who am I kidding?

He starts paying attention to you during fights.

You’re always on-scene before him.

You don’t hit anyone in a way that matters.

You never once wear a mask. You stand in front of other vigilantes and block exclusively. No matter how hard you’re hit, no matter how many times. You use what’s around you as fodder and don’t carry any weapons. When you have a gun, it’s taken from someone else. it’s for cover. You miss every time on purpose and yell sorry when you accidentally shoot someone.

It’s almost a miracle when you make it out of confrontations without debilitating head trauma, but when you do, you stick around to ask how Dex is doing, giving him updates about your life that he doesn’t ask for but patiently sits through anyway.

He didn’t have to do much thinking after Minty’s to realize having someone to talk to feels better than being alone. So he stays. Laughs, listens. Makes up stories about things he doesn’t actually do, people he doesn’t really know or interact with, and you smile and believe him.

You’re excited for life. Always optimistic, always supportive, always touching him casually on the shoulder, on the back, grabbing his hand.

He comes to learn you do that with everyone, and doesn’t know if he should be happy you count him as safe enough to treat like everyone else, or upset that he isn’t the exception to some kind of rule.

He smiles anyway.

Touches you back.

You reward him for the effort with your continued presence in his day to day life. With your news from the real world, where he isn’t allowed to exist;

Bob, whoever that is, is apparently doing great in therapy.

There’s a new Chinese place you want to try.

You just bought a snake named Clementine.

You’ve been oil painting for years but you want to try acrylics soon.

You don’t always respond when he messages you first, but he doesn’t bring up the way his chest tightens when he checks his phone to the absence of notifications from you.

He’s being good. He doesn’t want to scare you. Doesn’t want to lose the approximation of peace the two of you have built to indulge his overzealous need to have access to the things that make him feel human.

It’s all very domestic. Comforting. until he sees a notification from a familiar name appear on your screen— one you frown at. You narrow. The wide spectrum of your happiness gone in a blink and replaced by blank space like a void around you as your fingers tap out a long message. the realization arrives that your concern and attention is temporary, and that someone could take it you from him at a moment’s notice.

It happens the morning after the second time he picks you up from the asphalt. He has a bit more respect. Bridal style instead of slinging you over his shoulder like a dead deer. You’re an integral part of his routine and his routine is sacred.

He watches intermittently as you toss and turn all night; Notices a rabbit’s foot hanging off your belt that wasn’t there last time.

He places a name brand women’s shampoo and conditioner on the lip of the bathtub that you playfully stick straight in the trash, and you walk out of his bathroom smelling of him again.

The food he ordered arrives while you dry off, so he spreads it out on his table for you with barely any room left for your elbows or his plate, which is a problem he adds to the list of improvements to make in your honor. There is actual coffee this time, the good kind, which he hands to you in a mug the same dark grey as your as your suit.

You notice the details.

He can tell you do by the way you grin into the warm ceramic as if it’s told you a secret. By the way your palm runs across the arm of the second chair he bought so you could eat together.

It isn’t much, and he can certainly afford to do better, but he doesn’t spend much time here as it is. There hadn’t been a reason to accumulate more than he could salvage from Craigslist.

Until you.

You with your dark grey suit and your easy smile and badly timed jokes that forgo the foundation of any conversation you insert them into, with your promise of enrichment that he as a caged animal desperately needs. You don’t judge him. You don’t press issues. He wants more of that. Needs it.

He’s telling you about his time in the FBI when it happens. You’re nodding along, asking relevant questions and looking him in the eyes, enthusiastic and interested as always.

You’re already two containers of lo mein deep, sounds of approval that come deep from in your chest warming his, when your screen lights up. A message from Bob.

His mood darkens along with yours, and he doesn’t get to glimpse the subject matter before the phone is in your hand, your fingers flying across the keyboard.

You mumble an apology for a response that takes too long. The silence stretches, and Dex stops eating to watch the subtle changes in your face. You don’t even notice him staring, and it makes him want to peel his skin off. He’s right there in front of you, but your focus has moved to something— someone who isn’t even in the room.

The two of you sit there with nothing but the sound of your tapping and his breathing for a few minutes. It takes a while after you set it down to fully come back to him. Your rays of sunshine spreading slowly but surely with a deep, even breath.

“Something wrong?” He asks.

You shake your head and smile. “No, it’s nothing.”

And, though he knows it’s a lie, Dex can do nothing but nod in return.

Another notification comes as soon as you finally begin eating again. Dex sees the icon on your upturned screen, and bristles. It’s a dating app. More competition for your care and patience. “Trying out the dating scene?”

“Failing at the dating scene,” you correct him, leaning to lazily check another bright little notification. He gets to read this one.

Toby: down to meet up?

“Why’s that?” He asks, mouth full, eyes down, fork scraping through the fried eggs he’d made for himself, because somehow he’s convinced that not giving the appearance of his undivided attention will make him seem softer. Easier to share with.

You go back to your own food too, visibly unbothered. And that bothers him. “I guess my standards are too high.”

The mask of indifference drops as quickly as it’s raised and Dex locks onto that like a dog on a bite-suit. without meaning to, he leans forward. His fork lowers to his plate. “What are they?”

You shrug, talking around a mouthful of broccoli. “Tall, handsome, rich, can bend a pry bar in half with his bare hands, yadda yadda.”

Dex runs through his catalogue of randomly generated responses and finds none of them are good enough. He doesn’t like the answer. It’s hollow and brittle and he can tell you didn’t take it as seriously as he’d meant it. So he inserts himself into your orbit, and is disappointed again by the reply he gets. “Guess that takes me out of the running then,”

You don’t flinch. Wheels don’t turn in your head, no blush appears on your cheeks, none of the things he’d wanted actually happen. You just move on to your next plate of food and hum. “Two out of four’s not bad.”

“Three out of four.” He says sharply, oxygen evaporating from his lungs. His palm runs over his thighs under the guise of smoothing the fabric, fingers twitching at the outline of his phone.

He could show you. He could wave the number in his bank account in your face to prove a point, have the building torn down and rebuilt however you wanted in an urgent display of wealth.

You have friends in high places, and he is one of them.

He could watch your face, barbecue pork slice hanging out of your mouth and all, go from disbelief to surprise and ask, without words, to be praised for taking care of business. For having his shit together despite its outward appearance.

I’m impressed, Dex. Good job.

He could.

He doesn’t.

“Good to know...” You say slowly. Light dimming. Volume lowering. You change the subject. “Thanks, by the way.”

It takes effort to start breathing normally again. “What for?”

Your brows pull together— earnest. “Accommodating me. I know I’m not the easiest to deal with.”

He thinks on it. If you were some kind of problem for him, he wouldn’t have told you anyway. But the idea that you might feel less than comfortable around him, even by way of guilt, settles in his stomach wrong.

“If there’s anything you need, just ask.”

You like that. He can tell.

Beside you, there is another towel and a soft set of clothes and you giggle over the gesture on your way to the open bathroom door. The light inside flickers and hums and isn’t all that bright, but it’ll do.

While the water gets hot, you check the time, send off a summary of the night before to Bucky and a sorry I never showed up last night text to tinder date.

You hope he’ll let you reschedule. You really need to get laid.

The damage to your body isn’t as bad as you expected. The side of your head was probably stripped down to your grey matter but a thick scar has knitted over the spot. it’ll be gone and your hair will grow back within a few hours.

The spray of lacerations and holes all over you will disappear in time too, so everything looks great if you ignore the inconceivable pain in your abdomen.

Doctor Paylei will be pleased when she looks you over. She might be a little pissed off that you haven’t been taking your multivitamins, but the fact that you go to her checkups at all is effort, so you don’t let that bother you.

Gold star. Participation points.

In the shower is a bar of the kind of soap that could melt the rust off an old car and you opt to use the half empty bottle of shampoo as body wash instead, humming in delight at the sound of pebbles falling from your hair to ricochet around the tub.

As a courtesy, you fish them out and throw them in the trash when you’re dried and dressed.

You check the time again and get antsy. If he doesn’t show up within ten minutes you need to leave. You can feel it.

You keep busy by going through his cupboards for anything edible and find a thousand year old can of coffee grounds.

You sigh. There’s a coffee maker, so why not.

It’s almost finished by the time he arrives.

He.

Him.

You know his real name— and you’ve tried very hard to forget it, as if dumping the memory somewhere outside of your skull would erase the man altogether, but he just keeps showing up and spreading kerosene all over the fires you start.

keeping him just Bullseye has been a good way of keeping him in the part of your mind labeled classified.

Do not touch. Do not engage.

And up until now, you haven’t done either.

That he bothered to move your body— which was essentially a corpse until an hour ago— at all is quite the conundrum, since he seemed more than satisfied to leave you where you were all those other times.

You don’t bother asking what changed. It won’t do anything but spawn more questions that you’ll let fester inside you until you can’t think about anything else.

Nonchalant has never been your strong suit.

Maiming the problems you create in your head like a rabid dog and then staring at your reflection as if you’re a monster for accidentally killing pieces of yourself is why you don’t have many friends— except for the ones who have no choice but to deal with you.

You breathe a sigh of relief every night knowing you aren’t there in person to ask Yelena if she still likes you every time you have a disagreement, or ask whether Bob would still want you to play games or see movies with you if you had met as two strangers on the street.

The answer to your questions is always yes. Of course. They like you, they really do.

They’ve gone out of their way to welcome you, feed you, put clothes on your back, but most often you still feel… hollow.

Other.

It’s good you have your own place now, really, it is!

Only, you’re lonely. And all your friends are inside the Watchtower.

So you turn your eye to that corner labeled do not touch.

You kick open the door.

And you let Benjamin Poindexter walk right into your thoughts, a free man.

His apartment isn’t much of a mess— two mugs in the sink, your bloody imprint in his bed, and your Swiss-cheese’d suit in a heap on his bathroom floor— but you still have to tear him out by the hand like tweezing a stubborn splinter out of an even more stubborn callous when he agrees to come with you to Minty’s.

You have less than an hour before your body begins to metabolize itself to continue healing you— you can feel blood sloshing freely between your intestines where it doesn’t belong, a few fragments of what you assume used to be a bullet being pushed into soft spaces that refuse to accommodate them— and he’s walking so slow.

“Have you ever been to Minty’s?” You ask to distract yourself from the pain of your muscle fibers, slowly, slowly parting to eventually spit out the jagged foreign bodies.

Poindexter speeds up when you do, matching the urgency that’s probably written all over your face as you cross the street. You still have his hand— and his grip tightens around yours so you don’t suddenly detach.

You appreciate that.

“Can’t be that different than any other diner on the block, can it?” He asks, looking both ways before leading you through another crossing so you don’t have to waste your precious brain power on a safety assessment.

You appreciate that too.

“That’s blasphemy,” you scoff, and maybe you are a little biased, having eaten here thousands of times, but no one does life-sustaining calories quite like Jordan Minty. “They have a maple bacon milkshake that’ll clog your arteries in ten seconds flat.”

He laughs and you fight the moan that wants out of your throat the moment you smell pancakes and sausages around the corner, floating like a zombie towards the door, which Poindexter rushes to open for you.

A gentleman, of course.

The place is newly remodeled, with neon lights everywhere and beautiful tables with plush red seats that you could sleep on— You wave to the counter and before you even scoot all the way into your booth, Jordan comes straight out of the kitchen with a plate of random shit and a waitress on his tail, stolen from another table but ready to take an order.

Jordan Minty has known about your… condition, for a while now. And this is just one of the many restaurants Valentina has placed on retainer for you.

As a man who gets paid thousands of dollars to feed you, he takes your wellbeing very seriously.

You rattle off a few menu items you’ve known forever and ask for a pitcher of lemonade to wash it all down before handing the metaphorical stage to Bullseye, who says he still needs time.

When they walk away, his eyes don’t trail after either of them. They fix on you.

They follow your hands as you sort through the puzzle of French fries on your plate to find a curly one, lips parting as you raise it to your mouth. They trace the curve of your neck when just a small, curious tilt stretches one side open to the sunlight.

You watch him watch you and, not for the first time since you learned who he is behind the mask, consider how good the man looks. His hair is silvering out on either side of his head, and you’d say that’s a plus— he has the neck muscles of a horse, a strong jaw with a dimpled chin and a tasteful scar cutting from his ear to his nose. You don’t need to look at his body to know he’s strong, seeing as he’s hit you once or twice, but you’ve also hit him so you aren’t in much of a position to count that against him. But the smile he gives you when you cock your head is where it’s at. His face creases at the edges, his eyes light up as he shows you his perfect teeth.

Whoever made him must have loved art, music, poetry…

You’re so deep in wonderland that when you finally feel the pieces of metal exit your abdomen and fall into your lap, you forget the man across from you isn’t a friend and almost ask if he wants to see something gross.

The eager moron in you wants to ask anyway, but the stately diplomat lays a firm hand on your shoulder and says, not yet.

Not until you know him well enough to gauge if the result will be rejection or acceptance.

You listen.

You resist.

You begin to think maybe inviting him was a mistake.

Poindexter declines the offer of an onion ring, so you eat it instead, taking his answer as a clear rejection of you as a person.

After all, why would anyone want to know you when the option not to exists?

It’s just a fucking onion ring, the diplomat snarls.

The eager moron counters; an onion ring of friendship. Offer him a fry next. Offer him a blowjo—

“Wacha thinking about?” You ask, tight lipped. Jaw tense, because his eyes still have not left you, and it’s beginning to make you nervous.

He blinks, like he was somewhere further away than you, and starts lazily scanning the menu. “You didn’t seem surprised when I walked through the door.”

You know what he wants you to say, but you’ve had too much publicity training to just blurt out the fact that you know everything about him. “I was in your apartment.”

“It could’ve been anyone’s place.”

“But it wasn’t anyone’s, it was yours.” You lean forward, folding your hands atop the table.

His mouth twitches up, and then settles back down into a thin line. “Are the Avengers keeping tabs on me?”

You frown, but just for a fraction of a second before another tense grin knifes its way across your face. “I doubt there’s a single person in the city they haven’t somehow put a tracking chip in. But that’s not why I invited you.”

“Why then?”

You pause. Both of your inner voices scream. “I like you. You make my job harder, but I like you.”

“What exactly is your job?”

You think to your tower file— the unofficial one with newspaper articles whispering about a candidate for the Avengers that didn’t work out for some reason, your medical history, recordings of mandated therapy sessions and detailed, hand-written reports of every one of your contributions to Hell’s Kitchen’s night life — all encrypted, coded, and lovingly titled Bulwark.

“Anyways. I don’t have many connections in the underground, so maybe we can exchange numbers or something. Be more organized next time we meet on the street.” You shrug.

You notice the twitch of his fingers. His hands— the ones that kill people— pull toward the edge of the table, closer to his body.

Further away from you.

“Who is there aside from me?”

People you don’t like.

People who don’t like you.

“You ask a lot of invasive questions.” Your brows raise. He’s charming, but not enough to get the information he wants without bribing you or marrying you first. “You could at least learn my favorite color or something before crawling up my ass.”

Lightning flashes across Poindexter’s handsome face, first dejection, then anger, a heavily restrained tension that sits in his shoulders. “…What’s your favorite color?”

You move your arms so the three plates of food you ordered can be slid across the table by the waitress. “Blue. Now tell me yours.”

He doesn’t look at the woman leaning over between you, or even tilt his face to glance when she asks if he’s ready to order.

He looks so uncomfortable you wave her off for his sake, stabbing into a pile of pancakes and beginning to manhandle them apart with your fork.

“…Red.” He says, swallowing when your tongue comes out to lick syrup from the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes drop to your plate again, focusing on your hands, only your hands. “I can see you’re getting frustrated.”

“I’m just…” you hear his shoes shift position under the table. “I prefer when conversations are more streamline.”

Oh, boy, do I have news for you… “Sorry. I’m not that.”

There’s a bit of silence before he seems to gather the discipline to speak again. “Do you always eat this much?”

“I can’t tell if you’re disgusted or impressed, but yes.” You say flatly. Honestly. It’s how you’ve always been. And, as always happens when someone brushes up against this particular bruise, you begin to feel embarrassed by it. By the ritual that keeps you alive. “the healing factor suffers when I don’t.”

“Those are some inconvenient logistics,”

When you groan beneath his foot, he huffs, and kneels to sling you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As far as the relationship he doesn’t have with you goes, this is a first. It isn’t the first contact because, between being crushed and burned and impaled, you always manage to ask if he’s okay right before collapsing. but he feels like leaving you where you are knowing you will almost certainly live would be a weight he doesn’t need on his conscience this time.

He drops you on his mattress, which creaks so loud you stir, propping your head up with a towel that will need to be burned the second your blood and spinal fluid dries. The blankets and sheets, too, for that matter— but that’s a problem for later.

You don’t move for hours, breaths coming shallow, eyes twitching behind the lids. It happens so slowly he doesn’t realize you’ve fully regenerated the missing piece of your skull until you flip over in his bed for the first time.

There is gravel in your hair and blood all over your clothes so he puts together an outfit that might fit and lays it beside you under another towel in case you wake while he’s gone.

He isn’t out for long, just a quick trip to grab cleaning supplies and food, since there is nothing in his fridge, but there you are when he gets back. Showered, changed, waiting for coffee made from century old grounds you found somewhere in the bowels of his narrow kitchen.

You look comfortable there. Like you belong. Instead of startling when he enters with his hands full, you place your phone face up on the chipped countertop and go to help him.

He isn’t expecting the touch, so his hand jumps back from yours like you’ve burned him, and you retreat to the wall by the window, watching him for so long he feels the need to perform under your watch. His muscles tighten up, his teeth grind. he tosses a crumpled paper bag across the space into the garbage can beside you and his synapses light up like a Christmas tree when you cheer for his shot.

You wave when he’s done putting things in their respective places, the wide cuff of his shirt slipping down your wrist. You have a tattoo there. It looks like a— “hi.” You say.

Dex takes note of your waistline, your hips, your hands. The places he would have thought to hide a weapon if he were a woman in an unfamiliar place with a man blocking the door. His shirt and sweats fall around you without resistance and once he notes all of his kitchen knives are still in the block, the set of his shoulders relaxes. “Hello.”

“I didn’t want to leave without saying thank you.” Your phone vibrates and he leans over to check it for you. “And you aren’t getting these clothes back.” You add while his head is turned.

Your screen lights up a few times in a row, enough time to see your screensaver is a selfie of you and Yelena Belova and Bucky Barnes in civilian clothes. Not a very smart move as a vigilante to carry leverage around in your pocket like that.

Dex takes his time to read off each of the messages as they move down your screen to make room for the next. Who would have thought the Avengers had a group chat.

Lena: eat something quickly before you get dead

Buck: wellness check tomorrow morning, don’t miss it

Bob: League of Legends after?

His line of vision is blocked by your palm settling over the screen, which makes him chuckle as you slide the phone back into the pocket of his sweats. “They fit you better anyway.”

You look down at yourself, smile a little, and startle at the beep of his coffee maker.

In turn, he tenses. Fast reactions in close quarters. Unknown variables. He can never be too careful. But all you do is pull one of his mugs closer to fill, then the second, and carefully turn to hand him one.

He looks down at the liquid inside. Its old and probably tastes like rubbing alcohol, but the gesture alone— the consideration, the togetherness of sharing a cup of coffee with someone who isn’t the rats that live in his walls— is enough to make him take it.

His fingers brush yours at the handle, and there go his synapses again…

There isn’t enough time for him to take a second sip before you’ve already gone through your whole mug and Dex finds himself disappointed by the missed opportunity to ask you anything, to listen to the sound of your breathing, to hear a witty comment about something; learn anything about you at all. And yet…

You have a tattoo of a plant on your wrist.

You play video games.

You go to the Watchtower for wellness checks.

You’re good friends with the Avengers.

You smell like his detergent and his three-in-one shampoo.

“Well, I’m going to get out of your hair and eat like a pig at Minty’s Diner.” You sigh, rinsing your cup but leaving it in the sink. Leftovers to remind him you were here when he decides to wash it.

You glance around, like people do when they’re cataloguing what they’ve packed before leaving home on vacation. “Can I leave my suit here? I’ll pick it up later, if that’s okay.”

More leftovers. And a promise that this won’t be his last opportunity to know you. “That’s fine.”

“Cool.” You nod, turning in one more circle that ends facing the door. Your weight shifts back and forth, and he waits, mug in hand, and takes his second sip. “Wanna come with me?”

The muscles in his neck pull too quickly. If you could see him, you might have cocked your head— if cocking your head is a thing you do. “I don’t want to impose,” he says carefully.

You spin on your heel, making a squealing sound on the linoleum. “Actually, scratch that; I want you to come.” You lean forward, smiling big. “Please come have breakfast with me? Please?”

It was a local one. That would often bring comfort to Spencer because it meant that, once it was over, he would come home sooner. Come home to you.

But this time was different. The weather on the East Coast has been, for lack of a better term, messy. Days of nonstop rain have done a number on the roads and traffic. It was something Hotch had considered when the case concluded.

"We should stay until tomorrow. We're tired, and a new storm is coming," the boss pointed out.

"It would be fair, but the hotel doesn't have rooms available for us tonight. Penelope only booked for the week," JJ reminds everyone.

It was true that, due to the new FBI policy, the hotel booking could only last five nights unless there was a prior announcement of an extension. But this time the team caught the unsub right early on day six, so the extent didn't happen.

"I can drive. It's not that bad outside. We can make it before the new storm comes," Derek assured. And even though Hotch wasn't entirely convinced, they didn't have much of a choice. It was that or spend the night in the precinct.

"Okay. Let's go then."

The team climbed into the SUV and got ready to endure the trip, leaving the Jacksonville police station behind.

"Hopefully, we can make it under two hours," Morgan announces, hitting the gas to get to the main road soon.

After fifty minutes, everything seems to be going according to plan until they start bypassing Baltimore. The rain intensifies, and traffic on the highway increases.

Hotch, in the passenger seat, checks his phone, a frown deepening on his face.

"What is it?" JJ asks from the back seat. She is in the middle, Spencer on her right, and Emily on her left.

"Some reports say traffic is getting cluttered in the middle of DC after some power shuts off," Hotch recounts.

"Great," Emily grumbles.

Spencer listens silently to the exchange between Hotch, Emily, and Derek, who insists they'll be able to reach DC in a reasonable amount of time. Spencer isn't so sure anymore, so he discreetly takes out his phone and sends you a message.

'Hey, love. We're on the road, but we don't know how long it'll take to get there. If it gets too chaotic, don't worry, I can stay in Quantico until I can go home safely. Love you.'

It's not that Spencer doesn't desperately want to get home to you, but he knows you'd worry too much if he tried to navigate the streets alone in this weather. So, for your sanity—and his physical well-being, because he is certain you'd kill him if he did otherwise—he's choosing to be cautious.

"Everything okay, Spence?"

The genius’s head snaps up when he hears JJ calling his name.

"Oh. Yes. Yeah. Fine," Spencer hurries to say, but in a quiet voice, so they don't alert the rest about their talking.

JJ's gaze flicks between Spencer and the phone he's quickly hiding in his jacket pocket.

"I was just checking the local news," he offers as an explanation. JJ hums in understanding.

"Something new?"

Spencer clears his throat. "Well, not much. The same Hotch said." To avoid a follow-up question, Spencer turns to the main conversation among Derek, Emily, and Hotch.

Would it have been easier to tell JJ the truth, just saying he was sending you a message?

Definitely.

It would have been the natural thing to do, but because no one on the team knows you exist, it is not so simple.

The thing is, Spencer Reid has been in a relationship with you for three years now, and no one at the BAU even suspects it. Moreover, eight months ago, you moved in together to a house in the DC suburbs, leaving behind the apartment where Spencer had lived since he joined the BAU.

With that in mind, it's fair to say that your relationship is pretty serious, and, according to the same Spencer, the best thing that has happened to him. So, why the secrecy?

At first, it was the novelty of everything. Neither you nor Spencer wanted to put additional pressure on it by introducing people to each other. As things progressed, Spencer's fear about something bad happening if you were exposed to that part of his world was enough to stop him from taking the step.

Yet as time went on, the fear subsided and was replaced by a desire for you to also be part of the family he'd been in since joining the FBI. Spencer felt ready. But now you're the one who wasn't sure about meeting the team. Knowing the stories your boyfriend has told you over the years, you're worried they won't find you to be the right fit for what they expect from a good partner to Spencer.

And although Spencer has assured you countless times that there's nothing to worry about, you were still having your misgivings.

Finally, a few weeks ago, when the topic came up again, you concluded it was time to do it, although you haven't yet worked out the logistics. So, for now, the secrecy must continue.

-

It takes a long time for the team to get to the White Oak crossing; it's not just the rain and traffic that make the trip hard. Now, road closures are being announced over the radio.

"It's been three hours. We’ll be here until Christmas,” Emily complains, making Derek roll his eyes.

"Once we cross Silver Spring, things will be better," JJ says, trying to keep a positive tone.

"Not quite," Spencer disagrees. "We can't go back to the 495, and even if we could, the 50 already has three closures before the river."

"What's your suggestion then, pretty boy?" An annoyed Morgan pipes from the driver's seat.

"Uh- I guess to continue to Forest Glen and then the 390 would be the safest option," Spencer offers.

"Reid is right. We should stick to this road until Forest Glen," Hotch agrees.

With every mile they move forward, traffic slows. The rain is relentless, so much so that even cell phone service is lost in certain areas. To top it all off, night begins to fall, making driving increasingly difficult.

They're indeed getting closer to DC, but from there to Quantico, which is on the other side of the district, seems like a Herculean task.

Morgan looks tired, as does the rest of the team, who are at a loss for how to pass the time.

"More than four hours and we're still stuck. I swear I'm so tired that, at this point, I'd stop anywhere for the night." Emily's words resonate with everyone, though no one comments on them until it is the same Morgan who breaks. "Okay, I admit I'm tired as hell."

“I can drive,” Hotch offers, although he seems equally drained as everyone else.

Spencer looks out the window, recognizing, amidst the rain and the foggy glass, Rock Creek Park—one of his favorite places to go with you, and one of the reasons for choosing a house in the Upper Northwest neighborhood to live.

Unwittingly, and thanks to all the detours along the way, they're only a mile from Spencer's home. That's when an idea strikes him.

Spencer discreetly pulls his phone out of his pocket again, only to find it's completely dead. He'd accidentally turned on the flashlight when he quickly put it away - after being questioned by JJ - draining the battery.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. Spencer can't text you or even see if he has any messages from you. You're probably worried sick because you haven't heard from him in hours.

To keep driving through this storm will only increase his anxiety, the team's fatigue, and - most likely - your worry.

“Uh, Morgan?” Spencer calls from the back seat. The man sighs as they reach another stop in the road.

“Pretty boy, if you are not telling me how to make this thing fly to Quantico, I don't want to hear it, okay?”

“I support that,” Emily adds.

“What is it, Reid?” Hotch asks, briefly turning to look at Spencer.

“Uh - we can stop at my house for the night. I mean, it’s close from here,” Spencer offers, knowing that the questions will start in 3... 2... 1.

“House?”

“Spence, don’t you live in Alexandria?”

“I thought you had an apartment?”

Morgan, JJ, and Emily say at the same time.

“Yes, no, and yes,” Spencer retorts. “Yes, I have a house. No, I don’t live in Alexandria anymore, and yes, I used to have an apartment.”

Why did none of them know that?

Each team member looks confused, but they are so tired right now that no one is in the mood to full questioning Spencer. The prospect of getting out of the car, stepping into a dry place to shelter from the storm, and getting some sleep is enough motivation to let slide the fact that the young doctor has been living in the suburbs without any of them knowing.

“Tell me you have a guest room,” Emily pleads, daydreaming of a bed to sleep in.

JJ has her own request, too. “And a fireplace or cozy blankets?”

“You'd better have food too, Reid.” Now is Derek‘s turn, as he listens to the grumble of his stomach.

“A coffee sounds fairly good,” Hotch quietly admits.

Smiling, Spencer knows what he has to do.

“Okay. Morgan, in the next corner, turn to the left.”

Four and a half blocks later, they park the car in a quiet street lined with big trees, giving the neighborhood a typical suburban look. In front of them, a detached house, built in a classic Tudor-style. It has a sage-green painted wood-frame front with a covered porch. People would say it’s too family-ich for a single FBI agent to live there. And without saying it, it is exactly what Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Emily are thinking as they descend from the SUV, following Spencer to the main entrance, where two black retro wall lamps with warm light illuminate each side of the solid, deep blue door.

Each team member quickly fast walk to get under the porch, sheltering from the rain.

Spencer puts his key in the lock and opens the door.

Stepping inside, they are immediately greeted by a cozy foyer.

“Such a nice place, Spence. When did you decide to get this house?” JJ asks, peeling her coat and scarf. Everyone does the same, and Spencer gets their garments and places them in the rack.

“A couple of months,” Spencer mumbles while his eyes quickly scan the room, checking if you’re in sight. He wants to at least give you a heads-up on what’s going on before the imminent introduction.

“Please, get comfortable,” he points to the living room and the large couch settled there. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Spencer is about to turn and go in your search when your voice rings in the house.

“Hon? It’s you? I didn't get any update from you, and I tried to call-”

JJ, Hotch, Emily, and Derek freeze in place as they see you appear in the room.

You don’t do better than them when you see your boyfriend and four people standing there and looking at you with a mix of shock and confusion.

“Spencer?” You ask, clearly figuring out who these people are. Unlike them, you know of their existence and have seen the photos Spencer has.

“Coming into the district, we got stuck in traffic, and the storm is getting worse, so I thought we could shelter everyone for the night,” Spencer explains nervously, feeling bad for not having the chance to warn you, and hoping you don’t get mad at him. He would understand if you do, though.

“Oh. I see,” you quietly mumble, assimilating the information as your brain goes into overdrive. You talked about this. It was a mutual agreement that it would happen. But like this?

Well, although it wasn’t the plan, what the hell? It is what it is.

At this point, after bouncing their eyes between you and Spencer for the past minute, the team has a pretty good idea who you are. Not who you really are, they don’t even know your name, but at least they suspect you’re Spencer’s partner.

Another thing they didn't know about their younger team member.

Morgan is the first to break the ice, giving Spencer a knowing look. “You won’t introduce us, pretty boy?”

You can’t help but chuckle. It has always amused you that Morgan calls Spencer like that, and although Spencer says it annoys him, you know it's quite the opposite.

With a pink tinting his cheek, Spencer reaches for your hand. It's something you both need right now, so you quickly rush to take his.

Once you both lace fingers, side by side, a smile creeps on both your faces. Spencer clears his throat and looks at his friends

“Eh, guys? It's not how we pictured doing this, but I guess it was time,” Spencer chuckles before explaining who you are to everyone.

And while the team is still surprised by the news, they greet you warmly, happy to meet you, which is quite a relief, you think.

“It was time? How long have you been together?” Emily asks after the introductions.

“Three years.”

After hearing that, the four’s mouths go slack.

“What?!” Derek exclaims. “Three years? And we never knew?!”

“Actually, it is three years, one month, two weeks, and four days,” Spencer corrects. Morgan huffs.

“It doesn't change my question, Reid.”

“What a bunch of shity profilers we are,” Emily laughs. Across Hotch’s usually serious demeanor, a slight smirk appears. He knew, or at least, he suspected. And for all means, he is happy for Spencer.

“We’re sorry for the intrusion in your home at this hour,” Hotch apologizes.

“Oh, no. Please, don’t. I’m glad Spencer’s IQ paid off and offered you guys to stop here for the night,” you hurry to reply. Spencer’s head turns to you, a ‘what the hell’ expression on his face. Everyone laughs.

“I like you already,” Morgan snorts.

Seeing that they're all still standing in the living room, you invite them to make themselves comfortable.

“I assume you must be hungry. I'll go heat something.” You excuse yourself and go to the kitchen, Spencer trailing behind.

"Hey," he calls once you’re alone. You turn to look at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Sorry for not telling you we were coming, but my phone battery died."

You nod in understanding. “That’s why you didn't answer my texts. It makes sense. I was worried, though.”

You're not usually the type to make a fuss or overthink things when Spencer doesn't reply to your calls or texts, but you have to admit you were worried this time. The good news is Spencer is home safe and sound, and his friends are too.

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I invited them over. It would have taken us hours to get to Quantico.”

“Good thinking, baby.”

“Are you not mad?” Spencer asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Why would I? We agreed this should happen eventually. I’m glad you don’t have to hide me anymore,” you shrug, now moving around the kitchen as you heat some food and make more for your guests. “Something is bothering me, though.” The prephasing surprises Spencer, who quickly snaps his head up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Breaking your serious demeanor, a chuckle leaves your lips. “You haven’t greeted me properly,” you accuse, pouting. Spencer grins, relieved that you’re messing with him and not actually upset.

“Oh yeah? My bad. I’m so sorry, love.”

Two strides and Spencer is in front of you, hands on your hips, turning you to face him. Happy with the closeness, his hands cup your cheeks, and he leans to kiss your lips.

It’s soft, tender, yet it takes your breath away, like Spencer’s kisses always do.

“Hi,” you whisper after you part from the kiss. Spencer’s grin is so broad that you can’t help but mimic him.

“Hi, baby. I missed you.” Spencer’s arms fly to your waist, and your arms around his neck.

“I missed you, too. I’m happy you’re home now,” you confess, lovingly carding his hair.

Spencer sighs in contentment. “I’m glad to be home.”

The sudden laughs coming from your living room pop the bubble you’re in.

“We have guests,” you remind your boyfriend, who doesn't bother moving his hands away from your waist.

“Yeah, I know.”

You cock your head in amusement, and Spencer smiles. After pecking your lips for good measure, reluctantly, he pulls away.

After a while, you both come back again, with plates and drinks. Settling everything at the diner table, you call the team to join.

The rain keeps mercilessly falling outside, but that doesn't stop your impromptu dinner from being filled with laughter, stories, and good wine.

The crackling fire warms the room, while Emily, JJ, Morgan, and even Hotch attack you with questions to learn more about you and your life with Spencer. Your boyfriend watches, mesmerized, as you become completely at ease around the team, joking and laughing. If he ever had any doubts about how they would see this part of his life, he no longer needs to worry. And if he ever had doubts about how you would feel around them, he doesn't have to worry about that now, either.

From time to time, you and Spencer exchange knowing glances, both of you with smiles stretching on your faces. The team notices, of course, they do, and while they don't say anything about it, all four are proud to see Spencer so happy.

Once the food is gone, along with several glasses of wine and cups of coffee, everyone is feeling the fatigue from the day. It's time for bed.

Fortunately for everyone, the house has two extra rooms, furnished with beds and futons.

As good hosts, you and Spencer help your guests settle in for the night. And after tidying the kitchen and turning off the lights, you both finally head to your bedroom.

“It's a good thing I haven't gotten rid of the futon from my old apartment yet," you comment as you put on your pajamas while Spencer finishes brushing his teeth. “Good thing I haven't filled that room with more books yet,” he points out, heading to the dresser to get his own pajamas.

“It was only a matter of time,” you reply, sliding under the covers.

Spencer laughs softly as he changes, then turns off the lamp on his nightstand, casting the room in the dim glow of the rain-blurred streetlight through the curtains.

“You think they’ll behave tomorrow?” you ask as he climbs into bed beside you.

“Define behave,” Spencer mutters, pulling the blanket over himself. “Because if your definition includes Derek not making at least three dirty jokes before breakfast, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

You snort. “Zero expectations, then.”

“Smart.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the rain still drumming steadily against the window. Spencer shifts to his side, facing you. In the low light, you can make out the exhaustion on his face — the kind that goes beyond a long drive and a tough case — and yet, something else is there too. Something lighter.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“Welcome home.”

Spencer reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at your jaw.

“I’m sorry it happened like this,” he murmurs. “We had plans.”

“We had vague intentions,” you correct gently. “There’s a difference. And honestly?” You glance toward the hallway, where muffled voices — most likely Emily and JJ having one last conversation before sleep — can faintly be heard. “I think this was better. No build-up, no rehearsed introductions. Just us. The way things actually are.”

Spencer’s quiet for a moment, studying you with that particular look he has. Like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid to lose.

“I love you,” he says, simply, like it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“I know,” you reply, and before he can protest for your anti-romantic reply, you add, “I love you too.”

Spencer smiles and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You settle against his chest, listening to the rain and the occasional distant creak of the house.

Somewhere down the hall, a door clicks shut.

“Spencer?”

“Mm?”

“If Morgan calls you pretty boy again at my breakfast table tomorrow, I’m never letting you live it down.”

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh.

you find the letter on the kitchen counter.

you almost miss it — it's tucked under the fruit bowl, official letterhead face-down, the way dex had clearly placed it hoping you wouldn't notice for as long as possible. the companion agency's logo in the corner. your name typed neatly.

review period concluding. renewal or contract termination to be confirmed by—

you look up.

dex is standing in the hallway.

he's been there a while, you think. watching you read it. his green eyes fixed on your face with that unblinking intensity, tracking every microexpression, and his ears are doing the flat-but-trying-not-to-look-flat thing that means he's been anxious about this for longer than he's let on.

"when did this arrive," you say.

"four days ago." no hesitation. no apology.

"dex—"

"i wasn't ready for you to see it." his tail curls tight against his leg. "i needed more time before you—" he stops. jaw working. "before you decided."

the word decided sits in the room between you.

"come sit down," you say.

"i'd rather stand."

"dex."

he comes and sits. perches, really, on the very edge of the couch cushion, spine straight, hands braced on his knees. every line of him wound tight. this is the least comfortable you have ever seen him in this apartment — in the space he'd claimed as his with such absolute certainty — and something about that makes your chest ache badly.

"it's a formality," you start. "the renewal is just—"

"don't." his voice is very controlled. "don't tell me it's a formality before you've told me what you're going to do. i can't—" a breath. "don't be kind before. it'll make it worse."

you look at him properly.

his eyes are too bright. his ears completely flat. he's holding himself very still the way he does when he's trying hard not to do something his body wants to — nuzzle into you, or press his face to your neck and just breathe until the world makes sense again.

"what are you afraid of," you ask softly.

something cracks, slightly, in his composure.

"they'll reassign me," he says. "that's what happens if you don't renew. they'll send someone to collect my bag and put me with someone else and i'll have to learn a different apartment and different routines and—" his hands press harder into his knees. "they won't be you. and i won't know where you are."

"dex—"

"i folded your laundry," he says, and the non-sequitur lands like something desperate. "i know how you take your tea and i know which mug you want on bad days and i know you need ten minutes alone when you get home before you're ready to talk and i know—" his voice drops. "i know the sound you make when you're finally relaxed. i've been learning you. every single day. and you can't—" he exhales hard. "you can't just send that somewhere else."

the room is very quiet.

"i'm not sending anything anywhere," you say.

he looks up.

"i'm renewing. i was always going to renew, dex. i just hadn't gotten around to—"

he's across the room before you finish the sentence.

not graceful about it — nothing like his usual fluid deliberate movement. just suddenly there, on his knees in front of the couch, face buried in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist with the desperation of someone who has spent four days holding a fear at arm's length and has just been allowed to put it down.

his ears come all the way up.

you put your hand in his hair, find the spot behind his ear, and scratch slowly.

the purr that comes out of him is immediate and completely involuntary and very, very relieved.

"you should have shown me the letter," you say.

"i know." muffled. utterly unbothered by the undignified position he's currently in.

"four days, dex."

"i was catastrophising. i do that." a pause. "you knew that when you kept me."

when you kept me. like he's something you chose. something you'd do again.

"yeah," you say quietly. "i did."

his arms tighten. the purring deepens.

outside, ordinary saturday sounds. inside, just this — dex slowly unknotting himself from four days of private terror, and you holding the back of his head, and the enormous simple relief of a creature who has just learned he gets to stay.

"i'm not going anywhere," he mumbles into your lap.

"i know."

"i mean it. i'll be very difficult to get rid of."

"i'm aware."

"i'll hide my bag."

"dex."

"i'll learn to forge your signature on the non-renewal form."

"dex."

he tilts his head up. green eyes, bright and warm and terrifyingly fond, looking up at you from your lap like you are the only fixed point in his entire world.

"thank you," he says. simply. quietly. the most unguarded you've ever heard him.

you look down at him — this ridiculous, needy, fiercely devoted creature who knows your bad-day mug and has spent four days quietly panicking rather than just ask you — and feel something in your chest settle into place with the finality of something that was always going to end up here.

"you're welcome," you say. "now get up off the floor."

"in a minute."

he stays there for considerably longer than a minute.

his breath warms your thighs through your pants, steady now but laced with soft whines that vibrate against your core. the purring rumbles deeper, a constant hum as his nose nudges higher, inhaling your scent like it's his lifeline. fingers clutch your hips, pulling you closer, his tongue darting out to lick tentatively at the fabric over your pussy.

you shift, parting your legs wider, and he takes it as permission—desperate, eager. 'let me taste you,' he whimpers, voice muffled, green eyes pleading up at you. his hands tremble as they unbutton your pants, yanking them down with your underwear in one frantic tug, exposing your slick folds. cool air hits your wetness, but his hot mouth follows instantly, lips sealing around your clit, sucking with starving pulls.

a sharp moan escapes you, hand fisting his hair tighter, scratching that spot behind his ear. he keens, high and needy, the sound turning into a growl as his tongue plunges deep into your pussy, lapping at your juices like he's dying of thirst. slurping noises fill the room, wet and obscene, mixed with his whines—'please, need this, need you'—gasped between long licks that drag from your entrance to your swollen nub.

his ears flick forward, tail thumping against the floor in rhythm with his bobbing head. he devours you, nose grinding your clit while his tongue fucks in and out, curling to hit that ridge inside. your thighs quake, clamping his head, but he pushes deeper, fingers spreading your ass cheeks to lick lower, rimming your hole with filthy swipes before sucking your pussy lips into his mouth.

'good boy,' you murmur, and he shudders violently, purring so hard it buzzes your clit. precum leaks from his cock, tenting his pants, but he ignores it, focused only on your pleasure. two fingers thrust inside you, thick and curling, pumping fast while his lips lock on your clit, teeth grazing just enough to spark fire. squelching sounds echo as he fingerfucks you, your arousal dripping down his chin, soaking his shirt.

you buck against his face, chasing the build, and he whines louder, desperate slurps turning frantic. 'cum on my tongue, please, i'll do anything,' he begs, voice breaking, eyes locked on yours—pure devotion shining through tears of effort. the pressure snaps, orgasm crashing over you, pussy clenching his fingers as you flood his mouth. he drinks it all, moaning like it's nectar, tongue scooping every drop while you ride out the waves on his face.

panting, you pull him up by the hair, his lips glistening, green eyes wild with want. 'now fuck me,' you command, and he scrambles to obey, shedding clothes in a blur. his cock springs free—thick, veined, tip weeping—slapping against his belly. you straddle him, grinding your wet pussy along his length, slick folds coating him as he bucks up, moaning your name. 'fuck me like you own me,' he begs, fingers digging into your hips. you sink down, impaling yourself on his cock, walls stretching tight around his girth. he thrusts up hard, pounding deep, balls slapping your ass with every brutal drive.

you both cry out, his whine pitching high as your walls grip him tight. he pounds into you on the couch, hips snapping with bruising force, balls smacking your ass. his mouth latches onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak while his hand slides between you, thumb circling your clit. pleasure spikes, your juices dripping down his shaft as you ride him faster, breasts bouncing.

the couch creaks under you, skin slapping loud, his purrs mixing with guttural grunts and your gasps. sweat beads on his forehead, ears pinned back in ecstasy now. you rake nails down his back, and he yelps, thrusting wilder, chasing your pleasure over his own. 'make me cum again,' you demand, and he angles his hips, grinding your clit with his pelvis while his cock batters deep.

'you're mine,' you gasp, clenching around him, milking his cock. he flips you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head, slamming in deeper, cockhead battering your cervix.

'yours, always yours,' he sobs, leaning down to kiss you messily, sharing your taste. his hand finds your breast, pinching the nipple hard, twisting as he ruts deeper, cock dragging your g-spot with every plunge.

second orgasm builds fast, his whines frantic—'yes, yes, take it'—as you shatter, milking him ruthlessly. he follows seconds later, roaring your name, hot cum erupting in thick ropes, painting your insides white. he keeps pumping through it, oversensitive thrusts drawing whimpers from him, until he's spent, collapsing half on you, cock softening inside.

the earrings were the final touch. you turned in front of the mirror, smoothing down the front of your slinky, red dress, and decided it was good enough. better than good enough, actually. you looked nice.

behind you, in the reflection, dex leaned in the doorway of your bedroom. he'd been there for six minutes, you'd been counting. his sharp and unblinking green eyes track your every movement with the particular focus of a cat watching something it had already decided belonged to it — hadn't moved from you once. his tail was doing that thing where it went completely, unnaturally still, which was somehow worse than when it lashed.

"you're not going," he said.

wame voice he'd used when he introduced himself on your doorstep — smooth, slightly accented, the kind of voice that felt like it was curling around you. except right now it had an edge underneath it that he was working very hard to keep buried.

"dex." you kept your eyes on the mirror. "we talked about this."

"you talked." he pushed off the doorframe, padding into your room on bare feet — silent, the way he always was, the way that still caught you off guard sometimes. "i was present for a conversation i didn't agree to participate in."

"that's not—"

"he's wrong for you."

you turned around. he was closer than he'd looked in the reflection, hovering just inside your space, and the expression on his face made your chest do something complicated. his black ears were flat. not the playful flat he did when he was whining about dinner, or the soft flat when he had his head in your lap on the couch. this was different. tighter. the ears of something genuinely distressed.

"you've never met him," you said.

"i know everything i need to." his tail flicked once, sharp. "he's taking you somewhere that isn't here. that's enough."

"dex—"

"am i not enough?"

the question came out raw — rawer than he'd meant it to, you could tell by the way his jaw went tight immediately after, like he was angry at himself for letting it out that way. his green eyes had gone wide. that particular wide that made your heart do terrible things.

"that's not what this is about," you said carefully.

"then what is it about." not a question. his hands had found the hem of his t-shirt, a nervous gesture he'd never fully shed — fingers worrying at the fabric, claws just barely catching. "i'm here. i do everything. i make your dinners and i fold your clothes and i—" a muscle in his jaw jumped. "i know you. better than some stranger with a nice face could ever—"

"dex." you stepped toward him. "stop."

he stopped. mouth closing. ears still flat.

"come here."

he didn't move for a moment — stubborn, wounded pride warring visibly with the thing he couldn't help being — and then he crossed the remaining distance between you in two steps and sat on the edge of your bed, heavily, like his legs had just decided they were done with the performance.

he put his head in his hands.

"you'll forget about me," he said, muffled. miserable. absolutely wretched in the way only dex could manage, all that sharp feline composure dissolving into something devastatingly soft. "if you find someone. you'll move him in, or you'll move out, and i'll just be — i'll just—"

"dex." you sat beside him. "look at me."

he didn't.

"dex."

slowly, like it cost him, he lifted his head.

you reached up and found the spot — the one just behind his left ear, at the base, where the fur was softest and where absolutely nothing in the world could stop his body from betraying him. you scratched, slow and deliberate.

he went completely still.

the breath left him in a long, shuddering exhale. his ear pressed into your palm, involuntary, helpless, the way it always did no matter how much dignity he was trying to maintain. his tail, which had been rigid, uncurled slightly.

"you are not going to lose me," you said quietly. "one date does not change what you are to me. you understand? this is still your home. you are still my dex."

a long silence. his eyes had closed. the crease between his brows softened.

"...i don't like him," he muttered.

"you don't know him."

"i don't like that you want to." his ear twitched under your fingers. "i don't like the way you said his name when you told me about him. you smiled. you do a specific smile when you're excited about something and you did it about him and i—" he stopped. swallowed. "i didn't like it."

something in your chest ached quietly.

"dex," you said.

"don't." he turned his face away. "don't say it like that."

"i'm not saying anything."

"you're thinking it." he could always tell. it was deeply inconvenient. "you're thinking that i'm being — that it's not my place to—" his tail curled in against his leg. "i know what i am. i know what this arrangement is. i just." a pause. very small. "i don't want him to have what's mine."

the room was quiet.

you kept scratching, slow circles, until the last of the tension drained from him — until his shoulders dropped and his breathing evened and he was just sitting there beside you, warm and sullen and real, radiating reluctant calm.

"fine," he said at last. the word of a man surrendering a battle he'd already lost. he stood abruptly, turning away, and smoothed his shirt down with great dignity. "go. have your date." the word landed like something slightly spoiled. "i'll be here. suffering."

"i know you will."

"i want you to think about that."

"i'll think about it the whole time."

he glanced back at you over his shoulder — green eyes catching the light, sharp and soft at once — and then he walked out. you heard the couch receive him. heard the pointed, performative silence of a creature making absolutely certain you understood the scale of his sacrifice.

you picked up your bag.

you went on your date.

the door clicks shut behind you and you just — stand there for a moment. 

shoes still on. bag still slung heavy over your shoulder. the particular exhaustion of an evening spent performing okayness weighs across your shoulders like lead, pulling at every muscle. you'd known it within the first twenty minutes — his laugh cutting sharp over your words, dismissing them before they could land. that 'joke' about women and ambition, eyes flicking to yours with a challenge masked as charm, waiting for you to bristle or bite back. the endless grind of smiling through it all, nodding at stories that looped back to him, giving chances you'd already burned through because you'd slipped into that slinky red dress, earrings glinting just so, hoping — god, just once — for easy connection. 

for someone to see you without the performance. it wasn't easy. far from it.

then the end: his face flattening into petulance when you sidestepped his lean-in, lips pursing like a child denied a toy. eyes turning cold, confirming the knot in your gut had been right all along — two hours of red flags waving in your face.

you sigh. long and hollow, dragging up from deep in your chest, rattling loose the tension knotted there. you bend to wrestle off your heels — and dex is there. soundless as always on bare feet padding from the hallway, lean frame materializing like shadow given form. his sharp green eyes sweep your face, unblinking, that feline intensity reading every micro-twitch, every sag in your posture. those soft black ears twitch forward slowly from his messy dark hair, tail stilling mid-sway behind him. he reads you now, deep as bone. 

"what happened," he says, voice low and smooth with that faint accent curling the edges, not 'how was it' or 'home early' — straight to the hurt, because his therapy companion instincts sniff it out like blood in water. 

"i'm fine," you murmur, the automatic lie slipping out, throat tight around it. dex crosses the room in three fluid strides, tail tip flicking once before coiling loose. he reaches first for your bag, lifting the strap from your shoulder, easing the weight without rush, setting it precise by the door. then he crouches, long fingers wrapping your ankle steady, sliding off one heel, then the other. he handles them with that obsessive care — thumbs brushing faint dirt from the soles, lining them neat beside the bag like artifacts.

standing tall again, his green gaze locks back on yours, ears perking hopeful yet wary. "what happened," quieter now, laced with that whiny edge he gets when worry gnaws him. something lodges sharp in your throat. 

"he was—" you falter, swallow hard. "it was boring at first. then worse. talked over me, made these... comments. like testing if i'd snap. and at the end, when i didn't kiss him goodbye, he just—" your hand gestures vague, limp, capturing the pettiness without voicing it. "i'm fine. just tired. emotionally wrung out."

his ears flatten a fraction, tail lashing once sharp before he reins it. jaw sets firm, that underlying predator gleam flashing in his eyes — the part beyond the whines and nuzzles, the reminder he's built for protection too. 

"come here," he murmurs, arms opening wide. you don't hesitate. step into him, folding against his lean chest, and dex envelops you completely — one arm banding solid across your back, the other cradling your head to tuck your face into his shirt. no gradual testing tonight, no playful encroachment; just total, immediate surround. his heart thuds steady under your cheek, tail curling possessive around the back of your knee, furred tip stroking soothing circles.

"i know," he whispers into your hair, breath warm, voice cracking soft. a beat of quiet. "i folded all the laundry while you were gone. all of it. even the fitted sheet." 

"the fitted sheet," you echo, muffled against him, a faint huff escaping. "perfectly. first try." his tail tightens playful at your knee. "i'm very impressive when i'm anxious. paced the place, ears pinned back, tail thrashing holes in the rug almost. but it's done. everything crisp, scents mixed with mine now — so you smell me everywhere. safe."

the laugh bubbles up real this time, small and ragged, cracking the exhaustion. it shifts the weight — doesn't vanish it, but spreads it thin across his hold, making it bearable. dex rumbles then, low in his chest: that involuntary purr kicking to life, vibrating through you like a engine warming slow. he catches himself sometimes, ears flicking embarrassed, but tonight? he lets it roll free, deep and steady, chasing your tension away.

you melt deeper into him, fingers threading his messy hair, scratching light behind those sensitive ears. he keens soft — a whiny hitch in his throat — body trembling faint as he nuzzles your temple, claws tipping out just enough to knead gentle rhythms down your spine through the dress. "no one gets to make you perform," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping husky. "not like that. you're mine to care for. mine to make feel good." 

his hands slide lower, palms cupping your ass firm, kneading the flesh as he grinds slow against you — cock hardening thick through his pants, pressing insistent into your belly. the purr deepens, tail snaking up to tease under your skirt, fur tickling inner thighs. "let me erase him," dex breathes, teeth grazing your neck light, not marking yet but promising. "fuck the tired out of you. fill you till you only feel me." 

he spins you gently, backs you to the wall without breaking hold, mouth claiming yours in a deep, languid kiss — tongue stroking slow, tasting your weariness away. claws hook your dress straps, tugging them down to bare your tits, cool air pebbling nipples before his palms cover them, thumbs circling firm. you arch, whimpering into his mouth, and he whines back — needy, obsessive — free hand dipping between thighs to stroke your cunt through panties, fingers pressing soaked fabric right where you ache. 

"wet already," he groans, tail thrashing excited. "for me. always." he yanks panties aside, two fingers sliding deep into your cunt, curling precise to stroke that inner spot, thumb rolling your clit steady. his mouth drops to your neck.

"you smell like him," he whines, voice cracking with raw need, his mouth latches on, sucking hard, teeth grazing as he pulls deep purple hickeys into your skin—marks that scream ownership. one after another, from your pulse point to your collarbone, blooming like violent flowers. his lips roam everywhere, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulders, sloppy and frantic. "never leave again. Please.. you're mine. only mine." 

"am i better?" he pleads, lifting his head, eyes wild and vulnerable. "tell me i'm better than that fucker." he couldnt handle his anxious, pretty owner liking someone better than him. 

you meet his gaze, the exhaustion melting under his intensity. “you’re better in every way dex, no one compares to you. you’d never be annoyed if i didn’t kiss you goodnight." 

dex's ears twitch, a scowl twisting his face, low growl rumbling. 'how dare that fucker. annoyed you wouldn't kiss him? he doesn't deserve to breathe your air. i’ll kill him.’

you sigh into his mouth, lips parting, and kiss him deep—tongue tangling with his. he yips in bliss, tail uncurling to lash wildly, but dominance surges. he’s gentle as he takes your dress over, slipping it over your head as he lifts your bra up to latch fangs on your nipple, sucking hard enough to bruise. 'good girl. only kiss me. only me.'

 he drops to his knees suddenly, claws shredding panties aside with a riiiip, face burying between thighs. tongue laps flat over your clit, then plunges into your cunt alongside fingers — lapping your taste like he was starved, faint stubble rubbing against your skin, nose bumping your clit as he whines, "so wet for me. taste so fucking good. better than anything." his tail coils your leg high, holding you open as he sucks your clit hard, teeth grazing light, humming purrs vibrating straight through. his tongue plunges sloppily into your pussy—lapping broad, messy strokes, fangs grazing folds, slurping your arousal like starving. 

"dex— fuck—" you gasp, hips bucking, hands fisting his hair in your grip.

"cum on my tongue," he begs muffled, slurping louder, face soaked glistening. "drown me. show me you need this." fingers pump faster, scissoring stretch, tongue flicking clit rapid. you shatter — thighs quake clamping his head, cunt pulsing floods over his mouth. dex drinks it down, groaning whiny, not stopping till you sag limp. 

then he's up, pants shoved down, cock springing free — long, thick, veined, tip glistening. he lifts you easy, legs wrapping his waist, large, warm hands supporting your ass as he notches and thrusts home slow, stretching your spasming walls inch by inch. 

"fuck," he hisses, bottoming deep, forehead to yours. hips roll languid at first, grinding deep circles, letting you adjust, feel every ridge drag your insides. his mouth finds your tits — sucking one nipple deep, teeth nipping, tongue flicking — while claws prick harmless your hips, holding steady. then his hips are snapping sharp, plap-plap-plap echoing. he growls, spinning to the couch, sitting heavy with you straddling face-to-face. hands bruising your hips, guiding each bounce, cock spearing up ruthlessly. 

you ride hard, grinding down, clit rubbing his base grind-grind. "harder," he pleads whiny, hands spanking your ass. "fuck yourself on my cock. tell me i'm better. beg for my cum."

"better— so much— please, dex, fill me," you whimper, walls clenching vise.

he snarls, thrusting up savage, one hand slapping so hard he leaves a red handprint. you cum again, screaming, cunt spasming floods around him. he doesn't stop — flips you prone on the couch suddenly, mounting from behind, his knees spread wide, cock plunging deeper with each thwack, a pleasant burn created by his balls smacking your clit.

"mine," he whines broken, pounding relentlessly, fingers drawing messy, sloppy circles on your clit. "cum again. again. forget him." round after round — you shatter a third time, fourth, body wrecked shaking, overstimulated sobs mixing moans. dex bites down on your nape, all possessive as he whines and cries soft sobs into your ear. 

you’re too far gone to hear a word. 

"gonna breed you," he begs, hips stuttering. "fill this cunt full. leak me days. never want another." hot jets erupt deep — pulsing, grinding to push every rope in. cum squelches out a squirt with each thrust, but he keeps fucking through it, chasing your fifth orgasm, sixth — till vision whites, mind going soft and blank with the heavy weight of dex pressed into your back, his cum filling you up. 

spent and boneless, you slump, legs and cunt twitching, breaths ragged. you can vaguely feel dex petting your hair softly, kissing your temple as he grinds to push every pulse in. he trembles, purring broken through his release, nuzzling your marked neck as cum starts leaking slow down your thighs, once both of your heartrates settle, his cock slips free. 

you'd heard about therapy animals changing lives, but nothing prepared you for the day the adoption agency delivered your new companion. the doorbell rang on a rainy afternoon, and there he was—not a fluffy kitten in a carrier, but a tall, lean man with subtle feline features: soft black ears twitching atop his messy dark hair, a long tail swishing behind him, and sharp green eyes that locked onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

'benjamin poindexter,' he introduced himself in a smooth, slightly accented voice, his tail curling around his leg as he stepped inside, carrying a small duffel bag. 'but call me dex. i'm here to help with your anxiety. think of me as your personal therapy companion—grown-up edition.'

at first, it was surreal. dex adapted quickly to your apartment, his demi-human nature blending domestic helpfulness with an endearing whininess. he'd pad around on bare feet, ears perking up at every sound, insisting on folding your laundry with meticulous care. 'let me do that for you,' he'd purr, his tail brushing your calf as he took the basket from your hands, his lithe muscles flexing under his simple t-shirt. when you cooked, he'd hover in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with surprising precision—'i don't want you stressing over dinner,' he'd whine softly if you tried to help, his ears flattening in plea. evenings found him curled on the couch beside you, head resting on your lap, purring vibrations rumbling through his chest to soothe your frayed nerves after a long day.

but dex's desperation to please went deeper, a needy edge to his affection that made your pulse quicken. he'd nuzzle your neck during movie nights, his warm breath tickling your skin, whispering, 'am i doing good? tell me i'm helping.' his hands would linger on your thighs, claws retracted but fingertips tracing light patterns that sent shivers up your spine. you noticed how his pants tented sometimes when he was close, his cock straining against the fabric, but he'd always pull back with a whine, ears drooping. 'sorry, i just... i want to make you feel better. all the way.'

the first real test came a week in, during one of your worst anxiety attacks. work had piled up, deadlines looming like storm clouds, and suddenly you were hyperventilating on the bedroom floor, chest tight, vision blurring. dex appeared instantly, his tail lashing in concern as he knelt beside you.

'hey, hey, breathe with me,' he cooed, his voice a soft whine laced with urgency. he gathered you into his arms, strong yet gentle, his purr starting low and building until it vibrated against your back. but when the panic didn't ebb, he shifted, his ears twitching as he pressed closer, one hand stroking your hair while the other rested on your hip.

'this always works for my kind,' dex murmured, his green eyes wide and pleading. 'when we get overwhelmed, we... we connect deeply. physically. it grounds us, releases the tension.' you blinked through tears, confusion mixing with the fog in your mind. he nuzzled your ear, tail wrapping around your waist. 'please, let me show you. just sit on me—cockwarm me. feel me inside you, warm and still. it'll calm the storm in your head, i promise.' his whine turned desperate, body trembling against yours. 'i need to help you. let me be useful.'

hesitant but desperate for relief, you nodded, and dex's face lit up, ears perking straight. he guided you to the bed, stripping off his shirt to reveal a toned chest dusted with faint dark hair, his tail flicking excitedly. 'i'll take care of everything,' he assured, unbuttoning your jeans with careful claws, sliding them down your legs along with your panties. cool air hit your exposed cunt, already slick from the intimacy of his touch, and dex inhaled sharply, his cock twitching visibly in his pants. he shimmied out of them next, his thick length springing free—veined and curved slightly, the tip already beading with pre-cum.

'lie back,' he whined, positioning himself on the mattress, cock standing rigid against his stomach. you straddled him slowly, heart still racing but curiosity overriding fear. dex gripped your hips, guiding you down until the head of his cock nudged your entrance. 'easy, just sink onto me,' he breathed, his voice breaking into a needy mewl as you lowered yourself. inch by inch, he filled you, stretching your walls with his girth, the heat of him pulsing inside your cunt. you gasped at the fullness, bottoming out with his cock buried to the hilt, your clit grinding against his base.

'oh fuck, yes,' dex groaned, tail thrashing wildly, but he held still as promised, hands roaming your sides in soothing strokes. 'feel that? i'm all yours. warm, deep—holding your anxiety away.' his purr intensified, a deep rumble that traveled through his cock into your core, making your inner muscles clench around him involuntarily. the sensation was electric, a grounding pressure that slowly unraveled the knot in your chest. you rocked experimentally, not thrusting, just settling deeper, and dex whimpered, claws lightly pricking your skin without breaking it. 'don't move too much yet... i wanna stay like this, pleasing you.'

minutes stretched into what felt like hours, your breathing syncing with his purrs. the panic faded, replaced by a hazy warmth spreading from where you were joined. dex's desperation shone in his eyes, whiny pleas slipping out: 'am i helping? tell me it's working—your cunt feels so good gripping me.' emboldened, you began to shift, grinding your hips in slow circles, his cock dragging against your sensitive spots. he bucked once, a whine escaping, but reined himself in, letting you control the pace. 'use me, please. i'm your therapy—fuck, you're soaking me.'

as the anxiety dissolved into arousal, you rode him harder, lifting and dropping onto his shaft, the wet sounds of your cunt swallowing his cock filling the room. dex's tail coiled around your thigh, pulling you closer, his ears flattening in ecstasy. 'harder, let it all out on me,' he begged, thrusting up to meet you now, balls slapping against your ass with each plunge. you clenched around him, chasing the building orgasm, and he cried out as his control snapped. 'gonna fill you, mark you as mine to calm you anytime.'

he came with a shudder, hot spurts of cum flooding your cunt, the sensation tipping you over the edge. you cried out, walls milking him dry as waves of release crashed through you, anxiety utterly vanquished. dex held you close afterward, still buried inside, purring contentedly. 'see? i told you. anytime you need it, just cockwarm me—or more. i'm here to please, to fuck the worry away.'

from then on, dex's role evolved. mornings started with him waking you by lapping at your cunt with his rough tongue, whining until you came on his face. he'd clean the house naked, tail high, cock half-hard and ready if you so much as sighed in stress. evenings were for deeper sessions: he'd tie his tail around your wrist like a leash, begging to bend you over the counter and pound your cunt while you folded clothes, his whines turning to growls of possession. 'let me fill you up my love—it's better than any pill.' he'd hilt himself in your cunt, thrusting slow and deep, claws digging into your hips as he filled you with cum, leaving you plugged with him purring in afterglow.

one night, after a particularly brutal day, dex sensed your building tension from across the room. 'come here, let me fix it,' he whined, dropping to his knees and crawling to you, ears low in submission. he nuzzled your thighs apart, burying his face in your cunt, tongue delving into your folds to suckle your clit. 'taste so sweet when you're stressed—gonna eat this cunt until you forget everything.' his mouth worked relentlessly, fangs grazing your clit as he finger-fucked you, curling his fingers to hit that spot until you squirted on his chin, his tail wagging like a pleased dog's.

but cockwarming became your ritual. during panic spirals, he'd strip you gently, positioning you in his lap on the couch, sliding his throbbing cock into your cunt—whichever way you craved the intimacy. 'just sit, feel me throb inside,' he'd murmur, hands massaging your breasts, pinching nipples until you moaned. sometimes he'd stay soft at first, growing hard within your heat, the slow swell adding to the intimacy. other times, he'd beg to move: 'please, ride me—use my cock to chase the bad thoughts away.' you'd bounce on him, mewling with soft moans while his whines spurred you on until he came, pumping load after load as your orgasms synced.

dex's helpfulness extended to every kink you discovered. he'd beg to be your footstool while you worked, cock leaking pre-cum onto the floor, whining for a reward fuck. or he'd pin you playfully, tail tickling your sides, before flipping you to eat your cunt, tongue delving deep while his fingers plunged alongside. 'i live to serve you—let me make you cum so hard you sleep like a kitten.' his desperation never waned; if you ignored him, he'd paw at your door, mewling until you let him in to worship your body.

She does turn the knob to test it. She does crack it open slightly to check if it's actually real.

I miss riding horses, I miss running fast.

But she doesn't walk through it.

She closes it and goes back to bed, fighting the overwhelming urge to sprint. She had to keep being smart. She already made it so far; The cuffs are off, the door is unlocked.

I was meant for running fast.

She just has to wait a little longer, to gain more of his trust. It wasn't just opportunity but timing. But balancing the two is more anxiety inducing then she could quantify.

Because biology didn't agree with rationality. Her baser instincts are a torment; Her mind plays the snippet of a song over and over like scratched vinyl.

I want to jump into blue waters.

I miss riding horses, I miss running fast.

I miss riding horses, I miss running fast.

You don't miss shit. You like him, don't you?

She winces at the thought, closing her eyes and frowning hard like that could push it out of her head.

No. No no no no no.

Stockholm syndrome isn't real, it's just some debunked disorder from the 70s that men used to gloss over domestic abuse.

It's not real.

She was being smart, she was calculating. This isn't acceptance, this isn't submission.

I don't fucking like him, I don't.

I won't hurt you, Y/N.

I need my fucking meds.

She had to stay in control of herself or else she'd go insane.

So she gave herself a deadline; she'd walk out that door after ten days. It's wasn't an exact plan but it was something to focus on, to look forward to.

Ten days.

That's all she had to wait.

But then...

Then

Only two days later, Poindexter said something that got under her skin like a flesh-eating scarab.

"I didn't expect this." He mutters tenderly. What he meant by 'this' is left unexplained. "But it's good. It's proof I did the right thing."

His expression was so disgustingly gentle as he said it, all before closing the basement door and leaving it unlocked yet again.

I didn't expect this.

The words echo in her mind over and over because what the fuck did he mean by that? Was he saying he expected more of a fight? Did he basically call her pliant? Submissive?

It's proof I did the right thing.

She shouldn't get angry. She acted that way intentionally, to fool him into letting his guard down. But hearing it like that still felt like a slap on the face.

I won't hurt you, Y/N.

I miss riding horses, I miss running fast.

I'll never hurt you.

I was meant for running fast.

We can't escape who we are.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up

You like him

I fucking hate him

He's softer than anyone has ever been to you

He tells me everyday about how he enjoys killing people

He likes you; it's been months and he's been so soft

Everything is soft, except when it isn't

He looks at you like he wants you to break him

I wanna kill him

You have no one else out there

I want my life back

You have nothing out there. Nothing

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" She yells at herself, needing her brain to stop. She clutches her head, trying not to hyperventilate.

She expects him to come running, to burst through the door in worry, to check on her with that obsessive look he gets and question why she screamed.

But he never comes.

Him not being there within thirty seconds is a heavier weight than the unlocked door.

He doesn't come. Which means...

He must be out working.

Oh...

"Fuck this. I'm done."

A/N: Hope you guys are enjoying it, things are about to get interesting :) Next part is coming out sunday. As always, comments and reblogs are immensely appreciated

Before the target can beg or bargain, another blade lodges itself into his neck. The target tries to breathe, choking on blood, muscles contracting painfully against sharp edges.

Bullseye closes the distance, ripping the blade out before using it to stab the target.

Again

And again

And again

And then a few more times, even after the target stops moving.

Breathing heavily, Y/N sits back and peels the mask off.

Despite the mess she made, she still checks if he's alive before looking back at Dex, who's leaning against a wall farther behind.

"Was that good?" She asks.

He has that signature smile wide across his face.

Y/N wakes up with an exhale so sharp she chokes on her own saliva. She sits up, coughing, trying to force her brain to recalibrate to reality.

"Perfect."

.

The familiarity of the basement walls isn't comforting per se, but it's a better focal point than the fragments of the dream playing over her mind.

"You were having a nightmare." Dex speaks, laying on the other side of the bed.

She glances at him for a second, then nods in agreement; there's no point in lying with how well he's learned to read her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head before letting her eyes linger on him for longer. He's always at a distance, like it's his weird version of 'respectable' despite the entire kidnapping situation.

"How long have you...?" She doesn't finish the sentence but he understands.

How long have you been watching me sleep?

"Maybe two, three hours?" He estimates.

"...Why do you do it? Doesn't it get boring after a while?"

"Never." He says, before clearing his throat and trying to use a more human tone that doesn't come naturally to him. "It's good to see you rest. It's... calming."

For once, his words don't make her skin crawl. That concerns her; the idea that she's getting used to this.

They watch each other in silence for a while.

Dex looks like he wants to touch her so bad. But he abstains.

"Lay back down." He whispers.

She doesn't know why she indulges. Her head sinks back onto her pillow and a strange calmness washes over.

I'm just tired, she tells herself. I need my meds.

"...you said there had to be honesty between us." She starts. "And I need you to be honest when I ask you this: Are you planning on keeping me here forever? Or will you... kill me eventually?"

"Then what's your endgame?"

"No." He says firmly, like he wants to drill it into her skull. "This isn't permanent. And I told you I wouldn't hurt you."

He falls into silence.

His hand lifts from the mattress, reaching towards her. But he gives up on trying to touch halfway through.

"You'll know soon."

She entertains the idea, daydreams about the blood gushing out of his carotid artery, about him on his knees, spitting out blood as he tries to beg her to save him.

It would make a pretty picture.

"You've been quiet lately." Dex's voice breaks though her thoughts.

She blinks, trying to figure what he was saying before she zoned out.

"Just tired." She rasps before clearing her throat. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

Dex sighs, as if trying to maintain his patience.

"Last night, the job was harder than usual." He restarts. "But the challenge felt good. They had this guy; built like a navy seal. I couldn't take him out from a distance so we ended up grappling-"

"Dex." She interrupts, knowing where this is going. But he doesn't stop.

"He was good, real good. And I know I usually get a thrill from the job but this was different-"

"Dex, please." She speaks a bit louder, tone firm but expression apologetic. She doesn't want to get on his nerves but she also doesn't want to hear details of yet another kill. "Can we... can we talk about something else?"

His jaw clenches, like he doesn't want to budge, like he needs her to listen.

"...Why?" She can't help but ask. "Why? Why do you keep telling me these things?"

"Honesty." He sits a bit closer. "We- we need to be honest if this is going to work."

"... if what is going to work?"

He doesn't answer the question, he just repeats. "It's about honesty."

"Honesty..." she echoes the word back.

She doesn't know what the hell to do with that, with anything. She just wants to leave, to feel the sun on her skin, to use the cuffs on her wrists choke the fucking life out of him and-

"Ask me something." Dex proposes. "Anything you want. I'll be honest."

She takes a shuddering breath, trying not to spiral. A part of her is relieved at the prospect of control over the conversation, another part gets anxious because none of the questions she has are questions she wants answered.

But what else is there to do except ask?

"How long were you watching me before you brought me here?"

"A few months. You know, I was proud of you. Of your instincts." He smiles. "I'd watch you from a distance, buildings away using a scope, and somehow you could always feel it. I saw the way you got tense, looked around trying to find me." His smile falls for a second. "I'm sorry I got you all paranoid, I didn't want you stressed like that. But I had to watch over you."

She wants to rip her fucking hair out.

What else was she expecting?

Her eyes water but she doesn't let the tears fall. She doesn't ask anything else either, not when she wants to break out of her skin everytime he talks.

His expression turns into something almost... sad? Desperate? Like he wasn't expecting her to close off so soon.

"Tell me something about yourself." He tries instead.

"You already know everything about me." She holds herself back from outright calling him a stalker.

"I can ask you questions then?"

She doesn't entertain the idea. She just wants to breathe outside air, to rip grass out of the dirt, to hear him scream as she tortures him-

"If you answer a few questions... I'll take the cuffs off."

Her mind immediately comes to a halt, clearing up from any homicidal ideations and fully grounding in the present.

She looks at him in disbelief.

"I'm serious." He assures before he launches the first question a bit too quickly. "Have you thought about it? About killing someone?"

Of course that's the question he asks.

"No." She lies.

"No? Not even me?" His tone, soft and tentative, make her breath catch in her throat.

There's a look in his face she can't decipher.

"Answer."

"Dex-" she starts before he interrupts.

"If you had to kill me right now, how would you do it?" He leans in, his breathing a hint faster than normal.

Silence stretches. His expression grows eager, so she gives in. 

"... knife." She whispers.

The corner of his mouth tugs into a soft smirk.

"Why a knife?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head.

"You have to explain if you want out of those cuffs." He pressures with a taunting tone.

"I- I don't know! Okay!? I don't- I don't know, I guess... it's poetic?" She tries her best to come up with an explanation. "You live by the sword, you die by the sword."

There's a moment of silence.

His smile widens.

Then he's too close, reaching for her.

She can barely process that the cuffs are peeled off, unable to comprehend that he's actually giving her the slightest piece of freedom.

It can't be. It's too good to be true.

She doesn't attack him, doesn't bolt for the basement exit. She just stares at him, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

"A knife then. Tell me more."

Since the beginning of her captivity, she's stayed compliant.

She doesn't struggle against the cuffs, doesn't scream or cry or beg.

She can see the intrigue in his eyes but they both know her calmness is deliberate. Not submission but strategy, trying to find the right time to escape without getting killed in the process.

He doesn't call her out on it, just keeps the same routine as always. Going out, working, coming back to her with food and a story.

On a particular night, he sits at his designated spot on the edge of the bed.

"Hungry?" He smiles her way, trying to hide the exhaustion of his latest gig. "I didn't have time to cook for you tonight but I brought takeout."

She nods in agreement, not saying anything aloud, just waiting for him to start describing what his latest kill felt like, for the weight of the knowledge to fall on her shoulders.

When he finally speaks, there's something... vulnerable in his voice.

But tonight, he defies expectation, breaks routine. He sits in silence, eyes downwards as if deep in thought.

"... There was someone once, you know?" He starts, wanting to speak but struggling. "Back then, I... I resisted the urge to do something like this." his eyes dart around the basement in reference before falling back down. "My hesitation was a mistake. And it got her killed."

His words hang in the air for a while, slowly sinking into her pores.

His gaze rise to meet hers when he speaks again.

"I- I never thought I would want to be close with anyone else after that. But..." it's difficult to find words, so he repeats what he's said over and over before. "I won't let you get hurt. I'll keep you safe here."

"I'm not a replacement for your dead girlfriend." The sharp words leave her before she can hold her tongue, making him wince at the idea.

"No- it wasn't like that, and you're not a replacement-" He tries to explain.

"Then what?" She cuts him off, the control she'd cradled so carefully for weeks now slipping away.

Something in his demeanor shifts.

He leans in, voice rough for the first time since her capture.

"What do you even have out there in the world, hm?" He asks, tone calculated and cruel. "Your friends, your coworkers, they're all a fucking joke, a bunch of people who don't give a shit."

He stands up, towering over her, voice raising.

"You're surrounded by people but nobody sees you, nobody cares enough to want to see you. And even if they tried, when has anyone ever understood what they were seeing? Huh?" He prompts.

She wants to answer, but nothing leaves her mouth.

"You think I don't see the emptiness in your eyes?" His voice drops before he grabs her chin roughly. "You think I didn't see how that life feels like a burden to you? People like you, like us, we will never be happy with that. It's torture, trying to be content, to fit into their definition of normal. And all for what? To be invisible? To be abandoned? You have nothing out there. Nothing."

He lets go of her chin, taking a few steps back, trying to catch his breath.

"We can't escape who we are." He says lastly before turning his back.

The basement door closes and locks.

She knew she wasn't immune to violence and the randomness of it, but she'd promised herself she'd never be a deer in headlights if danger ever decided to pay her a visit.

So she kept on living a normal life, watching for any threats that may follow, yet lucky enough to never be the victim of anything.

It was a mundane life.

Work, bills, sleep, repeat.

The normalcy of it was bleak, but it was the best she could afford to ask for. So she pretended like living through it didn't make her feel hollow.

Maybe it was the obvious hollowness that attracted a danger she never accounted for.

She expected danger from petty thieves to corrupt cops working for Fisk to men who didn't particularly care for consent.

She never added to the equation the type of man that would go from FBI to vigilante to hitman.

She never accounted for a man like Bullseye.

It had been months now of increasing paranoia and constant all-nighters.

She couldn't explain it without looking crazy, but she felt eyes on her at all times. There was never any sign, any evidence to justify what she felt.

No shadows following her, no eyes in the dark, nothing that helped her understand why she felt watched.

Yet some base animal instinct had been triggered, something that urged her to stay alert and ready, like a wildcat expecting a fight.

But on a particular evening, stress and exhaustion caught up to her, making her crash into deep sleep.

She awakes in the middle of the night, groggy, eyes slowly blinking awake.

All before every hair on her body raises.

Something is... deeply wrong.

Hesitantly, she turns her head.

And finds a shadow standing at the end of her bed.

She doesn't breathe for five seconds flat.

Her hand bolts to the drawer

And the gun...

is not there.

She never felt like prey before.

Not until this moment.

you’re on your back and at his mercy in record timing. all it took was some tossing you around until you met your mattress with a soft sound. your dress is discarded, thrown to the floor along with your lacy panties and the delicate bra that matches. he’s careful not to tear anything no matter how badly he wants to let those urges take control for a brief moment. you can’t see that side of him yet.

the side you can see, however, is how attentive he can be while he has you folded up under him. while you’re gasping and whimpering and his hands are tucked under your knees, keeping your thighs spread wide and your pretty cunt on display for when he finally sinks in. you gasp in sync, and benjamin swears he’s never been closer to true salvation.

he wishes you both weren’t so desperate for it. he wishes he could take the time to press his face between your legs, kissing and sucking on your sensitive clit in earnest until you’re hiccuping for him to stop. he’s thought about it countless times, both on his own and while watching you play with yourself through your frilly curtains. whether it was your clumsy fingers rubbing yourself stupid or a pillow you decided to hump on, he’s seen it all. he’s thought about it all. and much like you, he’s thought about how no amount of finger fucking yourself to thoughts of him after your little dates could have prepared you to take him.

“look at that. y’did so good, angel girl— even after all that whining and crying,” he croons, running a rough hand down the length of your tummy as if he can feel himself under your tender flesh. he presses, just enough to make you gasp once more and whine. you can feel him right there, like weight of him is resting in your stomach. his gaze finally trails upwards, he breaks it away from where his cock pushes inside your soft, messy cunt and meets your dazed eyes instead. “but i think she wants more, huh? wants to be stuffed real good, yeah?”

he knows you don’t have the strength to respond fully. broken pleas and feverish nodding is all you can manage before he coos down at you and allows his hands to slip to the backs of your thighs. he feels your dewy skin as his fingers sink in for leverage, he rears his hips back before they twitch forward and chase after the silky, heated vice that your sweet pussy seems to be. yeah, he picked the perfect girl.