.ᐟ𝓘𝐋𝐋𝐈˚۶ৎ

You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms. "Some idiot who's now got a red dot sight right at the centre of his forehead."

"New job?" He hummed as he sat down across from you.

You nodded. "I just don't get how people are that dumb. Do they really think that they can get away with trying to sell classified data?"

"It's idiots like him", you said, pointing at the profile image printed on the paper, "who are the ones that keep me from getting jobs that are actually fun."

"I could always join you."

Looking back, you should have told him no. You should have told him it was not worth it. That you could handle one target on your own and that you would do something together some other time. Maybe when the prospective kill count was higher.

Because one former Black Widow out on the streets is one thing; adding Dex to the equation was another. You worked well together—no, that was an insult. You worked great together. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

But in some cases, even two can be company, and before you knew it, the target had escaped and called for backup. Fifteen minutes and a pile of dead bodies later, you were crawling back into his apartment through the fire escape.

Dex clutched his stomach, and you pressed your hand over the bullet wound on your thigh.

"That file was disgustingly unupdated." You winced when you sat down, placing your free hand on the couch to help you drop to the floor.

"Who thought the bastard would have backup, huh?"

You laughed, coughing up blood in the process. "Hey, did you have fun at least?"

Dex nodded his head, a small drop of blood dripping from his temple to his cheek with the movement. "They did get a few good hits on us, though."

You lifted your hand from your thigh, opening it up and observing the red that stained all across the lines of your palm. "Nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, they're dead. We're not. We won."

That was when Dex's smile got wider, allowing that same drop of blood to slip into his mouth. That was the sweet flavour of victory. Of knowing that despite how big your own wounds were, your enemy's were greater.

His eyes had that wicked shine in them that they only ever got in moments like this. He looked entirely pleased with himself. He was now a good person, he told himself. An even better boyfriend. Because helping your girlfriend take down seven different agents is the epitome of love.

Bleeding out for you was the best gift he could give you.

Dex's hand came to your waist, adding yet another red stain to your clothes when he pulled you closer. His head dropped lower with a small wisp of hair now dyed crimson falling over his forehead.

Your own hand brushed his chin and then his cheek. Your fingerprints left marks on his skin, right where he wanted them. The carpet beneath you—which Dex usually kept squeaky clean—was now a bloodied mess.

Holding each other close like this, your breath had evened out. The adrenaline had mostly worn off, and the only thing left was the sweet aftermath. Without a second warning, Dex pulled you into a messy kiss.

It hurt him to breathe and it hurt him to move, but right then and there he didn't have it in himself to care. At all. He tasted the blood on your lips—no longer sure if it was his or yours. He couldn't have wanted you more than what he did in that very second.

There were little things more intimate than this. Your blood in his mouth meant knowing you completely, consuming you obsessively in a way only Benjamin Poindexter could. It meant having a piece of you in his system, because to him, you already were his whole horizon.

His North Star that guided him in all the wrong directions.

Eventually you had to pull away, no matter how much you wanted to merge your body with his. Your head dropped to his shoulder with a tired huff. Your tongue licked your own lips, wiping the remnant blood. Once again, Dex's eyes fell over your face. You had red stains on your cheeks and on the left corner of your lips, over your right eyebrow and under your chin.

You had never looked more beautiful, a painting he had helped to paint. The red brought more shine to the colour of your eyes, he thought. He pressed one hand to the wound on his stomach, hoping it would keep the wound from interrupting his moment.

Stitches could wait for later.

divider by @uzmacchiato