"what you seek is within you, if only you reflect"

Sighing tiredly, you rubbed the mark on your collarbone as your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Matt. Again.

You stared at it until the ringing stopped, and then a ping indicated that a text had come through. Dropping the spoon into your half-eaten bowl of cereal, you grabbed your phone.

Matt: Dinner tonight. No excuses.

You closed your eyes briefly before another ping sounded.

Karen: If you ghost us again I’m coming over there and dragging you out with us.

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped you. God, you missed them. Which made your guilt even worse.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before finally typing and sending a single sentence.

You: I’ll be there.

The response from Karen came immediately.

Karen: Suspiciously fast answer. Are you dying?

You snorted softly.

Only emotionally, you thought to yourself.

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Matt’s apartment smelled like pasta sauce and garlic bread.

Which made the dread clawing at your chest almost painful.

Karen stood near the stove with a glass of wine in hand while Matt finished plating dinner, movements smooth and precise despite his blindness.

For one horrible moment, you thought about lying again. Considered faking a smile and pretending that everything was fine.

“There she is.” Matt smiled when he heard you step inside.

Sliding off your shoes, Karen set down her wine glass as she walked over and hugged you tightly.

“You look exhausted,” she muttered against your shoulder.

“I’ve been busy.” You say, hugging her back.

“You’ve been avoiding us.” She said, hugging you tighter.

You forced a weak smile. “That too.”

Karen pulled back just enough to study your face before letting you go.

Matt’s head tilted slightly. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

You swallowed thickly. “No.”

The silence lingered a little too long for Matt to not notice your nerves.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said quietly.

The three of you settled around the small kitchen table, the room glowing warm under dim lighting while a soft breeze swept through it from the open window.

Normally this would’ve comforted you. Tonight it just made you feel trapped as Karen talked about work and Matt complained about a client.

Nodding at the right moments while barely tasting the food they made, your heartbeat refused to slow down, and you knew Matt could hear it.

It was halfway through dinner when Karen sighed and set her fork down.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “What’s going on with you?”

Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Karen,”

“No! You’ve been avoiding us for days,” she interrupted. “You look miserable, you’re barely speaking, and don't think for a second we haven't noticed how weird you get when Poindexter is mentioned.”

You froze as your breath stuttered, and across the table, Matt went completely still.

The apartment suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet as your already racing heart got faster.

“Wait.” He whispered.

Your chest tightened painfully as Matt turned towards you, and in that moment you realised by the look on his face that he already suspected your secret.

“That’s why,” Matt said quietly.

Your eyes burned immediately. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Karen stared between the two of you, confused. “Is this another one of those twin things?”

“Say it,” Matt said.

“Matty,” your voice cracked as your fingers shook around your fork.

“Bug,” Matt softly said your childhood nickname. “Just say it.”

You swallowed hard as you looked down at your barely touched dinner.

“Dex is my soulmate.” You finally whispered.

Your eyes lifted as the room fell silent at your confession despite your chest feeling a little lighter.

“Oh my God.” Karen's words came out angry as she looked at you like you'd physically struck her.

“No,” she said immediately after. “No.”

Beside her, Matt sat motionless.

“Does he know?” He asked.

You almost released a bitter laugh because, of course, that would be Matt’s first question.

Not are you okay? Or has he hurt you? Or are you seeing him?

But does he know? Because Matt understood exactly what it meant if Dex did.

“Yes.” You say.

Karen let out a disbelieving laugh. “You told him?”

“I didn’t have to.” You tell them.

Matt’s jaw tightened slightly. “How long?”

Your throat closed. “Since the night he shot me.”

Karen inhaled sharply, and Matt looked sick for the first time all evening.

Because now they understood.

Dex had known the entire time. While imprisoned, while isolated, while unmedicated and unstable.

Obsessing about you.

“Oh my God,” Karen whispered, horrified now instead of angry.

You stared down at your hands in your lap. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You should’ve stayed away from him.” Karen exclaimed, standing abruptly from the table.

You twisted your fingers tightly together, hoping the slight pain would ease the tightness in your chest.

“I tried.”

“He shot you.”

“I know.”

“He nearly killed Foggy.”

Your breath caught painfully as your eyes stung with tears.

The apartment went quiet again.

Karen’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. “And you still let him into your apartment?”

You flinched as a tear ran down your cheek. But that wasn't the worst part because what was worse was the fact that you wanted him there.

Matt's voice was steady when he spoke again, “Has he been contacting you?”

“Yes.” You confirm wiping the tear off your cheek.

“How?”

Matt’s expression hardened when you hesitated too long.

“Has he been seeing you?”

You looked away as your heart began racing again.

Karen stared at you in disbelief. “You can’t see him.”

Something inside you snapped slightly at her words. “Karen.”

“No,” she interrupted sharply. “Absolutely not. He is dangerous.”

“I know he’s dangerous.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

You froze at her question.

Because he notices me. You thought to yourself. Because he makes me feel seen. Because I want him to keep coming back.

Matt’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“How can you possibly want this?”

Your throat tightened at the crack in his voice. Because your brother wasn't angry, he wasn't judgmental. He was hurt.

Your eyes burned again. “You think I don’t ask myself that every day?”

Neither of them answered.

So you kept going. Mouth moving before you could stop it.

“I waited years for my soulmate,” you whispered shakily. “Years. And then it was him.”

Your voice cracked.

“Do you think I wanted it to be him?”

Karen’s expression faltered slightly.

But the words wouldn’t stop now that the hurt and suffering you had kept locked away for months had broken free.

“I know what he’s done,” you continued. “I know who he is. I know what people think when they look at him.”

Your breathing shook as you looked them in the eyes.

“But every time I try to stay away from him…” your voice softened painfully, “… I can’t.”

Silence filled the apartment for the third time that night. This time heavy and miserable.

Matt’s face tightened again. “He’s already attached to you.”

“Don't,” you looked at him sharply. “Don't use that against me. Against him.”

Matt’s jaw flexed once. “I can hear it every time his name comes up.”

Anger twisted low in your stomach. Because Matt was right, Dex was attached, and you knew that from his gifts and his relaxed attitude whenever he broke into your apartment.

But so was a part of you.

Karen sank slowly back into her chair, rubbing at her face.

“You’re my best friend,” she whispered. “And I’m terrified he’s going to destroy you.”

The anger in her voice finally cracked enough for the fear underneath to show.

Your eyes burned harder. “I know.”

Because that was the horrible truth. You knew exactly what this could become, how this could end.

And still you wondered about the what-ifs and the maybes and the possibility that this might not destroy you.

The apartment suddenly felt suffocating.

You pushed your chair back abruptly. “I should go.”

Karen immediately looked guilty. “Wait.”

But you were already sliding on your shoes.

Matt stood quickly too. “Hey, bug.”

You paused near the door, coat on only one shoulder.

Matt’s expression was a mix of protective, worried, and nervous all at once.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.

But somehow that only made your tears burn harder because, despite his words, you had never felt more alone.

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The rain had soaked through your coat by the time you got home.

Your chest still hurt, but at least your tears had stopped. Karen’s voice still echoing in your skull.

He shot you.

God. You knew that.

Hands trembling slightly, you unlocked your apartment and stepped inside. The lights were off, but you immediately felt his presence.

“You told them.” Dex’s voice came quietly from the darkness.

You switched the lights on and slowly shut the door behind you.

Dex sat on the sofa, half-hidden by shadows. His head tilted as he watched you again.

You suddenly felt exhausted down to your bones. “Yes.”

Silence filled the apartment as rain tapped softly against the windows.

Dex’s eyes moved slowly across your face, studying every emotion there.

“They’re upset.” He said.

A sad, humourless laugh escaped you. “That’s one word for it.”

Dex stayed quiet for a moment. “What did they say?”

You dropped your wet coat onto the chair. “That you’re dangerous.”

His expression didn’t change. Because that wasn’t news to either of you. “And?”

You looked away first. “They don’t understand why I keep letting you come back.”

The second the words left your mouth, anger shifted on Dex’s face.

Sharp and immediate.

Your chest tightened when you saw it.

“You told them why?” he asked quietly.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is to me.”

Of course it was. To him you're not just soulmates, you're fate, you're destiny. And you knew that because Dex had always looked at you like you were it for him.

But for you? Nothing about this was simple.

“You don’t understand what this is doing to my life, Dex, to me,” you whispered tiredly.

Dex stared at you. “You think I don’t?”

“You have killed people, Dex.”

Your words cracked through the apartment sharply.

“I know.”

“You nearly destroyed my family.” You could feel the tears forming again.

His jaw tightened immediately. “I know.”

“You shot me.”

Your words were sharp, and you saw the emotions immediately on his face.

The guilt, the anger, and the frustration.

“Do you think I wanted to do that?” he snapped suddenly.

You blinked, stunned as Dex stood up and stepped closer.

“I didn’t know,” he said harshly. “I didn’t know who you were then.”

“But you know now.” You felt the first tear fall.

“Yes.”

“Then you know why this feels impossible for me?”

Dex’s breathing came out sharper than before. Because this conversation was turning into something he couldn’t fix.

And it was terrifying him.

“You keep pushing me away,” he said quietly, gently cupping your face.

Your chest ached at his words and actions. “Because I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” He said as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks.

A bitter laugh escaped you.

“No, you don’t.”

“I know you’re mine.”

The words hit like a punch as his name burned hot on your collarbone.

“I’m not a possession.” You snap, putting your hands on his chest, ready to push him away.

Dex stepped closer again.

“Baby, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” You asked, ignoring your heart fluttering when he called you that. 

His eyes searched yours desperately, like if he could just make you understand his view, everything would stop hurting.

“You feel it too. The connection between us. Our bond.”

Your breath caught.

Because that was the problem, you did feel it.

You felt it in every glance, in every touch, and in every moment he looked at you like you were something precious. 

Something his.

You felt all of it, and you were too tired to deny that you didn't want more.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you whispered shakily and knew that it was a lie.

Dex looked genuinely confused by the question.

“You.”

The simplicity of his answer made your heart flutter and break at the same time.

“You can’t just,” your voice cracked as more tears fell, “you can’t just come back after everything and expect this to be easy.”

“I don’t expect easy.”

“Then what?” You pushed against his chest, but he barely moved.

Dex stared at you for one long, awful second.

“You keep acting like loving me is the worst thing that could happen to you.” He whispered.

Your eyes widened.

Because that wasn’t what this was.

That wasn't what you meant.

But before you could explain, Dex suddenly closed the distance between you.

One hand moving to the back of your head while the other wrapped around your waist.

And then he was kissing you.

Desperate and impulsive, like if he could get close enough, this distance you kept between you two would finally disappear.

For a second you froze.

Because this was your soulmate, and you had imagined this moment for years. But also because this was Dex, and half of you wanted this.

Then reality slammed back into you.

Your hands shoved hard against his chest. “Stop.”

Dex stumbled back instantly, his hands leaving your body.

The apartment fell silent except for your uneven breathing, but you could see his expressions shifting.

From confusion to realisation and then panic. Like he’d only just understood what he’d done.

Your own mixed emotions made your head spin.

“You can’t do that,” you whispered.

Dex looked wrecked. “I thought.”

“I know what you thought.” Your tears were flowing freely now.

“But you can’t fix this like that.”

Silence filled the apartment again, and for the first time since meeting him, Dex looked uncertain.

And you hated that look on his face. You never wanted him to feel uncertain around you, but why is this situation making you feel like you have to choose between your family and your soulmate?

“Leave me alone.” Your throat tightened painfully.

The words shattered something between you instantly.

Dex went completely still, and the look on his face nearly made you take the words back. Because for the first time since you met him, he looked scared.

Scared of losing you.

But you forced yourself to hold his gaze anyway, and after a long, horrible moment, Dex nodded once.

Then, without another word, he stepped backwards toward the open window and stopped as if he was waiting for something before disappearing into the rain.

Leaving you standing alone and crying in the middle of your apartment, feeling like a fool for believing that you could have had it all.

Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.

“-ey, were you listening?” 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.

“Uh yeah, the closing right?” 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 didn’t need something.

“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.

It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.

“Ah, I don’t-" 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 didn’t want to close alone.

Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll 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.

“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.

She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”

She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift. 

“You’re welcome.” It’s 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 didn’t have any customers to tend to.

“You set?”

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 didn’t know how he could move so quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” 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.

“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”

Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.

He wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 didn’t 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 shouldn’t 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 wasn’t 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.

“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” 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 crunching 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 didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.

Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…

“Please, I’ll do anything please-“

He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”

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 couldn’t make out the words.

In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.

It wasn’t 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.

“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”

This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve 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 couldn’t 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 hadn’t decided which.

“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.

“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”

Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.

Behind his mask, Dex’s 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.

“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”

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 they’d 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 people’s heels.

“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.

Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“

Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”

He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.

Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”

A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.

“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”

He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” 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. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”

“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” 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 wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.

No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.

After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.

You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.

But you couldn’t 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 you’d 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.

The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t 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 hadn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.

You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.

It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.

Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t 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.

“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.

More silence from you.

“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”

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.

“You should take better care of your things.”

The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d 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.

“Please don’t.” 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. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.

You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.

“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.

In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d 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 didn’t 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. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t 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. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”

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. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”

Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t 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, “What’re you doing?”

‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.

After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”

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. “About a half hour.”

You blinked, “Oh, okay.”

Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t 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. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”

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.

“I’m sorry?” 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 wasn’t 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 must’ve 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 ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.

“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”

You blinked at him again, “Okay?”

“Yes.” 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.

“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.

You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d 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 didn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.

It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d 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 you’d 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?

It’s just because you’ve 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 didn’t try calling the police, not even once.

It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t 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 hadn’t 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 hadn’t 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t 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 he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

Moretti didn’t 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 didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d 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 didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.

Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t 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 couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.

Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?

Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.

Not important, focus.

You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.

If he didn’t 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 didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.

Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t 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 he’s 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 wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.

You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t 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.

He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.

There was something he was itching to do since he got there.

He didn’t 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 Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ 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 weren’t going to snitch.

You didn’t 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 cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t there.

The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.

Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t 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 weren’t sure if you’d 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.

“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”

Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.

Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”

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. “What?” 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.

“Nothing. What’s that about?” 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.

“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.

His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.

What?

The hell?

Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“

He only stared on with the same solid expression.

You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”

“No.”

You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”

Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”

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, “Because I don’t want to. You…”

His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”

Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”

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.

“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It seems like he wasn’t 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 he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.

Your only worry was what he would do with you.

“O-Okay.” 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 didn’t 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 should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.

He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t 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.

“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.

There’s 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 food…

No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s 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 didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve 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 didn’t 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.

“And 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-“

The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.

“-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-“

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. Didn’t 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.

“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.

He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”

You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.

You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.

He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” 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.

“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”

To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”

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 he’d 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 didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”

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.

“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.

“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” 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, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”

He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”

“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.

“You’re not bothered by that?”

You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” 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 wouldn’t 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.

“Sit back.”

You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.

“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…

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 didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.

You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t 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, “I have to go.”

“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.

Knives arrived more frequently after that night.

He didn’t 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 should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t 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 you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s 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 you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.

To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d 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.

“About time.” 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.

“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.

You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.

“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.

Breathe, don’t let him get to you.

“I’m just going to do my job.”

His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”

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 wasn’t 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 you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-

“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.

You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t 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.

You’d 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.

He’d 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 weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve 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.

“Shit-” 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.

“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.

“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”

He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.

“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.

You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t 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 shouldn’t 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 didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.

“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.

You’d 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 didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.

“Who did that?” 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 wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”

Your clarification didn’t 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, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”

“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.

You didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 he’d 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 you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.

“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” 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.

“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.

“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”

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 didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t 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.

“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”

He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”

You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t 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, “Are you upset?”

“Explain what happened.”

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 didn’t 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 weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.

You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”

He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.

You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”

He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”

There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.

“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was 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.

“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”

You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.

“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.

“An officer.”

“Like, a police officer?”

“No. Not exactly.”

You blinked in confusion.

He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”

You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”

He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”

“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.

He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”

It was clear that was all the answers you’d 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.

“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”

You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”

A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”

You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.

Something else. Not you.

“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.

Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”

You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”

A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”

Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d 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 didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t 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 wouldn’t 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. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.

Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.

It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t 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.

He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t 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 didn’t 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 it’s 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 didn’t stray from.

He wouldn’t 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, they’d 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t 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.

“Dex-” 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.

“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”

You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”

“Not Jesus, just me.”

You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.

“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.

“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.

“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”

You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”

You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”

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, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.

Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.

“Ben, it’s okay.”

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 didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.

Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.

You couldn’t 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 wasn’t 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.

“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t 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.

“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”

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 couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.

He couldn’t 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, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t 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. “No, get out of that suit first.”

He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

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 wasn’t as injured as you’d 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 didn’t 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 he’d 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 weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”

It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.

“So do them.”

He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.

He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.

Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.

You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”

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 didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”

Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”

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 didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.

It only made wetness pool in your core.

“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.

It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.

“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.

“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.

“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Hmm, interesting.” 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.

“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.

“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.

“Yours.”

“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.

“Me.”

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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.

You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.

He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.

You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.

“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”

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 ‘o’ 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.

“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.

So you waited.

Until you didn’t.

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.

“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.

You couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t 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.

“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.

“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d 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, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”

He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”

“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”

He didn’t 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.

“Hey Dex?”

He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.

“What happened?” You didn’t 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, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 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 he’d 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.

“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.

You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” 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.

“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”

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.

“I’m with you.”

You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.

Div by: @pixopix

Of course, his invitation was accompanied by undertones you couldn’t see. He was more eager to have an excuse to see you in his space than he was to help you break your fast food habit you were concerned about.

But you agreed in an instant. You were dying to eat a home cooked meal that you didn’t have to make, and admittedly, you had been curious about how he lived. 

While he did tend to drop the occasional detail about himself in conversations, you had trouble prying much out of him with direct questions.

You sensed that being in public was what made him hesitant to share things, so an invitation to his apartment was an added bonus to the promised meal.

Maybe you were too trusting to agree to meet him behind closed doors when it felt like you still knew so little about him.

But it was a bit late for those thoughts now that you were literally in the stairwell of his apartment building with a tote of cheap wine. The scent of cigarettes, damp wood, and old hallway carpets invaded your senses as you climbed the steps.

It still smelled better than your building.

As you were walking down the hall towards his door, you were met with the sight of Dex already speaking with someone. He was standing in his doorway, trapped in a conversation with whom you assumed was a neighbor. 

She was speaking to him in a rather affectionate tone, holding a tray of saran-wrapped sweets.

You stood idly by, not wanting to disrupt their interaction just yet. It was kind of a relief to see he was at least friendly with his neighbors. 

Now you felt better about coming to the apartment of a man you barely saw outside of the diner. 

He thanked her, taking the tray from her hands and she patted his cheek with an almost maternal fondness. 

The woman was saying her goodbyes to him when she turned and spotted you in the hall. Her eyebrows raised and she looked between you and Dex almost knowingly. 

“Oh, you invited a girl over?” She asked him adoringly in her heavy slavic accent. “Why did you never bring her around before?” 

Your lips quirked in amusement. Nosy neighbor. 

“She’s a friend of mine, Ms. Smithers,” he explained to her with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Ms. Smithers then walked up to you, speaking in a lower tone only you could hear. 

“You let me know if he gives you trouble,” she advised lightheartedly, “But my Tony is a nice boy.” 

Tony? Your eyebrows knit together for a moment as Ms. Smithers left back to her own apartment.

Before you could ask any questions about the strange name, though, you made eye contact with Dex. He opened the door wider, gently flicking his head to the side in a gesture silently asking you to come in. No—telling you.

You had no legitimate reason not to listen. It briefly occurred to you that you’d probably be easy to kidnap.

The inside of his apartment was, in one word: neat.

The soft, yellow tinted lighting emitting from the sconces on the wall gave his studio an air of comfort, safety. It drew you in closer as you removed the wine tote from your arms which he then took from you. 

You thanked him, hearing him carry the wine bottle and the tray from his neighbor into the kitchen behind you. You took the opportunity to continue shamelessly ogling his living space. 

In your brief survey of the apartment, you came to a conclusion you’d suspected since you first met him.

The rather eclectic style kitchen, the CRT television in the small living room that bled into his bedroom. The CD collection stacked beside a stereo. The headphones and MP3 player he used on the plane. How his music taste rarely seemed to breach the 2000s…

“You’re really into the vintage scene, aren’t you?” You turned to him. 

He tilted his head in a silent question.

You gestured vaguely to the television in the corner of the living room. 

“I guess I am,” he chuckled under his breath, like your observation caught him off guard. 

“Are you a collector, then?” 

“No, I just prefer it over the newer stuff. I use a cellphone for work, but the ‘vintage’ stuff is…” He trailed off. “I’m used to it.” 

In your brief time knowing him, you’d picked up that he was a bit different. Then again, you were too. 

You made a mental note of the quirk triumphantly. You wanted to keep pressing him for details.

But dinner had to be cooked by someone.

When you suggested helping him cook, you thought you were imagining the flicker of distress in his eyes. Now you knew it was definitely real.

He was a little bit of a control freak in the kitchen apparently, because he had you chopping vegetables you were pretty sure didn’t even go to the recipe he was making. 

You watched him expertly mincing herbs on a cutting board across from you on the other side of the counter, eyebrows knit together in concentration as he did. He was pretty handy with that knife of his. 

“So,” you started, and saw how his expression briefly relaxed to attention when he heard your voice. “Tony?”

His knife paused for a moment. You took mental note of that.

“Yeah, Mrs. Smithers misheard me and I never corrected her,” he explained, like what he said just made any sense at all. “Sweet old lady.”

“How the hell did she get Tony from Dex?” You laughed at the absurdity.

“She’s hard of hearing, I guess.” 

You accepted his answer, even if you didn’t think he was being completely honest. What reason would he have to lie to other people about his identity, anyway?

“What is it that you do, by the way?” Your gaze fell to how each vegetable in the bowl was cut at precisely the same length and width. “You’re not a cook, are you? ‘Cuz I would totally believe that.”

“No,” he turned towards the stove and you didn’t miss the slight smile on his lips. “Contract work mostly.”

“That’s pretty vague,” you pointed out, but your comment was soon drowned out by the sizzling of the pan on the stove.

Could have been intentional on his end. Or, could mean nothing.

So he was a mysterious guy–but lots of people are! You even considered yourself to be mysterious.

Even though you were the same person who shared photos of you and your friends on vacation to a man you met once. And then agreed to go to his apartment and let him cook for you. Found out he gave his neighbor a fake name, then showed off crazy knife tricks in front of your eyes…

All of the above could maybe raise an eyebrow, but it wasn’t enough for you to go take up Ms. Smithers on her earlier offer to rescue you or anything.

Dinner was also delicious enough for you to forget about all of that pretty quickly. He opened the wine you brought too, and once it was in your system you couldn’t care less about anything but how relaxed you were after such a terrible week.

And Dex had made that happen for you. He once again turned a distressing situation into a fond memory, and all of your doubts and questions from earlier melted into gratitude. 

“You are definitely a better cook than you gave yourself credit for,” you laughed, putting your glass back down on the table.

He gave you a nod of appreciation that only encouraged you to sing his praises. 

“Seriously, don’t be so modest, Dex.” 

The man was practically blushing, avoiding your gaze by staring at the crimson wine still pooled in your glass. It was endearing how easily some simple praise could penetrate the cooler exterior he seemed to maintain. 

You remembered the CD collection you spotted earlier and strode over to it, grabbing your wine glass with you on the way over. 

“What do you have here?”

As you flipped through each jewel case, you barely registered him in the corner of your vision, still at the table. He was watching you, having gone completely still.

“Let’s see…” You took another sip of your cheap wine. “How about this one?”

The album you held up was by Radiohead’s In Rainbows. It contained one of the songs you listened to together on the plane, and in your nearly winedrunk state you thought it would be cute to reminisce on that moment. 

But the second you showed it to him, he was shooting up from his chair. 

It almost startled you, and you turned to look at him with raised eyebrows.

His hand clasped around your wrist, the other taking the case from your hand. You gasped. Not out of fear, but confusion.

He was still holding your wrist, chest rising and falling in even breaths. You noticed how delicate his grip was compared to the urgent seizing of the item that was just in your hand.

You wondered if he could feel how warm your skin was becoming under his hand.

“Just–leave it. The disc’s already in the stereo.” He lowered his tone as he released you, and placed the jewel case back into the stack of CD’s. 

You laughed bashfully, not thinking anything of it. You were too focused on the contact you'd just had. “Oh, alright.”

With your finger pressing into the console’s buttons, you kept fast forwarding until it reached the track you had in mind.

It was sort of melancholy for the current atmosphere, but you hadn’t really recalled that fact until you heard the slow hum of the distorted bass fill the apartment.

He still seemed on edge as he remained standing beside you, and you felt a little bad for the slip-up. Maybe you shouldn’t have been touching things without permission.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to kill the mood.” You put your wine glass down on the coffee table. 

“Don’t apologize,” he muttered, looking at you again finally with his jaw barely clenched. 

You noticed how close he was standing at that moment. How little space was between your bodies.

Your pulse throbbed beneath your skin, your brain muddled from the wine. He was gazing down at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Not affection. Not lust.

Your breath hitched.

The stark vibration of his phone on the kitchen table made you both draw back. 

Dex cursed under his breath as he went to retrieve his phone. “I have to take this.”

You watched as he put the device to his ear and stepped out the door into the hall, leaving you alone in his apartment.

The crescendoing of the piano flowing from the stereo broke you out of your daze, and you felt the sudden urge to change the CD. 

That song clearly hadn’t done the both of you any favors. 

Your hands fumbled for the jewel case, knocking a few from the stack in the process. You clicked it open and something slipped from the inside when you did. 

You thought it was the insert booklet at first. But when you looked at the ground you saw it was actually a smaller paper folded into a small square. 

As you knelt to pick it up, you felt a dull pang in your head from the alcohol. You stood back up, unfolding the square without thinking.

Your breath caught.

There you were, staring back at yourself with a gleeful smile. Completely unaware of what the present version of yourself had just discovered.

He had the missing photo this entire time. Judging by how strictly he insisted you didn’t touch this jewel case, he didn’t want you to know he had it, either. 

Why had he chosen this one to take home, you wondered, instead of the dozens of other ones on the table?

If you never noticed his hand reaching to swipe one of your photographs, then you knew he didn’t just grab the first one he saw. He could have picked any of them. Multiple, potentially.

Out of the other photos of you smiling, posing–or the one of you suggestively laid out on the beach–he deliberately chose the one of you in the aquarium. 

More importantly, why the hell did he take it in the first place?

You quickly stood up, looking around for the one thing that could get you out of this.

Out in the hallway, Dex was hanging up his phone with an exasperated sigh. They told him they wouldn’t need him tonight, but now he had to find a way to cut the night short.

Things were going a little differently than planned anyway. While you were impressed by his cooking and the unexpected praise was nice, you were behaving very unpredictably.

Asking him too many questions about his work, and his neighbor certainly didn’t help by showing up right when you arrived, revealing his false identity to you.

Then there was you snooping around and nearly finding the photograph he took from you. He knew he should have hidden it better but he thought plain sight would have worked well enough. Not well enough for you, apparently. 

That definitely didn't mean he wanted you to go, though.

When he returned to the apartment, he saw you sitting at the kitchen table again. The music was playing in a lower volume now, and he was relieved to hear you didn’t try to change the CD while he was gone. 

“I don’t want to end the night like this,” he began, which was the truth, “but something came up and I have to take care of it.”

Your lips stretched into an easy smile, “that’s alright. It’s getting late, anyway.”

To anyone else, your smile and words would have seemed natural. The typical response to what he led with.

But to Dex, who’d spent ample time memorizing every way your lips moved and learned your mannerisms down to the subtlest quirk of your eyebrows knew that something was off.

Your speech was practiced. Performed.

You had found it. That was the only explanation for your behavior shifting so suddenly after he left. 

“Let me drive you home.” He said, already reaching for his keys.

“No,  I’ll hail a cab,” you insisted, securing your tote over your shoulder as you walked to the door. “Thank you again for inviting me over.”

He could feel you slipping away like sand between his fingertips. For a moment, he wondered if he could blow off work and try again to convince you to stay. To not leave.

Don't leave me.

But you were out the door before he could act on it.

He went straight for the CD case. 

He popped it open and the photograph was still there, though, folded into a small square. 

Had you really not found it after all?

Dex plucked the folded photograph from the case and unraveled it. When he held it up, it looked the same as it always did when he admired it. 

But with the light from the living room beaming down on it he noticed markings shining through, like there was something on the back.

He flipped it over. Red ink.

'Not cool, Tony. 

Find a way to make it up to me.'

Your first initial was signed beside the message, just as he did the first time he left you a note.

Even in the midst of his crisis, you got a chuckle out of him. Okay, maybe you did find out. But you weren't freaked out by what he did, clearly.

If you took the time to write out a joke for him to find, maybe what he interpreted as fear was...smugness?

The thought amused him as he was slinging his holster around his hips. 

Oh yeah, he'd definitely make it up to you.

Everyone gets bored of you in the end. 

Three months pass and then a year, and you decide that it's finally time to end things, your stalker can’t stop you this time. You had been clinging on from the very beginning. 

This time you will finally finish something. 

You leave the support group, walk down to the dinner. Order your cherry pie in your booth, sitting in silence, you eat it like always, so quickly you can’t even taste it. You don't want to savour it. Then you stand. Grabbing your scarf and jacket. Shrugging it on. Cash falls to the table as you take a cigarette out. You smile to yourself. 

The tv lights up about some escaped convicts in the area. You recognise the name, ‘Benjamin Poindexter.’ Sometime last year he had been on a killing spree. Resulting in his incarceration. You look up to the tv screen, a picture flashes up. He's grinning, ear to ear. Eyes half glazed over and shut. You find your heart beating quickly. Dex? Like Support group fbi dex from a year ago? Your eyes widen. But you dismiss any worry.

You take in your final look of the Diner, the regulars haven't changed, the paint still peeling. As your eyes gloss over. You spot the man you haven't seen for a year sitting in the back, his face covered by a newspaper. But his eyes stare back at you. You remember those eyes.  The paper creases in his grip, and your eyes twitch. Something in your head tells you to leave quickly. You feel the pieces start to click together. You look away, pretending to ignore the bad feeling. 

Coldness washes over you. 

The phone calls, the comforter wrapped over you after late nights. The guy at the Diner every Wednesday, the one you never paid any attention to until he came to the support group. And then he left the same time your stalker did. 

fuck

How could you be so stupid?

You swallow, ignoring that gut feeling that tells you to run as you pass booths and calmly walk out the door. You light your cigarette, wide eyed as you feel his gaze still on you. You don't turn to look at him. You pant in panic. But pretend like you haven't noticed anything.

You walk home with your head down, steady, unshaking. 

The sound of footsteps behind you doesn't stop as you approach your home. And when you turn to cross over the road he’s there standing still watching you. Your heart thumps against your chest. You blink back tears.

You don't cross and walk further, but then you have to cross to get to your building and he’s not there, which scares you even more. 

You duck inside your apartment. Avoiding turning on the lights, instead you rush to your bedside table. Pulling out the sharpened hunting knife, the blade flicks out with ease and the cool steel presses into your palm until you bleed, you hiss. You run to the bathroom, shedding off your clothes until you stand in your underwear. You start to run a bath. Locking the door behind you.

You’ve never been in a hurry to kill yourself before.

Heavy steps pound up the stairs, reaching your door. There's a rattling noise, you picture your door handle violently shaking. It becomes more intense every second that passes. And then it stops. You breathe slowly.

A minute passes .

Then the familiar noise of the window into your apartment painfully squeaks out . You hear him stalk into your home, footsteps marking where he is. You know it's deliberate.

He wants you to know he's here.

You don't stand a chance.

They litter the apartment, jolting you from where you stand, you grip the knife in your palm, stuffing your clothes in the gap under the door to prevent any entrance. 

The footsteps hover at the door as you hold your breath. Clean hand covering your mouth and pinching your nose. You fall to the floor slowly wrapping your arms around your legs. You reach over to the tap to turn it off, the metal screeches. Doors open, slam shut, and then the footsteps come back to the bathroom. The door rattles. 

You stand quickly, moving to the medicine cabinet, grabbing the pills, your hand grips the lid. It takes a few tries to get it open, smearing your blood all over the orange plastic. Almost jumping for joy when you finally do. 

The door stops rattling. 

So you know what's coming next. 

Solid thumping. 

The sound of wood splintering inside of the cheap plywood door.

You turn the tap on, emptying the pills into your hand, your mouth over the sink.

By the time the pills reach your mouth you’re flung to the floor by the heavy weight of your stalker, they scatter over the linoleum tiles. 

Eyes shut tightly as you wait for your head to hit the tiles, but it smashes into a leather palm instead, you grip the knife tightly in your palm as he brings your body closer to his, hushing at you softly. You're all hot and flushed. His masked covered face nuzzles into your neck as you cry. 

It's overwhelmingly claustrophobic, his smell, his touch.

 Him.

You grip around the knife to bring it up to him, but he pushes your fist into the wall so hard that the knife drops on impact.

You whine at the pain that spreads from your knuckles, and your hand meets his masked face in a solid punch. His eyes smile, he only holds you tighter. 

Closer.

“It was you” you let out a breathy sigh, “The gifts, that night with the pills” 

“I saved you” He shuffles with you to stand, you’re still gripped tightly in his hold as he brings you into your bedroom, feet dragging along the floor. Stumbling towards something solid.

You suddenly remember how unclothed you are in comparison to him, not that it matters. You're sure he has seen it all before.

“I don't need saving,” you grunt.

He places you on the bed and moves to your wardrobe. His shirt stretches across the steady muscle of his back; pulling out a tshirt, sweatpants, and thick socks. You don't dare to move. Stuck in place analysing him. He places the clothes to the side of you. And you watch him hook his gloved fingers under his mask, pulling the soft fabric from under his jaw. Freezing his grey speckled blonde hair.

 Eyes on yours. You look away. Hearing him shed his gloves next.

“It's late, you’ve had a big day” he kneels in front of you. Arm swinging out to turn your bedside light on. 

You don't fight it. 

You feel yourself begin to dissociate.

Glaring at him as he unraveles the socks and slides your feet into them. Then grabbing the sweat pants and moving them up your legs, you lift your hips and he ties them at the waist. You lift your arms and he pulls the shirt down over your chest. And your hands return to the edge of the bed. His own press into your waist, finger tracing the bare skin. 

Hard and calloused. You figure its from handling weaponry.

He’s still kneeling before you. “You can’t die, you won't."

It's an order.

You don't answer back, his head presses into your lap. You watch him blink as he stares into the wall. He feels heavy against your thighs. Your eyes begin to water. You bring your hand towards his cheek, still sore from the knife. Taking him into your palm. 

He presses himself against it. The blood spreads from your hand to his skin. Marking him with red. Hand hot with pain. He watches the tears fall from your cheeks. Blinking softly up at you. He reaches a hand out slowly, like he's trying to pet a stray cat. It's awkward and untrained. 

He doesn't make any more sudden moves. And when it finally reaches your soft skin, he brushes away the tear with his thumb. Bringing his hand to his lips where he sucks the salty moisture off his skin. 

You shudder. Eyes still concentrating on his lips as they part. His hand presses in the one that lays on his cheek, and he pulls your palm towards his mouth. Pressing wet kisses against clean skin, you watch his tongue peek out between his lips, as he starts to lap up the blood that pools over the wrinkles on your palm. Teeth dig into your skin. Like a rabid dog. 

You start to pant, heart thumping against your chest, muscles in your wrist tensing as your eyes lift towards his own. You realise that he hasn't stopped watching you. His eyes are an espresso foam kind of caramel under the warm orange light of your bedroom. 

You can’t find words to tell him to stop. His tongue glides against the wound slowly, spit mixing with your blood, your cut aches, burns and his tongue sends heat down your spine. You feel yourself shuffle in place. The skin is raw and raised, it stings sharply.

When the blood is cleaned from your hand, he pauses. Lips wet with spit and blood. His eyes catch on your own. And suddenly his mouth is on yours. His hands pressing your head closer towards him. You find yourself frozen. He licks and bites at your lips, spit dribbling down your chin, as he pushes it back towards your mouth with his tongue. You find your eyes fluttering shut. Lashes resting against your cheek. He pulls away. 

“Kiss me back” his thumb wipes at what you can only believe is blood, you're sure it’s smudged on your skin.

 “Please,” he whimpers. He throws his lips back on yours, and you find yourself moving this time, and as he sucks at your bottom lip, you suck in a harsh breath. He sees the opening and goes in for the kill, His teeth begin to clash at yours. He tastes like coffee and metal.

He kisses like he’s hungry. Not knowing when his next meal is. His hand runs through your hair and then grips hard at the base of your  skull. Pulling back tightly, neck exposed to his teeth,  He kisses down the column of your throat and then takes the skin between his pearly whites and sucks hard. Your hand comes up and presses at his shoulder. Trying to push him away. But he finds his way closer. Burying into your skin. It travels to his hair knotting into the thick tufts and you pull back, but he only moans in return, hips jolting at your movement.  He rises at the movement instead, pushing himself between your thighs, you find yourself laying back on the bed and he straddles over you. 

“Please” you mutter. Head shaking, Your eyebrows furrow. 

You watch his head tilt, smile cracking into the harsh panes of his face, it's too perfect, like he's practised this whole routine over and over in the mirror.

You can imagine him doing that now. 

Perfecting his lines. 

 “Dont act like you don't like this” he purrs, hands running up your cotton shirt as they nestle over your heart, he feels the way it thumps over his hand, hot skin pressed against your own. 

He could kill you so easily, you’ve seen the news, but for those months spent watching you, he hadn't. 

But don't you want to die?

“I’ve seen what you watch,” he moves to pull your shirt over your head, and you find yourself complying. Arms lifting back up. Only moments before he had dressed you up like a doll. “Really dirty stuff, huh” he mocks.

“I know what you read” his eyes run down your soft bare skin, calloused fingers tracing over the small bruises he had marked onto you. His touch feels like small pricks.

You almost whimper. Catching yourself before he hears it. 

Too late.

That shit eating grin lights up his face again. And his hand travels to your neck, where the weight of his palm rests against your throat. Heavy. “Stalkers, serial killers, Vigilantes. Well sweetheart. You sure have a type. I think I'm checking off all your boxes” he's teasing you.

Your breath hitches. Eyes twitching. Lips pursed. Your eyes meet his. And then look away immediately, you force yourself to focus on something else. The wall. The floor, his perfect fucking face.

Shit. Your skin jumps.

“You can't hide from me.” He moves your face, positioning you just how he wants. Lips pursed.

“I just don't get it” you sigh, his fingers flex around your throat as you catch yourself leaning into them. “Why me?”

“Because I noticed you,” he hums, “it's as simple as that.”

You feel his thumb brush against your pulse and he holds it there, just for a few seconds, he feels it bounce.

Thump, thump.

“That day, when I asked you out for a coffee, you hesitated.”, you pause, “ I don't understand” your voice strains. “We could have ~no. What im saying is. You had an opportunity and you didn't take it.”

His hand traces your hip, and then searches deeper. Slipping under soft fabric. Burrowing under your panties. You find yourself gripping his wrist, but his eyes tell you otherwise. And you feel yourself give in. You loosen your hold on him. And his fingers dance their ways across your skin. 

“You don't know what it was like for me, watching a pretty thing like you for months and suddenly we're talking, you're spilling your guts to me like an old friend. How would I respond to that?”

You gasp, as he finds your clit straight away. Your back arches in response.

“Everyday I spent in that prison I wanted to be at that diner with you, watching you drink that coffee, wiping whipped cream off your lips. I just had to fuck things up. But it's okay. I'm here now” he swipes the pad of his finger over you. Watching you hide your whines. “Im here to save you, to balance the scales.”

“mm~” you moan. The sound falls from your lips before you can catch yourself. He smirks. His mouth pressed on yours, his fingers working over your pearl. Slick covering them. One hand lifting you up into an arch by your throat. He kisses softer this time, now he's satiated, slow and precise movements as his lips settle on yours, it's here where you start to fall apart. Your eyes gloss over as he works tight circles. Eyebrows start to touch, you're struggling to kiss back, you feel his nose nudge yours.

And when he notices you starting to give in. how your body starts to relax. He stops, leaning back. Picking apart the small little bow and shedding your joggers quickly. You shiver at the air against your skin.

He sheds his tight black top first. Tanned and scarred. Loosening his holster that sits around his hips. Your cheeks heat at the view, it's like something out of one of your romance books, three weeks ago you would've rolled your eyes. But you find yourself hooked on the feeling he's giving you.

His gear thumps against the wooden floor. And then he straddles, the hard fabric of his cargos brush into your thighs, you feel the stitching rub as he settles over you. You watch his chest rise, his heavy muscle leans against you, you're trapped. Caged between him and your bed. You push yourself up on your elbows. 

“Do you want this?” He cocks his head to the side. The sides of his mouth flutter.

You find yourself nodding in agreement. 

“I want you to say the words” he orders

“Shit Yes, I want this” you agree.

You give in so easily.

“Dex”  he nods at you, you cheeks heat.

“I want this Dex, Please” 

He hums in pleasure at your agreement, eyes rolling back as he smirks. His thick fingers press against the metal, soft leather slapping against his trousers as he works the belt out. Eyes trained on you. Face stern and unchanging.

He takes your hand in his, guiding it to his bulge, he holds it there you feel him throb under you. “this is what you do to me.” His tongue peeks out his lips. And you suck in a breath, his hand leaving yours. You feel your confidence grow. Hand running over the outline of his cock, it trails up to the button of his cargos, and you yank the fabric until it gives, pulling the zip with it. He stands back, shedding his cargos and boxers. You find yourself doing the same. 

Unclasping your bra, and ridding yourself of your panties. His mouth is on yours.

Body pressing against you before you can even find time to look back at him. He's radiating heat, body chasing body, while you push yourself up the bed. Your legs part, as he nestles himself between them, eyes flicking down to run the head of his cock against your wetness. 

When he looks back, your head is turned from him.

“come on eyes on me” he taps your cheek lightly with the back of his palm. Eyes finding him. “That's it, don't be shy” he sings as he feeds thick glorious inches into you. You stretch around him, he watches your face carefully. 

Trained on every little twitch. Every blink. He studies. Slack jaw, baring his bottom teeth as he automatically finds that little spot inside of you that makes you arch your back. He cages you into the bed, arms either side of your head, you feel his hot breath against sweaty skin. The soft sheets stick to your back.

Confined into every inch of you, he makes you take it painfully slow. You hate every minute of it, it feels like a heart beat. He pushes slowly and pulls away just as leisurely. One hand running up and down the curves of your hip. Your jaw falls , and he mocks you. Mimicking it himself.

He takes enjoyment in this torture. You see that spread against his features as he lets out a soft inaudible grunt.

Face screwed up. He's taking in every second, savouring the moment.

His breath fans across your skin in the form of a throaty moan. Part of your chest whines, somewhere deep in your heart you feel a little pain, stomach full of impending doom. “I don't want to let you go,” he grunts, he sounds choked up about something. And his brown eyes reflect that pain. “You’re mine”

He's going to be the death of you. 

You clench down on him when you realise this. His fingers grip tight into your skin, causing you to yelp at the pain that spreads through you 

He mewls in reaction "Oh you liked that? Huh?” his eyes glaze over. Half lidded, under the soft warmth of your lamp. “ That you're mine, that you could do whatever you wanted to me and i would learn to take it”

A single tear rolls down into your hair. 

Once it starts, you can't find yourself stopping, face wet with tears, you push your head into his shoulder. “Dont hide from me.” he whimpers against your neck, hand pulling you back from him. You watch his hazy eyes, and his lips brush against your cheeks, slowly. And then he's lapping up your tears, moaning into your skin. “Dont cry” he hushes at you softly “please, dont cry”, his skin emits warmth, and he tucks himself into you. Still pressed so deeply. His body is oppressive. But the weight of him seems to comfort you. And you stop yourself from hiccuping. Against his lips. You taste the salt of your tears on his tongue. 

“You can’t kill yourself” He whispers into your skin, you feel the words vibrate up into your chest, “I’m going to make you better”, he starts to fuck you properly now, Harder. Deeper.

“Whatever you want you can~ah,” he keens, lips parting into a delicious display of pleasure. “have it. I'll get it for you, make it for you”

He pounds. And you feel the heavy heat spread against your back, in a state of delirious panic. “I want” you let out a sad chuckle, his lashes tickling your skin. “Shit, I. Can I come?”

Head cocking, his chest presses harder against yours, your legs tremble. “fuck , you ask so nicely” he pants. Your nails scratch against his back. “ you can have anything , if you ask like that”

His fingers find your clit. Your back arches. Pushing your chest into him.

“Dex~” You sing.

Skin against skin, Sheets ruffling. 

It washes over you slowly, wrapped up in pleasure. Eyes rolling back. Lips parted in ecstasy.  You feel his gaze against you, he stutters. Fingers pressing into any bit of skin they can find. He presses his head into your neck. Biting hard as he comes. You're too spent to react. 

He leaves the bed after a few minutes of you huffing on your back, eyes shut. He watches from the door as you begin to tuck into yourself, like you do at the diner. Arm hanging off the bed.

You find yourself drifting off to sleep, you're not quite sure if he had left. Until you feel him tucking himself behind you, pressing his hand into your now bandaged one. 

A soft kiss against your temple. You find yourself melting into his touch. And for the first time in a long time, your lips stretch into a genuine smile.

There’s something that catches his interest the sixth week it happens. Like always you’re sat in the little corner of the small dinner he visits weekly.  You’re wearing almost the same outfit. A black bomber jacket that falls just below your ass. A washed out grey hoodie. A dark red scarf and a black cap that's been worn out and shredded over time. Sometimes you wear a black pleated skirt, but for the majority it's a pair of Adidas jeans,with three black stripes down the side and the dirtiest pair of converse he has ever seen. The same piece of gum has been stuck to the bottom of your shoe for at least two weeks. 

When you sit down in the corner you shed the bomber jacket and the scarf comes off with it, and then your hood comes up. He watches you press yourself deep into the cracked leather. The server will fill up two cups of the burnt dark roast coffee, always steaming, and then she’ll come over with a slice of cherry pie. It is cold at this time, the bottom is usually soggy. It's why he orders a slice of Banana Bread instead. 

He’ll watch you drink the two cups quickly. They do not get refilled and then he watches you stare at the cherry pie, watching the cream deflate for about fifteen minutes with your knees pressed against the table, tucked into yourself. You scoff it down  quicker than the coffee. You’ll slam down cash, leaving a two dollar tip. And leave. 

The whole thing takes 30 minutes exactly. He knows. He’s timed it thrice.

Every Wednesday for six weeks, around 7:15 you will enter that dinner. You will sit in the same corner booth. And then you will leave. You’ll stand outside with a cigarette hanging from your mouth, the lighter banging into your hand until it lights a strong enough flame. And then you walk away. 

On the seventh week, while you bang the lighter against your palm, eyebrows furrowed. You meet his eyes through the window, your expression doesn't change. You don't blink. Don’t shy away as he stares back. Unwavering until you light your cigarette and then turn back on to the street, the red glow of the neon light slips off your shoulders until you dissipate into the darkness. 

He can’t help himself, already piecing together the story in his mind. As you walk down the alleyway three men will come out.

One will push you against the wall searching your pockets, the other standing by the entrance of the alley keeping watch and the third will search your bag. They find nothing and because of this they get angry.

So, so angry.

He can’t imagine your face changing from the straight resting look you gave him. So he imagines that instead, a tear will slip out the side of your eye, and he can see his reflection in it  as he comes behind the guy that has pushed you into the wall. 

The guy pushes you into the wall with a knife, and his friends are already down on the floor. 

Yes. 

He did this quietly and quickly with a penny, because he never misses. 

And he imagines that the knife presses against your pretty little throat. Which he hasn’t seen yet. But he already knows how soft the skin will be. Because he's already imagined how he will hold it, without pressing. His fingers will caress softly. And you will whine.

The knife presses into your throat, but you don't look scared, and the assailant gets angry.

 And he's all like. “Look at me! Bitch, Fucking look at me” 

Dex would never call you a bitch. 

But you’ll look at him instead, eyes softening and the knife slips slowly and nicks the skin. Your breath will catch. But it doesnt even matter bcs the bad man is on the ground. Dead. Toothpick lodged through his skull.

That's about as far as Dex gets before he's slipping out the door to follow you for the first time, following a trail of ash.

Your red scarf billows in the wind, it's like a big red sign that says “Come quick! Follow me!” 

And so he does. It's a short ten minute walk before you cross the road and head inside an apartment building. He waits over the other side of the road. Watching at the windows until one on the third floor lights up a shade of orange and he watches a very solemn you. Pearing out the open window before shutting it. Light switches off and then  you move to what he believes is the bedroom, shedding your jacket and lying on top of your bed. 

He knows your routine by the end of the week. 

Following you to work at the little boutique, watching you through the window of some rundown coffee shop, dark roasted coffee burnt on his tongue, that's sacrifice. That's his good deed. He keeps you safe.

He’ll call your phone just to hear your little sighs, soft breathy “hello?” savouring those moments of bliss as he watches the phone press against the heat of your cheek. Your voice rings out like a good luck charm. Watching the huff of annoyance leave your lips as the phone slides down your face. ‘Cold-Caller’ you’ll think. You’ll go along with your day. No notice of who's watching. 

When lunch break rolls around you come to the coffee shop, ordering a light salad, black decaf. You take your seat outside on the bright and sunny days, pulling out books, ‘Bad Behaviour’ by Mary Gaitskill, ‘The Monk’ Matthew Gregory Lewis. Or tucked away in a big chair on the rainy ones.

You’ll trace the words with light fingers, taking your bottom lip into your mouth. One foot on the chair as the other rocks Back and Forth. 

Back and forth. 

You eat slowly, often never finishing a meal. But the coffee is always empty, it doesn't matter how bad the roast is. He thinks its pumping through your veins. 

After 30 minutes are up, you’ll pick up your stuff, and then walk back over the road, cigarette in your mouth, you tuck yourself down the alley next to the shop. Smooth clouds of smoke appear from the alley, and it's ten minutes before he spots you back in the shop window. Preening at the display. 

He’ll always spend lunch with you. Lunch break. He treasures this time with you. Soft fleeting moment, he's just feet away and you're so blissfully unaware.

He likes Saturdays  more, Saturdays finds you sprawled over the couch, a box of take out on the coffee table as you lounge about in underwear and a band shirt. Sometimes Thai food, often a cheap burger and fries. You'll eat half, the rest left in the fridge until you throw away the stale food. He’ll watch you guzzle down a glass of wine, and then watch something on tv. Something light hearted. He sees your eyes light up, giddy from the wine.

When the wine is finished, you'll stumble to the bedroom, pulling off your clothes. 

Wine makes your skin hot, he realises. 

Flushed and half naked, you pass out over the comforter, window open, blinds half shut. Lights still on. He’ll watch the way your chest lifts up and down slowly till you're asleep. 

The first time he did this he felt every nerve in his body light up with proverbial bliss.

Climbing through your window. Shutting the blinds slowly, he double checks the stove three times as he passes. When your skin has cooled and you start to shake, he drapes a thin blanket over you. He leaves two Advil and a glass of water near the coffee, just like you do. 

As another Wednesday rolls around over three months later, he's at the little support group you go to at six, just a short walk from the diner that sits halfway between your home. He decides it's time to insert himself into your life.

He hovers over the donuts with a steaming cup of black earl grey. He can smell you before he can see you. Cigarettes, Coffee and Whiskey layered over the fresh caramel smell of your perfume. Drug store. So he knows you sprayed it after your cigarette as you walked in. 

“They’re always stale, don't bother” you sigh, stirring the pack of Stevia into your coffee. 

It's the first time you've truly spoken to him, He doesn't reply. Too nervous to think. He never noticed you taking your coffee with anything.

His heart rushes. But your presence disappears. He repeats the words in his head until your voice merges into his and then he chooses a glazed donut. The sugar falls apart in his mouth, shedding like snake skin over the floor. And you’re right. The donuts are stale. And he takes to dunking them into his tea so they soften up. He wonders if that's why you order the cherry pie after this finishes.

He sits in the back row for the hour. Staring at the back of your head. Speaking is optional. And you don't make a move to stand, nor do you hang around after the hour is up. So he grabs his coat off the chair next to him and then follows behind you to the Diner. Where this routine starts, he sits at the counter this time watching you, he peers over a book he found in your apartment, some depressing little thing about memories and a library. He orders the cherry pie as well. He watches the cream melt and then takes a bite and a smile cracks into his face.

The pie is terrible. Bitter and sweet at the same time. The crust is warm, gooey but chalky from sitting under a heater all day. He wonders why you like it so much. The cream and coffee help the pie go down easier. When he turns his back to look at you again, you’re pulling your scarf and bomber jacket on. He watched nimble fingers pull out the pall malls from your coat pocket, the pack rattles and you pull out the lucky last cigarette. 

Lucky indeed. 

It takes place in the corner of your lips, and the cash is placed onto your table, a few extra quarters this time. You smile. For the first time. 

And something in his gut tells him something bad is going to happen. He watches you adjust your hat. You take a few steps before stopping in front of him. Grin on your face. You pause. And then walk away. Your posture is different. You stand straighter.

When he follows you home this time, your body sways into the music from the street, you’re almost skipping. He catches up with you fast and dashes for the building on the other side of the road, he sprints up the steps and takes his place on the rooftop, looking through the scope of his gun.

A few minutes past and the light switches on, you shed off your clothes, even your hoodie this time, and you’re wearing a tight black long sleeve that stops an inch before your baggy jeans. 

The sliver of skin gives him goosebumps, you bend down to what he thinks is your liquor cabinet. The shadow that falls over your face shows you’re still smiling. You pull out the whiskey. Glass on the counter. And you pour half a cup. His sight follows you as you shuffle towards the bathroom. 

His heart starts to pound on his chest and he's already got an inkling of what you may be up to. 

Your hand reaches the medicine cabinet and you pull out the codeine pills that have sat in there untouched for months. 

He swallows as he watches you dance towards the counter pills in hand. When you get there you reach for your phone, and then count out the pills in a neat little line. 

He’s seen you do this five times before, but never with a smile on your face, you have never danced your way into any room, nor had you skipped home. 

Usually after counting them out, you had pushed them all back into the counter, taking your head into your hands, rocking back and forth and then bringing the pills back into the bathroom, emerging with a shiny flushed face.

And so Dex watches you gather the pills into one hand and grab the glass with the other, he watches your head tip back, bringing you hand to your mouth, full of pills. 

Anyone else and he wouldn't care. But he's been stuck in this routine, for months now, he's been on the right track. He's being good, he thinks you can make him better. 

He knows he can help you. 

Help you.

Help him. 

Together.

He pulls out a hair clip of yours, dropped from your hair weeks ago, fished away into his pocket like a prize. Flinging it through the open window, where it wedges itself between the bones in your hand holding the pills. 

You let out a cry, so with taken from the impact you drop the pills, they scatter all over the floor. He watches your eyes look upwards to where the clip was thrown from, blood trickling down your hand. And then you spot him. Well his shadow. You’re sneering.

Looming over the building just over the road, he watches you approach the window slowly.

He thinks you curse at him. He sees you shout. Should’ve wired the place.

He watches you run to the bathroom, pulling out the little piece of metal. Lips wobbling, wrapping your hand in a towel, your face scrunches up. He thinks you’re going to cry. But then your body rocks back and forth like your laughing, mouth wide open. 

He wishes he could hear it.

You fall asleep in the tub, but you wake up bandaged in bed. The pills are gone. The whiskey has been drunk. 

You don't even think to ask any questions. You already know.

You know you’re being followed. Stalked, even. Mugs moved around, panties missing. Lip balms that had been placed in coffee tables bowls, are gone. Sometimes the bed is made, sometimes the washing is done or your favourite candy is sitting on the counter waiting for you when you get home.

You see his figure looming over the building every night. Always gone in the morning.

This happens for weeks, months even. You half expect him to clamber through the window when you can't sleep. Waiting for the day the door swings open.

You focus on other things, like the cute guy that's started coming to the support group. Never speaking, always sat at the back. You'll catch a glance of him at the coffee station. Never finding the words to say to him. 

Until one time, you're late. You find yourself rushing to make a coffee at the back of the hall, scalding hot water rushing out the catering urn. 

“Fuck” you shout in pain. You look behind you after a shush rings out, smiling apologetically, the speakers go back to talking. And you press your hand against the water cooler to ease the pain of your burning skin.

“Here” 

Your ears perk up, looking behind you, finding the cute guy from the Diner. He's handing you a handkerchief. You pat your hand dry of water. “Thank you” you smile towards him.

“Theres a small kitchenette that way, if you want to run your hand under water” 

You nod, taking a leap of faith. “Could you show me?”

He nods in return. You find yourself following after him, as he leads you to the cold kitchen. Slightly rundown. Mold dusts the pale yellow walls. He guides your hand over to the sink, feeling his jacket brush over your hoodie. 

You drop his handkerchief on the counter. Hes so close you can smell his cologne. He starts the tap, double checking the temperature before pushing your hand gently under the stream. You sigh, the cool water easing the pain. His hands leave yours.

“Im Dex” You smile, sharing your name in return. He speaks your name like he's tasting it on his tongue. It rings out slowly in his deep voice.

“What do you do for work, Dex?”

“I work for the FBI” 

“Oh, shit that must be hard, makes sense why your here” you scoff.

“Yeah, It’s hard. It's really hard. But I like it, I'm good at my job, I like knowing I'm protecting people, what do you do?”

“I work at some snobby boutique, it used to be a second hand shop. But the owner decided she wanted something more elevated” you roll your eyes. “ So now we sell Moroccan scarfs and beaded jewellery.”

“Doesnt look like your type of stuff” he smirks. Eyes running down your body “You seem a little edgier than that” 

Is he flirting?

“I think she kept me around, because I have the resting bitch face that scares old women to come in and buy a forty dollar plastic tote bag with ‘she who is brave is free’ written in silver ” 

You turn your hand under the tap, watching water droplets run.  His gaze follows yours. Eyebrows furrowing, “I wanted to be a writer, I-um, moved here for college, but I dropped out. Because im a~failure”

“I'm sure you're not,” he argues. You watch his eyes falter, grin fading. Jaw clenching.

“No, It's true. I never finish anything. I’ve been engaged twice and I called them off. I've tried to leave my job six times but everytime I go to hand in my resignation letter I just feel this pull to not do it. I've written four books without endings.  It's why I'm here. Because I can't go through with it, I have it all planned out and I just can't. I line up all the little pills, the exact amount I need but I just put them back in the pot.” Your head tilts forward. Hat hiding your face. “Its like every time I go to reach the finish line, I turn back.” You pause, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are restless. “ shit, sorry I shouldn't have said anything. You're probably not even trained to deal with that.”

“That sounds hard, You're not a failure. Even if you think you are. But, it seems like you're clinging on just a little. Why would you be here, if not?”

You pull your hands towards your face, water splashes up your chin. “ I just want to know if other people have it worse, does that make me a bad person?” you shake your head, removing your hands “God you're easy to talk too. Some kind of bullshit fbi technique to make me comfortable I bet”

He doesn't say anything. Instead he grabs the handkerchief of the counter, moving it towards your face, brushing the droplets of water off of your cheeks softly. You look away from his eyes shyly. 

“Do you wanna grab a coffee after this” you utter.

“Is that okay with this group?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Its a suicide prevention group. I'm not trying to thirteenth step you." You watch his face for any sign of agreement. “ It's fine we don’t have to, actually I should probably go home. I think I-um, left the oven on?” you send him a quick smile, “ and 

I don't want a fire, aha” you walk out the kitchenette shaking your head. Not bothering to finish the session. Windbiting your wet cheeks as you leave.

You find yourself praying for comfort at home, a hand on your back. A  thumb grazing your cheek. The bag of candy is left on your counter like always. You want him to break in. You just want comfort. Someone . You pray to god for someone. Bent over the counter. Watching tears run down the wood.

a/n part two shall be with your shortly, if u would like to be tagged, pls comment!

@poruchik-logy