grunting with effort as he struggled beneath you. The impact of the tackle had definitely hurt your knees, an ache youâd feel the next day, but you supposed you couldâve been shot, like the man beneath you, and that would definitely have been worse.
You managed to get handcuffs on his wrist and looked back up to shoot a few more similar shots at the legs of the two men Jason was fighting. A quick glance back at Dick would tell you that the two men had eerily similar styles of fighting, except for the fact that Dick was perhaps a bit more flexible.
What was his last name again? Grayson? It was a peculiarly familiar name. You wondered if youâd met before.
You didnât have much time at the moment to ponder the question though. You aimed your gun at the chest of the ringleader and Jason raced to help in the fight, waiting for a clean shot that wouldnât hit either of the other two.
Bingo.
You squeezed the trigger just as the police cars arrived.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
Youâd left not long after the ordeal at the docks. Youâd offered Jason a ride back home, but heâd declined, preferring to find his own way. Well, that, and the fact that heâd been wearing the helmet for nearly 12 hours straight now, and wouldnât you know it was getting dreadfully stuffy in there.
Back at Dickâs apartment, Jason breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled the helmet off, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling how the sweat had caused his hair to stick to his skin.
âGod, that thing is suffocating,â he murmured.
Dick laughed, shaking his head lightly as he walked into his kitchen to fetch two ice cold bottles of water, tossing one to his brother. âYou should have Tim install some A/C in there,â he joked.
Jason rolled his eyes affectionately, catching the bottle and twisting the top open. He brought the bottle to his lips and thirstily guzzled sip after sip, almost finishing the entire bottle in one go.
Dick stretched his back out and yawned, coming to sit next to Jason on the couch. âSo thatâs her, huh?â
Jason shot his brother a sideways glare. âYou couldâve been a bit more subtle about the whole thing, you know,â he grumbled unhappily.
Dick only laughed harder this time, placing his bottle on the coffee table before turning to face Jason on the couch. âI had to give you a hard time, come on,â he said playfully. âThatâs what big brothers do.â
âYouâre evil,â Jason replied. âThat was the most embarrassing thing Iâve ever had to sit through.â
Dick waved a hand dismissively. âCome on, youâre exaggerating.â
âIâm not!â Jason insisted, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Dick.
He only rolled his eyes in response, instead changing the subject. âSheâs pretty, you know,â Dick said. âI guess I just didnât expect you to go for a cop. Seeing as you seem to have plenty of reservations about people in my line of work.â
âSheâs one of the good ones,â Jason responded, his expression and his voice softening as he talked about you. He let out a quiet sigh. âYou know, despite everything, I actually trust her. She makes me feel lighter, like Iâm⊠normal.â
He watched as Dickâs brows knitted together and his pursed lips parted to say something, but Jason interrupted him.
âI know what youâre going to say,â he said. âThat IÂ am normal. But Iâm not, Dick. Nothing about my life or what happened to me is normal. Iâm not even supposed to be alive right now.â
âI know,â Dick conceded with a soft, concerned exhale. âIâm just worried about you, you know? Iâm glad you feel a sense of normalcy around this woman, but I donât want you reliant on someone else for that.â
Jason smiled, one that actually reached his eyes. âThanks,â he murmured, not quite sure how to express his gratitude. âItâs⊠Itâs nice to know someone cares.â
Dick smiled back, his bright charming smile that Jason knew lit up every room he walked into. âDonât get all sappy on me now, little bird,â he teased, patting his brother on the back.
Jason rolled his eyes again, chuckled softly to himself as he shook his head and playfully pushed Dick away.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
Back in Gotham and out of your rut, youâd found yourself inexplicably drawn down another rabbit hole, and in true you fashion, it had consumed you. You couldnât sleep at night, your thoughts racing about this new mystery to be solved, and of course, you had to drag your partner into it, like you always did.
It was a habit youâd inherited from Healy. He was the kind of detective to become obsessive over his cases, especially when they were of personal relevance or interest. Youâd been around him so much during your formative years as a detective that youâd adopted the quirk yourself, something that Andrea, who had a much healthier work-life balance, was forever cursing.
âAndy, thereâs something very fishy going on here,â you said, greeting her at the elevator when the doors opened and welcomed her to your floor. It couldnât have been past 8 a.m. âWith the Red Hood and his cop friend, I mean.â
Andrea groaned and yawned tiredly. âGood morning to you too,â she murmured sarcastically.
You rolled your eyes, not letting her tiredness deter you. Youâd been bouncing off the walls with caffeine since three in the morning, and you were just itching to present your findings to someone, much like a child wanting to show off her newly designed dance routine to her mother.
âSo this guy, Dick Grayson, I knew the name sounded familiar, right?â you said. âWell, I looked it up, and of course, this guy is Bruce Wayneâs first kid!â
âWell yes,â you continued. âIt wouldnât be significant, if it wasnât for the fact that Jason, or well, Red Hood, said that they met through family.â
âIs this going anywhere?â Andrea asked with a tired sigh, grabbing her cup from the coffee maker and going to sit down at her desk, with you once again scrambling after her at her heels.
âCome on, Andy, think about it,â you said. âThey met through family, and Dick Graysonâs only living family is Bruce Wayne and his menagerie of adopted children.â
âMaybe Dick knew Red Hood before his parents died,â she responded with a shrug. âDid you consider that?â
You rolled your eyes as you walked around her desk to sit at yours. âOf course I thought of that,â you said. âItâs an entirely plausible possibility, I suppose, if it wasnât for the fact that Jason told me they were like brothers.â
Andrea raised an eyebrow at you again. âWhen was the last time you slept, sweetheart?â
âIâm onto something, Andy!â you insisted defensively. âIâm not crazy, will you just listen?â
She sighed, putting two hands up in concession. âFine,â she said cynically. âIâm listening.â
âThank you!â you said, taking a sip of the coffee on your desk, brewed almost an hour ago and gone cold already. Youâd been at the station longer than youâd have liked to admit, caught up in the need to investigate. âSo, Dick Grayson and Jason, a.k.a Red Hood, are like brothers.â
âThis is relevant, of course, in the fact that Dick Grayson is the ward of Bruce Wayne, a man known for his habit of adopting children,â you continued. âSo, Iâm thinking⊠This Jason is somehow related to Bruce Wayne. Specifically, I think heâs his adopted son.â
âGreat theory,â Andrea responded sarcastically. âExcept for the fact that I think if Bruce Wayne had a son called Jason, weâd know about it. I think all of Gotham would know about it, actually. The Waynes are practically royalty in this city.â
âAha!â you said, pointing at her. âAnd thatâs the question, isnât it? Why hasnât anyone heard of a Wayne called Jason?â
âProbably because he doesnât exist?â she guessed, sounding as unimpressed as ever.
âExceptâŠ!â you said with a victorious grin tilting your computer screen towards her, the wires connecting your monitor to the rest of its components twisting around its base. On it was an article, titled âYoung life taken by the Joker.â
âThis article talks about the death of a boy, Jason Todd, almost 15 years ago,â you said. âHe was 15 when he died, and thereâs a picture of the funeral. Right here, see.â
You zoomed into the picture, at a shadowy figure in attendance. âDoesnât that look an awful lot like Bruce Wayne?â
Andrea blinked at the photo, and then at you. âYou know, I think you should really get some sleepââ
You interrupted her. âHow many random childrenâs funerals do you think Bruce Wayne goes to?â you said. âCome on, Andrea, are you telling me you donât see where this is all leading?â
âIâm telling you that that photo could be of literally anyone!â she responded. âAnd besides, even if Jason is Bruce Wayneâs kid, according to your theory, he should be dead, which, clearly, heâs not.â
âExactly,â you said. âJason Todd should be dead. Unless Bruce Wayne faked his death and paid the media good money to keep word from getting out about it, for whatever reason.â
âAnd why would he do that?â Andrea asked with another sigh. âAlso, what exactly do you want to do about it? Storm up to Wayne Manor and confront the man?â
âWell, I donât know why heâd want to do that,â you said. âBut I do know what I want to do about it. Iâm going to prove my hypothesis.â You smiled proudly.
âI donât like that expression,â Andrea muttered. âWhat are you thinking?â
âI need your help, Andy,â you said.
She narrowed her eyes at you. âI donât like where this is going either.â
âI want to dig up Jason Toddâs grave.â
Andrea took a deep breath, closing her eyes and attempting to steady herself. âAre you nuts?â she asked, clearly restraining herself from an outburst.
âThink about it!â you urged. âWeâll just hit up the cemetery tonight, and then weâll have concrete proof about this whole conspiracy! You donât even have to do anything, just be a look out for me.â
âIâve put up with a lot of your crazy ideas, but this is actually a goddamn crime,â Andrea responded, whisper-screaming at you, looking around the room to make sure no one was listening. âYou want to dig up a dead kidâs grave so you can, what? Satisfy the tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorist weirdo inside you? And worse, you want to make me an accessory to that crime? I mean, fucking hell, we could lose our jobs over this!â
âWell then, letâs hope we donât get caught, yeah?â you said.
Andrea rubbed her temples. âYouâve gone insane,â she said to no one in particular. âYouâve actually lost your marbles. Thereâs no way in hell a sane person would come up with this plan.â
âYou owe me a favor, remember?â you coaxed. âPlease, Andy.â
She glared at you in response. âYou are way too much like the old man, you know that?â
You only grinned triumphantly in response, knowing youâd worn her down. Besides, it wasnât like being compared to Healy was an insultâat least, not to you.
And so thatâs how you ended up at Gotham City Central Cemetery in the dead of night with a shovel, standing before the tombstone that read Jason Toddâs name.
Andrea stood just a few feet away from you, perched on a slightly higher hill that gave her a better vantage point as a lookout.Â
âHow much longer are you gonna take?â she whispered impatiently.
Her arms were crossed and her foot tapped nervously as she looked around, making sure no one was nearby.
âI think I just hit the coffin!â you whispered back. âIâll need your help prying it open!â
âIâm missing Disney night with my toddler for thisâŠâ Andrea murmured unhappily.
âCamille and Dana will be fine without you for one night, Andy, Jesus,â you shot back, rolling your eyes. âBesides, Dana is one and a half. She wonât remember a thing. This is important work weâre doing. Weâre uncovering the truth. Weâre carrying out justice, Andrea. Donât you want your daughter to know her mother carries out justice?â
Andrea rolled her eyes right back at you as you shoveled away at the dirt around the coffin. Beads of sweat pooled at your brow and dripped down your face as you worked, your arms burning with effort as you looked back at the large mound of dirt forming behind you. Youâd been digging for at least 45 minutes now, and its effects were starting to wear down your body.
âGod, my back is killing me,â you muttered.
Andrea glared at you. âYouâre graverobbing a childâs grave right now. I think you deserve a bit of a backache.â
âWeâre not graverobbing!â you retorted. âItâs not like weâre stealing his body. Weâre just⊠checking to see if itâs there. Now come on, help me pry this thing open.â
She groaned softly as she walked over, carefully climbing down into the pit youâd just dug.
âAlright, grab this shovel, and we push together on three, okay?â you instructed.
Andrea sighed. âOkay.â
âOne⊠two⊠threeâŠâ
The two of you grunted with effort as you used the shovel to pry open the coffin. The lid fell out of place and you bent down to grab it and lift it open fully to revealâŠ
âItâs empty,â Andrea murmured, her voice dazed and disbelieving.
You smiled with the adrenaline of victory and knowing you were right charging through your veins. âItâs empty.â
You looked over at your partner, her hands covering her mouth in shock. âI think you owe me an apology, Andrea,â you told her.
Summary: After witnessing something you werenât supposed to, thereâs a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like âwell, yesâ. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.
Word Count: 15.4k
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms
For most of your life you felt invisible.
Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.
In high school, you first became aware of yourâŠdifference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.
Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasnât said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you âan interesting yet quiet young ladyâ without you catching on.
You had tried hard to change it, to âput yourself out thereâ. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.
You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didnât like.
Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldnât happen for you. The relationship thing wasnât in your cards, you just werenât built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.
â-ey, were you listening?â The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.
You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.
âUh yeah, the closing right?â You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didnât need something.
âYeah, you can do it right? I canât do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.â Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.
It was a request, but it didnât feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.
âAh, I donât-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didnât want to close alone.
Just do it, say no. Itâs not fair for you to do everything yourself and itâs not like sheâll appreciate it.
You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.
âOkay, I can cover.â You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.
She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, âGreat! Youâre a lifesaver. Iâll definitely pay you back.â
She wouldnât, just like she didnât for the four other times you covered her shift.Â
âYouâre welcome.â Itâs muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.
You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didnât have any customers to tend to.
âYou set?â
The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didnât know how he could move so quietly.
âIâm sorry, what?â
âThe drawer, are you ready for me to take it? Iâm gonna close a little early, donât think itâll be picking up anytime soon.â He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.
You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.
âWeâll, Iâm gonna count this out then Iâm off, you know what to do.â
Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.
He wasnât wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.
There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.
You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didnât have the keys to those.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.
Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldnât even flinch.
Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.
You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.
The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didnât want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.
You quickened your steps.
There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.
The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.
You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.
You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldnât have to wait too lon-
Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.
It wasnât a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.
âPlease! I donât have it, I- just give me one more week Iâm begging!â His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.
One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunch noise.
You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didnât know if youâd be quick or quiet enough that they didnât notice you.
Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it rightâŠ
âPlease, Iâll do anything please-â
He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. âYou shouldâve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckinâ rat. You should be grateful itâs just you and not your fucking family too, thatâs how nice boss is.â
It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.
You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.
Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.
They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.
You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.
This was not the time to freeze.
The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldnât make out the words.
In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.
It wasnât until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.
Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.
The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.
âHey! Whatâre you doing over there?â
This is how youâll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably wonât even find out what happened.
Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.
No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.
You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.
The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.
A little bit more⊠five, four, three-
You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.
You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.
He wasnât yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.
Shit.
Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.
This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didnât have good work with them before he wouldâve left.
But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.
Quite frankly, Dex couldnât give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.
He hadnât decided which.
âTaking his sweet time huh?â He wasnât really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.
âSorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.â
Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other manâs eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.
Behind his mask, Dexâs lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.
The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.
âBullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.â
Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because theyâd end up at the bottom of the Hudson.
He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at peopleâs heels.
âI would think with all that money youâd own a clock.â The manâs words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.
Morettiâs thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, âMy apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-â
Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, âWho, and where?â
He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then heâd be on his way.
Despite being cut off, the smaller man didnât show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. âA small problem, you shouldnât have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.â
A woman then. Unlikely sheâll put up a fight. Disappointing.
âShe saw some things she shouldnât have. Here,â he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. âthey got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?â
He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. âFifteen thousand, same as before.â His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.
Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. âAgreed, youâll receive the wire tomorrow.â
âSheâll be dead by the end of the day.â Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.
The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.
Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.
Time to find a little tattle-tale.
Maybe you did have powers.
It wasnât super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasnât even the power to turn invisible.
No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No oneâs life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.
After that night at the subway, you couldnât even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didnât affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.
You donât know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.
But you couldnât stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.
There was something else.
In the last few days youâd had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.
You knew they were there. You didnât know how you knew, but you did.
There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasnât just your hysteria. You could feel it.
The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadnât they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didnât make sense.
Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?
It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadnât come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.
You had to go out into the world eventually.
The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didnât come in for your next shift.
You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.
Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.
âDidnât know you hated customers that bad Oranges.â A mocking voice chimed behind you.
You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. âDonât worry, I wonât snitch.â Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.
It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasnât already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.
Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldnât have been that bad, if it werenât non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.
It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.
You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.
âWhat are we so worried about?â He continued, like you werenât ignoring him. âIf you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.â He could barely get out the words without laughing.
More silence from you.
âAlright then. Donât blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.â
You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.
Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.
âYou should take better care of your things.â
The words stopped you in your tracks. Youâd been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.
There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.
âPlease donât.â You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.
He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. âDonât what?â His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if heâd worn it out by yelling.
You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.
âDonât mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.â Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.
In truth, youâd come to the conclusion youâd probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didnât want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.
His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. âNot gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?â There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldnât understand why you were so calm.
Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.
He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.
You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. âNo, not really. Iâm sure youâve noticed, but itâs not much to plead for.â
He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. âThis is pretty depressing, yes.â
Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesnât make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.
You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.
The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, âWhatâre you doing?â
âWaiting for you to kill meâ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.
After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, âIf you donât mind, how long have you been in here?â
It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.
You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.
He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. âAbout a half hour.â
You blinked, âOh, okay.â
Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldnât have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.
In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. âWhatâs your problem? Hm? You didnât even do anything wrong and you wonât fight for your life? How is that fair?â
His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.
You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.
âIâm sorry?â Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?
Unless⊠he wasnât here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.
He mustâve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.
He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words âbalanceâ and âworth itâ in the rambling.
âOkay,â he dipped away, back to the chair. âokay.â
You blinked at him again, âOkay?â
âYes.â His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.
With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.
âYou should go to sleep now. Been a long day.â Like before, his tone was closed off. What mightâve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.
You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and heâd shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.
Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.
You didnât remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.
A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.
You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.
You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.
Wait. He wouldnât still be here, would he?
You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldnât rule anything out.
Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.
Nothing.
You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.
You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.
Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldnât shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.
It wasnât until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than youâd usually keep it.
You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.
Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food youâd been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.
All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.
What the hell is happening?
Itâs just because youâve been bored. Nothing else.
Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.
He did not do things for no reason.
That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?
It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.
As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.
He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didnât try calling the police, not even once.
It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms canât help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.
He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadnât finished the job yet.
He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.
You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.
His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.
He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.
You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.
His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadnât seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.
He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.
At him?
At him?
The fuck was he doing?
He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.
He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didnât really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.
Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.
He couldnât even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasnât hungry for more. He didnât try to act like he wasnât coming back the next day.
He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.
Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.
But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-
He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did heâd be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldnât be his problem anymore.
Moretti didnât exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.
Except he didnât do it. Moretti hadnât asked, and he didnât tell. But the man wasnât an idiot, heâd find out eventually.
Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.
He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.
This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didnât bother him. He wasnât upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.
Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didnât notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.
You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.
He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.
His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.
He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.
As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.
A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldnât wait to see what youâd do.
Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?
Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasnât sure exactly what heâd do if you asked him to spare your life.
Not important, focus.
You didnât do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.
If he didnât already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.
It made him angry.
Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.
He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didnât work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.
Until you werenât. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasnât a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.
He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.
Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing heâs good for. You would be no problem to take care of.
Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.
This wasnât even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.
You werenât necessarily a good person, you didnât volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.
You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Heâd reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, heâd deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, heâd have to get you shuffled off to bed.
There was something he was itching to do since he got there.
He didnât show up that day.
Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.
Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthewâs book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him âthe manâ in your head.
The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.
A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?
No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you werenât going to snitch.
You didnât even consider calling the police.
You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.
Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.
You crack open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and wince. Maybe they had a point, you wouldnât talk to yourself either looking like this.
There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.
Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.
Your heartbeat quickened but you didnât halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.
You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasnât there.
The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didnât know whether to be happy about that or not.
Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasnât even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?
You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.
But why would he clean your house then?
You werenât sure if youâd ever find the answer to that last question.
Still on edge, you tip toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.
You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.
âHey!â You said, equally in surprise and indignation. âThatâs private. Put that down.â
Brown eyes flicked up to you from where heâd been reading your notebook. It wasnât a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts youâd rather stayed private.
Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. âWere you looking for me?â
His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost⊠happy?
You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. âWhat?â Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.
You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.
You wondered what he would look like without it.
You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.
âNothing. Whatâs that about?â He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.
He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.
âItâs a notebook, you write in them.â You didnât care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.
His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldnât place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. âHow was work?â He asked placidly.
What?
The hell?
Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. âHavenât you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-â you waved your hands around animatedly. âAnd then you just-â
He only stared on with the same solid expression.
You took another breath, âAre you going to kill me or not?â
âNo.â
You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, âNo?â
Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. âWhy not?â
You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.
There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, âBecause I donât want to. YouâŠâ
His gaze rakes up and down your frame. âYou arenât my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.â
Your words were little more than a whisper. âWhat I am?â
He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.
âYes, Iâm going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-â he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.
âIâm not going to hurt you.â
It seems like he wasnât even prepared for what the answer was.
You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.
Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what heâd initially found you for, he didnât look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.
Your only worry was what he would do with you.
âO-Okay.â Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.
You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didnât see the redness in your face.
He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.
It shouldâve made you unnerved⊠it didnât.
He said he wanted to learn you. That you werenât a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?
You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.
It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.
âYou should go start a puzzle, itâll be another five minutes.â He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
Thereâs a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.
So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.
You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.
He was still focused on the foodâŠ
No. Stop. Get yourself together. You canât just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Whoâs to say heâs even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.
You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.
You didnât notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably wouldâve made a good piano player in another life.
The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.
You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didnât think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.
You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.
The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.
You needed some background noise.
You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.
âAnd here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-â
The newscaster was one youâd seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.
â-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-â
The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didnât need many guesses to know where it came from.
The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.
âYou couldâve just asked me to turn it off.â You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.
He didnât answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. âEat.â
He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. âNot poisoned. Not my style.â He said after a thick swallow.
The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.
âI know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.â
To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, âThatâs one way of putting it, sure.â
You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.
Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?
You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like heâd never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.
Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didnât seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didnât seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.
You didnât realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once youâd cleared the last bite, âIt was great, thank you.â
He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.
âReally, you donât have to-â you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.
âI know. I donât have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.â It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.
What he said made you curious, âYou donât work for the man at the train?â
He tilted his head as if considering the answer. âI donât work for anyone,â a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, âbut if youâre referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.â
âAh, I figured.â The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didnât tell you anything you hadnât already suspected.
âYouâre not bothered by that?â
You shrugged, âNah, I trust you.â You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.
He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.
With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.
He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.
Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.
Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldnât go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.
Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.
âSit back.â
You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how heâd gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. âWhy?â You werenât really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.
âI canât keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.â He tapped the headrest for emphasis.
Okay, bossy.
You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.
You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didnât falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldnât keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.
You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.
It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldnât help but think about what else his hands could doâŠ
The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.
He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didnât retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.
You didnât look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didnât need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.
He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, âI have to go.â
âWait-â But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.
Knives arrived more frequently after that night.
He didnât stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.
You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.
A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.
As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.
Someone knowing so much about you shouldâve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didnât have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.
Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.
Unless, he does know youâre into him and just doesnât feel the same so heâs ignoring it.
You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.
Besides, after the day youâd had it was hard to think about anything else.
To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. Youâd overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.
It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.
âAbout time.â Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.
Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.
You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.
You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.
âGo do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.â Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.
You didnât bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.
âWhat, you canât speak today? Didnât take your meds?â He raised a brow, grinning at you.
Breathe, donât let him get to you.
âIâm just going to do my job.â
His grin only widened at your answer. âHeh, okay. You do that.â
You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.
You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.
Matthew wasnât really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.
Because youâre always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-
âShut up.â You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didnât need more ammunition to call you crazy.
You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldnât help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.
You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.
I bet knives never had to work in retail.
Youâd be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.
Heâd probably stab someone on his first day.
Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.
You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You werenât as upset by the thought as you couldâve been.
There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.
âShit-â You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.
âOh no, shit, shit, shit-â You couldnât think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.
âWhat the fuck did you do now?â If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. âI asked you to do one simple thing and you canât even do that? Whoâs gonna clean this shit up?â
Heâd left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didnât seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.
âFuckin disability hire, canât even stock a shelf. I donât know why youâre standing there, you should be-â
You didnât wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.
Donât cry. Donât you dare cry in front of him, heâs not worth it.
You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didnât even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.
The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.
You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.
A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.
You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.
The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldnât need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.
You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.
The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didnât think heâd be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.
âWhat did I say about taking care of your things?â He half turned from the window where you assumed heâd watched you come in.
Youâd usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.
He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didnât take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.
âWho did that?â His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.
It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.
Even though you knew his anger wasnât with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, âNo one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasnât on purpose. An accident at work.â
Your clarification didnât seem to calm him much.
He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.
You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, âHey, I can still walk. Itâs just a cut, you donât have to carry me.â
âBlood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like youâve already lost too much.â Someone wouldâve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.
You didnât want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldnât stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.
He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.
As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didnât have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.
It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items heâd need.
You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.
There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than youâd probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.
âItâs going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.â Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.
The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.
âI-ah, you donât think Iâll need stitches, right?â You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.
âNo. Itâs not to that point, but youâll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.â
And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.
He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.
You didnât bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldnât accept it.
You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.
âIt doesnât really hurt that much.â
He shook it again, insisting, âIt will later, take one.â
You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didnât seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.
Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.
Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, âAre you upset?â
âExplain what happened.â
You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.
Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.
By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didnât want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.
A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you werenât aware had fallen. âYou donât deserve that, none of it. It wonât happen again.â There wasnât an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.
You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. âI could only hope, heâll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.â
He hummed, âIâve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.â He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you werenât.
You laughed again, stronger this time. âI canât say Iâve had experience with that many Matthewâs to agree with you.â
He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. âTrust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.â
There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.
âI would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again Iâll probably be u employed. Iâm sure youâve never worked one, so itâs hard to understand.â Your tone is playfully mocking, but itâs the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.
âI have.â He adverts his eyes to your left, âworked a job that is.â
You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didnât want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.
âOh really? As what?â You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.
âAn officer.â
âLike, a police officer?â
âNo. Not exactly.â
You blinked in confusion.
He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. âAgent, would be the better term. I-â He paused, finding the right words. âI locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.â
You cocked a brow, âSo, you were a spy?â
He huffed, giving you a look. âNo. How the hell did you get spy out of that?â
âYou are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.â You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.
He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. âYou should go to bed, especially if youâre insisting on going to work tomorrow.â
It was clear that was all the answers youâd get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.
There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.
An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.
To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.
âThereâs soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldnât cause any issues before then.â
You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, âDo you have to leave right now?â
A pause. âI do. I have something else to take care of.â
You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.
Something else. Not you.
âRight, okay.â The disappointment was obvious in your voice.
Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, âI donât want to, but are some things I need to do. Iâll see you soon.â
You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. âAye, aye captian.â
A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, âDex.â
Dex. It suits him. You couldnât tell if youâd said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.
The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.
Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.
Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.
Or the next day. Or the next one after that.
He didnât call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadnât quit either.
You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.
If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldnât have any more problems.
Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.
You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.
Cared for.
But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. Heâd never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.
Even though he didnât show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasnât dead or arrested somewhere.
It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didnât steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.
Bullseye.
Heâd never told you it was him, but you werenât an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.
You didnât care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.
Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.
You ignored the slithering thought, knowing itâs not true.
Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didnât stray from.
He wouldnât just dissapear.
Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.
You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, theyâd talk about it here.
So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.
You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didnât hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.
There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.
You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasnât Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.
Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.
âDex-â His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.
Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.
âHey. Thought youâd be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.â
You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, âA breather? Jesus, what happened?â
âNot Jesus, just me.â
You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.
âYou can explain later, here.â You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.
âGonna get it dirty.â He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.
âItâs okay, I have other sheets. Iâm worried about you right now.â
You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. âWorried about me?â
You didnât even bother hiding the emotion in your response, âYes, I do. A lot.â
That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.
Besides, itâs not like you didnât know who he was.
Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.
âBen, itâs okay.â
His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.
You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didnât appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that youâd never seen on him before.
Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyes as you did so.
You couldnât stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.
His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.
It wasnât until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.
It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.
You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.
âDonât say that, you donât know what youâre starting.â His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.
âI do.â
âNo you donât. You said you care about me, Iâm not easy to care for.â The words werenât said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasnât made for him.
It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand, to accept but he did, and you could do the same for him.
âI know.â You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, âNeither am I.â
Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.
You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.
That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.
While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.
You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldnât be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.
He couldnât seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.
His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, âIf Iâm going to have you, itâs going to be all of you. If you go through with this, youâre not leaving me, you get that?â His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.
You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.
Lucky for him you didnât want any.
In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.
You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasnât enough. You needed to be closer.
You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.
His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. âNo, get out of that suit first.â
He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. âYes maâam.â
He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.
He wasnât as injured as youâd assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.
You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.
His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.
It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.
His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.
The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didnât leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where heâd already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.
You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.
His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.
It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.
His eyes werenât focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. âGod, the things I wantâta do to you.â
It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.
âSo do them.â
He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.
He knew what you wanted, he just wasnât going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.
You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, âCâmon Dex, show me what you promised.â
You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.
You didnât stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. âYou said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.â
Your words caused another twitch in your hand. âYou have me, Iâm yours.â
The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.
The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didnât know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.
It only made wetness pool in your core.
âYou want this?â He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.
It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.
âWhere do you want me? Here?â He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.
âOr here?â His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.
âYes, right there.â Any more dilly dallying and youâd probably start begging. You had a feeling thatâs exactly what he wanted.
âHmm, interesting.â He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.
He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.
âDex- câmon.â You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasnât nearly enough and he knew it.
âWhose are you?â The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.
âYours.â
âAnd who do I belong to?â He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.
âMe.â
You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.
He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.
You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.
Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.
His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.
They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.
You couldnât even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.
Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.
Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didnât let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.
You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.
His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.
Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.
He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.
âI might not last too long. Donât do this much, or at all really.â He analyzed your face after heâd said it, looking for any shift in your expression.
You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but werenât put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, youâd assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.
He wasnât normal, and he definitely wasnât the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you werenât completely certain he was interested in sex at all.
You wouldâve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.
âThatâs fine, I just need you inside me.â
The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.
You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.
He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.
It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.
The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an âoâ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.
Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.
The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.
Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.
You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.
âShit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.â He breathed against your mouth.
So you waited.
Until you didnât.
His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.
âDonât do that.â His eyes flashed at you in warning.
You couldnât even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.
Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.
He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.
You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.
His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.
His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.
He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.
You couldnât tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.
He didnât rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.
The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.
All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.
His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.
The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.
His face hadnât moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.
âYou okay?â It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what heâd said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.
âThat was amazing.â And you werenât lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain thereâd be consequences of soreness the next day.
He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.
A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, youâd have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didnât want the stretch of peace to end. âWait, not yet.â
He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. âYou need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.â
âWell,â you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scared spine, âthatâs for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.â
He didnât make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.
Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.
âHey Dex?â
He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.
âWhat happened?â You didnât have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.
A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, âThe one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadnât exactly,â he paused deliberating the words, âfollowed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didnât happen.â
âI wonât let anyone hurt you.â There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.
The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though heâd been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was⊠rousing to say the least.
His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.
âItâs gonna be a bit longer for that.â He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.
You grinned, âIâll be counting down the minutes,â you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.
The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.
âI meant what I said before,â You started, âitâs no going back for me either. Iâm with you.â
He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.
âIâm with you.â
You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you werenât afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.
Div by: @pixopix
AN: boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, I wrote this on company time. So if thereâs any typos or inconsistencies⊠sorry. Itâs minimally edited from my flow of consciousness.
If anyone even reads this, lemme know what you think, is it good? Bad? Just meh? Lmk :D
waking up late together, him abandoning his early wake up routine he once had because you're his routine. anything you do, dex wants to do. if you want to lay in until noon? guess what, he does too!
in that sense, he's kind of like a large yet adorable puppy. he follows you around, wants to be with you 24/7, wants to hold you hand, brush your hair, do anything he can do just to be with you!!!
baking with him on the weekends, him standing behind you guiding your arms as you whisk the ingredients together, holding your hips every time you move. when you tell him "dex I need to do-" he blanks you and pulls you closer, pretending not to hear you. eventually, when you get too excited and giddy, you dip your fingers in the remaining mixture and wipe it on the scar on his cheekbone, giggling as he exclaims and you try to wriggle your way out of his grip. you two end up chasing each other round the kitchen laughing loudly until he catches you in his arms and tickles you until you beg him to stop and he makes you lick the cookie dough from the side of his face.
or laying down on the couch watching movies all day in your pyjamas. buried underneath layers of blankets as dex brings cookies and warm drinks to the couch and pulls you into his lap. playing with your hair, kissing along your neck and head as he whispers to you about how much he loves lazy days.
or dex making you breakfast in the morning when you have a day off from work. letting you lay in late, kissing your head and keeping you wrapped up, moving quietly to not disturb you in your well earned sleep. he cooks you a full English breakfast, eggs, bacon, sausages, the whole works, with a glass of orange juice. he goes out to buy you a new bouquet of flowers just to put in a vase and put them on your tray with your breakfast. dex hearing you groan when you wake up, which is perfect timing because he's just finished laying out your tray, making his way into the bedroom and smiling at you. when you ask him where his breakfast is, he simply turns the tv on and gets back under the covers with you, pulling a fork from his pyjama bottoms and stealing some of your breakfast with a smirk.
or in a completely different world where you live in the suburbs of New York, owning a house with a wrap around porch and a porch swing with a garden that you tend to together. dex uses his precise skills in a healthier way as he plants the flowers to make love hearts and stars, noticing exactly when they need watering and tell you exactly when they're about to blossom. you sit on the porch swing together in the summer while dex reads to you from a book he doesn't care about but you love.
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Summary : You are not the only person hunting Anti-Vigilante Task Force. Luckily, your âcompetitionâ is Benjamin Poindexter.Â
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is ex-SHIELD, sexual themes, Freak4Freak, violence, death, blood, injury/gunshot wound, emotional trauma/grief, slight mention of cannabis use, brief mention of having suicidal thoughts, codependency, biting/blood play, Dex has you in a headlock as one point. Mention of surgery. Dex finds out he likes pain and learns sympathy in the same story lol. Fluff, angst. Set between DDBA season 1 and season 2. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 9.9k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : Most of the fic is inspired by the song Kitty Sucker by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Credit to this post by @truestaim for inspiring the more intimate scenes <3 Enjoy!
You didnât meet Dex in a bar, or on a dating app, or on a night out, like any modern person would.
You met him at work.Â
Well, âwork.â
Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected by emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents.Â
They werenât exactly hard to track and they werenât subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of âorder.â Youâd been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didnât like being hunted.
And they were definitely hunting you.
You were an âAsset Gone Rogue.â At least, thatâs what you were in their files.
In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself.Â
Because you refused, because apparently, if you werenât loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you.Â
You didnât mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right? At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you.Â
Until Fisk became mayor.Â
Thatâs when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for âassetsâ as a threat. So they slapped the label âvigilanteâ on you and processed your arrest warrant.Â
The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire. Â
They were your friends.Â
Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. Heâd get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. Youâd told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, theyâd need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer.Â
Layla would laugh and ask, âYou? Câmon. Youâre not stopping nobody from coming in.â
Darren would say, âMy cousinâs like 6â5. He can do the job.â
Youâd laugh, because they didnât really know your past. They didnât know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didnât know the blood on your hands.Â
Youâd take a drag out of the blunt. âTrust me, man. Iâm scary as fuck.â
Theyâd laugh and say, âIf you say so.â
But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.
And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, theyâll get a vigilante.
Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for.Â
Because if thereâs one thing youâre good at doing with your hands, itâs killing for sport.Â
â
What you didnât expect when you started to hunt them⊠was competition.
On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldnât have been knives. Pencils where they shouldnât be pencils. And glass where they shouldnât be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force.Â
You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler.Â
You smiled a little. ââM not the only one, huh?â
â
The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive.Â
It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on.Â
Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour.Â
One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.
You stepped in.
Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.
Another came at you from behind.
You didnât turn.
You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.
He folded.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work.Â
The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream.Â
You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets.Â
Shiny, you thought. Itâs mine now.
âMessy,â you heard a voice say from the darkness.Â
You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.
The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like heâd always been there.
He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.
It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldnât tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him.Â
What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.
Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.
âOh?â you said, almost amused. âYou got notes?â
His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.
âYou were in my line of fire,â he said bluntly.
You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. âIâm pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.â
To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.
You felt bone crunch under your heel.
You didnât even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.
You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. âYou see something unfinished?â
His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. âThey were mine.â
Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.
âWell.â Your head tilted. âYou shouldâve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.â
âI donât need to be close,â he replied.
âMm.â You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. âShame. Youâre missing out.â
âAnd you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,â he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.
âItâs more fun,â you shrugged. âI like it when I feel it.â
You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile.Â
âOh,â you said with a cynical grin. âThere it is. You do have a personality.â
The tension didnât ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.
âGot a name?â you asked casually, like you werenât standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.
A fraction of a second passed before he answered. âDex.â
It fit him.
You nodded once, like you approved. âDex,â you repeated, tasting it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. âYou?â
You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. âTsk. Tsk.â You stepped a little closer. âIâm not that easy.â
Dex managed a real laugh. âI didnât think you were.â
That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didnât understand.Â
â
You kept running into each other.Â
Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.
Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding.Â
You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.
You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.
When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. âYou stalking me?â
âYouâre predictable,â he replied.
You smirked. âAnd yet, here I am. Still alive.â
ââŠFor now,â he said. There was something almost playful in it.
A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, youâve started actively looking for each other before fighting.Â
This time, you moved without speaking, like youâd done this a hundred times before.
You drew them in. Dex picked them off.
At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.
You didnât even look.
âGotta be careful,â he called.
âRelax,â you shot back. âI trust you.â
Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. âYou shouldnât,â he finally said.Â
You grinned. âToo late.â
By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.
Youâd show up. Heâd already be there. Or vice versa.
You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.
You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. âYou gonna share?â
âDepends,â he shrugged.
âOn?â
âWhether you slow me down.â
You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. âOr speed you up.â
That got you a sweet smile. âWeâll see.â
And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it matteredâ
âThe enemy of my enemyâŠ,â you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.
Dex eyes locked on to yours.
ââŠis useful,â he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether.Â
After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.
â
Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.
He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.
âYouâre late,â he said, not even turning.Â
He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.
You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadnât just sprinted across half the block. âJust got back from a hot date.â
That got a pause. Was he⊠jealous?
âReally?â
You gave him a deadpan look he couldnât see. âYeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.â
His head tilted just slightly.
You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. âOf course not. I donât have time for dates.â You huffed, almost amused. âMy laundry, though? That needed folding.â
As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.
âTargetâs moving,â he said.
You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.
âMm,â you hummed. âYou taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?â
âIâve got it.â
You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was⊠fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours.Â
His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.
Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.
âDexââ
The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.
Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder.Â
It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.
Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.
âShit!â Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day.Â
Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.
âWhat did you do?â He demanded, almost a sneer.
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. âYouâre welcome?â
Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.
Another shot rang out.
Oh, so that bastard was still there.Â
Dex knew he had to go now.Â
His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired, like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.
A body dropped across the street.
âYouâre hit,â he said, attention turning back to you.Â
You huffed weakly. âWow. Observant.â
Your knees buckled. This time, they didnât recover. He held you up anyway.
âWhy?â he asked.
You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. âWhat?â
âWhy the fuck would you do that?â
You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. âWow. No âthank youâ? Iâm hurt.â
âYou are hurt.â
âYeah,â you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. âAt least Iâll get a cool scar from it.â Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, âlike yours.â
His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you.Â
What a foreign feeling, indeed.
âStay with me,â he said.
You let out a small, shaky laugh. âThat bad, huh?â
âStay. With me.â Youâve never heard him sound so⊠serious.
Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. ââŠAlright.â
For once, you didnât fight him. You didnât joke or deflect.
Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. âYou owe me,â you murmured.
âWhat?â He asked, as if he couldnât believe where your priorities lay right now.Â
You managed the ghost of a grin. âSaving your life. Obviously.â
âI didnât ask you to,â he managed, exasperated.
You exhaled, breath catching halfway. âYeah⊠well. I did.â
He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.
âIâm getting you out of here,â he said.
You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.
His eyes werenât steady anymore.Â
âC-Careful,â you managed, voice fraying at the edges. âYouâre s-starting to sound like you care.â
Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, âI do.â
Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.
ââŠHuh,â you whispered.
And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.
â
You came back to the land of the living slowly.
You didnât just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You werenât at a hospitalâ there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just⊠peace and quiet.
Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.
And it was definitely not your ceiling.
You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.
Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.
âYou decorate like a serial killer,â you muttered, voice rough from disuse.
âYouâre awake,â Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like heâd been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.
You let your head fall back against the pillow. âWas hoping I died. This is disappointing.â
You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. âTragic.â
You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. ââŠHow long?â
âEleven hours and forty-three minutes.â
âMm.â You swallowed, throat dry. âYou carry me all the way here?â
âYes.â
A faint smirk tugged at your lips. âDidnât know you cared that much.â
Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory.Â
You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. âCome here.â
He didnât move. âWhy?â he asked.
You tilted your head, studying him. âI just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.â
He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.
You watched him for a second. âYouâre weird,â you said.
âMmhm,â he managed a laugh.
âAt least youâre self-aware.â
You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.
You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. âYou ever get tired of it?â
âOf what?â
âAll of it.â You gestured vaguely. âOf this.â
âNo,â he said, and it was resolute.Â
You studied him, like you didnât quite believe that. âI do,â you admitted quietly.
That earned his attention.
Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. âWhen I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more⊠being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.â
Your teeth tightened slightly.
âI tried to be normal,â you continued. âDid the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.â You managed a faint humorless smile. âTurns out Iâm not built for normal.â
Dex didnât interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you.Â
âThey came after me anyway,â you said. âDidnât matter that I walked away. To them, I donât get to just⊠stop being what they made me.â
âAnd that isâŠ?â Dex looked at you now.
âA killer,â you replied, sighing, âthatâs all Iâm good for.â
âWell,â Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, âthat makes the two of us.â
You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasnât distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.
That was new.
âI knew who you were,â Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. âEven before you told me your name.â
âThat so?â you replied lightly, like it didnât matter. Like your name hadnât gotten people killed before.Â
He nodded once, finally looking at you. âYour MO was familiar."
Your lips curved faintly. âFlattered.â
âI knew I read something about brass knuckles,â he continued. âUsed by a close range combat specialist.â
You just watched him, eyes sharper now.
âI was a fed,â he added. âI read your files a few years ago.â
That made you smile properly.
âYeah?â you said, amused. âHow much did you remember?â
âYou were on the FBI watchlist,â he said. âIt said that you were ex-SHIELD with an impressively high body count. High adaptability. High lethality.â He paused. âIt said that you were high risk and⊠that you were volatile.â
You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly against the pillow. There was no bitterness in it. No anger, just acceptance. Like heâd told you your eye color.
Dex studied your face, like he was expecting more of a visceral reaction.Â
âYouâre not bothered?â he asked.
âShould I be?â you shot back lightly. âYou already kept me alive. Bit late to get scared of me now.â
âIâm not scared of you.â
You smiled at that.Â
The lights dimmed around you both as the sun set outside, the tension unwinding. You adjusted slightly, wincing as your shoulder protested, and he noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he almost reached for you before stopping himself.
Your voice dipped, teasing again. âSo you knew all along, and you still chose to work with me.â
Dex nodded as if it was never a question.
You raised an eyebrow. âThat seems irresponsible for a federal agent.â
âIâm not a federal agent anymore,â he reminded, âand you are not as one dimensional as the files say you are.â
âMm,â you hummed. âSo what am I, then?â
He paused again.
You watched him carefully this time, vulnerability threading through every word.
âAm I a problem?â you asked. âA liability? âEnemy of my enemyâ and all that?â
His jaw tightened slightly. âNo.â
You tilted your head. âNo?â
âNo,â he repeated, firmer now.
You let that sit between you for a second before pushing just a little further. âSo what am I to you, Dex?â
He was thinking about it, you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes now locked onto yours like he couldnât look away even if he wanted to.
âA friend?â you offered. âIs that what this is?â
He didnât say anything for a long time.Â
Then he shook his head.ââFriendâ feels too tame.â
Your eyebrows lifted, interest sparking. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he said.
You shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer despite the pull in your shoulder. âSo what, then?â
For once, he didnât look like he was calculating. For once, he just⊠felt present. âYouâreâŠâ he started, then stopped, like even he didnât have a good word for it.
Your lips twitched. âCâmon. You made it this far.â
âYouâre the only one I canât reduce to a target,â He let out a faint exhale, âand the only variable I donât want to correct.â
Ah. Okay.
Your expression didnât change much, but it felt like the lens behind your eyes had shifted.Â
âI thinkâŠâ you let a smile pull on your lips, âI like that answer better than âfriend.ââ
â
You didnât go back to ânormalâ after that. It wasnât an option anymore.
But you found something else, and it started the first night you cleared yourself to move properly again.
Dex watched the way you stretched, testing your muscles, the way you flexed your fingers like you were reacquainting yourself.Â
Thatâs when you caught him staring.
âWhat?â you asked, a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.
âYouâre still hurt,â he said.
You scoffed. âI got shot three days ago. Do I look like I have a healing factor?â
âYouâre arrogant. One day, itâs going to kill you,â he pointed out, as if your death was something he was dreading.Â
âYou like that about me.â You grinned. The arrogance, you mean.Â
He paused, thinking. âI like you.â
âJesus, Dex,â you laughed under your breath. âYouâre not supposed to admit that.â
âI donât see the point in lying to you.â
So now, working together became less of an accident. You stopped pretending you ran into each other. Now, you wouldnât go into a fight without knowing the other had your six.
â
And afterwards⊠After the bodies were dropped and blood was spilled, you didnât walk your separate ways. Instead, you kept each other company.Â
Which was new.
Youâd sit on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, boots tapping idly against concrete slick with drying blood.
The city stretched out below you.
You leaned back on your hands, breathing steadying after the fight. âYou ever think about how weird this is?â
âNot really,â Dex said.
âYou should. Itâs weird.â
You were met with another bout of comfortable silence. Then, he said, âYou talk more after fights.â
You smiled, glancing sideways at him. âAdrenaline. Makes me charming.â
âYouâre already⊠that,â he said, like the word didnât come naturally.
You blinked. âIs that a compliment?â
âItâs an observation.â
âMmhm.â
Dex shifted closer. His hand moved, stopping just shy of yours.
You turned your head to realise how close he truly was.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth. He did the same.
Was he⊠leaning in?
Before you could meet him halfway, the church bells rang.
You flinched back on instinct, breath breaking as the moment broke clean in half. You dragged a hand through your hair, shaking your head slightly. âTimingâs shit.â
Dex didnât look away. ââŠYeah.â
â
Sometimes, you would sit on bridges.
You leaned against the railing, staring down into the dark. Dex stood beside you as you nudged his shoulders with yours.Â
âYou ever think about it?â you asked once, more fragile than usual.
About jumping, you meant, and he knew that. About ending it all.Â
âYes,â he said. It surprised him how easily he was admitting this to you.Â
You glanced back at him. âYeah?â
âYes.â
You nodded, turning back to the water. âMe too,â you sighed, wishing the void beneath you were a giant pile of comfortable pillows. âBut not anymore.â
âIââ he managed to choke up, looking at you. âMe, too.â
The words didnât feel separate. They felt⊠tethered. Like a promise neither of you meant to make.
The wind rushed up from the dark below, cold enough to sting. Your fingers curled tighter around the railing as you turned your head.
He was already right there.Â
You realised a terrifying truth: If you jumped, he would.
And worse, if he did, you wouldnât hesitate to follow.
You took a deep breath and leaned in anyway.
Dex did the same, like he understood exactly what this meant. Like he knew what you were giving him.
Your breaths mixed, you lips barely a breath apartâ
âand a violent blast of car horns tore through it.
You jumped back like the world had yanked you apart.
Reality crashed in as you turned away, swallowing hard, grip tightening on the railing like it was the only thing holding you in place now.Â
Dex sighed, knowing that it was not the time, it was not the place. âRightâŠâ
You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. âYeah.â
â
Most nights, though, youâd take him to sit on a bench by the river, tucked away just enough that no one bothered you.
It had a plaque on it, one that you bought. One that saidâ in memory of beloved friends: Layla Gras and Darren Walsh.
You blew half your savings account paying for the goddamn bench.Â
So after most nights of fighting Task Force, youâd make your way there and sit with your legs stretched out. Dex would follow, and youâd lean into him without thinking.Â
Youâd talk about nothing and everything. Youâd talk about small things like the weather, but youâd also talk about deep shit. Real shit. Your days with SHIELD, and whatever he would offer from his past. Youâd talk like this was a confessional booth, like youâve sworn under oath in courtâ thatâs how freely you divulge information about yourselves to each other. Thatâs how safe you felt around him. Ironic, considering his⊠professional reputation.Â
Today, you were sat there after ambushing more Task Force agents than you were expecting. You had gotten bruised, so you were pressing your fingers against your side with a small wince. âIâm getting sloppy.â
âYou still won,â he said immediately, âshoulda seen those guys.â
You scoffed. âThatâs a very you way of measuring success.â
âItâs the only way that matters.â
âMm,â you hummed, unconvinced, but you didnât argue. Your hand drifted down absently, brushing against your belt.Â
You froze for a second before pulling it free.
It was the knife you took from him on the first night you met.
You turned it in your hand. It was still in perfect condition, and of course it was. Youâd taken care of it, maybe more than you needed to.
Your thumb traced the handle.
âDo you want it back?â you asked, holding it out slightly toward him.
Dex didnât even look at it. âKeep it,â he said.Â
You blinked once, then let out a chuckle, lowering the knife back into your lap.
âWow,â you said lightly. âHow very sentimental.â
âItâs practical.â
âIs it?â you tilted your head. âBecause Iâm pretty sure you just gave me your weapon as a keepsake.â
âItâs not a keepsake,â he replied, but there was a slight delay. âYou should use it.â
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. âGod, youâre unbelievable.â
You flipped the knife once in your hand before catching it again it was almost as if you were imitating him. âYou know,â you added, voice quieting, âmost guys give flowers.â
âI donât think youâd like flowers.â
You turned to him, an eyebrow raised. âExcuse you. I love flowers.â
He finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your face.
âNo,â he said after a second. âYouâd forget to change the water.â
Your mouth dropped open slightly. âThat isââ you pointed at him with the knife, offended but amused, ââso disrespectful of you to assume.â
âYou forgot to eat yesterday.â
âThat is different.â
âItâs not.â
âIt is,â you insisted, though you were already smiling. âOne is basic survival. The other is⊠decorative responsibility.â
âThatâs worse.â
You scoffed, staying silent for a long time.
This peace⊠was nice.Â
You looked out at the water, closing your eyes for a good five seconds before you opened them again. Then, you added, âIâd keep them alive if they mattered.â
Dex didnât respond right away.
Your eyes dropped back to the knife, fingers tightening around it. âThis matters,â you admitted shyly.Â
You didnât look at him when you said it.
Instead, you carefully slid the knife back into your belt, adjusting it into place like it had always belonged there.
When your hand pulled away, you placed it on the bench.Â
Your fingers stayed there for a second⊠before you hooked your pointer finger around his.Â
You did it so casually, like it didn't mean anything. But it meant everything.
You leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulder bumping his just enough to close the space between you.
He leaned into your touch.
You smiled to yourself, eyes drifting out over the water as you let your thumb brush absently against his pinky.
Dexâs vision shifted to you, then to the small plaque fixed into the bench beneath you. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to read it properly.
He wasnât stupid. He knew there must be a reason you brought him here like⊠what? Seven or eight times now?
He just never thought to ask because he didnât know when the right time to ask would be. But it might as well be now.
His fingers adjusted, holding on slightly firmer. âTell me about Layla and Darren.â
â
An hour later, the city had rolled further into early morning than night.
You stood from the bench after you laid your heart bare, rolling your shoulders once like you were checking in with your body before moving again. You were sick of being a walking sob story, however good it felt just to talk. You needed to move.
Dex stood a second after you did. âIâll walk you home,â he said.
It came out a little stiff. Not forced, but unfamiliar.
You glanced at him, a smile pulling at your lips. âOh?â you teased lightly. âIs that what weâre doing now?â
He frowned slightly. âWhat?â
âYou know,â you shrugged, stepping past him, hands sliding into your pockets as you started down the sidewalk, âchivalry. Social norms. Walking a girl home.â
âIâm making sure you get back safely.â
You glanced over your shoulder at him. âDex, I jump off rooftops for fun.â
âAnd you could still get hurt.â he replied evenly, falling into step beside you.
You didnât argue.Â
The walk wasnât long, but it stretched in that comfortable silence youâd both gotten used to. You walked shoulder to shoulder, naturally in sync.Â
By the time you reached your building, you slowed to a stop just outside the entrance. You turned to face him, head tilting slightly. âYou wanna come upstairs?âÂ
Dex didnât hesitate. âSure.â
âWow,â you said, pushing the door open. âNo internal conflict? No hesitation? Iâm almost offended.â
âI trust you,â he said simply, following you inside.
Upstairs, your place was dark when you stepped in. You flicked the light on, yellow lights warming the otherwise dim apartment.
Dexâs eyes moved immediately, taking everything in.
It wasnât what he expected.
It was⊠neat and intentional. Not sterile like his, but not cluttered either. There were actual decorations, like a plant by the window and books stacked alphabetically on your desk.Â
âDonât look so surprised,â you said, kicking your shoes off and placing your keys onto the counter.
âIâm not,â he replied.
âYou are,â you shot back, glancing at him. âYou thought I lived in a cave or something.â
âI thought it would be less⊠personal.â
You hummed, walking further in. âYeah, well. I tried the whole ânormal lifeâ thing, remember?â
His eyes lingered a second longer, until it shifted to the second door, which was left slightly ajar.
You noticed.
âAh,â you said, already moving toward it. âThat oneâs less aesthetically pleasing.â
You pushed the door open fully.
The spare bedroom, the shape of a square, was stripped down to nothing but function. All there was in there was a foam mat covering most of the floor, worn in places. A duffel bag was placed in the corner. There were a few taped-up sections of the wall where impact marks had clearly been⊠frequent.
You stepped inside first, gesturing lazily. âThis,â you said, âis where I train.â
He walked further in, like he was mapping it out in real time. âYou spend a lot of time in here,â he said.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. âKeeps me sharp.â
He nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. Then he turned to you. âTrain me.â
âAre you serious?â you asked, pushing off the frame.
âYeah.â He didnât waver. âI know for a hand-to-hand combat specialist, youâre not particularly strong.â
âOuch,â you said immediately, a hand pressing dramatically to your chest.
âWhat I mean is,â Dex continued, stepping closer. âIâve seen you fight. You go against people twice your size. Youâre not relying on brute strength, but youâre agile.â
You tilted your head slightly.
âI want to know how you do it,â he finished. âTeach me.â
Huh. You werenât expecting this.Â
âCareful what you wish for,â you murmured, reaching up to shrug off your jacket. It slid from your shoulders, landing on the floor as you stepped onto the mat, rolling your wrists once like you were waking your body up again.
âCâmon, Dex,â you said, a hint of a challenge threading through your voice. âLetâs see what youâve got.â
â
Dex learned fast. That was the first thing you noticed.
The second was that he was not really trying to hurt you.
And that pissed you off.
His momentum slowed just slightly before impact. Then, he held back a counter that couldâve floored you but didnât follow through. His grip was way too controlled.
You circled him lightly on the mat, breath steady despite the growing ache in your ribs.
âAgain,â you said.
He moved.
You slipped under his strike, pivoted, redirected your palm and caught his wrist, your weight shifting just enough for him to hit the mat hard.
You stepped back, barely winded.
Dex stared up at the ceiling for a second before sitting up.
You could see it in his posture: restraint.Â
You narrowed your eyes.
âGodammit, Dex,â you tsked, pacing a circle around him. âYouâre really committing to the whole âgentlemanâ thing tonight, huh?â
âIâm notââ
âYou are,â you interrupted, stopping in front of him. âYouâre pulling your punches.â
âIâm adjusting,â he corrected, standing again.
âFor what?â you challenged, tilting your head. âMy feelings?â
His teeth tightened, his chin pointing to your bruised side. âFor your condition.â
You scoffed, stepping closer. âMy condition can handle you.â
A familiar flicker shot through his eyes.Â
âOr is it not that?â you added, voice lowering. âYou worried you might actually hurt me, orâŠâ You stepped in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your nose ââŠthat you might not want to?â
Dexâs gaze locked onto yours, a darker want threading through it now.
âIâm not holding back,â he insisted.
âLiar.â
You moved before he could respond. This time, he didnât hesitate.
He came at you faster, harder, and for a second, it almost looked like he meant it.
Good, you thought. The last thing you wanted was to be infantilised by the only man you might still have respect for.Â
You ducked, redirected, used his momentum, your body turning with his.
That was when he realised that calling you agile was the understatement of the century.Â
You werenât overpowering him. You were using him. Every ounce of force he gave you became yours.
You twisted, hooked his leg, and sent him crashing down again.
This time, you followed him down.
Your knee pinned his arm before he could recover, your other leg sliding over his hips as you stabilized your position.
And suddenly, you were straddling his crotch.
Dex didnât even try to move.
His chest rose under yours. His hands hovered blankly for a split second like he didnât know where to put them⊠before settling against the mat.
Your hands pressed lightly against his shoulders, holding him there. You could feel the tension coiled on his muscles, beneath your palms.
And ohâŠ
Oh.
You felt it.
Your lips parted slightly.
His pants were definitely more tight than they had been before, evident by how much it was actually pressing into your core.
âWowâŠâ you sighed, amused.
You shifted your hips, grinding into him ever so slightly, just enough to make the point undeniable.
His breath hitched, and his face, from his nose to his ears were getting red. You leaned down just slightly, close enough that your chest hovered over his.
âFuck, Dex,â you whispered, teasing through it. âDoes this get you off?â
His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted frantically.Â
He was embarrassed. How adorable.Â
When his hands finally moved, he grabbed your waist. It was firm, but not rough.
âGet off,â he said, but there was no real heat behind it.
You didnât so much as flinch.
Instead, you smiled. âMake me.â
After a while, he moved.
Finally.
Dex didnât shove you off gently this time. He fought, and you were pleased, even if lacking a hint of resistance. He did pivot, a torque of his shoulder, his grip locking at your wrist as he forced space between you.
You let him for half a second. Just long enough for him to think heâd reset the balance.
Then you twisted with him.
Your weight dropped, your hips shifting as you used his own pull to roll back in, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to react. The mat hit your knee, breath loud in both your ears now.
âCome on,â you taunted. âThat all you got?â
That got something out of him.
The next movement was cleaner. He caught you off-guard, turned you, and in one controlled motion drove you into the wall.
His hand snaked around your upper chest, up to the throat line. He had caught you in a headlock, precise and controlled. His body pressed in, flush behind yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space he didnât give you.
There was no room to turn properly. No easy escape angle. There was just his forearm locked under your, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You let out a quiet laugh, breath slightly uneven.
âTook you long enough,â you said.
Dex didnât loosen his grip. He leaned in and whispered closely, lips touching the shell of your ear. âIs this what you wanted, pretty girl?â
You would be lying if you said you didnât like it.
But you also liked winning.
So, without warning, you sank your teeth into his bicep, hard enough to draw blood, to taste the tang of iron on your delicate tongue.Â
Dex, and you swore you weren't expecting this, moaned. It was throaty and low and utterly angelic to your ears.Â
It wasnât long until he released you, more because he was surprised by his own bodily reaction than pain.Â
You stumbled forward out of the hold, spinning on your heel to face him again, licking your lips like nothing had happened.
Oh. That was interesting.Â
You looked at his arm again, watching the thin bead of blood you drew still sliding slowly down his skin.
âYou okay?â you asked. It came off as gentler than you meant it to be, but there was still a hint of mischief between your eyes.Â
Dex didnât answer immediately.
He was staring at you like his internal system had just stopped compiling. Like the world had introduced a variable he hadnât accounted for and now everything else was lagging behind trying to catch up. It was like his brain had stalled somewhere between what just happened and why did I like that so much.
You lifted his arm slightly. âCâmere,â you pawed at his wrist, bringing the scar closer to your lips.Â
The bite was tiny, and there was only a little chance that it would leave a mark long-term. You would feel sorry if only he wasnât so turned on. Â
And then you did something so absurdly gentle in contrast to everything you were. You leaned in⊠and kitten-licked the blood from his skin.
âF-fuck,â he said in a gasp, looking down your tongue to your eyes.Â
Oh, your eyes were locked on to his. He could barely keep it together.
The way you did it was teasing. Infuriatingly intimate in a way that didnât match the violence still lingering in your skin. Itâs as if you enjoyed drinking in his blood.
As you lapped up the scar at the source, he went very still.
Then his breath caught, his hardware short-circuiting.
A low, husky sound slipped out again before he could stop it.
Not pain, or anger. But pleasure.Â
He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to regain command of himself and failing in real time.
âW-what the hell are you doing?â he managed.
You wiped your thumb slowly over his wrist like nothing about this was unusual. Like you werenât currently reprogramming his entire sense of restraint.
âMâ showing you how sorry I am,â you said mildly. âI didn't mean to hurt you.â
He couldnât look away and how beautiful you looked, how innocently you were acting through all this. You were a freak, he decided. If that was what it took, he would go band for band.Â
âThatâs not what this looks like.â
You hummed, almost amused. âNo?â
Dex didnât answer.
He couldnât, because he was still watching your mouth like it had become the only relevant object in the room.
Then you tilted your head slightly.
âTell me to stop,â you said, dead serious. âAnd Iâll stop.â
Dex didnât move for a second.
Not because he didnât want to, but rather because he was trying very, very hard not to.
His eyes stayed on your mouth, on the faint trace of blood still there, and finally gave up pretending that you were anything short of an infuriatingly all-consuming obsession.Â
When his restrained snapped, it didnât snap clean.
It frayed. Then tore.
His hand came up fast and grabbed your chin, firm enough to stop your whatever teasing remark you were going to say mid-breath. It was fucking rough, and you could feel it in your cheeks.Â
He didnât hear you complaining, though.Â
âDexââ
That was all you got out before he kissed you, hard. This time, nothing could possibly interrupt you.
There was no easing in. It was clear that this was the result of pent up emotions heâd been holding back for months finally finding somewhere to go.
His other hand hit the wall beside your head as he pressed you back into it, trapping you. But it was not like you wanted to be anywhere else.Â
You met him halfway.
Your hands found the collar of his shirt immediately, fingers curling in like you were pulling him closer just to make a point out of it.Â
His breath broke against your mouth for half a second, like even he couldnât keep pace with how quickly this had escalated.
And then he kissed you again, like he was testing if you were real or just another thing his mind had invented under pressure.
You reminded him that you were tangible every time.
Running your tongue through his, gasping into his mouth.Â
He had been dreaming about this for months. He had fantasised up multiple scenarios in his head, how it would lead to this and how he would do it. Not once did he think he would finally get a taste of your lips and have it taste like himself.
His grip shifted, one hand still braced against the wall, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was supposed to be space between you at all.
When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to breathe.
His forehead hovered close to yours, his voice rough around the edges in a way youâd never heard from him before. âDonât you fucking dare stop.â
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled through your lashes. A faint trace of red still lingered at the edge of your teeth as you bit his lower lip. âWouldnât dream of it.â
âF-fuck, baby,â he cursed through gritted teeth, lips finding you jawline, you neck, nipping and biting until he settled at your collarbone, where you made the most noise.
His fingers caught the edge of your top, hesitating for half a second, until you helped him undress yourself and him all the same. Clothes were just simply in the way, in his line of fire.
His hands were everywhere he could justify them being, at your waist, your back, your face, running down your breast all the way down between your legs. He was learning you in real time and refusing to stop long enough to overthink it.
And you werenât any better.
Your hand trained the lines of his body, from his neck to his torso, but ended up trailing down his back.Â
It wasnât the first time youâd seen him shirtless, or the first time you saw the scar. It was the first time you felt it, though, all rough edges and raised skin.Â
The first time you noticed it, you knew it was too precise to be anything but surgical, too severe to be anything but catastrophic. He had told you about it on his own free will; told you how his T8 and T9 vertebrae were shattered by Wilson Fisk, and how what put him back together wasnât exactly medicine so much as an experiment.Â
He said it like it didnât matter.
You knew better. Bodies donât forget that kind of thing, even when theyâre forced to heal. And right now, baring his soul to you, he let you trace it with the pad of your fingers ever so gently.
Dex broke from your mouth just long enough to breathe, but even that didnât create distance.
âDonât look at me like that.â
You blinked up at him. âLike what?â
His grip tightened slightly at your waist. âLike you planned this.â
You smiled.
âDid you?â He demanded. He didnât wanna stop it, he just needed to know.
âCâmon,â you laughed, tipping your head back. âA girl invited you up to her place. You thought we were gonna bake cookies or somethinâ?â
That got a reaction out of him, almost like a laugh, but it died halfway into another kiss before it could become anything stable.
This was going to be fun.Â
â
Dex woke up in your bed the next morning.
He was lying on his stomach across, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other loosely curled like heâd fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered finishing it.
He noticed the soreness of his back in soft waves. There were scratches there, shallow and scattered. Dex exhaled slowly through his nose.
Right.
That had happened.
Then he felt you.
You were sitting next to him, cross-legged on the bed, close enough that your knee brushed his side when you shifted, casual enough that it didnât feel like distance even existed as an option.
Dex turned his head and stopped when he realised you didnât have any clothes on either. And everything he did to you last night was on full display. The sunlight streaming through the windows even shone on you like you were a piece of art in a museum.Â
Beautiful, he thought.
Gentle evidence of love bites bloomed across your skin, marks he remembered leaving. It was⊠very intimate in hindsight.
You were looking down at him already, like youâd been watching him wake up for a while.
âMorning, sunshine,â you greeted.
Dex made an unassuming sound and pushed himself up on his forearms.
He looked at you for half a second before reaching for you.
He kissed you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find you beside him and decide, without question, that this was what mornings were now.
You kissed him back, your hand sliding into his hair with an ease that felt like trust.
When he pulled back, it was only a little.
âMorning,â he said, raspy.Â
âAh.â You smiled faintly. âHe speaks.â
Dex let out a breath again, more awake now, more aware of every point of contact between you and him.
He shifted fully upright this time, sitting back against the bed.
You just reached down to your bedside table drawer and showed him a small tub of aloe vera. You traced the scars on his back your nails left last night as if they were maps of constellations.Â
You had nothing to be sorry about. He asked for it when he was chasing his high in you, feral and affectionate all the same as you were gasping for air and saying his name like a prayer.
He had said he wanted his spinal scar to have company. He wanted the marks to feel good for a change.
Eventually, though, his eyes drifted down to his arm.Â
Last night, it started with one bite mark. This morning, he counted five. Three on his bicep, two on his forearm.
Again, he was the one who wanted it.Â
You had been trapped between the mattress and his body, putting you in a similar headlock from behind as he pulled the most lewd noises out of your pretty little mouth. âGonna bite your way out now, pretty girl?â He whispered then, while you drew another bead of blood. âHuh? You know you like it. You know Iâ hmph fuck! Take it. Take it, take itâŠâÂ
And the rest were mostly incoherent mumbles and muffled sinful mewls from both of you.Â
If your neighbours didnât hate you before for all the thudding, they would now for all the fucking.
Still, the small tub of aloe was a curious thing.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. âDonât tell me you feel bad now.â
You shrugged. âI just want a clean slate for next time.â
Dexâs heart skipped half a beat.
âNext time?â he repeated, like he was wondering whether the phrase was hallucinated.
You leaned forward slightly, tugging him by the shoulder so he turned his back toward you.
âYeah,â you said simply. âTurn.â
Dex didnât argue as you scooted closer behind him, dipping your fingers in the herbal ointment. His hands rested loosely on his thighs the whole time, not resisting as the coolness hit his skin. You laid it on the scratch marks first, then on his surgical scar. Not to erase it. Just to make it hurt a little less. To acknowledge that it was part of him, even if it didnât define him.Â
When you were done, you gently guided him to face you again. âI knew you were kinky.â
Dex couldnât help but laugh.Â
âBut I have a feeling,â you set the tub down, âthat I was just barely scratching the surface.â
âI wouldnât know,â Dex said honestly. âIâve never done that before.â
You chuckled, biting your lower lip. âYou are adorable, Poindexter.â
You let your hand come up, tracing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. Your thumb traced the scar there.
He swallowed, but not out of discomfort.Â
Slowly, you leaned in.
The first kiss you pressed to the scar was featherlight, but you didnât stop there.
Then you pressed another kiss, just beside it this time. It was warm, like he was worth being careful with.
His hand twitched at his side. He didnât move it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet, insistent thought that convinced him, I donât deserve this.
But he wanted it anyway.
Your lips brushed his cheek again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time, and his eyes shut briefly, like taking affection in was easier if he didnât have to see it happening.
When you finally pulled back, it wasnât far.
âI think it suits you,â you murmured.
He didnât trust himself to answer that.
Your attention drifted down, fingers slipping from his face to his arm. You picked up his wrist gently, turning it just enough to see the marks youâd left behind.
This time, when you dipped your fingers into the aloe, your touch was careful. He watched you smooth it over the faint crescents of your bite.
Then, his eyes shifted to you, your bare skin, and the marks heâd left behind.
His brow furrowed slightly before he could stop it. âYouâre okay, right?â
He asked it without thinking. It caught him off-guard. He wasnât even aware he was capable of this kind of sympathy.
You glanced up, meeting his eyes.
âMore than okay,â you told him. âIâd tell you if I wasnât.â
He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to confirm it.
He lifted his hand.
His fingers brushed your skin, starting at your collarbone, tracing one of the marks heâd left. His touch was lighter than it had ever been, like he was afraid of pressing too hard, of leaving something worse behind.
You didnât flinch, so he kept going.
Down to your shoulder, pausing at the bullet wound heâd stitched himself. His thumb hovered there for a second before grazing over it.
He thought about that night, about how much blood you lost and how utterly lifeless you looked in his arms. He thought he was going to lose you, and he was terrified.Â
You didnât see this, of course. You had the privilege of being out cold.
You didnât see him break down, panicking for almost twelve hours straight, feeling like he wanted to claw his eyes out because he thought he was going to lose you. You didnât see how nauseous he got when your heart beat skipped, or how shaky his hand had been when he stitched you up. You didnât see him broken, tears streaming down as he folded his own body onto the kitchen floor, when he didnât know if you would ever wake up again.Â
So, if you wanted to, he would let you pretend this was just fun. You could pretend there were no strings attached. That last night, you two were just fucking like animals without the certainty of labels.Â
But it will never be just sex to him.Â
So when moved his hands on to the bruises on your body, to the cuts that the task force left for you, the only thing he could feel was blood-curdling rage.
But when he glanced at your face, he was down to earth again. Just like that.
His hand settled at your waist after that, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your hip.Â
Your fingers found his again, idly tracing the lines of his hand.
âDonât die on me.â He whispered, as if he was almost scared to say it, as if reliving the memory again and again, with no end in sight. It might be an abrupt thing to say in the moment. It might feel out of place. But right now, after being so close to you, he just needed to know. âPlease.â
You didnât answer right away. When you did, it was barely more than a whisper. âI wonât.â
Your thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.
âYou donât either,â you insisted, looking into his eyes. Then you added, âI mean it.â
His fingers shifted under yours, turning just enough to lace with your hand properly this time.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this version of himâ the lovesick man in front of you who would melt like putty in your arms âwith the one stamped wanted, armed and dangerous. And yet⊠you wouldnât have it any other way.
You leaned forward slightly, resting your forehead against his. As your breaths fell into sync, he wasnât even sure where you ended and he began.Â
After all, who knew the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be the only person who truly understood him?