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The sunlight over New York that day was generous, birds chirping cheerfully from every branch they crossed. Clouds looked like drops of paint spilled across the bright blue sky, as if the celestial painter had accidentally tipped some warm milk onto the atmospheric canvas. You had taken advantage of the clear weather to breathe in the mixed scents of a neighborhood you barely knew. Restaurants, gyms, cafés—and you had also spotted a bank.

And then you saw him at the corner of a street. He walked with the kind of confidence only certain men possessed, the kind that could make a shiver run down your spine. His hands were shoved firmly into the high pockets of a jacket perfectly tailored to his waist. Head held high, he was whistling—the sound having first drawn your attention to him.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a handsome stranger in the street, and maybe the sunlight, suddenly too bright, had filled you with a burst of courage you didn’t think you had. So you followed him, trying to catch up to his long strides in hopes of starting a conversation.

He was heading into a diner, a uselessly lit neon sign displaying the name “Bel Aire Diner.” You didn’t know the place, and from here it honestly didn’t look very appealing, but you stepped inside anyway because he did.

“Thanks,” you said, closing the door he had held open after hearing your footsteps behind him.

Your voice didn’t seem to reach his ears. His gaze looked relaxed yet condensed into a narrow tube—like he was listing a pattern step by step inside his head. He walked up to the counter and lazily pulled out one of the unappealing stools.

Come on, it’s just a man, you encouraged yourself inwardly while taking a breath of fresh air. You didn’t notice the lobsters trying to escape their glass prison, nor the little dog sitting on its owner’s lap. Your attention was fixed entirely on the relaxed silhouette of the man with dusty-gold hair.

“Hi,” the stool creaked faintly against the floor as you pulled it out to sit beside him.

Dex restrained the instinctive twitch in his jaw. He spent a few moments deciphering the color of a cup far too red sitting in front of him, then finally let you see his face—a friendly expression he mastered perfectly. “Hi.”

To him, you were a parasite. A buzzing fly hovering around his freshly polished plan. Under different circumstances, you could’ve been seen as a beetle to crush, or a butterfly with pretty colors. But right now, in this exact moment, you were a fly.

“I’ll take a banana milkshake please,” your voice rang far too loudly beside his already boiling ears.

The ambient scent of caffeine filled your lungs, coating them with another layer of courage—or recklessness. The man beside you stared for two long seconds at the waitress pulling a large clean glass from one of the cupboards. Then his gaze dropped back to you, with a new gleam embedded deep in his pupils that you didn’t understand at the time.

It wasn’t interest. At least, not the kind you imagined. No, it was the same look a cat gave at a mouse’s sweet silhouette. That visceral curiosity of wanting to catch the poor little thing out of sheer boredom—just to entertain itself for a while.

Dex was looking at you, and now you had his attention, because with every word you spoke you became even more of a problem to solve. The kind of problem he solved with one single equation—assuming you pushed him far enough to reach that result.

“If I give you my number, you’ll leave this place?” his voice asked, far too calm, vibrating despite itself with an electrically dangerous smile.

The question caught you off guard, his unreadable expression only deepening your confusion. He looked controlled, but excessively so—unstable. The slight smile lingering on his lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes—everything seemed restrained, contained. But the way you swallowed wasn’t frightened at all. Quite the opposite. It was innovative, new. The human mind fears the unknown, yet in that moment you decided to mute every warning light just long enough to savor the thrill sliding down your spine.

“Yeah I will.”

“Perfect,” a smile carved itself differently onto his features—a smile that had appeared before his thoughts could catch up and restrain it.

And that was how you ended up with the stranger’s number saved in your contacts under the name Tony.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He should’ve understood. He should’ve understood why Dex did all of this. Why didn’t he understand? 

His still-booted feet struck the shattered remains of a picture frame broken across the floor. The room was drowned in silent, frozen chaos. Impact marks on the walls, overturned furniture, blood staining the wallpaper. Dex stared at the scene, unable to process the events—unable to handle them.

Daredevil had found him, they had fought, and then Dex had run away. But he had wanted to come back, just to see, just to witness it.

His heart was beating too fast for the situation. The adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, and yet the pounding of his heartbeat slammed violently against his ribcage. It vibrated through his body, rippling against every rib until it settled deep inside his stomach. The taste of blood still flooded his mouth, something he had learned to enjoy—something he may have always enjoyed.

The Task Force brigade would arrive soon, he knew it. The neighbors must have called those idiots, thinking they were being useful.

Dex was useful, yes he was. He needed to be.

So why didn’t Murdock see it? Why hadn’t he noticed? He did things right, he did everything right. Why did Matthew look at him like a dog failing a trick? Dex had learned all the tricks, and he showed them to him, so why wasn’t he proud?

A spiral had begun the moment Daredevil stepped into Dex’s intimacy. A whirlwind growing taller and wider behind him. He could feel its icy current. He could already feel his muscles slipping into hypothermia, his teeth shaking. He wanted to curl inward, hide inside a shell and only emerge once all of this was over—once the storm died down. But he remained frozen in the wind that had numbed his entire body. It always took over. Always.

Anger, disappointment, disgust, then distress. A cycle structuring his thoughts into an obsessive choreography. Obsession, need, craving. Air no longer reached his lungs properly.

Solution—he needed a solution.

The repeated blinking of his eyelids created a cinematic effect around the trembling phone held in his left hand. Blood was rushing to the wrong place, the worst place.

Need to please him, need to please him. Why can’t he accept my sacrifice?

Several streets away, resting on your bedside table, your phone vibrated. A quick, sharp vibration signaling a new message.

Tony 💌—can we meet up?

The overly bright screen made you squint slightly. A stray droplet of water slid down the back of your neck, running along your still-bare spine from your shower. You had to dig through your short-term memory to find a trace of this “Tony.” Then finally, it came back.

—hello? —so you ditch me and now you change ur mind?

💌—sry 💌—wasn’t in the mood 💌—can we meet? pls

You rolled your eyes, tossing your phone onto the sheets while you went to grab clean clothes. You weren’t difficult in bed, but there still had to be some minimum effort involved. This Tony guy would need to show a little more interest.

💌—I’m sorry for how I treated you 💌—was not good 💌—pls I need to see someone

Your eyes skimmed the notifications while pulling on a t-shirt. Apologizing was already a good start. Most people stopped before that point. But you still wanted to see him struggle a little more, just to know whether he’d really hold out.

—so now I’m just “someone” —you makes things worse yk

💌—ok ok I’m sorry yes I want to fuck 💌—and you’re the only option 💌—sorry

An amused smile spread across your face. At least it was honest. And actually, for a hookup that was all that really mattered, so why keep denying it?

—’k because I love honesty —and you’re hot

Your fingers mechanically typed your address, not wanting to make the effort of going out just to fuck in some shabby hotel.

Dex was already on his way. He had left his apartment the second the little reply bubbles appeared in your conversation. He didn’t have time to find someone else, to pay someone. And he needed someone. He needed a substitute. Someone strong, confident, assured. Someone who could place their hands where bloodstains were drying—where an imprint had sunk deep into flesh. You matched, at least a little, and that was enough for him.

He was freezing. His skin felt tight—shivering every time fabric brushed against him. It hurt. God, it hurt.

For a fleeting instant, his mind wandered to the medication he had stopped taking months ago, since the mental institution. The medication would’ve stopped all of this. He knew it.

His pale knuckles tapped weakly against the smooth wood of what he hoped was your door. On the other side, your hand settled against the cold handle, fingers brushing the wood.

The hallway light gently spilled into your apartment when you opened the door. And there stood a man—Tony. Completely ravaged by an ache you didn’t know and yet could smell.

He vibrated with a deafening intensity.

“Hi come—” His lips crashed against yours, and suddenly the ache had a taste.

Salty. Chemical. A bitterness like household cleaner forced down your throat. You swallowed, your back colliding with the nearest solid surface. Somehow, amidst the storm, your hand still managed to shut the front door. The man was suffocating you—not physically. In fact, he hadn’t touched you at all, barely even looked at you. But his lips acted like a conduit siphoning something out of you. Maybe your common sense. Your dignity.

You were starting to run out of air. He wasn’t even moving his lips. His tongue wasn’t searching for yours.

Your fleeting hand pressed against his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt beneath your palm. “Wait—wait, let me breathe.”

Your eyes tried to adjust to the sight before you. He was sweating, but more importantly covered in blood. Now that his mouth no longer monopolized your attention, you could smell the iron clinging to him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing far too much of the earthy color of his irises. He was panting, each exhale striking your face.

He looked like a dog that had lost its owner. A wolf hit by a car—or rather, a deer.

He was waiting for something from you, like you were about to order him back into his basket or reveal treats hidden in your pockets. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something—anything, because holy shit this situation was surreal, abnormal. But the words never found their way to your vocal cords. They all shoved each other deeper into your throat instead.

He looked pathetic like this, and the problem was that you found it incredibly attractive. Just like the blood now staining the corner of your lips. Just like the coldness of his skin.

Actually, the storm—the ache acting like a rope around your neck—was captivating. Being held down this way by an invisible force, restrained by abstract hands, it was thrilling. Nothing new about that. Humans had always craved being held, no matter the method. Still, it remained disorienting and exciting.

“You still want to fuck?” were the first words you forced out of your throat.

Dex nodded vigorously, his eyes never leaving yours for even a fraction of a second. He pierced through you in the filthiest way possible, the most sickening, disgusting way.

“Right then let’s head up to my room.”

He followed you, his footsteps unconsciously mirroring yours, slipping into the prints only his eyes could see. The concept of a bar suddenly felt instinctive to you, an atmospheric pressure capable of crushing the human body through self-destruction alone. Our own weight multiplied until it resulted in death. Our very impact causing an explosion.

Your bedroom door was already open. You stepped in first, with the strange feeling the man behind you wouldn’t have wanted to pass ahead.

A creak, a lock clicking shut, and your back once again struck a surface far too hard for your poor muscles. His lips were on yours again, but this time you took the reins, imposed your own rhythm. A storm couldn’t be controlled, but you could at least try to follow the circular motion of its gusts. You forced your way into his mouth, your tongue slipping in like a serpent entering Eden. He whimpered faintly, the sound swallowed immediately within the chaotic dance your tongues began. Your hand searched for stability, as though despite the excitement you feared your body might be swept away and shredded apart in the air. His sticky hair tangled between your fingers, accidentally knotting together blood and sweat—a lock keeping him trapped in your grasp. His weight crushed harder and harder against yours, pinning you between himself and the wall until breathing became difficult.

You yanked your hand sharply, forcing his head back. Your lips separated noisily, teeth knocking together for an instant. He groaned, his head still firmly held in your grip. The taste of blood coated your entire mouth, making your brain wonder whether you yourself were bleeding.

It was intoxicating.

Dex trembled, his knees struggling to hold his weight upright. It hurt, it hurt so badly. Your touch reminded him of his. He could almost feel fists slamming into his ribs again, horns grazing his shoulder.

Your glassy eyes observed the image the man before you offered. He looked insane like this, completely ruined.

You straightened slightly, releasing your hold on his skull. And to your surprise, he collapsed immediately to the floor, dropping to his knees in front of you.

“You—you good? Tony, you want to stop?”

His glossy eyes met yours, pupils charcoal-black. It took him time to process your voice, as though he first needed to make space inside his head before acknowledging your words. But his head answered before his vocal cords did. He slowly shook it side to side, his gaze jumping between your eyes, searching for a color he wanted to recognize.

His hands settled on your thighs before you even noticed. He gripped tightly, nearly pinching the muscle. His face pressed against your hipbone, and you physically felt a heartbeat miss its route, forgetting to follow its vascular path. He looked like a puppy like this—a puppy with blood coating its jaws, a dead rat laid proudly at your feet.

“Call me Dex, please my name’s Dex,” he whispered breathlessly, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to reach your bare stomach. His lips pressed to your skin, and for the first time in your life you felt like a kiss could also be a bite—a snakebite. “Please call me Dex, please I need you to call me Dex,” his saliva staining your skin in a way that felt permanent.

“Such a freak, you know that?” This time a wide, stupid grin spread across his lips, making you smile despite yourself. “Ok I need you to listen, can you do that for me?”

He nodded, the involuntarily sexy gesture making you swallow hard. Your eyes searched for an easy word to remember. “Red. Red is our safeword, ok?” Your partner’s eyes closed for a moment and you thought you heard a strangled moan. How could you have known that word was the nickname of the man putting Dex in this state? How could you have known his cock was throbbing just from hearing it?

Your fingers tightened around Dex’s chin, forcing his head back up toward you. “I asked you a question. Use your words. Red is our safeword, understood?”

“Understood,” his voice dripped out.

You shifted away from him, constantly burning beneath the intensity of the gaze that refused to release you. “C’mon. On the bed.”

For a moment, you thought about your trans identity, about how you hadn’t really had time to bring it up to him. Then you saw him, ghostlike, crawling toward your bed, desperate and pathetic for an unnamed service. You saw the curve of his back, deciphering the waves of his spine beneath the fabric. And then you saw yourself—not physically but sensorially—shaking in a way similar to him, ache scratching at the inside of your carcass. And suddenly, what was inside your pants became ridiculous compared to the strange molecules filling your four lungs.

Your hand found its way to the nearest part of the man lying on your bed.

His back—his spine.

Your index finger followed by your middle met the damp texture of the shirt he wore. Your eyes slowly traveled across his entire silhouette, admiring the face he tried to hide in the sheets, then the dip of his lower back. An invisible force pushed you to fully touch his spine, your palm settling entirely between his shoulder blades. And as though your touch had burned him, he arched his back. As though your hand carried an energy too heavy, he moaned open-mouthed, a poor scrap of sheet trying to absorb the sweet sound. Your eyes widened more and more at each reaction his body had to yours. It was new, unusual—a concept to explore, to turn over from every angle.

On a second impulse, you moved closer, one knee sinking into the mattress so your still-standing body could lean over his. Dex whimpered like an injured animal, lips shaping muffled words.

Your hand pressed harder against the area that seemed so sensitive to him. A second moan tore from his throat, louder this time.

Your eyes devoured the sight, and you realized you needed more. You needed to touch him, to see his skin, to hear every other sound he could make.

So your second knee joined the first, sinking the mattress deeper beneath the pressure. Your hands sprang into action as though a switch had been flipped—electric current restored to your muscles. Dex helped you pull off his shirt, and you removed yours as well. As though he had always been meant to do this, Dex rolled back onto his stomach, propped up slightly on his elbows. No sweat coated your back; instead, it was replaced by waves of irrational shivers that refused to stop. Seeing your partner’s position, you leaned over him—trying to ignore the visible jolt of anticipation that crossed him—and grabbed one of your pillows. His gaze, still glassy and dependent, never left you. He waited for the slightest request from you, the smallest demand. You motioned for him to place the pillow beneath his torso so his body wouldn’t tire unnecessarily—and of course, he obeyed.

Straightening up, you settled your seated weight on the tops of Dex’s thighs, your legs straddling his. And then you saw it, splitting his back in two.

A scar.

Large. Long.

At first it had gone unnoticed, hidden by the dim lighting. But now it leapt at you, making your lips part and your eyes widen. You understood now why your fingers had felt like fire when they brushed his back, why your hand carried so much energy whenever it neared that area.

Driven by an irrepressible urge, you leaned down. Your hands naturally rested on either side of Dex’s head, surrounding him in the best possible way. And your lips met the scar. The imperfect, discolored, horrific skin of it. You kissed that damaged flesh, not because you wanted to fix it, but simply because you wanted to—because it was terribly mesmerizing and your lips needed to touch it.

“Oh god don’t—” Dex began melting beneath your touch, more and more with every kiss pressed along his spine. “Don’t touch—” Every sentence suffocated before it could fully form. And your hand sliding along his back did nothing to help his diction.

You continued your kisses, accompanied by your wandering hand in the dip of his back. You grabbed his hip, his pelvis instinctively lifting at the contact. A small chuckle left your lips, sending a puff of air across the dampness left behind by your kisses.

The atmosphere around you—smothering your cells—deepened. The pressure weighing down your human body became scorching, clawing the air from your lungs with bare hands. And you knew its source. He was lying beneath you, trembling harder than you had ever seen someone tremble. He produced this macabre mechanism. And he suffered from it, perhaps even more than you did.

Suddenly, those gentle caresses began to ring false. Those kisses were creating acidic marks on his skin despite yourself, acid eating away at something inside him. Your lips had touched it, drawn like an insect to the venom coating the back of a multicolored frog. You wanted more too. More than these futile little caresses.

Your hand left the delicious dip of his back, instead grabbing his shoulder to force him onto his back. His face turned toward you, such a disconcerting picture that it froze you for a second.

That expression of need, of pleading, had never left his eyes.

He wanted more from you.

Always more.

You shifted your weight with the support of one hand against the mattress, your hips once again settling over his thighs. Even through the layers of fabric separating you from his body, you could feel the thickness of his muscles—contracting more with every movement you made.

Your eyes locked onto his, refusing to leave now that they had found them. Your hand blindly found the opening of his pants, undoing it like a seasoned burglar. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling through your peripheral vision. Your second hand joined the first, yanking the garment from his body in one sharp motion. He barely moved, obediently lifting his legs when you silently asked him to.

And then, when your hand tried to return to his hips, a strange texture made you glance down.

He had already come in his pants.

A breath escaped your lungs at the sight. Your eyes snapped back to his face, a face flushed with a mixture of shame and excitement intensified infinitely by the expression painted across your own features.

Your palm never left the bulge desperately trying to gain friction against it. You pressed down—not softly, not gently. He moaned loudly, head falling back despite himself. He trembled beneath you, beneath your grip. His cock was throbbing, creating an even worse mess in his underwear.

You needed to touch him.

Saliva gathered in your mouth, blood rushed between your legs, making you throb too.

So you finally pulled off his boxers, unable to stop yourself from smiling at the true state of them. Then your eyes fell back onto the subject of your thoughts, twitching ridiculously beneath the burn of your stare alone. You wanted to take him in your hand, your mouth, inside you—anywhere. You wanted to taste him, breathe in his scent until it gave you a headache, until you could no longer erase his traces from your memory.

But instead, the pads of your fingers brushed along the flushed skin of his cock.

Your gaze lifted back to Dex’s face now hidden behind one arm. You let him do it, let him think he could hide from you. Small loud sighs echoed through your bedroom, all coming from one single person. You still didn’t let your palm fully touch his cock, only your fingers stroking up and down his length.

His back arched beneath your gaze, his spine cracking occasionally in the sexiest way possible.

Then it was your turn to break. He was too loud, too visual, too intoxicating for you to hold out any longer.

Your hand finally wrapped fully around his dick, making him sob gorgeously and costing you yet another breath. Your heartbeat was just as fast as his, even though no hands touched you the way yours touched him. But he transferred everything onto you, dripping all over you—metaphorically and literally.

You leaned over his body once again, your free hand reclaiming its place beside his head. He barely noticed your movement, his mind too crowded by the motions of your hand lower down. Yet his eyes still found a way back to yours.

He cried.

He was crying.

Clear tears streamed down his cheeks and temples, creating dark stains on the sheets around his head. You wanted to speak to him, but words failed you and you had the feeling he was trapped in the same situation. Muted by tape far too sticky to remove.

So the silence remained exactly as it had settled between you, and strangely enough it was louder than any sentence either of you could have spoken.

However, the symphony playing in the background only grew louder. Wetness, whimpers.

Your gaze tore itself away from his and you heard a faint cry from that single act. Pre-cum leaked from his cock, mixing with the remnants of his earlier orgasm. He was close, he had looked close since the moment he entered your apartment. Your movements sped up, wanting to pull more sounds, more reactions out of him.

“You close?” you asked even though you already knew the answer.

“I am,” his broken voice answered, wavering between high and low tones.

Your own hips made faint unconscious movements against the nearest source of friction they could find, desperately seeking some relief from this infernal suffering. You straightened once again, your body drowning in that intoxicating discomfort.

A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed your arm, making you almost jump from how burning the contact felt. Dex tried pulling you toward him, his orgasm striking him in small blows—punches forcing more blood to spray with every hit.

He looked pathetic like this—trying to obtain a touch that seemed to consume him.

And yet you gave in, because you weren’t any better than him, and because you too wanted to become ashes just to feel the flames calcine your body for a second. You pulled him against you, his own weight collapsing onto you without restraint. Your bodies toppled farther into the bed, ankles and shins tangled in the sticky sheets.

He threw himself at your lips. He devoured them. Not from want, nor from genuine desire—but because he needed it. He needed to feel something, even if it was disgust toward himself or sensory overstimulation. He needed to burn, to be scorched to the bone, because whatever gnawed at him never hesitated to reach such deep parts of his being.

Maybe if he burned alive, this ache would burn too—no matter if it killed him, no matter if it dragged you down with him.

His saliva stained yours like gasoline. His teeth clicked against yours like a lighter. You were drowning in a bath of combustible liquid that, if it didn’t burn you, would dissolve your insides with acid.

His bare skin rubbed against yours, his cock leaking over your body, repeatedly slapping against the sensitive skin of your stomach. He was breathless, and so were you. Your frantic breaths mingled over and over inside formless kisses.

Your hand found its way to his neck, then his hair. The blood had dried in his blond strands, cracking when your fingers tangled through them, your second hand joining the first. You held him in your hands, his skull resting in your sweaty palms—while he held you in his fangs. His hands planted on either side of your head painfully gripped the sheets, his knuckles white as snow.

Again, you were suffocating, and he was suffocating with you. The air he exhaled into your mouth stole the oxygen from your lungs. He bit your lips hard enough to make them bleed. And in loud, broken moans, he tried to collect the scarlet liquid like an elixir—like a solution.

Then all at once he exploded over you. His head collapsed against your chest while he cried through his orgasm. Muffled cries, sobs you couldn’t characterize. White streaks coated your stomach, mixing with sweat and older traces of blood.

His arms began trembling, his tears endlessly falling into the reddish puddle sliding along your collarbones. He stained you in every possible way. With his sorrow, his problems, his pain and his pleasure. He poured himself all over you, without you being able to stop him—without you even wanting to.

Later that night, when Morpheus finally released you from his sedative embrace, the bed felt strangely empty, the sheets cold. Your eyelids opened and somehow you weren’t surprised to discover you were now alone in the bed.

Dex was gone, and his number had mysteriously vanished from your contacts.

He left you with ruined sheets, and gasoline flowing through your veins.

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