⚖️🦯

You reread the headline with a sense of detachment, only really noting that the caption says he used his teeth as projectiles to escape. You almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, but the reality of the situation stifled any real amusement.

You put your phone away, rubbing your temples before attempting to move on with your day.

The keyword being “attempting.”

It feels as though it had been ages since you last saw him, mostly because it has been. While it was true that it had been years, and you should’ve moved on long ago, the reality was more complicated.

No matter how much you tried to differentiate them, Dex and Bullseye, you could never entirely let go of him, any version of him. You didn’t dare to scroll back too far in your photos, and you couldn’t bring yourself to delete them. It was a twisted longing you held for a time that was long gone.

So maybe saying you’ve “moved on” is a bit of a stretch, but you haven’t actively sought him out. Part of you fears that he may look at you like a stranger, and you don’t know if your heart can take that.

So, as a result, you've kept your distance.

You didn’t try to visit him, but you thought about it. After hearing of the incident with Fisk and Daredevil, the real Daredevil, you wanted to.

You wanted to check on him the second it happened. You wanted to ask him what he had been thinking.

However, you never got the opportunity.

Sure, you had loved him. You had loved him so much that somehow his name still lingers on your tongue despite the fact he no longer knows yours.

But he killed so many people, so many good people. You did not know all of the intricate details of his life; you still don’t. Sometimes you wonder if carries guilt for those he wronged, or if he can even remember them. You certainly did. You could barely bring yourself to look Seema in the eye after he killed Ray.

You mourned Dex, yes, but you felt awful about it. The people who knew your history with him never directly asked, but you could see the question in their eyes. How? How did you love somebody like that?

It was so easy back then, back when he loved you. You wanted to believe it wasn’t all fake. You aren’t sure if it’s possible for somebody to pretend to love a person the way he loved you.

Being realistic though? You have no idea. You never got that closure, and it’s too late to get it. You can’t delude yourself into thinking that Dex loved you without faults or even understand the true scope of his adoration.

It was painful, so, so painful. It was an agonizing ache that you could never find a remedy for. The only remedy was him, but he couldn’t be both the solution and the problem.

Years have gone by and you still haven’t seen him in person. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the blurry photos that you so rarely get to see. Now, they’re more common, courtesy of his time as Bullseye. However back then, he wasn’t making headlines inside a prison cell.

You exhale, grabbing your keys before exiting your apartment. You lock the door behind you apathetically, staring blankly through the door knob.

Ever since he killed Foggy Nelson, he had been haunting you, metaphorically speaking, of course. You went from not hearing a peep from him (not that he’d contact you anyway) to hearing him kill at least a dozen people in a single night.

You miss the peace his silence brought.

Him killing Foggy reminded you of that pain his presence brings, and after his recent failed attempt on Fisk?

You might have to block the word “Bullseye” from your phone.

Sad thing is, for a split second you found yourself rooting for him. You loathe him for what he’s done, but if he had succeeded in killing Fisk?

Well, that death certainly wouldn’t be on your conscience.

You're thrown out of your thoughts by your phone vibrating. Checking the caller ID, you frown at the unfamiliar number. Clearing your throat, you answer the call.

“Hello?” You greet cautiously.

“Hi.” A woman responds, her voice is unfamiliar. She confirms your identity, simply asking your name.

Hesitantly you nod, “Yes.” You sound more confident than you feel, “May I ask who this is?”

She releases an exhale, “I… We haven’t met. I believe you met Matt recently, right?”

You nod slowly, “That's correct.” You shift uncomfortably. You weren’t sure if it was a good sign that one of Matt’s friends is calling you.

After all, the circumstances you met him were… less than ideal.

“I’m Karen. I’m a friend of his.” She introduces. You nod slowly, and the name sounds familiar. Matt talked about her briefly, back when explaining his history with Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

“He has mentioned you.” You stop walking. “Is everything okay?” You frown.

Karen is silent for a moment. “You see the news last night?”

You inhale sharply, not caring if it was audible. Would Matt tell her about your past relation with Bullseye? You don’t think he would with strangers, but you aren’t sure with Karen. “With Fisk?” Your mouth feels dry.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “yeah, did you hear about Matt?”

You get the sense that something is wrong. “No… I didn’t—” you swallow, “I never read the article. I just saw the headlines.” You grimace.

“Oh,” Karen doesn’t sound surprised, only fueling your theory that Matt told her your history with Bullseye. “Well, he was there that night, at the gala.” She begins, and you feel your stomach churn in anticipation.

“Shit, is he okay?” Just your luck for Matt and Bullseye to both be trouble.

“He’s alright now.” Karen reassured you, “But last night he was the one who took the bullet meant for Fisk.” She sounds (reasonably) upset about this.

Your jaw drops slightly, and you take a moment to recompose yourself before speaking again. You had assumed that something must have happened for Bullseye to miss his target. “He what? Why would he do that?”

There’s a few things you know about Matt. One of which is his longstanding history with Fisk, not to mention, his hatred of Bullseye. You two are similar in that regard. Thus, it begs the question of why the hell he’d not only let Bullseye shoot him, but save Fisk.

“I…” Karen seems to be thinking about the right thing to say. “You’d have to ask him that yourself. Part of me wants to ask him too.” She huffs softly.

You hum, “Yeah,” you reply lamely, “I can’t imagine why he’d do something like that.”

“It’s Matt.” She replies, as if that’s enough of an explanation.

The two of you are silent for a moment, and you wait for the inevitable change in topic. You know where this is going. You know Karen was friends with Foggy, so it makes sense she has questions about you.

“I was wondering if we could meet, later tonight maybe? If you’re available.” She asks, and she sounds friendly enough. You imagine the invasive questions will come later.

“Sure.” You reply dryly, “You have a place in mind?”

“Yeah, I can text you the address.” She sounds just as enthusiastic as you do. “I…” She starts slowly, “I’m sorry about all of this.”

You shake your head, offering a small smile she cannot see, “It isn’t your fault.”

She remains silent for a beat, “Well, I’ll see you later then,” she says your name. You bid her goodbye before hanging up. You slowly put your phone away, taking a deep breath.

Matt has always had an interest in your history with Bullseye. He never pushed you, but you could see that he wanted to. You don’t blame him, after all, Bullseye killed his best friend.

It only makes sense that Karen would share that curiosity. You don’t blame her either, but you are so tired of being tied to him.

You walk into the diner just across the street from your building. You weren’t planning on getting breakfast, but after the sequence of events of the past hour?

It’s probably a good idea to prepare for the day.

You frown, looking at the boarded up windows of the address Karen gave you. It reads "Josie’s" in bolded letters. You haven’t been there yourself, but you knew of it. It’s where Foggy died.

You never really knew much about Foggy. Matt doesn't like to talk about him much. The only time he ever talked about him, he told you that Foggy would've liked you. He didn't elaborate as to why, and you didn't want to push him. He never mentioned it again.

You look around the building to see if anybody is nearby, and jump slightly when the door swings open. You stare at the woman for a moment, and you recognize her. You look each other up and down appraisingly. Her stare is less judgmental, and more asserting, as if trying to see whether you’re a threat.

“Hello,” you smile disarmingly, “Karen, was it?”

She attempts to mirror your smile, “Yeah,” she steps aside for you to enter. You watch as she closes and locks the door behind you.

She goes to take a seat at the bar. You follow slowly, still standing. The two of you don’t talk for a moment. “I’m assuming you’ve talked with Matt?” You begin the conversation. You won’t be the one to bring him up.

She huffs, “Not as much.” She sounds bitter about it. You nod slowly, taking the seat next to her. You both stare blankly ahead. “I… I had a couple questions I was hoping you could answer.” She begins.

You look to her, and she seems apologetic, but not enough to stop. You nod slowly, “I figured.” You tap your fingers idly. “If it’s about Bullseye. I really don't know anything.”

She furrows her brows in disbelief, “Nothing?” She turns to face you, “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.” Her words weren’t unkind, just honest.

You look at her for a moment before taking a deep breath. “I haven’t known him for years.” You tell her. “Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”

She is silent at that, and it almost feels pitiful. She waits a minute before asking her next question, “When was the last time you saw him?”

You scoff, “I… I don’t know. That night Fisk got married maybe?” You look to her, “I haven’t exactly wanted to see him.”

She seems to understand that, nodding slowly, “Well, I can’t say I blame you.”

You smile wryly, not having a response for that.

“Has he attempted to contact you in the past? After he went to prison?” She asks, leaning closer to you.

You chuckle, “No,” you shake your head, “he won’t.”

She narrows her eyes, frowning, “How can you be so sure?”

You blink at her, and her intrigue is obvious. You haven’t even told Matt why Bullseye will never contact you. He just knows that you are oddly certain that he never will. It’s not that you like hiding it. It’s simply not something you bring up or find joy in discussing. It hurts less that way.

“He doesn’t know who I am.” You reveal. Karen stares at you, silently prompting you to continue. “After that night, I think during their fight Fisk slammed his head into a wall… or something like that.” You shrug, crossing your arms.

“I was informed he had some type of amnesia. He doesn’t know who I am.” You lean against the counter, a spark of wry amusement shoots through you seeing Karen’s astonished expression. “It’s not the worst ending I could’ve gotten, I suppose. I could be dead.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Karen holds her hands up, “he forgot you? Everything about you?”

You purse your lips, “I guess. I think he forgot some others too. I’m not sure who. They didn’t really let me ask too many questions.” You clench your jaw.

“Do you think there’s a possibility he does remember you?” She asks hesitantly.

You chuckle, “I… I really don’t know. They said there was a possibility that he’d remember over time, but not to count on it. He hasn’t ever looked for me, so I’d say that the chances are pretty slim at this point.”

Karen takes time to process your answer, and you prop your elbow on the table to lean on. “I am sorry you went through that.” Her words are spoken carefully.

You give her a small smile, “It is what it is. It’s probably for the best. I’m not exactly his biggest fan, and I know you aren’t either.”

She lets out a humorless huff at your comment, “That’s one way to put it.”

Your smile falls, “I’m sorry too. I know he has caused… irreparable damage.”

She nods slowly, “It’s not your fault.” She gives you a grateful yet resolute smile.

You aren’t sure how to respond to that, so you settle for a nod. Neither of you are “okay” with anything that has occurred, but you have each learned to accept the circumstances.

“Did Matt tell you?” You ask.

She tilts her head slightly, “Which part?”

“My…” you nod to her slightly, “My history with...” You trail off. The words are barely audible, but you know she heard them.

She purses her lips, something akin to guilt filling her eyes, “Something like that…” She says, and she doesn’t elaborate.

You hum noncommittally, “I figured. I don’t blame him for that.” You swallow, “You think that he’d tell anybody else?” You look towards her dubiously.

She sits up straighter, “No, no. Matt wouldn’t do that.” She vehemently shakes her head. “I may not always understand the choices he makes, but I know he wouldn’t reveal something that personal with other people.”

You nod slowly.

As if sensing your disbelief, she tacks on another statement: “He wouldn’t reveal anything that could put you in danger.”

You give her a weak smile. “You talk to him yet?”

She shakes her head, “Not yet.” She pauses for a moment, “Probably later though. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”

You chuckle, “You and me both.”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, and it’s less awkward than the initial introduction. You find yourself relaxing a bit. “Do you think he could remember?”

Karen frowns contemplatively at the question, “Maybe." She doesn’t sound hopeful at the prospect. “Do you want him to?”

You chuckle, “Maybe once.”

“But not anymore?” She prompts softly.

You shake your head, “No,” you match her softness, “not anymore.”

You felt lighter after talking with Karen.

It was… nice. Something about the way that she handled the whole ordeal made you think that, on some level, she understood. She didn’t hate Bullseye any less, but she understood your pain.

The two of you agreed to meet more often, and not due to your mutual friend getting shot by your ex-boyfriend.

The weeks continued on as expected, and slowly dragged into months. As time went on, Fisk began to take more drastic action to “help make New York safer.” You scoffed each time that man made a new headline.

The ones that truly interested you were the vigilante headlines. The Anti Vigilante Task Force continued to see a lot of push back from heroes like Daredevil. Occasionally, you saw that even the Punisher and Spider-Man would aid in the fight against them.

The vigilantes were a strange topic for you.

Working in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as you have, you’ve developed a fondness for its resident hero. You haven’t encountered him before, but Karen has told you about him.

You harbor substantial respect for him. You had followed him briefly in his earlier days, and held a passing interest. However, you never researched him thoroughly.

Not until Dex, at least.

You had only found out after the whole ordeal that he had been masquerading as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.

Somebody who had followed more closely might’ve realized that something was wrong when “Daredevil” started murdering people. You thought your lifestyle to be so distant from the chaos back then that you hadn’t truly thought about it.

After all, it’s not like your (at the time) boyfriend going around killing people in Daredevil’s suit sounds like a reasonable conclusion. Absurd didn’t even begin to describe it.

After the whole Dex situation, you had done more research. Now, you’d even dare to say that you’re a fan of Daredevil, the real one.

So meeting him in person is both exciting and terrifying.

“Hi.” You greet lamely, frozen in your spot staring at Daredevil himself standing in your apartment. “Is… there something you need?” You feel your heart sink at the idea that he may think you are still connected to Dex. You desperately hope that’s not why he’s here.

“No,” his voice sounds rough, and you can’t tell if it’s intentional for his identity, or if he normally sounds like that. “I came to check on you.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “On… me.” You slowly point to yourself.

“Yeah,” Daredevil sounds vaguely amused, like he’s in on a joke you’re not. He doesn’t smile though.

“Is this something I should be worried about?” You sigh.

“Just keep an eye out.” Daredevil continues, not helping you at all.

“Are we talking police? Task force? General criminals?” You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at Daredevil. You feel your heart start to speed up.

“The first two most likely.” He responds.

Your lips part, surprised, “I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not doing anything vigilante-like.”

“They don’t care about that.” Daredevil shakes his head.

“Then what about me do they care about?” You ask incredulously.

Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You know Murdock?”

Your blink, surprised, “I… Yeah, but I haven’t seen much of him recently.”

Daredevils looks at you expectantly, “They might come for you to get to him.”

“I don't know where he is though.”

“That doesn’t matter to them.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, “Do you know where he is?” You ask, and you can tell Daredevil didn’t expect that question. “You— I don’t know if it would be better for me to know where he is, but if you know, could you tell me whether he is okay?”

Daredevil stares at you, and you see his sharp posture soften ever so slightly. “He’s alright.”

You give Daredevil a small smile, “That’s good… What about Karen too? I imagine you paid her a visit as well.”

Daredevil lips twitch minutely as if you said something humorous, “She’s doing well.”

“Good.” You nod, “If you see them again, could you tell them I’m available if they need help and wish them well?”

Daredevil nods slowly, pacing around your apartment. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” he stops before your window, “but if you ever feel that something is off, call Murdock, he can contact me.”

Good to know that Matt has Daredevil on speed dial, as crazy as that sounds.

“I will, thanks Daredevil.” You smile at the vigilante. He offers another nod to you.

“And for the future,” he grabs the sill, “you might want to lock your windows.” He smirks, lightly tapping the glass, and leaping out before you get the chance to respond.

You are left standing in your apartment excited, terrified, and confused in that order. It’s not every day a vigilante pays you a visit in your home, so the rush of excitement is expected.

Then comes the dread.

As cool as Daredevil is, him paying your apartment is a bad omen. What could you possibly do against the police? Call Daredevil and pray that he finds you before you get stuffed into one of their tanks and “vanish under mysterious circumstances?”

The confusion is more akin to general shock than anything. How does Daredevil know where you live? How does Matt know Daredevil? Did Matt tell Daredevil to go look for you?

All of these are questions won’t get answered, at least not anytime soon.

You debated contacting Matt to ask what just happened, but ultimately settled for a single text.

Please don’t die.

He doesn't instantly respond, but you don’t expect that from him. You walk over to the window Daredevil exited through, locking it.

Perhaps it’s best to listen to the vigilantes advice.

Outside of locking your window (thanks to Daredevil), your routine didn’t change. Sure, your paranoia may have spiked through the roof, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead.

It was only a few days later when you almost called Matt for the first time. In fact, you had half-hysterically wondered if Daredevil truly was a bad omen and you were cursed.

You had gone to your normal coffee shop before heading off to work. The same coffee shop you’ve gone to for nearly a decade now. You had changed nothing in that routine. Stepping inside, you smile at the barista who greeted you by name and confirmed your regular order.

It was, by all accounts, an average morning.

And right now with New York’s current condition? Average was perfect. You had stepped aside to wait for your order, scrolling to see the recent news. A few task force busts, nothing to write home about. When they called your name, you walked up, thanking the barista before turning around to leave, taking a slow sip of your drink.

Then you froze.

You wish time had frozen or slowed down like in the movies because you needed at least one minute to process what you are seeing. Your drink went forgotten in your hand as you openly stare at Bullseye walking into the coffee shop.

Against your will, you note his appearance. He looks good, something you begrudgingly admit. He isn’t in his suit, but you can practically see a danger warning over his head. Noting the scar on his face, you find yourself unable to look away for what feels like an eternity but what is realistically less than ten seconds.

Dex had always been observant though.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyes meets yours.

You think your heart may combust from the sheer speed it pounds against your ribcage. He doesn’t outwardly react when he looks at you. There’s no softening in his eyes. His posture remains casual, but not in a friendly way. His face remains unchanged.

In his eyes, you’re just another stranger who might’ve recognized him as Bullseye.

It’s that realization that allows you to tear your eyes away from him; the action feels long and laborious.

You don’t immediately fumble for your phone. Part of you wants the reassurance that somebody could protect you if Bullseye decided that you looked at him the wrong way. You can only imagine how he interpreted your stare.

With measured steps, you make your way to exit the shop. The glaring issue being that you need to pass him to do so. You make a deliberate point to not make eye contact.

As you get closer, you realize with a horrifying twist in your gut that he is still looking at you. Not directly, but in the same way you’re still looking at him. It’s more of an awareness of his surroundings rather than blatantly staring. He looks straight ahead, but you can tell his focus is on you.

You try not to relish the fact you can somewhat read him. You shouldn’t be surprised that his mannerisms never changed.

His awareness doesn’t necessarily feel dangerous in nature, but you aren’t willing to try and deduce exactly what he is thinking about.

As you get closer to him, your heart begin to thump in your ears, quick and frantic. You try not to seem too hasty to escape him, for the last thing you want is his attention. The chances he’d take notice of you in more than a passing interest are low, but you aren’t willing to give him material to work with.

You open the door, and it chimes on your way out. The sound doesn’t seem as friendly as it usually does. When it closes behind you, you let out a shaky exhale before walking to your job.

On the way there, you debate whether you should contact Daredevil via Matt. Is this beneath Daredevil’s focus? He has bigger things to focus on, not you panicking over seeing your killer ex-boyfriend who doesn’t remember you.

Additionally, Bullseye didn’t even do anything. Sure, he stared at you, but you had technically been staring first—not that you're defending him. He is certainly dangerous, that you would not dispute, but his eyes didn’t light up with recognition upon seeing you.

You still weren’t sure how to feel about that, but you won’t deny that it feels safer that way. As the day continued, you didn’t hear about Bullseye killing anybody in a coffee shop and took that as a good sign.

In the end, you don’t contact Matt.

Part of it is, ironically, fear. You don’t want to risk Matt being put in more danger by making him contact Daredevil, and you don’t want to contact Daredevil over you overthinking.

Besides, he’s bound to run into Bullseye eventually. They certainly know one another. You doubt asking Daredevil to harass Bullseye over coffee is a productive use of anybody’s time, so you don't.

You avoid your normal coffee shop for a few days after your anticlimactic reunion. However, you eventually cave and go back because you miss the coffee, and you tell yourself that’s definitely the only reason.

The first day you return there, you swing your head over your shoulder every five seconds. The barista making your drink gives you a mildly concerned glance when they hand it to you.

You attempt to reassure them with a smile, but it feels more similar to a grimace.

The following days start out similar, but you eventually settle back into your normal routine. It becomes evident about a week later that your chance encounter with Bullseye was simply that: a chance encounter.

Of course, after settling down, fate throws a curveball at you and sends you into a panic. That curveball is him showing up to the coffee shop again.

You’re caught off guard, but much more prepared than you were the intial encounter (if you could even call it that). You don’t stare at him, for one. In fact, you don’t dare to breath in his direction. And what do you do in order to avoid looking at the man who you once loved, the man who is now a killer, served time in prison, and no longer remembers your face?

You stare blankly at the barista making your drink, or more accurately, through them.

“Could I have a black coffee?” You pretend you don’t hear his words. He doesn’t sound different. He sounds relaxed—well, maybe relaxed isn’t the word, self-assured would be more accurate.

You don’t entirely listen to the rest of his order. You try not to feel bothered by additional evidence that parts of him haven’t changed. First the mannerisms, now his taste.

You kind of hate it.

You only start giving your attention to him again when he begins to head in your direction. You cross your arms and avoid his eyes, hoping your closed-off body languages discourages conversation. You pray that maybe he’d sit down and wait for his name to be called. Instead, he decides to wait for his coffee while standing, just like you.

Great.

You tell yourself not to make any sudden movements, and then toss the irrational thought aside. Just act normal. It shouldn’t be difficult, it’s not like he should mean anything to you anymore.

You notice him shift offhandedly in your peripherals. He changes his stance, taking his hands out of his pockets. You wait to see if he does anything else. He doesn’t.

It’s odd.

You don’t feel the weight of his stare on you, but you are feel the prickling sensation of being judged.

A minute of silence passes by before you can’t take it anymore. You pull out your phone, not to use, but to appear distracted. You debate opening Matt’s contact. Once was a coincidence, twice could be the start of a patten. You shift apprehensively on your feet.

Then you make the mistake of looking up.

Your eyes find him, and you take in how normal he looks for a moment. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was another stranger starting his day with a cup of coffee.

Of course, since he’s not a normal stranger, he turns his attention to meet your eyes. Instead of being across a room, this time you two are less ten feet apart.

Part of you wonders if he was waiting for you to make eye contact.

Once again, neither of you saying anything. However, unlike last time, you see his face shift minutely. Last time, he was indifferent.

This time, he is contemplative.

You don’t have to think about what he is pondering. Most likely, he’s trying to figure out how (or if) he recognizes you. You don’t expect him to remember you from all those years ago, but he could remember you from that initial encounter getting coffee.

The exchange could barely be called an exchange, but Dex had always been observant like that.

Then, as if finishing his assessment of you, he reacts. His head dips down slightly. It could be a nod of acknowledgement to test the waters, but it could simply be a shift in posture.

For your sanity, you choose to believe it’s the latter.

Also for your sanity, you pretend you don’t see the gesture.

Hearing your name called for your drink could truly be considered a blessing. You immediately break eye contact with him before grabbing your drink and leaving. You’re offhandedly note that you were moving fast, almost suspiciously so, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much.

Your encounter with him felt noticeably worse the second time around, and not just because he was physically closer.

You left with a sense of forboding that something about that second encounter was what sealed your fate. Why?

Because third time around, he spoke to you.

You had been more prepared the third time, but hearing his voice directed at you?

You wanted to yell at him for forgetting everything you went through. You wanted to stare so intensely at his face that he would be incapable of forgetting you ever again. You wanted to burden him with the same pain you endured for far too long. You wanted to discover every difference between him and the man you knew. You wanted to ignore him and pretend that you’ve never heard the name “Bullseye.”

“The coffee is good, isn’t it?”

You slowly turn to face him, only to find he is already looking at you. Once your eyes narrow on him, he turns his head to face you.

“Yep.” You keep your reply short, detached.

He nods, his lips twitching microscopically as if he found your monosyllabic response amusing. You frown slightly, and you find yourself theorizing what he could possibly be thinking about. He probably thinks that you know that he’s Bullseye and is enjoying tormenting you.

Technically, not wrong.

“Have you tried their pastries here?” He continues, and you take a deep breath.

“Once or twice.” With him.

He turns his body to face you, rather than just his head. “And? Find them any good?”

It’s nigh impossible to avoid looking at him now, “Yeah, passable.”

His smirk widens, “Such high praise.” He drawls sarcastically.

You give him an unimpressed look, not deigning to respond.

You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out if you’re usually this standoffish or if you just really hate him.

Thankfully, before he could come to a conclusion, your name was called. Grabbing your drink, you turn around and face him. His face is frustratingly blank. You see his eyes flicker to the coffee cup in your hands before meeting your eyes again.

You’re the first one to break eye contact, not bothering with goodbyes. You suppress the desire to look at him when you exit.

At this point, you should’ve said something to Matt, even Karen. You also should’ve stopped going to that coffee shop. It’d solve all of your issues. Plus, you got what you wanted. You now have confirmation that Dex no longer remembers you. You know that he just sees you as an apprehensive stranger at the coffee shop you both frequent in early mornings. You have your answers.

But you don’t stop going to the coffee shop.

You justified it by telling yourself if he wanted to hurt you or anybody in that shop by now, he would’ve done so already. Bullseye showing up to the same coffee shop, while terrifying, changes nothing. It’s something normal, and you remember how much Dex craved normalcy.

Part of you wonders if he still unconsciously wants that, even after his life has gone to shit.

“Hello,” you smile at the barista. Usually you follow a script when it comes to this shop: greet each other, confirm your usual order, you pay, and you thank the barista. Occasionally there is some small talk thrown in there, but aside from that, there is little deviation.

“Oh, hey, your friend already ordered for you.” She smiles at you, and you can see a teasing glint in her eyes.

You blink, “What?”

She turns her head over to the pickup counter, and you follow her gaze.

You sigh, of course.

“We aren’t friends. I barely know the guy.” You tell the barista, pulling your card out.

She purses her lips, “Uh,” she looks between the two of you, “he already paid for you.”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

She nods slowly, “I can ‘forget his order’ if you want.” She winks at you, and you have never felt more grateful.

You smile at her, “That’d be great.” Your smile grows as an idea pops into your head, “Actually, today can I get the vanilla latte?”

She smiles, “Something different?”

You chuckle, “Yeah,” you pay for the drink, apologizing for your “friend” inconveniencing her, but she waves it off casually.

Standing in your normal spot, you can tell he is watching you. You can also tell that he is attempting to hide that fact.

“Was the order wrong?”

You look at him in the corner of your eye, “Yeah,” you lie, he got your order right, but telling him that would not help you.

He tilts his head slightly, as if trying to understand how he got it wrong. He releases a quiet huff, offering a fake smile. “I’ll remember for next time then.”

You give him a placating smile, “Don’t worry about it. I order differently based on how I’m feeling.”

He hums in understanding, slowly nodding. “Do you?”

“Yep.”

“So what mood is the vanilla latte?”

“My current one.” You reply dryly.

His eyes light up intrigued and mildly amused by your answer, and you get the distinct impression that your attempts at being aloof have had the opposite effect you desired. For a moment, you think he gets the hint and stops talking. It makes you wonder, was he always this talkative with new people?

When you met, he wasn’t exactly forward. There was never really one instance where either of you had to explicitly start conversations like this. It was continued exposure over time, and so it didn’t feel as forced when your relationship had progressed.

“Black coffee and a blueberry muffin for Tony.” The barista calls out.

You furrow your eyebrows as he walks to the counter to pick up the coffee. Who the hell is Tony?

When he turns around, he blinks twice at you, “Something wrong?” He feigns innocence.

“No.” You grumble, and he goes to grab a few napkins. It was wishful thinking for that to be the end of the conversation.

“If you say so,” he sounds way too pleased for your liking. He breaks a piece off the muffin, taking a bite. You see his eyebrows shoot up slightly, “You were right, their pastries are passable.” He mocks your words from your last encounter.

You nod slowly, watching cautiously as he breaks off another piece. Neither of you say anything, and you find yourself wishing, once again, that he’d leave.

He breaks a bigger chunk off the muffin, and you cross your arms, avoiding his eyes.

“Want some?” He offers.

Why? Why does this happen to you? You turn to him, and his hand is holding the piece of the muffin. It’s a good chunk of it too.

He must sense your hesitation because he gives you what he must interpret as an appeasing smile, “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.” He doesn’t move, still offering the piece to you.

“It’s not.” You reply honestly. Poison doesn’t seem to be Bullseye’s style. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

He doesn’t immediately retract the offer, “Hm, breakfast already?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

The two of you stare at each other, and you have a hunch that you each know the other is full of shit.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and you watch as he opens the napkin and places the piece onto it. His eyes flicker up to you, and you raise an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” You find yourself asking before considering whether it’s actually a good idea.

“If breakfast wasn’t enough.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, tapping the counter the napkin rested on, pushing it closer to you. You furrow your eyebrows, watching as he simply leaves. You don’t hold back your dumbfounded stare as he exits the shop, and you catch the smug vestige of a smirk on his face.

What the hell?

It took three more visits before you caved and accepted his offerings. You still eyed it as if it would explode in your hands, but he didn’t seem to take offense to it.

The next time after that, he orders two muffins.

You aren’t fazed anymore, and that’s how you know you’re past the point of no return. Upon entering the shop, he offers the muffin to you like it’s routine. You raise an eyebrow, walking over and taking the proffered bag, looking inside, “Coffee cake?” You’re surprised he chose something different.

He shrugs, “It looked good.” You had to agree with him, it looked divine.

You pick off a small piece, and your eyebrows shoot up. It was good. You turn to him, not shocked to see him staring intently at your reaction. “Good pick.”

You can see him carry himself lighter at your comment, as if being told that he made a good pick satisfied him.

“Figured you would like it.” He comments casually.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why is that?”

He smiles conspiratorially, shrugging, “Just a hunch.”

Frowning at the vague answer, you take another piece of the muffin. You notice him staring at it. “Want a piece?” The words leave your mouth before you have a chance to reevaluate how smart of an idea they are.

His eyes crinkle in a way that makes you feel like he somehow planned this moment. Which is kind of insane, but it’s too late to rescind the offer.

It’s not like he could plan for you to specifically offer him food anyway.

“Sure,” He replies, and you break of a piece before looking for napkins. You frown when you notice that they’re out. Dex watches your eyes scan the shop for a minute before he interrupts, “I’ll survive without the napkin.” You can hear the smile in his tone.

You blink at him before looking down at his hand. Then, you reach over to place the piece onto it. Your hands inevitably meet with your fingers lightly grazing his palm, attempting to keep the crumbs from spilling all over the table.

When he takes a bite, he hums contently. “It’s good,” he declares, “just like you said.”

Your heart speeds up, “Right,” you reply, attempting to mask your breathlessness.

In order to escape the awkward silence, you tell him you’re going to order your coffee. He nods, and you make your way to the front, ordering your regular drink.

It was surprisingly empty this morning, so your drink was ready by the time you finished your quick conversation with the barista.

When you return to him, you grab the leftover muffin you didn’t finish. “Thanks for the muffin.” You don’t offer to pay him back, and you internally berate yourself for feeling slightly bad about that.

He smiles at you, and it looks like the most genuine smile he has given you in a long time. “Of course.”

You offer a tentative smile before walking out the shop. You don’t turn around, but you know he is watching you because despite everything it’s still him.

The routine becomes concerningly normal.

He would wait for you at the coffee shop, and would buy you some pastry because “he insists.”

You stopped declining that long ago, and you were beginning to appreciate having a meal before going to work, not that you would admit this to him.

You didn’t contact Matt or Karen, and at this point you can’t really make an excuse for not doing so. Bullseye is dangerous. Bullseye killed Foggy. These are all simply facts.

Yet you don’t contact Matt. You don’t tell Bullseye that you are aware of who he is. You don’t tell him to leave you alone either. At this point, you’re digging your own grave, and part of you wonders if it’s only a matter of time before you must lie in it.

Morbidly, you wonder who will the honor of putting you out of your misery: Bullseye or Fisk?

It’s a few weeks after this odd routine has begun where you start to realize just how much you fucked up by interacting with him again.

Your favorite diner was supposed to be something that was exclusively yours. You may have introduced it to Dex a few times in the past, but it was your favorite before him and your favorite after him. You weren’t going to let your abysmal relationship tarnish the sanctity of this place for you.

It wasn’t truly anything that special, another diner in New York. The food was satisfactory. Sometimes you convinced yourself that it was even good, but you suspected that was due to nostalgia more than anything. The prices were reasonable. The ambiance had nothing unique that made it shine above the rest.

So, just like the coffee shop, you’re left wondering why the hell Benjamin Poindexter was walking in here like it was a routine of his. You were sitting in one of the booths, and you held the menu up to your face to cover the fact that you were blatantly staring because what the fuck?

Either you have the worst luck in the universe and he keeps showing up in places that are supposed to be safe for you... or he is stalking you.

Both options are a nightmare for you.

You don’t hear what he orders, but you find yourself attempting to listen anyway. Usually, he has a sixth-sense for when you’re in the area. He would always find you first whenever you arrive at the coffee shop every morning.

The fact that he hasn’t turned once to see you leads you to believe that you might just have the worst luck in New York, and that’s saying a lot.

You watch him pull out a phone before bringing it up to his ear. You can barely hear the conversation, but you do catch two details.

One: he said the name “Frank Castle.”

Two: he said, in the most apathetic tone imaginable, that he “has a gun.”

This becomes an issue when you scan the restaurant and don’t see Frank Castle or a gun in sight.

Now, perhaps at this point you should’ve approached him. Maybe even left because perhaps Frank Castle is on his way, and while Karen has spoken somewhat fondly of him, you aren’t exactly frothing at the mouth to meet him.

You do none of that, and simply watch as Bullseye chugs a milkshake in a display that leaves you equally impressed and mortified. That’s when the sirens start to ring across the street. It appears he notices this too because you see him put his gloves on.

Yep, that is your sign to get out of here.

You didn’t get your finish your meal, but you also don’t want to get involved with any task force activity. You grab all your personal belongings before heading towards the door.

“Get back inside now!”

You narrow your eyes as the agent points his rifle at you, forcing you back into the building. You didn’t even step outside the doorframe yet.

You hold your hands up in surrender, but you don’t feel scared so much as frustrated.

You watch as one of the agents continues to point their rifle at you as the others search the building. Do they seriously think you’re part of the problem here?

“Clear…” The last agent echoes the sentiment the last five have said.

Then they make a mistake.

“Hey, Milkshake.” That agent calls Bullseye out. He doesn’t immediately turn to him, but when he does, his hands are held up, straw in mouth.

You didn’t even see him load the straw with anything, and you were watching him for a while. You watch in horror as he shoots a toothpick into the agent’s eye. He whips around, pulling his mask on, and grabs the utensils next to him and launching them to the three agents near you. For a split second—after the forks find their target—his eyes land on you.

Somehow, despite the fact that he is about to be shot at, his stare lingers on you. However, it’s not for long, and he takes two more forks before launching it toward a booth. The utensils (somehow) avoid the innocent bystander before situating themselves into the eye of one agent and the neck of another.

At this point, the task force agents recompose themself before shooting towards Bullseye. You wince at the sound of gunfire, ducking behind one of the booths as bullets fly over the counter he was at.

You don’t have a clear view of Bullseye anymore, but you hear the distant cry of another agent. You can hazard a guess as to what that means.

Eventually, the gunfire slows to a stop, but you don’t dare to stand up. You hear Bullseye talk to one of the customers, something about bringing his dog into the restaurant and how that is unsanitary.

You take this opportunity to open your phone, and you pull up Matt’s contact. Just as you are about to send a message to him telling him that Bullseye is at Bel Aire Diner, you realize the light above you becomes obscured. You look up, noting that he isn’t wearing his mask anymore.

“What are you doing?” He looms over you, raising an eyebrow. He seems genuinely confused.

“Trying not to get shot.” You retort, gradually standing up.

“I meant before that.” He grabs a ketchup bottle off the booth you hid behind.

“Eating?”

“Oh.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.

“Did I ruin the meal?”

“What do you think?”

He has the decency to look chastised. It doesn’t last long, “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He sounds genuinely surprised, “Do you come here often?”

You cross your arms, “That's your first question?” You ask incredulously. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

He doesn’t appear deterred by your words, “I’ve never…” He muses to himself, and you can see him attempting to figure out how you managed to get here.

He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows at you, “You…” The emotion behind the words is indecipherable. He pauses for a long moment before abruptly turning to stare at the fallen agents he killed less than a minute ago. The bewilderment on his face is evident, and you doubt it's from the task force. You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, not immediately. He stares at the agents, the floor, the booth, and then you.

“What were you thinking?”

What?

He sounds upset, genuinely upset. The shift from from mild exasperation to fury has your head spinning. “What?” You say your question out loud.

“You— Why would—” He looks at your befuddled expression, and it's like he has so many questions that he can't figure out which one to ask first.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why what?” You ask nonplussed.

The sound of sirens catch both of your attention. You both look at each other, and you open your mouth to speak, but he bolts out on you.

Eyes wide, you turn to survey the scene before feeling sick at the sight of dead bodies and looking away. For once, you weren’t the only trying to avoid him. Bullseye walked out on you.

As if this day couldn't get any weirder.

I think I messed up.

You tap your finger idly against your phone, staring at the message before pressing the send button.

It has been a few days since Bullseye killed the task force agents at the diner. You hadn’t seen him since, and that in itself was unsettling. When you entered the coffee shop the day after the incident, he wasn’t there. Even the barista commented on it. You scoffed, as if you knew where he was.

Your phone starts ringing, startling you. You sit up straighter on your couch, answering it. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Matt greets, and you can hear the tension in his voice, “are you okay?”

You let out a huff of air, “I’m fine right now.”

“Good,” he pauses, “good… Did something happen?”

You hesitate, but it’s too late to tell Matt to ignore you. You swallow, “You know that diner? The one that Bullseye killed those task force guys in?”

Matt is silent for a moment, “Yes.” He sounds even more tense. “Did he recognize you?”

You smack your lips, “About that…”

Matt says your name, disgruntled.

“He doesn’t recognize me from then.” You assure him. “I— He recognizes me from somewhere else.”

Matt curses and you grimace, “Damn it. Why— Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know. I thought that—” you swallowed, “I didn’t think he’d notice me.”

“How’d you meet him?” Matt asks, ignoring your excuses.

You blink, “He began going to the coffee shop I go to every morning.”

Matt curses again, “This is the kind of stuff you tell me. You should’ve told me the second you saw him the first time.”

You know. “I know.” You whisper.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did he talk to you?”

You hesitate. Matt says your name again.

“Yes,” you shut your eyes.

“What did he say?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. We talked about coffee.”

“Coffee.” Matt scoffs. “You two talk about the weather too?” He comments sarcastically.

You narrow your eyes, “Want me to ask him next time?”

Matt says your name again, a warning. “Don’t. Don’t go back there to the diner or coffee shop or wherever you saw him for the first time.”

You pause, contemplative, “Okay…”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I won’t.”

Matt is silent for a moment, deciding whether or not to believe you. “If you see him, let me know immediately.” He exhales. “I find it difficult to believe you seeing him is a coincidence.”

“Me too.” You reply honestly.

“I need your word that you’ll call me.”

You sigh, “Fine. I promise I won’t go looking for him, and if I see him I’ll call you.”

Matt exhales, “Thank you.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, merely weary. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”

You sigh, “It’s not your fault.” You reply sincerely, albeit slightly bitter. He doesn’t respond to that, so you continue. “Have a good night, Matt.”

“You too.” He says, and you hang up.

Groaning, you flop onto the armrest of your couch, flattening your face against the cushions. You try and ignore the emotion in your chest, the one you refuse to label as disappointment because you should be relieved. Matt knows your dilemma now, and Daredevil will know soon enough. You shouldn’t have to worry about a diner incident ever occurring again.

It apears that you’ll have to go back to your breakfast-less lifestyle once again it seems.

The following morning you forced yourself to walk past the coffee shop, and look away from their windows. He hadn’t been showing up at the shop either way, so no point in trying to search for someone who isn’t there.

Your life returned to something that that resembled a routine. You would wake up, go get coffee, go to work, eat, and come home. The routine should’ve been sufficient. However, something had undeniably shifted. No matter how resentful you were over Dex, seeing him—a version of him at least—stirred up feelings that you hadn’t had in years.

Part of you was angry at him because now those wounds feel fresh. All the progress you thought you made getting over him turned to dust in a couple weeks, regressing to a state of longing for something that you know you’ll never have again.

You grab your keys, giving your apartment one last look over before opening the door. Your eyes widen at the sight of a delivery guy at your doorstep.

He says your name and you furrow your brows.

“I didn’t order anything.” You look at the bag in his hands, it’s from a bagel place down the street that you used to go to for breakfast.

The guy shrugs, “Well, it has your name on it.” He turns the label for you to read.

You eye the bag dubiously, “I don’t have any cash.”

“Tipped through the app,” he responds, “so do you want it or not?”

Tentatively, you reach your hand out to grab the bag. You look inside, and it’s fresh. Your stomach rumbles at the sight. “Thanks?” You thank the man, but he doesn’t appear to care about your gratitude, seeing as he left the second you grabbed the bag.

You smell the bagels, and you have a suspicion who sent them.

It’s not like you have a way you have to contact Bullseye. What would you even say? “Sorry if I offended you at the diner after you killed a bunch of people, no idea what I did. Thanks for the bagel!”

You take the bag with you, exiting your building as you pull out your phone.

I think he sent me food.

You take a bite of the bagel, waiting for Matt’s response.

Matt calls you again.

“What did you do?” He sounds drained.

You make an offended noise, “What makes you think this is my fault?”

“Have you been in contact with him recently?” Matt wastes no time asking questions.

“No,” you scoff, “I told you I’d contact you if I saw him.”

“Right,” Matt replies, evidently skeptical. “Did you toss out the food?”

You look at the half-eaten bagel in your hands, “Yeah,” you lie. Now probably isn’t a good time to tell him about the muffins you’ve shared with Bullseye.

Matt sighs, “He might’ve tampered with it.”

“I figured if he wanted me dead he’d shoot me.” You respond wryly.

Matt huffs sardonically, “You’ll only encourage him.”

“Has Daredevil talked to him recently?”

Matt pauses, “Maybe, why?”

“Then can you tell Daredevil to tell Bullseye that while I appreciate the food, he has to knock it off. I can't exactly contact him and tell him to stop.”

Matt goes silent, not finding your request as humorous as you do. “Next time, toss out the food.” He pauses, and you hear some distant rustling on his side of the call. “You aren’t actively in danger right? I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“I’m alright. Go do what you need to do.” You smile, finishing the bagel.

You bid each other goodbye before hanging up, and you go to work as if nothing happened. Part of you wonders if Matt took you serious and will actually tell Daredevil to pass your message along. Matt was right telling you that you shouldn't accept the food Bullseye was “anonymously” ordering for you. You are aware that it’s a bad idea.

But it was nice to have someone who cared like that.

You hadn’t had that in a long time, and perhaps Bullseye was using that to his advantage to manipulate you. Because at the end of the day, you know he isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. You aren’t that blind.

On your walk home, you pick up takeout from whatever is nearby, too tired to cook. You grimace at the sight of the task force across the street. Rushing into your building, you take the elevator up. You fumble for your keys, frustrated at the low lighting in the hallway. It’s been broken for years, and it makes it difficult to see where you’re looking at night with the constant flickering.

Entering your apartment, you take your shoes off before closing the door and locking it. You take a few steps into your apartment before releasing an undignified gasp and jolting.

“Shit,” you gasp, “what are you doing here?” You place the takeout onto the kitchen counter, never taking your eyes off of Bullseye. He has the mask off, but he is still wearing the costume. He is sitting on the corner of your couch as if this is normal.

“I wanted to see you.” His voice isn’t loud, yet it carries across the room.

“So you broke into my apartment?” You scoff, subtly reaching for your phone behind the counter.

“Yeah,” he replies, tone low and unbothered. Then, as if he knows what you're attempting to do, continues, “Without Daredevil, preferably.”

You pause, grip tightening around your phone, “Why would Daredevil be here?”

He turns to face you, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

You go silent at that, placing your phone atop of the counter for him to see, pushing it away. His eyes never leave your face. “What do you want then?”

He imperceptibly shakes his head, “I said I wanted to see you—”

“Bullshit.” You cut him off scathingly, “You’ve been seeing me at the coffee shop for weeks. You show up at the diner I go to. You have breakfast delivered—”

He raises an eyebrow, “—I thought you liked that place?”

“That’s not the point, Dex.” You raise your hands up wildly.

He readjusts in his seat, going silent at your words. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear you say my name.” He says hoarsely.

You blink, taken aback. “How did you know I knew your name?” You narrow your eyes at him defensively.

“You made eye contact with me that… first time we met.” He rolls a coin over his knuckles casually.

You scowl at him, “Okay? Doesn’t mean I know your name.”

“You made a face when the barista said my name was ‘Tony.’” Dex tilts his head at you.

You shrug, “You don’t look like a ‘Tony.’ None of this is actual evidence.”

“You weren’t surprised to see me in the suit.” He looks down, a small smirk on his face.

You click your tongue, “Okay,” you admit, “fine. Maybe I recognized you online.”

He chuckles, “Online, huh?” He asks distantly.

You roll your eyes, “If this is what you came to talk to me about, then I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” You cross your arms.

Dex blinks, setting the coin down, “Come back to the coffee shop.”

You snort, “Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he doesn’t quite yell, but the volume startles you.

“Please,” he swallows, and you watch him attempt to get his breathing under control, “we can pretend this never happened. I’ll pretend that you don’t know who I am.” He clenches his jaw. “Just please come back there. I need—” he falters, “I want to see you again… in the mornings.” His eyes train on you, “Every morning.”

Oh, this is not healthy.

“Dex…” You shakily inhale. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He inhales sharply, eyes going towards you. “Did Daredevil tell you that too?”

You furrow your brows, “What does Daredevil have to do with this?”

His eyes narrow, “He did, didn’t he?” He laughs lowly, and you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to answer that.

You grit your teeth, “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.” you shrug. Matt did tell you, multiple times, that this was a terrible idea, but that is not Dex’s business or problem. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you’re about to do. It’s best that you end… whatever this is with Dex anyway. You’re getting too emotionally invested in something you shouldn’t, and you know you will get burned if you allow this to persist.

“And you’re just going to do what he says?” He scoffs.

“Again, I don’t see why that should matter to you.” You narrow your eyes, loosely gesturing to him.

“It shouldn’t, should it?”

“No, it shouldn’t.”

Dex’s jaw ticks, and for a moment you remember who you’re talking to. You take a step back, and he inhales deeply.

“Don’t— Don’t do that.” He sounds pained and aggravated.

“Do what?” You hold your hands up in mock surrender.

“Act like you’re afraid.” He spits out the word as if it disgusts him.

“You come into my apartment at night telling me to meet with you against my will all while wearing your suit.” You spit out the final word disdainfully.

He shakes his head, standing up, “I would never hurt you. You know this.”

“No,” you raise your hands up, “I don’t. Not anymore at least.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He says your name quietly.

“You should leave, Dex. I’m going to call Daredevil.” You warn him, turning to face him.

He clasps his hands, his leg bouncing lightly as he turns to face the ground. You wait for him to make eye contact. When he does, he looks distraught.

He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the window Daredevil used. He stops before leisurely turning around, “You might want to lock your windows next time.”

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t happy that you could climb in.” You retort disapprovingly.

He tilts his head slightly, a wry expression on his face. He pulls the mask back on, and you turn around.

“I wouldn’t want other people climbing up to meet you too.” He replies, and when you turn to look at him, he is gone.

You rub your temples, unsure whether to cry or scream.

Your eyes burn, the low lighting combined with the vivid colors straining them. You aren’t even sure what’s happening on the TV anymore. You had played a series to distract yourself, but now your eyes hurt and you were stressed.

You weren’t bluffing when you warned Dex. You did call Daredevil—well, you called Matt who called Daredevil who…

Point is, Matt told you to expect Daredevil to check on you. Perhaps if you felt better, you’d make yourself look more presentable for the elusive vigilante. However, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care at this point. Matt hadn’t really given you a time, so you had settled yourself onto your couch with the intention of waiting until he popped in.

Half an hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, then three, and now it was two in the morning.

If this happens again, you’re asking Matt for a better time estimate.

You’re resting your eyes when you hear the faint knocking on your window. Blinking the sleepiness away, you watch as Daredevil lets himself in.

“Hey,” he greets, and you frown at him.

“It’s late.”

“I know.” He holds his hands up placatingly “I’m sorry.” He does sound apologetic.

You prop yourself onto the armrest, “How much did Matt tell you?”

“All of it.”

“All of it?” You repeat incredulously.

“The more I know, the better I can help you.” He justifies.

“So you know about…” You mimic a throwing motion with an airy whistle and eyebrows raised.

He doesn’t immediately respond, “Yeah,” he responds dryly, “I know about him.”

What the hell, Matt? First Karen, now Daredevil?

“Great.” You respond sarcastically.

Daredevil ignores you comment, looking you up and down, “You said Bullseye visited you?”

“Yeah,” you nod, crossing your arms, “climbed in through the window.” You gesture to the window he entered through

Daredevil frowns slightly, “He know I’m here?”

You shrug, rubbing your eyes, “I don’t know.”

Daredevil nods slowly, “Then it might be for the best that you don’t stay here, at least until the city is safer.”

That wakes you up, “What? Where would I go?”

Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You could stay with Murdock and Page.”

You frown, “Have you even asked them?”

“Yes, they’re alright with you staying.”

Your expression doesn’t change, and Daredevil notices this. “If you don’t leave, Bullseye will keep coming back.”

“What if he finds me and puts Karen and Matt in danger?” You rub your temples, shaking your head at the idea.

“He won’t—”

“How can you be certain?” You whisper, placing your hands on your lap and examining them.

Daredevil doesn’t say anything, and you feel uneasy by his silence. Then you hear his suit rustle lightly, and you look up to see what he is doing.

“You have to be kidding me…” You rub your eyes more intensely, maybe you’re still asleep?

“I’m afraid not.” He offers a remorseful smile, “And before you ask, yes, I am actually blind. I have a method that helps me see.”

Your wide eyes look him up and down, “This whole time…” You trail off, speechless.

He purses his lips, “I’m sorry about lying. I just need you to trust me when I say Bullseye is dangerous, and the safest thing you can do is stay somewhere else right now.”

You barely even process his words, still trying to connect the dots of Matt being Daredevil. Then you reach a sinking realization. “Wait,” you whip your head towards him.

“When we met… You bumped into me.” You recount the events, “This was after Foggy’s death…” You furrow your eyebrows, and now you don’t even know if he can see the action. “You did that intentionally, didn’t you?” You whisper.

Matt doesn’t interrupt.

“You… You befriended me because I knew Dex.” You narrow your eyes at Matt, betrayed. “How did you find out?” When Matt doesn’t immediately respond, you steel your tone, “How, Matt?”

He swallows, “Karen found out when we were… digging into his history.”

You scoff, “Unbelievable,” you mutter, standing up and pacing around your couch. “So all of this… Was this just a way to try and get me to talk about Dex?”

“No, God, no.” Matt interjects, holding his hands up as if the idea is preposterous. “At first, maybe we wanted information, but… but it became clear you were kept in the dark.”

You fight down the tears, “So it was pity?”

Matt places his hands on his hips, turning his gaze to face the ground, “It was understanding. We know what loss like that feels like.” He sighs. “I… I’m sorry for never telling you, but Karen and I, we didn’t befriend because of Dex. If that was the sole reason, then it wouldn’t have lasted. We befriended you because we liked you and thought you would like to know people who could understand what you were going through.” Matt gestures to himself.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from falling. “I… That doesn’t—” Matt suddenly tilts his head toward your window, “You lied to me—”

“Get down!”

Matt tackles you, and you both fall limply on the ground. You cover your head instinctively before looking up and seeing a knife where Matt’s shoulder would’ve been.

You and Matt, who already put his helmet back on, turn to your window. Bullseye narrows his eyes at the two of you on the ground. He lazily uses the window to hold his weight, one hand hidden from view and the other holding the bottom jamb to keep it open.

“Was I interrupting something?” Bullseye asks, looks between the two of you, eyes narrowing on Matt.

“Why are you here?” You mutter to yourself, using your couch as cover as Matt stands up, ready to fight. You take a peek to see where he is.

“Just needed to confirm something, that’s all.” He ignores Matt, focusing on you.

“Confirm what?” You ask, and Matt looms over you. Trying to shield you from Bullseye’s view.

“That you were talking to Daredevil.”

You straighten your posture against the back of the couch, “You’re attacking him because I’m talking to him?” You ask, befuddled.

“That among plenty of other reasons he has given.”

You look to Matt, who looks unfazed by this. He isn’t jumping to brawl with Bullseye, and you can see the uneasy combination of caution and restlessness in his stance.

“So why attack me too? Thought you said you wouldn't hurt me—” You scoff.

“—I wouldn’t.” Dex interrupts before you can finish the sentence.

“Then why are you throwing knives in my apartment?”

“They would never hit you.” He sounds offended that you even asked.

“How can you be sure?”

You sneak a glance, noting Dex’s bewildered expression. “I’m sure—”

“Are you two done yet?” Matt interrupts. You both turn your focuses to Daredevil.

Dex grimaces, disgruntled, as if only now remembering that Daredevil was witnessing this.

“No.” Both you and Dex chorus. You stand up, using the couch to push yourself off the ground. Matt moves to try and hide you again, and you glare at him. “I’m still mad at you.” You point a finger to his chest.

He tilts his head as if to say “Really, we’re doing this now?”

You rub your face, exasperated. “Fuck", you curse to yourself, but you know Dex and Matt heard you, “could you both just leave?” You gesture to the door, knowing full well that neither of them have ever used it.

Neither of them move. Matt vaguely looks in Dex’s direction, and Dex furrows his eyebrows, eyes flitting between Matt and you. The sentiment seems obvious on both ends: There’s no way I’m leaving you with that guy.

When it becomes clear that no progress will be made, you grab one of your jackets laying around, snatching your keys off the counter. Neither of them say anything, so you break the tense silence. “I would ask you don’t fight in here, but if you insist, then you both are paying for repairs and anything you break.” You slip your shoes on. “I’m heading out.”

“At this time?” Dex looks like he is about to follow, and he tilts his head slightly.

“Well, I’m clearly not sleeping tonight.” You pointedly glare at them both.

Matt calls your name, a final attempt to get you to return to him. Dex’s eyes don’t leave your own. You both stare at each other for a moment. You swallow, attempting to calm your racing heart. He doesn’t react, and you’re unable to read the expression in his eyes. Turning back to the door, you open it before slamming it shut.

You don’t break your stride as you make your way to the elevator. Once inside, you lean against the walls, closing your eyes and running a hand over your face.

You’re so tired of this. You should’ve just ignored Dex and never looked back. Now, Daredevil… Matt is involved.

Of course, Matt and Karen are a whole other issue.

You decide to make your way to the twenty-four hour diner across the street. You see a group people yelling at each other and try ignore them as you pass by. Thankfully, they don’t pay you any mind.

“Rough night?” The waitress at the counter asks as you sit down on one of the stools. You prop your elbow onto the table, resting your chin on your hand.

“You have no idea.” She snorts softly, sliding a menu to you. You take a moment to shut your eyes, the bright artificial light exacerbating the exhaustion you already feel.

You don’t feel hungry. You can’t feel hungry after everything that just happened, so you order some tea in an attempt to decompress.

You tap your finger idly against the counter, turning to the window. You frown, watching as a man is shoved against the glass, his hands pinned against it. Their yells are muffled from outside, and you turn away from them. The waitress brings the tea and you thank her.

You pull your phone out, and are slightly surprised to see zero notifications. Taking a slow sip of your tea, you search up the Bulletin’s recent headlines.

Unsurprisingly, a lot of them are about Fisk.

The remaining ones are about the task force or the vigilantes of New York. You scroll past them, and your thumb pauses when you see Bullseye mentioned.

You cannot escape him. You sigh, shutting your phone off and placing it on the counter.

“Everybody out.”

You whip your head around to see a line of task force agents entering the diner. You toss an alarmed look to the waitress, who looks just as confused as you do.

“We heard reports of vigilante activity in the area, so we're going door to door to see where they may be hiding.” He walks over to the waitress. Her eye twitches, but she doesn’t say anything.

Two other agents strut around the diner as if they own the place, and you bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything stupid. They make a couple rounds and just as you think they’re about to leave, the main one stops next to you. You make a point to sip your tea and avoid his eye.

“Do I recognize you from somewhere, ma’am?” He rests his hand on his pistol. You look at him from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t believe so.” You reply curtly, taking another sip.

He situates himself on the stool next to you to get a clearer view, “No… No I think I recognize ya from somewhere.”

Your hands clench around your mug, “You must be mistaken.” Your eyes flicker to your phone.

“Erickson!” The agent calls out without turning away from you. “Come take a look, doesn’t she look like one of the people we were informed Murdock runs with?”

Another agent walks over, Erickson you presume, narrowing his eyes at you. You casually rest your hand on your phone. “She does,” he notes thoughtfully. Your hands clench the mug so tightly that they shake.

Unceremoniously, you’re slammed onto the counter, and you gasp in pain. “Ma’am you’re under arrest for aiding a vigilante.” You stare at your phone on the counter as they cuff your hands behind your back.

They don’t read your rights as they grab your shirt, forcing you to stand up. One of the agents points their gun at you as the other two escort you to the truck outside.

Just as they’re about to shove you into the truck, they grab some goggles before roughly placing them on your head.

“I’d try catching some sleep on the ride there.” One of the agents whispers into your ear, you shiver in disgust. “The… others can get very noisy.”

You turn roughly towards where his voice was, glaring at him through the mask. “You guys won’t keep getting way with this.” You whisper back to him.

He chuckles lowly, pushing you into the back of the truck and slamming the door closed. You lurch forward as the armored tank starts to move.

Any attempts to figure out where you are going are lost. You are slammed against the walls of the tank more times than you’d prefer. You eventually find a corner, crouching down and remaining there for the rest of the ride.

Your only hope is that Matt finds you.

Your phone was left in the diner, and you don’t know if he’d ever track it—if he can track it. Hell, you don’t even know if the agents took it.

So you must have faith that Matt will realize something happened to you, and will come searching for you.

As the tank slows to a stop, you wobble slightly. You hear the back doors open, and blotches of color fill your vision.

“Out, let’s go.” A stern voice commands you, and you can’t tell if it’s the same guy who stuffed you in here. When you stand up, he clicks his tongue impatiently.

Firmly, he grabs your shoulder, squeezing it as he guides you. You remain quiet, attempting to focus on what little you can see. Distantly, you can hear the soft patter of rain outside.

He takes you through multiple twists and turns, giving no warning before roughly shoving you. Eventually, you slow to a stop and you feel the agent let up on your shoulder a little. You hear him search for something before a confirmation sound rings, and he squeezes your arm once again.

You hear sniffling, sobs, and yells echo across the new room you enter. Must be spacious. The agent guides you and you hear some people yell at him as you pass by. He stops, removing the goggles from your head. You wince at the bright light, and he shoves you into a cell.

Upon further examination, “cage” would be accurate.

“Don’t bother calling for help. Nobody can help you here.” He slams the gate closed and gestures for your hands. Begrudgingly, you stand up, turning your back to the gate. He grabs your wrist before removing the cuffs.

You grab the bars, pressing yourself against the cage to try and get a better view of your surroundings. There’s dozens of other cages identical to your own. Some are lined up in your row while others are on the opposite side.

You let out a long breath, slowly falling to the ground. Some of the other prisoners yell and attempt to spit at the task force agents, but they get ignored.

Judging by the states of some of them, they’ve been kept here for a while. You can only imagine how long you could be here for.

In fact, you realize morbidly, you could die here. Death seemed like such a distant concept mere hours ago, but now you aren’t so sure.

As hours passed, you didn’t see any new additions to the empty cell on your left, nor did you see any task force agents return after sticking you in your cell. Your hands clench around the cool metal of the bars.

Slowly, the other prisoners begin to fall asleep for the night. By this point, it's probably morning, but their sense of time is likely screwed up. The yells become less frequent, and the people pacing their cages began to settle down.

You examine the floor beneath you, leaning your head against the bars of the cage. It’s uncomfortable at best. For a while, you stare blankly at the floor beneath you. You aren’t sure how much time passed exactly, but it felt like hours before you fell asleep despite your prior exhaustion.

You jolted awake the next morning. Blinking rapidly as one of the agents banged his rifle against the bars of your cage.

“We have a few questions for you.” He holds up the goggles tauntingly.

Do you? You want to ask, but you settle for glaring at them instead. They gesture for you to put slot your hands through the bars, and you slowly comply.

When they unlock your cell, they situate the goggles over your face. You blink, adjusting to the disorienting view. “Move it,” one grunts, shoving you forward. One of the guards keeps an arm on you, guiding you around the vicinity.

The walk is shorter than yesterdays. Upon reaching your new destination, they open a door and push you in. You hear it close behind you, and they remove your blindfold.

Two of the agents make their way behind you, and you turn to watch them leave. If you had to guess, they’re standing watch in case you could escape.

“Sit.” A man across the table orders you. You turn to face him for the first time. You blink, looking him up and down. He is dressed professionally with a suit and tie, nothing like the task force guys. You narrow your eyes at him, and he looks unimpressed. “I won’t ask again.”

Hesitantly, you take a seat across him. “What do you want?” You ask, voice rough from disuse.

“I have been informed of your prior exposure to vigilantes.” He opens a manila folder, and you can see a file of yourself inside. He shifts, holding it out of your view. “Namely Daredevil.” He taps the pages lightly, “However, I did some more digging.”

He takes a photo out of the folder, “That’s you, isn’t it?” He slides it across the table. You don’t have to look at it to know what it is.

You clench your jaw, “How did you get this?”

The man shrugs, “It was easy enough.” He replies mildly, “Answer my question.”

You glare at him, refusing to look down at the photo of you and Dex. It was one of the first ones you had posted on social media long ago. You’d taken them down the night Dex went to prison the first time.

The man doesn’t appear deterred by your defiance, “That,” he points to a photo, “That is Benjamin Poindexter, otherwise known as 'Bullseye,' correct?”

You follow his hand to the photo before looking to him. What do you think? You don’t say anything.

“Your relations with Matthew Murdock and Benjamin Poindexter are well known by this point.” He continues. “When did you meet Poindexter?”

You glare at the man, not saying anything. He waits for an answer, hands folded on the table.

Then he slaps you.

He did not hold back, and you gasp at how it makes your head spin. You look towards him, aghast. “I will not ask again.”

You readjust yourself, “Go to hell.”

His eyes narrow slightly before slapping you again, even harder than last time. This time you can taste blood fill your mouth. You raised your cuffed hands to wipe it.

He adjusts his tie, waiting patiently, “I am not here to play games. Nobody will find you here, that is, if they’re even looking for you.” He sighs, “Answer my questions, it will make our lives easier.” He taps the photo again, “When did you meet?”

“… A few years ago.” You wipe the blood escaping your mouth, holding back a wince.

“How many exactly?”

“I don’t know.” You huff, “Like nine?”

He hums, “What was your relationship with Poindexter?”

“We were friends.” You lie.

The man pauses, giving you a long look. “And when did you meet Murdock?”

“A little over a year ago.” You still feel the sting of his hand against your skin.

“Did you aid Benjamin Poindexter in any of his crimes?” He leans forward, putting his weight on the table.

“No.” You reply truthfully.

He tilts his head, “When was the last time you two had communication?”

Yesterday. “Haven’t seen him since he went to prison after impersonating Daredevil.”

“So you knew him before that.” He muses. It’s not a question, so you don’t respond. “Tell me, did you suspect that he’d go down a path like this?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “How would I know? I’m not his psychiatrist.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” He shakes his head, unamused. “Now, about Murdock, did you ever aid his crimes?”

“What crimes?” You play dumb.

His lips twitch, and he leans back. “Don’t play dumb. We both know who he is.”

You place your hands onto the table, “I don’t, actually.”

The man narrows his eyes at you in disbelief, “Do you know where he or Daredevil is now?”

“No.” You wince.

“What about Bullseye?”

You scoff, “I said I haven’t seen him in years. How would I know where he is?”

“If you two were ‘friends,’” he does air quotes, “why had he never attempted to reestablish contact?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. He’s probably too busy being Bullseye to care.”

He narrows his eyes, “You see, I don’t believe you.”

Your mouth dries, “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you.” You shrug. “You’re better off asking him yourself.”

He looks at you before letting out a long sigh. “Let me be clear here when I say that you’re merely a piece in this puzzle. I truly do not care about your past relationship with Bullseye or Murdock.” He stands up, “All I care about is getting answers to their whereabouts.” You glare at him as he maneuvers himself around the table before grabbing your head and slamming it down onto the metal table.

You can’t hold back the cry of pain your release. He continues to pin your head down to the table, “With how many connections you have, you’re lucky that I want answers from you and not your death.” He releases your head, and you watch him knock on the door behind you out of the corner of your eye.

“Take her back. We got what we needed.” He tells the agent. He looks unmoved by your state, abruptly blindfolding you again and dragging you out.

When you make it back to your cell, you glare at him through the mask. His grip was so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if he bruised your arm. Before he leaves, you meet his eyes. He seems amused by your suffering. “This is funny to you?” You whisper, sneering at him.

He sneers at your question, and you take a moment to memorize his face. He raises the keys in front of your face, outside the bars, jingling them. You keep your face purposefully blank, unwilling to give him the reaction he desires. When he leaves, you can hear his quiet chuckles.

Once alone, you slowly lay yourself on the ground, using your arm as a pillow. You attempt to keep your breathing steady as tears well up against your will. Your soft sobs go unheard, the cacophony of the other prisoners drowning out your sorrow.

You don’t think it would matter anyway. You wipe the tears, attempting to close your eyes once more.

Your lip trembles as you rub your eyes. It is freezing here. The sound of distant gunshots make you flinch, yet you aren’t surprised to hear them. The sounds of chaos had become normal in the past couple days.

At least you think it has been a couple days. It’s hard to gauge time without a clock or the sun.

You hadn’t been pulled out to be interrogated since the first morning. It was a small mercy, but one you were grateful for, nonetheless. Not that these monsters deserved your gratitude. However, the lack of action does make you a bit antsy.

Part of you hopes something… someone worse will come for them. You think if Frank Castle were to walk in you might just start cheering. After all, who knows how many victims the task force has unreasonably taken and killed?

You sigh, finishing the last of the water they provided. The gunshots haven’t quieted down yet, and you can only hope they aren't murdering an innocent prisoner.

Then, you realize with growing despair, that they are getting closer.

You turn to face the exit of this nightmare, expecting some task force guy to storm through angrily. Perhaps he would be yelling, dragging out some of the other prisoners, hopefully not you again. You move towards the back of your cell.

Then the door slams open, and every single prisoner, including you, turns their attention as a task force agent stumbles over himself. He raises his rifle to shoot the perpetrator, but before he can get a shot off he crumples to the ground, blood splattering from the wound directly on his forehead.

Well, that's not Matt.

You hear some prisoners cry out for help, and you move toward the front of your cell. Gripping the bars, you watch as the killer steps into view.

Your mouth parts in surprise, what is he doing here?

Bullseye looks to the cells on the left side first, evidently searching for something or someone. He ignores their pleas, and you see one of the prisoners reach out to him, begging him to set them free. He doesn’t linger on them. He strolls over to the right side, your side. He passes each cage leisurely, scanning left and right.

Then his gaze lands on you. You two stare at each other for a long moment before he approaches your cell.

“What are you doing here?” You rasp, narrowing your eyes at him. You clear your throat after speaking.

He tilts his head, “Helping you?”

You’re too tired to hide your startled expression, “I thought you were mad at me.” The words feel ridiculous the second they leave your mouth.

Despite the fact the mask covers most of his face, you can see the genuine befuddlement on his face. “And so you… you thought I’d leave you here?” His words are quieter.

You swallow, watching as he grabs the bars of your cell, testing their strength, “You seemed pretty upset when you saw me talking with Daredevil.”

He laughs, dumbfounded, never looking away from you. “So you thought I’d leave you to die?” His eyes are narrowed on you as if trying to figure out how you possibly conceived such an outrageous concept.

“I don’t know!” You whisper-yell, and the cell door swings open. “And I’m not dead yet.” You use the bars to help push yourself off the ground.

Bullseye watches as you slowly walk out of the cell. In the corner of your eye, you see the familiar task force vest. You open your mouth to warn him, “Dex—”

He throws a knife behind him without looking, and it bounces off another prisoner’s cell causing them to let out a scream before hitting the task force guard in the eye, knocking him to the ground. Your eyes widen, looking to Bullseye, lips parted in surprise.

“Is he even alive?” You ask, dismayed, looking toward the fallen guard.

“Does it really matter?” Bullseye responds, unperturbed.

You whip your head towards him, appalled. You hate the task force, but you aren’t sure if you can condone murder. Perhaps you were bluffing slightly earlier when you hoped for Frank Castle's appearance.

He crumbles under your stare slightly, “He’ll live.”

“You hit him in the eye.”

“Yeah?” He straightens himself, “He’ll live.” He loosely waves a hand in the guards direction.

You scoff, “What about the guy you shot when entering?”

Bullseye shrugs.

“Oh, so it’s like that?” You mock his shrug, pushing past him. He slowly trails behind you.

Dex chuckles lowly, “I can see why you and Daredevil get along.”

“Ah, you are still mad about that.” You can hear the strain in your voice.

“Hm,” he hums, not exactly disagreeing, “but I wasn’t going to leave you to die.” His voice turns more severe, catching your attention. You pause your stride.

Turning to face him, the retort dies on your tongue, not because of the words themself, but because of his delivery.

Despite the blood covering his suit, the countless weapons strewn across his body, and the many years that have passed, he still looks at you like Dex used to.

He looks like Dex. The words loop in your head. You stare at him, dazed. He looks like the Dex you once loved with all your heart. He is still looking at you like he holds the weight of the memories that you’ve solely beared for years.

“I…” You trail off, before shaking your head and dismissing the thoughts. “Thank you.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. He continues to stare at you for a long moment before walking past you. “Where are you gonna go now?” You ask.

He pauses, looking towards you, then the exit, then back at you. “I thought we were leaving?” Dex sounds confused. You look towards the cells of the other prisoners, and you can see the imprint of a frown against his mask.

“We can’t just leave them here.” You gesture to them, and you hear a prisoner behind you frantically agree.

“I came here for you.” At your disapproving face, he hesitates. Neither of you seem to budge. Then, his shoulder fall slightly, and you know you’ve won.

You make your way over to him, and you grab his arm, catching him by surprise judging by the way his eyes widen faintly. “Come on, faster we do it, faster we leave.”

Dex looks between your hand and your face. Then, resigned, he allows you to pull him back to the cells. The two of you make your way around the room, breaking the locks off each cage. When you break the last one off, you turn to face him. You're unsurprised when you notice he’s already looking at you.

“We’re leaving.” He decides, grabbing your arm similar to the way you grabbed his earlier. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm in a way that told you he wasn’t going to be swayed anymore.

“How are they gonna escape?” You ask as he pulls you past the now empty cages. You note that some of the prisoners give him a wary look, and you don’t necessarily blame them.

Dex looks exasperated, but you can hear the hint of fondness in his voice. “We just broke them out. They can figure out the rest. I told you, I didn’t come here for them.”

“Yeah, but—”

You yelp in surprise as a billy club hits Dex in the chest, causing him to stumble and reach for his knives. Your eyes widen in recognition, “Daredevil?” You call out, watching as Matt emerges from the darkness shrouding the exit.

“Let her go.” Matt demands evenly.

Dex narrows his eyes at Matt, and you look between the two of them. “I didn’t take her.” He straightens himself, attempting to put himself between you and Matt, “I imagine the blame for that falls to you.” Dex grits out.

Matt scoffs, “Don’t try and act like you’re innocent.”

Dex clenches his fist, reaching into his belt, and you look between him and Matt. This was just what was needed. “Can we not do this here? There’s over a dozen hostages that don’t have a way out.” Matt doesn’t ease up, and Dex doesn’t either. “Do you have a way to help them?” You ask Matt.

He is silent for a moment, “We can figure a way out.”

“Alright,” you turn to Dex, “you said you came here for me. Does that mean you figured a way out?”

“Yeah,” he sneers, “for us.” He says slowly.

The conversation is interrupted as another guard comes running out, gun in hand. The three of you turn to face him. Instantly recognizing his face, you grimace, catching Dex’s attention.

“You know him?”

“Regrettably.” You absentmindedly rub the bruises he left behind, Dex’s eyes narrow on your arms before snapping towards the agent.

Matt, as if somehow sensing where this was about to go, extends his billy club, intercepting directly with one of Dex’s knives. You watch as it clatters to the ground, frowning. Then, you turn your attention back towards the agent.

Oh.

The agent collapses on the ground, one of Dex’s knives lodged into his temple. When you turn to Dex, there is not a single bit of remorse in his eyes. In fact, he turns to you as if waiting for approval. Matt curses on your left, and Dex’s posture loosens with a smugness that makes you wonder if he killed that agent for you, to aggravate Matt, or because he enjoyed it.

Probably all three.

“Back up is arriving.” Matt tilts his head slightly towards the door, and you wonder how he could possibly know that. He goes quiet for a moment, “We have to leave now if we want a chance.” He pointedly ignores Dex.

“Alright.” You nod, turning to Dex. He looks suspiciously apathetic to the development that has occurred. “Thanks for breaking me out.” You offer him a grateful smile. For once, it's genuine.

He stares at you for a moment, not giving a response before looking towards Daredevil. “Go.” Matt commands. Dex narrows his eyes at him.

“I’ll see you soon.” He mutters. He doesn’t move to leave, and you give him a confused look.

“C’mon,” Matt’s voice softens ever so slightly, grabbing your shoulder and turning you away from Dex. You give Dex one last look over your shoulder, and to your surprise he winks at you, a small smirk on his face.

You get a sinking feeling he is planning something, and not anything good.

Matt guides you to the rest of the prisoners, “Move!” He points to the exit, and the group scurries to follow his instructions. You turn to Matt before falling in line behind the last prisoner. They whisper to each other, and you can hear some people sobbing in relief that Daredevil has arrived.

Matt escorts them through the hallway, and you stay close to him the whole time. You turn around, frowning when you see an agent moving to get up, their radio seems to be on the fritz. You nudge Matt slightly, and he turns to face you. You nod your head over to the agent, and he returns the nod before making his way over to the floored man. He grabs the two-way radio, holding it up to speak.

“Fisk has people in here,” he puffs, “not just vigilantes. I’m bringing them out now.” He tells the radio before putting it down and raising his hand. “Follow me.” He orders. Matt guides you through another hallway before reaching a wooden door, he slides it open.

“Go,” he huffs repeatedly, and you can see that the door leads outside. He ushers them through, and you hear the familiar wail of sirens. Then, without warning, he freezes, “Down! Everybody, down!” He yells out, and all of you hit the deck.

You gasp as bullets rain over your head. You attempt to locate Matt, but between the low lighting and crowd of people, it’s a lost cause. You press your body against one of the crates that are shielding you from the bullets, heart pounding.

You hear Matt yell something inaudible before a knife lodges itself near your hand. You jolt, about to scream for Daredevil when you get a closer look at the knife. It reads the words: “OVER HERE.”

You try and retrace the trajectory of where it came from, and look up to see Bullseye waiting just inside the doorframe you exited. The way he has positioned himself makes it impossible for any of the task force agents to see him, or really, anybody who isn’t you. He tilts his head, giving a casual nod.

You scowl at him, grabbing the knife, and scanning the area. When you find a break in the gunfire, you crouch and run back inside. Upon reentering, you straighten yourself. “What are you doing? When you said ‘see you soon’ I didn’t think this is what you meant.”

He looks you up and down, “I did tell you that I was only here for you.” He shrugs, “Your fault you thought I’d actually leave.”

“Daredevil has it handled, I would’ve been fine.” You cross your arms, pushing him more in the building, paranoid that the task force or Matt would spot you two.

Dex nods slowly, “Yeah, being shot at sounds like he has it ‘handled’ to me.” You see his eyes narrow slightly. “We should go before he can stop us.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you want to go back out there?”

You don’t have an answer for that, and he nods as if he knew you wouldn’t. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’s going to think I went missing.” You snap at him.

Dex says your name and you pause, “He probably already knows I’m here. If he wanted to stop us from leaving, he would try to.” His voice goes quieter, “I had to— I wanted to make sure you’re okay. All of the task force is focused on him right now. There are other exits we can take while they’re distracted.”

You cross your arms, feeling the exhaustion of the past two days catch up to you. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “but if anything goes wrong, you get to be the one to explain it to him.”

Dex huffs, but doesn’t disagree, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention it the next time we meet.” He starts walking down the hallway you came from, you follow him side-by-side.

Neither of you speak for a few minutes, but he, surprisingly, breaks the silence. “About the other night,” he begins, catching your attention, “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Then how did you intend for it to go down?”

Dex doesn’t respond immediately, and you follow him up a set of stairs. “I… don’t know.” He replies measuredly. “I just…” he grunts, “I couldn’t stand seeing you with him.” He replies honestly, shaking his head. The two of you make it through another set of doors.

You process the information, grabbing the railing of another staircase. You descend downward, and when you reach the bottom you turn to him “You knew Daredevil was gonna show, didn’t you?” You ask, walking side-by-side with Dex.

He turns to face you, removing the mask off his face, and you catch yourself staring. “I suspected.” He shrugs.

You hum, “Is that why—”

“If you still want to talk about Daredevil, we can turn around.” Dex interjects sarcastically, tossing a glance behind you both.

Your eyebrows raise, and you let out a startled breath. “Huh,” you muse, pausing to turn around, causing Dex to stop too, “alright, well seeing as that was the original plan. I’ll see you later then, and not later as in five minutes—” You ramble, bluffing. You don’t get very far before Dex stops you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer. You stagger over yourself, your hands falling to his shoulders.

You look at his eyes, scanning his face. Dex mimics the action, looking over your face. You can’t tell if he is examining you for injuries, or if he is trying to commit this moment to memory. Perhaps both. Your breath hitches at his intense gaze.

“I’m filthy.” You whisper, shivering as his hands come up hesitantly to touch your cheek, as if he is waiting for you to deny him the pleasure. Perhaps the nights spent caged made you delusional because you physically lean in, and he follows the motion.

He chuckles quietly, the sound for your ears alone, “And you think I’d care?” He whispers back.

You smirk softly, “Fair enough.” You laugh, and he leans closer to you, as if drawn in by the sound of your joy. Neither of you say anything before meeting each other halfway.

His shoulders drop instantly, and his hands pull you closer as if he physically cannot let go of you. You smile through the kiss, and you feel him mirror the action. His lips move with yours as if they can predict your every action and match it perfectly, as if he has done it a million times before. He kisses you with a desire that you haven’t felt in years. It is both the most heavenly and agonizing experience all at once, to be readily given what you’ve wanted for all this time. Slowly, you pull away to catch your breath. Dex doesn’t move, and when you open your eyes, his are still closed.

You let the moment linger before breaking the silence, it felt too familiar to not say anything. “You know who I am, don’t you?” You croak.

His eyes flutter open, flickering down to his lips before meeting your eyes again. “Hm?” He hums blissfully.

You chuckle softly to hide how exposed you feel at the question, lightly tapping your fingers across his chest, “You do, right?” You ask again.

He swallows, and you can see his throat move with the action. Then he says your name tenderly, reverently. “I’ve remembered for a while now.”

That surprises you, “Have you?” You ask, raising a hand up to his chin, gently brushing your fingers against the scarred skin.

He nods slowly, leaning into the touch. “Back at the diner.” Your lips part, and he blinks, patiently waiting your response.

“That’s when you remembered me?” You raise an eyebrow, and his hand idly rubs circles against your skin.

“You sound surprised.” He notes, clearly attempting (and failing) to bite back a smile.

“Forgive me, but you had walked into the diner, killed like ten task force agents, then asked if my meal was ruined.”

“Was it?” He sounds way more proud about murder than he has any right to. “You never did give a clear answer to my question.” He muses, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” you huff, “because I was upset at the crime scene I was witnessing.” You emphasize your point by pushing your index finger against his chest.

“Well, I gathered that.” Dex responds dryly. “I didn’t actually know you were there until it was too late.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe. You just coincidentally visited the same diner I frequented?”

“I don’t know ‘bout a coincidence.” Dex shakes his head, “I… I think some part of me knew you liked that place.” His voice wavers a bit.

“So you visited it often because it reminded you of the life you couldn’t remember?” Your voice is solemn.

“…Yeah.” He whispers, almost vulnerable.

You frown, lip trembling, and your next question is filled years of pent up sorrow and fury, “You remember me, truly?” Your voice trembles, unable to meet his eyes as you ask him to reconfirm everything he just told you. “I don’t mean the coffee shop, the diner, or even the nights you visited me.” You feel the tears begin to well up in your eyes. Dex freezes the moment he notices them. “I mean before all of that.”

Dex waits for you to look up, and you blink the tears away. “I remember,” he begins slowly, “you told me that you didn’t like it when I vanished on those nights. You told me you were afraid that, with how Daredevil—how I—was acting back then, that I’d get killed.” He takes a deep breath, “I remember I told you that I’d make sure that you knew I was alive.” He smiles wistfully.

“If you forgot to eat dinner, I’d order Italian from that one place you liked down the street of our apartment.” You let out a quiet sob, “I remember that one time, you had a bad day coming home from work.” He inhales, “Fisk told me to go…” he shakes his head, “That part isn’t important, but all I remember is you telling me that you wanted me to come home that night.” He shakes his head slowly, “I remember you saying that so… so vividly. When I came home, you greeted me with the biggest smile, and for a moment I could forget everything else that wasn’t you.” Tears are openly running down your face, yet Dex doesn’t stop.

“I remember during the confrontation, before I forgot,” his eyes look from the ground up to yours, “before Fisk broke my spine, I thought back to what you said. That you wanted me to come home.” He blinks a few times, “All— All I could think about was the fact that I wouldn’t be coming home that night, and you wouldn’t know why. I would never be able to tell you myself.” You don’t bother holding back the sobs that wrack your body. “And I… I couldn’t help but hate myself in that moment. I hated him too. I was so upset that Fisk stole my chance to explain myself.”

You take in a deep breath, your chest shuddering, “And when I woke up, something was missing. I couldn’t remember you, but you haunted my life for years.” He admits, chuckling softly, but the sound is more troubled than anything. “Sometimes I could remember bits of what it felt like to be loved by you, but I could never remember your face. Not— Not until much later.”

“Dex…” You warble.

“Do you believe me?” You don’t get a chance to respond, “Please believe me. I…” His breathing begins to quicken, “I don’t know how else to…” he trails off, and you take the opportunity to pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He falls into your chest, and you can feel his heartbeat fluttering underneath your fingertips. “I believe you, Dex.” You sniffle.

His glassy eyes meet your own, swollen and red from tears. “I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted—needed anybody as much as I need you.” He admits, and the words spill out. He licks his lips, meeting your eyes, desperation evident. “Finding you again was like taking a breath of air after drowning for so long.” He takes a deep breath, “I love you. I need you.”

You melt onto him, and Dex basks in your presence. Perhaps his words may be concerning, but part of you resonates with him. “I missed you so much.” You whisper. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” You ask. He blinks, and you continue: “All these years, I... hated that you left me with this burden where I remembered everything, but you lived on as if I didn’t exist.” Dex's eye twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“I was hoping that if I pretended you weren’t apart of my life, I could eventually convince myself that it was true.” You trace your fingers along his shoulders, and you watch him look down. “All these years, despite the fact that you had forgotten me, I could not erase my memory of you.” You laugh, wiping a few stray tears. “Life is cruel, isn't it?”

“Do you still wish you could forget?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His hands shake slightly in anticipation, and his breathing is unnaturally still.

“No,” you admit truthfully. “Not anymore, at least.” Dex exhales in relief at your words.

“I’m… I’m really sorry that you went through that.” The apology is clunky and pathetic—laughable even. You let out a tearful snort at it.

But it’s Dex, it’s so purely Dex that it hurts because you know he means it. He recounted memories of you as if they happened yesterday and told you he needs you.

He must see how unimpressed you are, “I know that doesn’t sound like much…”

“It doesn’t.” You quip coolly, and he winces slightly. “But I know you mean it.” You whisper softly. He exhales, and you feel his chest rise and fall. “I missed you.” You repeat the words, quiet, vulnerable, a confession in their own right.

He doesn’t say anything this time, as if afraid of saying something would mess everything up. Instead, he holds you tighter.

Neither of you let go and when you part, his eyes dilate upon looking at your face again, and no more words needed to be said.

A few days later, you were resting on the couch, his arm around you. You are scrolling through some articles before pausing and turning to Dex. He watches as you furrow your eyebrows at him.

“Did you ever tell Daredevil I was okay?” You ask.

He blinks once, “No,” he shakes his head slightly, “we don’t exactly talk if it can be helped.”

You frown, “So… You think he thinks I’m missing?”

Dex adjusts slightly as you lean closer to him, “I think he knows you left with me.”

You raise an eyebrow at Dex, “How could you possibly know that if you haven’t talked with him?”

“Call it intuition.” He smiles.

“Alright...” You blink at his cryptic response, “I’ll text him.”

Hey, just checking in, hope everyone is doing well. Wanted to let you know I got out of the whole Red Hook situation and am not missing.

“You think he’ll be mad?” You muse aloud. “Actually, he can’t be too mad at me. I’m still upset about how he went about meeting me.”

“If it was me, I would’ve just cut him off.” Dex comments helpfully.

“Of course you’d say that.” You deadpan before standing up, “You think he’ll be upset that we’re…” you gesture between you both.

Dex shrugs, frustratingly indifferent to the whole situation. “Probably.”

You hold your hand up to your mouth, contemplative. “How do I even tell him that?”

Dex is about to say something when your phone vibrates. Usually Matt prefers to talk on the phone rather than texting, so the fact that he texted you says a lot.

“What’d he say?” Dex asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

“Uh…” You trail off as you read his response.

Matt: I’m aware you left with Dex.

I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.

Matt: It’s fine. However, for future reference, you might want to wait until you’re home for conversations like that.

Like what?

Matt: Ask him.

“I think he’s mad.” You conclude. “He told me that I might ‘want to wait until I’m home for conversations like that.’” You turn to Dex, “He neglects to mention what ‘that’ is referring to.”

Dex slowly nods, his lips twitching in amusement, “Anything else?”

“He told me to ask you about it.” You put the phone down, “Do you know what he is talking about?”

Dex clicks his tongue, “He probably heard us.”

You blink slowly, “What do you mean?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Did he not tell you?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Tell me what..?”

“He has super-hearing.” Dex explains slowly.

“What?” You stare at him blankly.

“He really didn’t tell you?”

“Clearly not.” You laugh, dazed. “…So you’re saying he heard our entire conversation?”

“Probably.” Dex doesn’t sound surprised by this world-shattering realization for you.

You stare at him for a long moment, and he watches as you silently settle yourself next to him. “I don’t think I can ever speak to him again.” You declare, appalled by this new information.

Dex’s eyes crinkle in amusement, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

You chuckle, “Yep, it’s only us now.” You joke.

Dex nods solemnly, “Only us.”

You smile, snickering softly, and he smiles back at you. When you stop, you raise an eyebrow, “You aren’t joking, are you?” You ask astutely.

Dex’s smile grows in response.

: ̗̀➛ A/N: Matt being forced to listen when you and Dex finally reunite for real: “Please, God, make it stop.” Yayyy I finished a fic!!! Anywayyyy, "I’m back" is a bit of a stretch but guess who just finished DDBA? Seeing Dex on screen sparked some motivation for me. Yes, you can expect more of him from me in the future, so lmk if you’d want to be on a taglist for him/fill out the taglist form. In fact, I’d also be willing to write for Matt too… so there’s that. Also, don't mistake Matt and Karen's inital treatment/intentions toward us in this fic being me hating on them, I love them both dearly. Anyway, yes I will be actually answering asks again. I know I said on like four separate occasions I’d do that, but I MEAN it this time, look I even posted a fic :D! I’ll be trying to catch up on old asks for the next few days, but feel free to leave stuff in my inbox! I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on this :) I also know I said “here’s some fics I have planned or whatever” and this was NOT one of them. I am still going to write those fics, but uh… just accept that whatever gets posted is purely based on motivation lmao. So I guess shoutout to Dex for getting me through a couple month long fic slump and making me write for Marvel for the first time in ages? I hope he wasn’t too ooc. I know I wrote him to be pretty tame in comparison to some of the stuff I’ve seen, and I say that knowing he stalked us and killed people for us in this fic lol. I’ll try to crank some more fics out soon. They’ll probably be a mix of Dex and Batfam characters idk, maybe even a Bucky fic if I’m feeling it. Okay this is getting WAY too long, I hope you all enjoyed the fic :D, lmk if you guys liked it cause I am absolutely willing to write for Dex if that’s what the people want!

she'd winked at you. actually winked. like she was doing you some kind of favor, leaving you alone with him for forty-eight hours.

you'd smiled and waved from the couch, your stomach twisting into knots.

now it's 8 pm, and you're sitting on your bed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, knees pulled to your chest, staring at your closed door like it might protect you.

he hasn't come yet.

you don't know if that makes it better or worse.

part of you—the part that still wants to be good, that still remembers what normal feels like—hopes he won't. hopes that maybe the past few months have been in your head. that you've been imagining the touches, the looks, the way his voice drops when he calls you honey.

but the other part of you—the part that's been aching and empty and desperate for weeks—knows better.

he's waiting. he's always waiting. watching. planning.

and tonight, there's no one to stop him.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

Dex: Come downstairs, sweetheart. I made dinner.

your hands shake as you type back.

you: not hungry

three dots appear immediately. disappear. appear again.

Dex: Wasn't a question.

you stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

this is it. this is the moment you say no. this is where you draw the line and tell him you're not doing this, that it's wrong, that he needs to stop.

but your feet are already moving.

you're already opening your door.

you're already walking down the staircase, each step feeling like you're walking toward the edge of a cliff.

the house is too quiet. your mom's absence is a physical thing—a vacuum where her laughter and chatter used to be. without her, the house feels different. smaller. like the walls are closing in.

you find dex in the kitchen.

he's standing at the stove in jeans and a black t-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps, and he doesn't turn around when you enter. just keeps stirring whatever's in the pot with slow, methodical movements.

"sit," he says.

you sit at the kitchen table, hands folded in your lap, and watch him. he moves with that same eerie precision he always does—every gesture controlled, deliberate. nothing wasted. he plates the food—pasta with vodka sauce, your favorite—and brings it to the table, setting it in front of you before taking the seat directly across.

not at the head of the table where he usually sits.

directly. across.

close enough that his knees bracket yours under the table.

"eat," he says.

"i told you i'm not—"

"eat."

his voice doesn't rise. doesn't change. but something in his eyes makes the protest die in your throat.

you pick up your fork with trembling hands and take a bite. it's good—of course it's good, he's always good at everything—but it tastes like ash in your mouth.

he doesn't eat. just watches you. studies you. like you're a problem he's solving.

the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. you can feel his gaze tracking every movement—the way you lift the fork, the way your throat works when you swallow, the way you can't quite meet his eyes. your leg bounces under the table, nervous energy with nowhere to go, and his knee presses against yours. firm. deliberate. a reminder that he's right there.

"you've been avoiding me," he says finally.

"no, i haven't."

"don't lie to me, honey." he leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. "you've barely looked at me in three days. you leave the room when i enter. you stopped sitting next to me on the couch."

your face burns. "i just—i needed space."

"space." he repeats the word like it's foreign. like he's testing the shape of it in his mouth. "from what?"

from you. from this. from whatever is happening between us that feels like it's going to swallow me whole.

but you can't say that. can't admit that you've been terrified of being alone with him because you know—know—that the second you are, everything will change.

"i don't know," you whisper instead.

"yes, you do."

he stands, and your breath catches. he's so big—six feet of lean muscle and controlled violence—and when he moves around the table toward you, you feel like prey.

he stops behind your chair. you can feel the heat of him at your back, can smell his cologne mixed with something else underneath. something darker.

his hands land on your shoulders.

you flinch.

"easy," he murmurs, and his thumbs start working into the knots at the base of your neck. "i'm not going to hurt you, honey. i would never hurt you."

liar.

but his hands feel so good. strong and sure and exactly what you've been craving without knowing how to ask for it. the pressure is perfect—firm enough to work through the tension, gentle enough to make you melt. you feel your shoulders drop, your head tipping forward slightly, a small sound escaping your throat before you can stop it.

"you're always so tense," he continues, voice soft and almost concerned. his fingers dig deeper, finding every knot, every tight spot. "you've been carrying all this stress around, haven't you? all this fear."

"i'm not scared," you lie.

his hands still. then his grip tightens—just slightly, just enough to make you gasp—and he leans down until his mouth is right next to your ear.

"don't. lie. to me."

your heart is trying to break out of your chest.

"i'm sorry," you breathe.

"i know you are." his hands resume their massage, gentler now. soothing. his fingers slide up into your hair, tangling at the base of your skull. "you're such a good girl. so sweet. so eager to please. that's what i love about you, you know. you just want to make everyone happy."

his fingers tighten in your hair—not pulling, just holding—and he turns your head to the side so you're forced to look up at him. his face is inches from yours, pale eyes boring into you with an intensity that makes you want to look away.

but you can't.

you're trapped.

"but you can't make everyone happy, sweetheart," he says, and there's something raw in his voice now. something hungry. "sometimes you have to choose."

"choose what?" your voice is barely a whisper.

"who you belong to."

the words hang in the air between you, heavy and inevitable.

his hand slides from your hair down to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm. his thumb traces the hollow of your throat, back and forth, a whisper of touch that makes you shiver.

"i've been patient," he says, and there's that edge underneath now. that barely leashed violence. "so fucking patient. waiting for you to come to me. waiting for you to realize what this is. what we are."

"we're not—"

"yes, we are." his thumb presses against your pulse point, and his smile widens. "we have been since the day i met you. since i saw you standing in that kitchen in your little yellow sundress, looking at me like i was something safe. something good."

he laughs—a short, bitter sound.

"i'm not good, honey. i'm not safe. but i'm yours. and you're mine. and we both know it."

"this is wrong," you manage, but even as you say it, you're leaning into his touch. your body betraying you. "you're married to my mom. you're my—"

"i'm your what?" his grip tightens. "your stepdad? is that what you think i am?"

you nod frantically, and he releases your throat only to grip your chin instead, forcing you to maintain eye contact.

"no." his voice is flat. matter-of-fact. "i married your mother because it was the easiest way to get close to you. because i knew—knew—the second i saw you that i had to have you. that you were mine."

the words should horrify you.

they do horrify you.

but they also make something hot and shameful coil in your stomach.

"that's not—" you're shaking your head, trying to process what he's saying. trying to reconcile the man who makes pancakes and fixes leaky faucets with the man who's telling you he orchestrated an entire marriage just to possess you. "that's not true. you love her. you—"

"i tolerate her." his hand slides from your chin down to your shoulder, then lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. his palm is warm against your bare skin. "she's a means to an end. a cover. a way to be close to what i actually want."

his fingers splay across your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasp.

"and what i want," he continues, his other hand joining the first, both palms sliding around to your stomach, "is sitting right in front of me. trembling. scared. desperate for me to touch her even though she knows she shouldn't want it."

"i don't—"

"yes, you do." his hands slide lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your shorts. "you've been wet for me for weeks, haven't you? lying in your bed at night, thinking about me."

your face is on fire. "no i—"

"i told you. i've been watching." one hand slips beneath your waistband, beneath your panties, and his fingers find you wet and aching. his breath hitches. "i know everything about you, sweetheart. i know you bite your lip when you're trying not to cry. i know you hum when you're content. i know you touch yourself at 1 am on tuesdays and thursdays after your late classes because you're too wound up to sleep."

oh god.

oh god.

"i know," he continues, voice dropping lower, fingers circling your clit with maddening precision, "that you think about me when you come. that you whisper my name into your pillow when you think no one can hear."

"stop," you choke out, but you're not pushing him away. you're not moving at all. your hips are rolling against his hand, chasing the friction, and you hate yourself for it.

"why?" his fingers slip inside you—two at once—and you cry out. "when we both know this is what you want?"

you sob—actually sob—when he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and his free hand comes up to cover your mouth.

"shh," he soothes, thumb brushing away the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. "it's okay, honey. it's okay to want this. it's okay to want me."

"it's not," you gasp against his palm, but your body is betraying you, clenching around his fingers, desperate for more. "it's wrong. it's so wrong."

"says who?" he works you with ruthless efficiency, every movement calculated to break you down. "your mother? some arbitrary moral code that doesn't actually matter?"

"it matters," you insist weakly.

"no." he removes his hand from your mouth and wraps it around your throat instead—not squeezing, just holding. just reminding you who's in control. "what matters is this. what matters is how you feel when i touch you. how you've been aching for me. how you've been waiting for me to stop pretending and just take what's mine."

his fingers curl inside you again, and you're so close, teetering on the edge, and he knows it. he can feel it in the way you're trembling, in the way your breath comes in short, desperate gasps.

"that's it," he murmurs. "let go for me, honey. let me feel you come on my fingers."

"dex—"

"no." his hand tightens around your throat. "that's not what you call me. not anymore."

you know what he wants. what he's been prodding you toward.

"daddy," you whisper, and the word breaks something open inside you.

"good girl." his fingers move faster, harder, and you're falling apart. "such a good fucking girl for daddy."

you come with a broken sob, clenching around his fingers, and he works you through it with that same precision he brings to everything. drawing it out. making it last. making sure you feel every second of it.

when you finally come down, trembling and gasping, he withdraws his fingers slowly. brings them to his mouth. maintains eye contact as he licks them clean.

"upstairs," he says. "now."

you should say no. should run. should do anything except obey.

but you're already standing on shaky legs.

already moving toward the stairs with him right behind you, his hand on your lower back, guiding you.

he steers you past your room—past the bed where you've spent so many nights thinking about this exact moment—and toward the master bedroom.

their bedroom.

her bedroom.

"dex, we can't—"

"yes, we can." he opens the door and pushes you inside gently but firmly. "and we will. i want you in my bed, honey. want you to know exactly where you belong."

the room smells like your mother's perfume—floral and sweet and familiar—and the guilt crashes over you in waves.

but then his hands are on you again, pulling your shirt over your head, and the guilt gets buried under want.

he strips you methodically—shorts, panties, bra—until you're standing naked in front of him, and he's still fully clothed. the imbalance makes you feel vulnerable. exposed. small.

"look at you," he murmurs, circling you slowly. his gaze tracks every inch of you, cataloging, memorizing. "so fucking perfect. so small. i could break you in half without even trying."

the words should terrify you.

but they don't.

they make you feel good.

"on the bed," he orders. "on your back. spread your legs."

you obey, climbing onto the mattress—their mattress—and positioning yourself exactly how he wants. the sheets are cool against your heated skin. you can smell your mother's perfume on the pillows, and it makes your stomach flutter.

he stands at the foot of the bed, just watching. studying. his eyes track every inch of you, and you feel exposed. vulnerable. like he's peeling back layers you didn't know you had.

"do you know how long i've been planning this?" he asks, finally pulling his shirt over his head. his body is lean and muscled, pale skin marked with old scars. "how many nights i've laid here next to your mother, thinking about you in the next room? imagining what you'd look like spread out for me like this?"

he unbuttons his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers, and your breath catches.

he's big. bigger than you expected. thick and hard and intimidating.

"don't worry," he says, catching your expression. his smile is sharp. predatory. "i'll make it fit."

he climbs onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and his body covers yours completely. you feel so small beneath him. so delicate. his weight presses you into the mattress, and you can feel every inch of him—the heat of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"i've been preparing for this," he continues, reaching over to the nightstand. he pulls out a condom, tears it open with his teeth. "bought these three months ago. hid them in my nightstand. your mother never looks there."

the casual admission makes your stomach twist.

"i knew," he says, rolling the condom on with steady hands, "from the beginning that this is where we'd end up. that you'd give yourself to me. that you wouldn't be able to help yourself."

he positions himself at your entrance, and you feel the blunt pressure of him, and panic floods your system.

"wait—"

"shh." he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. gentle. tender. completely at odds with what he's about to do. "it's okay, honey. daddy's got you. i’m going to take such good care of you."

he gives you no time to argue before he suddenly invades you. 

the stretch is immediate and overwhelming. you cry out, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks.

"breathe," he instructs, voice strained. he's holding himself still, giving you time to adjust, and you can see the effort it takes. the way his jaw clenches. the way his arms shake. "breathe through it, baby. let me in."

you try. god, you try. but he's so big, and you're so full, and it hurts in a way that's both terrible and perfect.

"that's it," he groans, sinking deeper. inch by inch. "that's my good girl. taking me so well. letting daddy have what's his."

when he finally bottoms out, you're both panting. he stays still, letting you adjust, and his hand comes up to cradle your face. his thumb brushes across your cheekbone, catching a tear you didn't realize had fallen.

"you okay?" he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice. genuine care.

it makes everything worse.

"yes," you whisper.

"yes, what?"

"yes, daddy."

"good girl." he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that make you gasp. "gonna fuck you so good, honey. gonna make you forget anyone else exists. gonna make you mine."

and he does.

he fucks you with the same meticulousness he does everything else—calculated and controlled and devastatingly effective. every thrust hits a tender spot inside of you. every touch, every word, every deliberate move is designed to break you down and build you back up as something that belongs to him.

the bed creaks beneath you. the headboard ruts against the wall. you can smell the candle sitting on your mother's bedside table,—her favorite scent—and it should make you stop, should make you push him away, but it doesn't.

it just makes you hold him tighter.

"say it," he demands, hand wrapping around your throat. not squeezing. just holding. just reminding you. "say you're mine."

"i'm yours," you gasp.

"say you belong to me."

"i belong to you."

"say you'll never leave me."

"i'll never—" you're crying now, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion and the sheer wrongness of how right this feels. "i'll never leave you, daddy. i promise."

the groan that leaves him is borderline animalistic. "that's my girl." he fucks you harder, faster, and you're falling apart beneath him. "gonna come for me, honey? gonna come on daddy's cock like a good girl?"

"yes—yes, please—"

"then come," he orders. "come for daddy. now."

you shatter. break apart. come so hard you see stars, and he fucks you through it, prolonging it, until you're sobbing and shaking and completely undone.

he follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning your name—your name, not your mother's—and you feel him pulse inside you even through the condom.

for a long moment, neither of you move. you just lie there, tangled together, breathing hard.

then he pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss.

he disappears into the bathroom, and you hear water running. when he returns, he's got a warm washcloth, and he cleans you with surprising gentleness. his touch is tender now. careful.

"you did so good," he murmurs as he works, pressing kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your chest. "so perfect for me, sweetheart."

the praise makes you glow despite everything.

he climbs back into bed, pulling you against his chest, and you curl into him instinctively. his arms wrap around you—possessive and protective—and you feel so small in his embrace.

"this is where you belong," he says, and there's something dark in his voice now. something final. "right here. in my bed. in my arms. mine."

you don't answer. can't answer. you just lie there, listening to his heartbeat, and feel the weight of what you've done settle over you like a shroud.

"you sleep here from now on," he continues, fingers tracing idle patterns on your spine. "when she's not home. okay?"

"dex—"

"please."

the word sounded foreign on his tongue. you nod against his chest, because what choice do you have?

his arms tighten around you. "good girl."

you lie there for what feels like hours, wrapped in his arms, in your mother's bed, and try to process what just happened. try to reconcile the guilt and the satisfaction and the desperate, aching need for more.

eventually, his breathing evens out. deepens. he's asleep.

you carefully extract yourself from his embrace and slip out of bed. your legs shake as you gather your clothes, as you tiptoe out of the room and down the hallway to your own.

you close your door and slide down to sit on the floor with your back against it.

what did i just do?

what the hell did i just do?

you should feel disgusted. should feel horrified. should feel something other than this confusing mix of guilt and satisfaction and desperate, aching need for more.

but you don't.

you just sit there, naked and trembling, and know with absolute certainty that you're going to go back to him.

that you're going to let him do it again.

that you're going to keep letting him do it until there's nothing left of the girl you used to be.

because he's right.

you're his now.

completely.

and there's no going back.

“…there it is,” he murmurs.

your shyness makes you hesitant to ask for affection, which means dex learns to read you instead. he’ll notice you hovering nearby while pretending to look at something else, the tiny glances you keep stealing at him, the way your fingers fidget with your sleeves. without a word, he’ll open one arm. you shuffle over almost immediately, resting against his side. “…better?” he asks. you nod into his shoulder. “mhm.”

he finds your tendency to hide behind him endearing. crowded streets, loud environments, unfamiliar people - you’ll unconsciously drift until you’re standing just behind his shoulder. after a while, he starts shifting slightly to make room without even thinking about it.

because you’re so reserved, every little sign of affection from you means everything to him. if you reach for his hand first, if you lean your head on his shoulder without being prompted, if you quietly mumble, “I missed you,” when he comes home - it stays with him for days. he doesn’t react in the moment, but later that night he’ll pull you just a little closer while the two of you lie in bed, silently replaying those moments in his mind.

your shyness means you’re constantly apologizing for taking up space. dex hates it. every time you murmur, “sorry,” for something insignificant, he gently interrupts. “don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.” eventually he starts placing a finger beneath your chin whenever you apologize unnecessarily, making you look at him until you smile instead.

dex has spent most of his life hiding every genuine emotion he has. you wear yours all over your face without realizing it. he knows exactly when you’re excited because your eyes brighten before you even smile. he knows when you’re anxious because you start twisting your rings. he knows when you’re trying not to cry because your lips press together just a little tighter.

“I can hear you thinking.” he says.

“…how do you know?”

“because I know you.”

one of the first things dex notices is that you instinctively make yourself smaller. when a waiter accidentally gets your order wrong, you smile and say it’s fine. when someone interrupts you, you simply stop talking. it bothers him more than he’d ever admit. after watching it happen one too many times, he starts speaking before you can. “she ordered the tea, not coffee.” his voice is calm, almost detached.

you glance up at him, surprised. afterward, you mumble, "dex, you didn’t have to.”

he looks at you for a second. “I wanted to.”

he loves when you hide your face in his chest after he compliments you. at first he thinks you’re embarrassed. then he realizes you’re smiling too much to look at him. from then on, he starts whispering compliments just to feel you curl into him. “you’re beautiful.” you let out the tiniest groan, face disappearing into his jacket. he rests his chin on your head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

there are times when your quiet nature worries him. after everything he’s experienced, silence can make his thoughts spiral. if you spend too long lost in your own head, he’ll glance over more often than he’d like to admit. “you okay?” he’ll ask. every single time you smile softly and answer, “just thinking.” only then does the tension leave his shoulders.

he never tries to change your personality. if anything, he protects it. he knows the world constantly expects louder, bolder people, but he likes that you’re soft. likes that your words are carefully chosen instead of rushed. likes that your kindness isn’t performative. one night, when you apologize for “being too quiet,” he looks at you for a long moment before gently taking your hand. his fingers intertwine with yours. “it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

you’re soft in every way he isn’t. where his voice is blunt, yours is hesitant. where his gaze is intense, yours is quick to drop. when strangers make eye contact, you smile politely. dex studies them until they look away first. the funny part is that you balance each other perfectly. people approach you because you seem approachable. they leave you alone because they eventually notice who’s standing beside you.

He was slumped against the brick, one hand pressed to his side, blood slipping between his fingers. His suit was a dark blue and black, torn open at the ribs. His face was pale, though his eyes were not.

“No hospitals,” he said.

And because you were a good person, you swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”

You knew first aid, you volunteered in enough community centers not to. 

“Do you have a name?” you asked.

His teeth chattered a little. “Dex.”

You swear you’re a good person when you let him inside your apartment.

You swear you’re a good person when you clean the blood from his body and nurture him back to health.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him sleep on your couch, even after you realize the suit is familiar.

Even after you realize he’s familiar.

Even after you realise he’s Bullseye. Even if he’s the kind of man good girls are supposed to run from.

But you look at him, Dex sits on your couch under  your blanket, bruised and battered, and says, “I’m one of the good guys now” with absolute conviction and a lopsided grin, as if he was imitating you. 

You swear you’re a good person when you believe him.

Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe you decide wanting to believe in him counts as mercy.

You swear you’re a good person when he’s eventually well enough to leave.

You swear you’re a good person when you spend two weeks pretending you’re glad he’s gone.

In truth, your apartment feels empty. You keep looking at the place where he bled on your tiles longingly.

Then, like a lost cat, he comes back through the window.

His hair was streaked with blood, he has blood on his knuckles. His eyes are tired and fixed on you.

“Task Force is crawling my streets,” he says. “Can I stay here?”

You swear you’re a good person when you say yes.

You swear you’re a good person when he kisses you that night.

It happens in the kitchen, under the flickering yellow light, with rain tapping against the glass. 

His mouth hits yours hard. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb pressing under the soft flesh of your jaw, holding you still while he kisses you deeper. His body pins yours to the counter, and you know you should be scared.

You swear you’re a good person when you kiss him back.

You swear you’re a good person when you pull him closer by his belt loops.

You swear you’re a good person when he tells you he’s been watching you since he left.

He said he was sure you got home safe. He was making sure nobody followed you. He was sure the man from 4B stopped looking at you like a creep. He was sure you were safe, because he was a good man, right?

You should tell him to leave. Instead, you cup his cheeks and press his forehead to yours.

“Don’t lie to me about it again,” you whisper gently, which is not the same thing as telling him to stop.

You know that. Dex knows that, too.

You swear you’re a good person when you basically forgive him for stalking you. 

You swear you’re a good person when he starts staying over.

Suddenly, he has a toothbrush next to yours. His shirts end up in your closet. 

You swear you’re a good person when his hands go under your shirt, groping and gripping and touching  like he can’t believe you’re letting him. He kisses your neck until you’re whining. He bites your shoulder hard enough to make you arch. He grinds against you, still clothed, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin and into yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants.

You don’t. Instead, you drag him down.

You swear you’re a good person when he fucks you. When he gets you naked with desperate, clumsy hands and pushes your thighs apart like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he goes any slower. Your thighs are shaking so hard you have to grab his hair and mewl into his shoulders.

He fucks you deep and messy and stupid, hips pounding into yours, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. The bed hits the wall and nails tear down his scarred back. His mouth drags over your nose, your cheek, your lips, all open-mouthed and frantic.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice wrecked.

You just let out a helpless “hmpph!”

He laughs once against your mouth.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him fuck you silly in your own bed, even though you know what he is.

You swear you’re a good person when Task Force comes knocking three days later, when Dex is out.

The agent at your door is handsome, but not your type. 

“Ma’am,” he says. “We’re asking about a Bullseye sighting nearby.”

You blink up at him. “No, sir. I haven’t seen anything.”

You swear you’re a good person when you lie.

He doesn’t leave and steps closer instead, one boot over your threshold.

His gaze drops to your bare legs, and then to the oversized shirt you’re wearing. It was actually Dex’s shirt.

“You live alone?” he asks.

Your stomach turns upside down. “I think you should go.”

He shrugs, “I’m just asking questions.”

His hand catches the door before you can shut it. Then he is inside, too close, fingers brushing your.

You freeze.

He looks at your mouth.

“You sure you don’t know anything?” he murmurs.

You swear you’re a good person when you lie again, this time through gritted teeth. “I said no.”

His hand slides to your waist and you shove him.

He laughs, but he tries to put his hands on you again. 

Eventually, you shut the door and get him out.

You wait for Dex.

You swear you’re a good person when you tell him everything, knowing exactly what Dex would do. 

“Name,” he says.

You tell him what you saw in the badges.

You swear you’re a good person when you don’t ask where he is going.

You swear you’re a good person when he comes back before dawn dragging the agent by the back of his collar. The man is crying.

His badge is gone, face is bruised, pushed to his knees  on your wooden floor.

Dex stands behind him with a gun in his hand.

“Apologise,” Dex says.

The agent sobs through it. He says sorry, says he didn’t mean it. Says he was just messing around.

Dex presses the gun to the side of his head and looks at you. “Can I?”

You swear you’re a good person.

You swear.

You swear.

You swear you think about mercy. You swear you think about laws. You swear you think about the literal human life Dex has put in your hands.

Still, you say, “Yes.”

Dex shoots him in the head. The agent drops, and blood spreads across your wooden floor.

He looks at you as if asking, are you proud of me yet?

You swear you’re a good person when you help him clean up the mess. You swear you’re a good person when you hold the bin bag open. You swear you’re a good person when you help him scrub blood from the floorboards. You swear you’re a good person when you help him bury the body.

What else were you supposed to do? Let him do it alone? After he defended you? After he did what you asked him to do?

You swear you’re a good person when you crawl into bed beside him that night.

You tuck yourself under his chin and whisper, “I love you.”

His arms close around you as he says, “I love you, too.”

You swear you’re still a good person.

Or maybe you’re just in love. Maybe you don’t know the difference anymore.

—

Sunday:

You went to Sunday mass since you needed some guidance from Father Lantom. It’s been ages since you set foot in a church, let alone prayed, but ever since you moved to Hell’s Kitchen you’ve been met with constant hardships.

Your shitty apartment raised it’s rent, you need to replace your tires which is $500 dollars you don’t have, and you’ve been denied a promotion at your workplace after you’ve been the most productive employee in there. You’re tired. The last place of positivity you could think of was this church.

You’ve met Father Lantom on a park bench where you two spoke about theology and the existence of a God through the basis of your current hardships. After a lengthy conversation, he advised you that if you ever needed to talk to him or the big man upstairs then you to come to his church where you would be welcomed with open arms.

And here you were, listening to Father Lantom wrap up his sermon about keeping faith. He flashed you a smile as he went down the steps and head into his living quarters which left you semi-alone in the pews.

You took a deep breath before putting your hands together to finally pray for the first time in years.

“God… I know it’s been a while but after everything I’ve been going through? You’re the only stable thing I can turn to. Please…Please let me be okay after everything. This will pass, but protect me while it passes? Amen..” You sigh as wipe the tears in your eyes. You make your exit with a little more faith than you had before and head home.

Matthew attended that same Sunday mass when he heard the desperate prayer of a person whose voice was like honey to his ears. He couldn’t describe this fascination but he knew he couldn’t just let it slide. So he did what any normal person would do: he followed you around.

This following lasted for a good 4 months as he learned your routines, your likes, your dislikes, anything he could possibly get from overhearing your angelic voice speak.

He followed you to work where he learned how shitty your coworkers treat you. He’ll take note of that later. Matthew then followed you to the train station where he could overhear the music you like to hear on your way home. Early 2000s stuff is respectable in his opinion. Once you were home, Matthew perched up on your buildings roof to watch over you. He would not let a single person lay a finger on you. You have the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as your loyal servant.

Oh, but nothing could have prepared him for what he was hearing underneath him. He could hear a buzzing hum, different from the neon lights surrounding the area, but that buzzing hum mixed in with a new sound that made Matthew’s breath falter.

It was you.

You were in bed writhing in bliss using your vibrator after such a long week of pure stress and there’s no better stress reliever than an orgasm or two. Your legs are spread open wide as you work the toy into your lubed up cunt. Right hand pumping while your left hand works on your clit making you pant like a bitch in heat; just chasing for that high.

Matt could hear everything you were doing. Your gasps, your whimpers, your moans, the slick sound of your cunt engulfing the toy you’re using. He could barely stand while his ears studied your noises nor could he properly rationalize since the blood that was once in his brain went straight down to his cock.

You could feel your orgasm start to brew inside your womb. You knew your cervix would hate you in the morning but you don’t care at this point. It feels too damn good. Your eyes flutter shut as your climax begins to rise up within you, but your pleasure was cut short and replaced with terror as you felt a strangers lips on your neck.

Your diaphragm expands to let out a scream but the masked man covers your mouth before you can. “Easy, sweetheart~! Don’t let me interrupt you~!” His voice was husky; sultry as he worked on your pulse points. In your terror, your body betrayed you by giving you goosebumps from how soft his lips were on your skin.

Kissing down your collarbone he reaches the soft mounds of your breasts. He takes his free hand to free them from the confines of your top to knead them; his fingers reaching to roll your nipples in a way that has you shuddering. You cannot believe that your body is acting positively to this stranger’s actions but you just can’t help yourself.

It feels good, you feel good, and that’s all you want to feel right now; no matter the circumstance. He hears your soft whimpers and just smiles at how sweet you gave into him. It gives him the confidence to let his hand off your mouth and replace it with his lips. The masked man kisses you passionately as if he’s starved for you. His lips feel so plush against yours and the contrast of the scruff on his cheeks excites you for more of it.

The masked man separates from your lips and connects them to your sternum, your abdomen, and finally to the plushy upper part of your pussy. You watched as he removed the toy from inside you and replaced it with his tongue.

The moan Matt ripped from you was ten times better than the one he heard above you especially since it was him prying them from you. Matthew has waited for so long to finally have you like this. He’s fantasized it for a couple of months, but to finally take it? It’s a whole different rush.

Matthew laps your juices to savor your sour-sweet taste; drinking until his eyes glaze over in his mask. His focuses his tongue to curl around your clit and sucks on it until he feels your thighs clamping around his head. Matthew’s hands fly up to grasp at your thighs and pulls you onto his mouth further.

The coil in your womb begins to tighten as his tongue works you in a way you’ve never experienced before. Your legs are trembling at the near overstimulation this man is giving you and it feels so fucking good. Every partner you’ve had in the past is buried by this man’s ability tongue fuck you.

The masked stranger seems to feel how close you are to finishing when he plunges two fingers into your core; curving them to hit that yummy spot that has you seeing stars: “That’s it, angel~! Give me what I want~! I’ll clean it right up~” He’s moans against your cunt just eager to drink your climax.

Your mind goes blank as your orgasm hits you at full force while you’re gripping at the sheets below you. Desperation fills your voice as your orgasm hits you in waves; The masked man keeping his promise of drinking every last bit of your release.

Once you came down from your high you look at the stranger in front of you. His half covered face is glistening with your slick and you can’t say that he doesn’t look sexy as fuck with your juices all over his face.

You watch him wipe his bottom lip with his thumb and lick the excess off. A chill goes down your spine when you see him smile devilishly at your spent frame. The straining tent in his pants tells you that he isn’t done with you just yet; not like you want him to be.

Your stomach turns in apprehension as you watch him unbuckle his pants to finally unveil his neglected cock. You stare in awe at his heavy looking cock and you can feel yourself getting turned on again.

The stranger walks slowly over to the edge of the bed, boots thudding on your wooden floors, until he stops by your ankles. In a swift motion he grabs you by them and pulls you toward his exposed sex; his cock lying on top of your puffy cunt. You can see how deep he’s going to fuck you and it makes your stomach fill with butterflies at the mere thought of it. Are you actually going through with this? Are you that desperate to feel good that you’re just welcoming this to happen instead of fighting and screaming?

Your thoughts are cut short by the masked man tapping your entrance with the leaking tip of his cock making your heart rate increase. The man above you breathes in deep as if he’s preparing mentally for what he’s about to do.

Matthew can’t believe he’s about to take you like this. His chest heaves as he fights his conscience on whether or not he should stop. The angel telling him that he’s taken it too far but the devil tells him that he’s has not taken it far enough. His morality and carnal desire battle within his head, but he can’t hold on any longer. He needs more.

His beard smells like you, his tongue is still savors you, he can hear the slick replenishing in your pussy as the position he has you in apparently is turning you on again. His brain phases into a blank state as he lets his carnal desires glaze over completely.

You watch the masked man take one last breath of composure before he presses your knees onto your chest and shoves his throbbing cock into your heat. The stranger hunches over you as he starts plowing you into the mattress and all you can do is take it.

The noises that escape your throat are breathy and hitched as your body and conscious still can’t make up their mind. Arms gripping onto the strangers hoodie to try and ground yourself in the moment he’s giving you. Once you allow yourself to feel good all you feel is the strangers cock slamming down onto your cervix. The release of restraint finally has you moaning in ecstasy as you feel each and every inch of this man’s cock stretching you to its blissful limit.

The stranger’s voice groaned in the most primal way as he bullied your womb. “S’good~ Need it- Need you~!” The carnal need dripping from his mouth like drool as the masked stranger takes your body as his to take.

A new coil of heat begins to rise within you as you take in everything that’s happening to you. His cock feels so fucking good as it abuses your slick walls; cunt clenching as he hits that sweet spot within you that has you arching your back.

Your breathing becomes more and more erratic as he prioritizes all of his efforts into prying that orgasm out of you. In an effort to make connection with the masked stranger your weakly bring your hands to his face; wanting to see more, but he denies you by grabbing your wrists and pinning them beside your head.

“No! No…not yet..” he rasps as he sinks down to your newly exposed neck. He licks, bites, and sucks on the exposed skin. It has the coil in your womb at its limit. Your body stiffening at the sheer amount of pleasure this man has been giving you; making you cum all over him. The stranger groans in your ear as his hips stutter during your peak. He spills within you, hot ropes of cum coat your insides while the masked man fucks it all back into you.

His hips slow to a stop and all that is heard in the room is the cacophony of panting between the two of you. The stranger gives your face a few more kisses before he starts pulling away from your core; whining at the sudden feeling of emptiness.

The masked man stands tall as he puts himself back into his pants which makes you realize how bare you are. Shyly, you grab the comforter on your bed to give yourself some sense of modesty while you watch the man in front of you. You see him readjust his mask as he makes his way to your window.

you sat curled beneath a blanket, one leg tucked underneath you, a book resting open in your lap. your apartment felt unusually warm compared to the weather outside. a small lamp glowed beside the couch, casting pools of amber light across the room along with some scented candles you lit.

you'd showered less than half an hour ago. your hair was still slightly damp, the ends leaving faint wet marks against the oversized t-shirt you'd thrown on afterward. the warmth from the shower lingered on your skin, making the apartment feel even cozier than usual.

it should have been the perfect night for reading, except you kept rereading the same page because your mind kept drifting. your neighbor. the man from across the hall. you didn't even know his name. all you had were brief encounters in hallways, shared elevator rides, nods of acknowledgement.

you stared down at the page. reading the same sentence for the fourth time and giving up. with a sigh, you lowered the book onto your chest. outside, headlights passed below your window. your thoughts wandered again.

you wondered if he was home, if he was awake, if he ever noticed you watching him the same way you noticed him watching you. you wondered what his voice sounded like. whether it was as sharp as his stare. whether he even knew how much space he'd started taking up inside your head. the thought made you smile at yourself.

this was getting embarrassing. you were imagining a man you'd never even spoken to.

you were just beginning to convince yourself to return to your book when three firm knocks sounded at your door. the sound startled you enough that you nearly dropped it. you sat up immediately, blinking toward the hallway. at almost midnight, you certainly weren't expecting visitors. another knock followed a few seconds later.

setting the book aside, you stood from the couch and crossed the apartment. the wooden floor felt cool beneath your bare feet as you approached the door. through the peephole you could only make out the dark shape of someone standing in the hallway.

curiosity got the better of you. you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

oh.

standing on the other side was the very man you'd been thinking about for the last twenty minutes. rainwater darkened the shoulders of his black jacket, suggesting he'd only recently come inside. his expression remained unreadable, but his eyes settled on yours almost immediately, familiar and unnervingly intense.

then he lifted one hand - dangling from his fingers was a set of keys. for a second, you simply stared at the keys in his hand, then recognition hit.

"oh my god."

you immediately reached for them, relief washing through you. "i've been looking for these all evening."

his gaze followed the movement of your hand. "figured."

your fingers brushed as you took them from him. it wasn't even enough to properly qualify as touching, but you still felt it. a brief spark of awareness that made you strangely conscious of how close he was standing. you glanced down at the familiar keychain attached to the ring and laughed softly.

"seriously, thank you. I thought I'd somehow lost them outside."

"found them in the lobby," he said. "you dropped them earlier."

you looked back up at him.

"and you remembered they were mine?"

"I've seen you carrying them."

the answer should have felt completely normal. instead, it made your stomach tighten. neither of you seemed eager to break eye contact. the hallway suddenly felt much smaller than usual.

you became acutely aware that you were standing in your doorway looking freshly showered and probably staring at him like an idiot. you cleared your throat.

"well." your fingers tightened around the keys. "I definitely owe you one..."

"tony." he specified. you introduced yourself in exchange.

tony... the name doesn't suit him that much, you thought to yourself.

"tony!"

his eyebrow lifted slightly. his gaze remained on you for a moment before shifting away. only then did you properly notice the state he was in.

his dark jacket was soaked through. rainwater clung to the fabric and dripped occasionally onto the hallway floor. his hair was damp too, slightly darker than usual, with a few strands falling forward.

you frowned. "jesus. it's pouring out there."

he glanced over his shoulder toward the building entrance at the end of the hallway. "yeah."

"you got caught in it?"

"something like that."

the man looked like he'd walked through a hurricane.

"something like that doesn't explain why you look like you swam home."

that earned a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. you felt oddly proud of yourself.

"well, my apartment building has terrible timing too."

"how so?"

he looked back at you.

"no hot water."

you blinked. "what?"

"pipe burst." he said it casually. "and maintenance won't be here until tomorrow."

you stared. "you're kidding."

"wish I was."

you looked at him. then at the rainwater practically dripping off him. then back at him. a few seconds passed. no, don't even think about it.

"you can use my shower."

the words left your mouth before you could think about them. immediately afterward your brain caught up.

right. great. amazing.

you had just invited the attractive stranger you'd been obsessing over for months into your apartment to shower. excellent. very normal.

his eyebrows lifted slightly, looking skeptical. "your shower..."

you cleared your throat.

"I mean-" too late. you were already flustered. there was no recovering now. "I have hot water. you don't. that's the entire thought process."

"that's reassuring."

"don't make it weird."

his expression remained perfectly neutral. "I wasn't."

"you were thinking about it."

for a second you thought he might refuse, you expected him to. he seemed like the kind of person who rarely accepted help from anyone. his eyes drifted past you into the apartment. then his gaze returned to yours.

"you sure?" he asked, his question coming out quieter than you expected.

you nodded. "yeah."

finally he sighed through his nose. almost like he was giving in to something. "okay."

you blinked. "okay?"

"okay."

you hadn't actually planned for him to agree. now you were the one standing there staring. his eyes narrowed slightly. amused.

"you're the one that offered."

"I know, I just-" you stopped. because there was absolutely no way to finish that sentence without embarrassing yourself. he waited. "come in" you pointed toward your apartment.

the smile that appeared this time was small. brief but definitely real. you stepped aside and he finally crossed the threshold into your apartment. the scent of rain followed him inside.

you closed the door behind him and suddenly became painfully aware that your mysterious neighbour was standing in your living room. the same living room where you'd spent the last twenty minutes thinking about him. unfortunately, your brain chose that exact moment to remind you of this fact.

you immediately walked into the side of the couch. the impact echoed through the room. fuckkkk, that hurt. you closed your eyes from the pain and tried to ignore what just happened, pretending you were okay.

"I saw that."

of course he did. you rubbed your knee.

"no you didn't."

"pretty sure I did."

"well, as your host, I'm asking you to respect my privacy."

another laugh. somehow, hearing it while he stood dripping rainwater onto your floor made the entire evening feel a little unreal. you laughed alongside him.

you guided him to the bathroom - brought him towels and whatever men's clothing you had. the ones you usually bought to wear at home.

"If you need anything else let me know, tony!"

he thanked you and locked the door, turning the shower on. dex immediately started inspecting the whole place: what brand toothpaste and soap you use, what does your laundry detergent smell like, what scented shower gels do you have. he didn't forget to open some drawers and noticed a few pads and tampons laying around, as well as some razors and first aid kit.

after checking everything out, dex finally stepped into the shower. he didn't mind your haircare and skincare products - he thought they smelled sweet, just like you. he couldn't stop sheepishly smiling the whole time. like he finally got what he wanted without even trying too much - if we don't include the fact that he stole your lost keys earlier the day, and a few months of eye-fucking you two had.

after around 15 minutes, tony was out of your bathroom, dressed in your home clothes. he looked so unbelievably hot right now, hair still wet and messy, clothes a little too tight for his broad figure, his cheeks were pinkish and you could smell your signature scent across the living room.

"everything alright?" you peeked your head up from the couch.

"yep, I guess you don't owe me anymore" he smiled. "you're good". tony started walking over to you, the couch dipping at his weight. fuck, he looked so sexy manspreading right on your couch, drying his hair with one hand, his biceps flexing. this can't be real, you thought to yourself.

you were staring. it was becoming a genuine problem.

“you keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking I’ve got shampoo left in my hair.”

your eyes immediately snapped upward, face feeling warm. “you probably do.”

“wow.”

“check.”

tony dropped the towel onto his shoulder and patted around his head dramatically. after a few seconds of searching, he held up absolutely nothing.

“false accusation. I expect an apology.”

“you’ll survive.”

“barely.”

you rolled your eyes and tried focusing on the random movie playing on the tv because your extremely handsome neighbor looked like he had just walked out of a magazine cover to you. meanwhile, he was sitting on your couch wearing sweatpants that were definitely too small for him and a hoodie that looked like it was losing a battle against his shoulders.

it wasn’t fair.

“you know,” he said after a moment, “this is actually kind of weird.”

“you showering at my place?”

“that too. mostly the fact that your entire apartment smells like vanilla.”

“and?”

“and now I smell like vanilla too."

you laughed.

he looked offended. “I'm serious.”

“that’s your problem?” you rolled your eyes.

"pretty much, I've got a reputation to maintain" you stared at him. he stared back. then both of you lost it. the tension dissolved instantly.

“that’s the dumbest thing I've ever heard,” you managed between laughs.

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

the laughter lingered for a second before fading away. the movie continued playing in the background, filling the apartment with distant dialogue and music neither of you were paying attention to anymore. somehow, the silence that settled between you felt different now. heavier.

tony leaned back into the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest. his head tilted slightly as he looked at the television, but you got the feeling he wasn't watching it either. you tried to focus on the screen. but every time you glanced over, he was still there - wearing your clothes, still smelling like vanilla and your shampoo, still taking up way too much space in your apartment and somehow making it feel smaller.

the realization made your stomach twist. because this wasn't normal. neighbors didn't usually end up sitting on each other's couches at midnight wearing borrowed clothes and they definitely didn't make it this hard to breathe. you swallowed and looked away.

"okay, what is it?" tony asked.

"what?" your head snapped toward him.

"you keep looking at me." his voice was quieter now - not teasing, just stating a fact.

heat crawled up your neck. "you're sitting in my apartment."

tony's jaw tightened slightly. just enough for you to notice. then his eyes dropped to the oversized sleeve hanging over your hand, to your bare legs tucked underneath you on the couch. then back up again, slowly. your breath caught. his expression changed for half a second. something unreadable flashing across his face before disappearing just as quickly.

it was the first time since you'd seen him that he looked uncertain.

"you should stop looking at me like that," he said quietly.

your pulse skipped. "like what?"

his eyes held yours for a second.

"you know exactly like what."

the air seemed to leave the room. you couldn't think of a single response, avoiding eye contact. your eyes dropped to the floor, then to the sleeve hanging over your hand, anywhere except him. meanwhile, tony didn't move. his gaze stayed exactly where it was, steady and impossible to ignore even without looking directly at him.

you could feel it lingering, feel the weight of the silence stretching between you. the room hadn't changed, the tv was still playing somewhere in the background, but everything else seemed distant, drowned out by the simple fact that neither of you had laughed your way out of this one.

when you finally risked a glance back up, his eyes were still on you. not challenging, not teasing - just watching. there was something unusually unguarded about him now, as if he'd forgotten to hide whatever was running through his mind. the silence settled heavily between you, charged with all the things neither of you seemed willing to say out loud.

all you knew was that your heart was beating hard enough to make it difficult to think. the space between you suddenly felt much smaller than it had a few minutes ago, despite neither of you changing position. tony's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

the movement was subtle and impossible to miss. for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely conflicted. like he was arguing with himself, like part of him had already made a decision and the other part was trying to stop it.

"this is a bad idea," he said quietly. the words sounded more like a warning to himself than to you.

you swallowed. "then why aren't you leaving?"

for a moment, he just looked at you. then something in his expression softened.

"I don't want to." the answer barely came out above a whisper. somehow the distance between you disappeared. tony leaned forward slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, every opportunity to break the moment if you wanted to. when you didn't, his eyes flickered between yours one last time.

his hand came to rest against the couch beside you, close enough to make your pulse jump. close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. the air felt impossibly still. then he tilted his head slightly and closed the remaining distance.

It started off as hesitant at first, like he was unsure of it but soon enough tony leaned in closer, deepening the kiss. his hand came up to hold the side of your face - fingers brushing over your jaw. you could feel his desperation with the way he was kissing, it wasn't rough but passionate. his hand went down to hold your throat, softly squeezing it.

you felt yourself getting hotter every second, feeling goosebumps all over your body. you tried to break the kiss to take a breath but tony held it firmly, not letting it go. he pushed his tongue back into you, exploring every part of your mouth.

slowly both of his hands went down to hold your waist, pushing you closer. you used this chance to straddle his lap and he gladly let you. you felt the hardened bulge between your legs immediately, softly groaning at the feeling of him. tony squeezed your waist and pushed you to his chest, your arms wrapped around his neck.

the kiss got intense in matter of seconds, it wasn't innocent anymore. both of you were breathing loudly, holding each other impossibly close. you could feel yourself getting wet, pussy pulsing right on his lap. you decided to grind on him out of desperation.

"fuck" tony grunted loudly and pushed his head back on the couch. he started to push his hips up to feel you deeper. you moaned softly at the new sensation, your clit feeling the friction between layers of clothes. tony's hands moved to grab your ass and push you down on him again. you grabbed the back of his hair out of pleasure and hid your face in the crook of his neck.

tony's voice was low and rough, grunting from time to time. he started leaving kisses on your jaw, going down lower and biting your neck, softly sucking on it. his hands now trailed back up to slide under your shirt. he cupped and squeezed your breasts and twisted one of your nipples.

your moans started to progressively get louder, desperately grinding your clothed pussy on his sweatpants. you felt yourself getting closer, the friction, sensation and heat between your legs getting difficult to handle. you couldn't keep your composure anymore. neither could tony.

"am I making you feel good, pretty girl?" he smiled, whispering in your ear and gently biting it before going back on your throat. "come on, you're almost there, baby".

the praise made your walls flutter around nothing, the emptiness felt frustrating. you felt yourself getting impossibly close to cumming from just rubbing your clit on his bulge.

"fuck, fuck, fuck" the orgasm came crushing down on you. your back arched at the feeling, eyes and head rolling back, exposing your neck to the man under you. he didn't miss the chance to plant lingering kisses all over your throat.

"good girl" tony pushed himself up on you once again to ride out your pleasure and moved your body against him with force. he grabbed your face and kissed you rough and desperately, biting your lower lip.

his fingers tangled in your hair as the kiss turned filthy again - wet and deep and messy. every bite of his teeth sent sparks down your spine. then suddenly he pulled back just enough to yank off his shirt in one rough motion. the dim light caught every hard line of his chest filled with the scars.

without a word, tony lifted you effortlessly into him and pinned you beneath him on the couch cushion. his mouth found yours again but it wasn't gentle anymore.

tony’s hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up slowly - his lips never leaving yours as he kissed you through every movement. when the fabric was halfway off, he broke the kiss just to pull it completely over your head. the second cool air hit your bare skin, goosebumps erupted but tony warmed you fast with his mouth trailing down your neck.

his teeth grazed one shoulder before his tongue dipped into the hollow of your collarbone. each kiss grew hotter, needier, like he couldn’t get enough of you.

he reached behind to unhook your bra that stood in his way without hesitation - impatient but careful not to hurt you.

"you're perfect, sweetheart" he whispered against your bare skin.

tony kissed down your stomach, slow and deliberate - each press of his lips a promise. when he reached the waistband of your shorts, he paused. his fingers hooked into the fabric and peeled them down over your hips with torturous slowness. you could feel every brush of his knuckles against sensitive skin.

his soft lips pressed a kiss through thin panties that were already damp from everything before this moment ever started happening at all.

with one hand holding onto your thigh to keep you spread for him, he dragged those same panties down slowly - revealing everything inch by inch under dim living room light filtering through curtains.

the moment your panties were gone, he lowered his head and licked long, slow, deliberate - right through the center of your folds. a full-body shiver tore through you at the contact.

"tony!" you moaned out loud as your head fell back out of pleasure.

he did it again. then again. each stroke was different - teasing one side with his tongue while sucking gently on sensitive skin. his mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard.

"sweeter than I imagined," tony groaned im your pussy, completely lost in your pleasure.

you gasped so loud it turned into a moan that echoed off the walls. tony growled against you and doubled down immediately: tongue swirling fast now while two fingers slid deep inside without asking permission. they curled just right inside you as he sucked relentlessly.

his fingers, which had been moving slowly at first, suddenly picked up speed - thrusting deeper and faster inside you while his thumb replaced his mouth for a split second to rub tight circles over your clit then he dove back in with force. it was relentless - curving those two digits just right every time they plunged deep. the heel of his hand pressed lightly against your pelvis, adding subtle pressure that made everything feel even more intense

you could hear him breathing heavy through it all - low groans vibrating against sensitive. each sharp inhale from him told you he was getting off on every sound spilling out of your lips

"please don't stop, please" you chanted his name like a prayer as you came apart instantly, your orgasm hit like a lightning strike fast and overwhelming. the way you came from tony’s mouth was messy.

fingers clenched around tony’s hair as waves of pleasure ripped through you. your back arched off the couch cushions and your hands fisted hard in his hair, pulling slightly without meaning to.

"there you go" tony didn’t stop. not even when he felt you shaking under him. he kept sucking gently now instead of aggressively - drawing out every last pulse until it became almost too much. sensitive and overstimulated.

finally, tony slowly pulled back - lips glistening in the low light, then crawled up over you. without hesitation or warning he crashed his mouth into you, kissing messy and deep with all that pent-up hunger still burning inside him.

his sweatpants thudded softly as it hit the floor. he didn’t hesitate when he finally peeled off his boxer briefs - freeing himself completely. hard, thick and aching for attention. you almost drooled at the sight. he kicked everything aside without looking and climbed back onto the couch with you - skin on skin this time. warmth everywhere.

tony hovered over you for a breath - just looking. your lips were swollen from kissing, your chest rising and falling fast. the room was quiet except for both of your breathing. heavy with want. he lined himself up slowly - tip pressing right where it mattered most and paused again, waiting, checking if you were okay with this. when you nodded and arched into him, he pushed forward slowly.

inch by inch, stretching gently as his body slid inside yours, heat meeting heat in the most intimate way possible.

"fuuuuck, baby, so tight f'me" his jaw clenched hard, eyes squeezing shut briefly from how good it felt.

the slow, careful pace didn’t last long. once tony was fully inside - buried deep where you were warm and tight around him. his hips jerked forward instinctively, driving himself deeper with a low groan that rumbled through his chest. the rhythm started steady at first, then faster and harder.

"eyes on me, baby" each thrust made the couch creak beneath you both. tony’s breathing turned ragged, mouth falling open as pleasure overwhelmed every nerve. without warning, one hand shot up and wrapped loosely around your throat. just enough pressure to make your pulse jump under his palm. then he pinned both of your wrists above your head with one strong grip.

"fuck, feels so good" you moaned against his lips.

"oh yeah? you like how I fuck you, baby?" tony teased.

the pleasure was building too fast, like a wave about to crash. every snap of tony’s hips sent electric shocks through your core, each movement perfectly calculated to drag the most intense sensations out of you. his voice alone - low and teasing made your stomach flip.

"tony, please" you could feel him everywhere - the heat of his skin against yours where sweat-slicked bodies pressed together; the way muscles in arms flexed as he held himself up over you.

"please what, baby" he repeated slowly, voice dripping with false innocence like he hadn't just wrecked you seconds ago. his hips gave a tiny roll - not enough to give real relief; just a cruel little tease of movement. he saw it in your face immediately: that perfect mix of desperation and neediness. "use your words," he murmured against your neck, lips brushing skin between syllables.

"please, tony, wanna cum on your cock, please" your voice came out breathless, wrecked already. tony’s expression shifted. the playful teasing vanished in an instant, replaced by something far darker and hungrier. his pupils dilated further; his jaw tightened with sudden intensity.

without warning, he slammed back into you - harder this time. no slow buildup now; just raw force as his hips with renewed aggression. the couch creaked violently beneath you both like it might actually break from how rough and fast things got all of a sudden.

a groan ripped from tony’s chest at the feeling - the way you clenched around him so perfectly. "fuck!" your third orgasm hit like a tidal wave, unexpected and overwhelming, eyes rolling back to the back of your skull. one second tony was pounding into you with that perfect rhythm, the next your whole body clenched around him - walls fluttering as pleasure erupted through every nerve ending.

you gasped his name. he felt the way you squeezed him so tight and that was all he needed. his thrusts turned erratic. desperate. losing their control fast as his own release barreled toward him.

a few more rough pumps and he buried himself deep inside you and came hard - body tensing above yours like a coiled spring finally snapping. heat flooded between you both in waves. the second his orgasm peaked, tony collapsed onto you - heavy but careful not to crush you completely.

his lips found yours in a messy, desperate kiss. when he pulled back, neither of you got very far. his forehead nearly brushed yours. for a second, he simply stared at you, breathing unevenly.

your breath was still coming in slow, shaky waves - post-orgasm haze thick around your mind as you looked around the room. the tv had been playing some late-night news segment after the movie ended - volume low, background noise. neither of you really paid attention before. but then you glanced at it, eyes half-lided, mind floaty.

Benjamin Poindexter. Also known as, Dex - Bullseye. a headline flashed. there was a live shot of him brutally attacking the police - his figure was tall, broad shoulders, that confident stride you’d recognize anywhere. then they showed a mugshot of his face without the mask: dark eyes, sharp jawline, face filled with scars that were still red.

your stomach dropped. tony saw the second your eyes widened - that specific kind of panic, the sharp inhale that wasn’t pleasure-related and the way your whole body locked up. he turned his head slowly toward the tv. without hesitation dex reached for the remote and hit mute first, then power-off button right after.

the room plunged into silence the second the screen went black - no more news, just suffocating stillness. dex’s movements were precise, calculated; even now, there was something terrifyingly methodical about him.

he turned to face you fully. the dim light from your bedside lamp caught his profile - the same scars you’d seen on tv moments ago now in real life: jagged across his cheekbone, a thin line over his eyebrow. His expression wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t calm either.

the silence felt fragile now, stretched so tightly that even the smallest movement seemed capable of breaking it. dex's gaze lingered on yours before drifting toward the dark window across the room. his shoulders had gone rigid.

"I should go," he said eventually.

whatever had been there moments ago was gone. the guarded expression had returned, settling over him like armor. his jaw tightened as he looked toward the door instead of at you.

"tony?"

"dex." he corrected. closing his eyes briefly. that single hesitation told you more than anything else could have.

when he finally stood, the apartment felt strangely empty despite the fact that he was still there. every movement seemed deliberate, controlled, like he was forcing himself to leave before something happened that he couldn't take back.

"thanks for letting me use the shower," he said quietly.

you rose from the couch too. his eyes met yours then. and you saw something dangerously close to the truth. whatever it was, it scared him. the silence stretched. then he gave a small shake of his head.

"goodnight."

his hand remained on the handle. his back to you.

"for what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm really glad you opened the door tonight."

the door clicked shut behind him, and you stood there staring at it long after he was gone. the apartment suddenly felt too quiet.

slowly, you sank back onto the couch, your mind replaying every conversation, every look, every pause that had lasted a second too long. beneath the shock and confusion, you couldn't figure out what had happened. the pieces were all there, yet none of them seemed to fit together, leaving you with more questions than answers.

“You know I have to. Someone's gotta look after the innocent in hell's kitchen” his voice is serious in a way you dont want it to be when he has just fucked you raw.

What you'd rather like is to have him cuddle you to sleep. But that's beyond the terms of your…..whatever your relationship is.

You unconsciously whimper as the sight of his glorious cock is hidden from you by those pants that should be illegal for how good they make his ass look.

You feel yourself go warm, dripping onto his silk sheets all over again as your lonely cunt clenches around nothing.

Fine. Not lonely.

But you still can't resist the lure of his cock. Which is saying something since it has now brought you here. And you can't even be upset from him and leave now that you're neck deep in love with him. But he doesn't need to know about that yet.

“Stay out of trouble for me” you whisper.

He chuckles “No, I can't promise that I won't do that”

You roll your eyes, knowing you'll still wake up to care for his injuries halfway through the night.

He comes forward, pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek and before you know it, he's out of the window.

You walk over, shutting it close but leaving the latch open for when he comes back.

You make your way back to bed, smiling “Friends with benefits my ass”

Dividers by @diviniyae

Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn