#daredevil dex

every push of his hips, pressing against yours. every thrust more devastating than the last, stealing your breath repeatedly. over and over. he learns and he adjusts without you saying anything. he listens to your body and to the sounds you make to guide him aimlessly. he smiles when you lose yourself in the feelings. watching you twist just for him to hold you there and keep you from squirming. dimples evident as he laughs lowly and holds your hands above your head.

“right there sweetheart? you like when i touch you there?” cooing by your ear and pulling away to watch. because dex loves to watch.

he’s so precise in his movements that he purposefully touches the depths of you. just enough before it’s too much for you. mouthing down your jaw while he kisses your cervix. letting your moans bless his ears while you clench around him. dex kisses you through it but he doesn’t stop. he keeps moving and teasing. coaxes you through your high and tumbling into a new one while he resumes his ministrations.

he’ll beg you to let him come inside you but you both know you’ll let him anyways.

“let me do it,” he pants against your skin, “let me give you everything.”

the most sultry seduction, wetting his lips as he speaks. the honey tongued words drowning you in bliss as he holds your hips with roughened care. the sound of his skin on yours and the hard muscle of his abs under your fingers when you trail your palms down his torso.

how can you deny him? how can you deny yourself?

you’re nodding before you can think about consequences. you’re trying to wrap your legs around his waist when he pushes them up higher and higher. letting your ankles hang off his shoulders with your knees pressed to your chest.

dex fucks you faster, running his free palm down your bodies to tease you further. rubbing tight circles with his thumb while you fall into a pleasurable pain that you recognized as overstimulation. thrusts sloppy as he loses his own train of thought.

his mind filled with nothing but you, you, you.

his worst obsession. his biggest weakness.

you gasp as you feel him finally let go, painting you white between his shattering, relentless thrusts. pushing back through his broken groans as he pulses against your walls. nothing ever goes to waste with him. he’s precise with where he wants to fill you until you’re dazed. blissed out when he finally stills.

he stays buried inside, hand lifting to grip your cheeks. squeezing just enough to make your lips pout and part to spit directly on your waiting tongue. not letting a drop escape. pulling out with a wet sound you’d burned to memory, he makes quick work to collect the two of you and push it back inside. sealing it with a kiss that stole your breath effortlessly.

dex never misses and he never will.

The first days were a shapeless blur, the kind memory refuses to organize in sequence. A blur of not eating, not sleeping, not getting out of bed. Time lost its meaning. The kitchen clock kept ticking the seconds, but you no longer heard its voice. You called him 47 times. You stored each one of those calls in a dark corner of your memory, like stones weighing down your pocket that you refuse to throw away. Every call went straight to voicemail, straight to that auditory limbo where words go to die unanswered. His voice, recorded at some random moment when he was still there, said with cruel naturalness: "you know what to do." You always waited for the beep. The beep always came. And you spoke, even knowing—deep down, very deep down, you knew—that no one on the other end was listening.

"Come back. Please. Come back. I won't ask anything. Just come back."

You left messages that got shorter and shorter, more and more desperate, the words tripping over each other, your voice faltering at the ends of sentences. Until the 23rd day, you stopped. And it wasn't because you had given up on him. It was because your voice no longer came out. Because you had cried so much, so deeply and for so long, that your vocal cords simply… refused to continue. As if your body had finally said enough before your soul had.

It was your neighbor from 301 who found you. Dona. A bulky woman with faded purple hair and a heart so large it seemed not to fit inside her chest—it overflowed through her small eyes and the deep voice that echoed in the hallway. She broke down the door when you didn't answer for three days. Three days in which the milk in the fridge soured, the plants on the windowsill wilted, and silence became the only living thing in the apartment. She found you curled up in his gray t-shirt—the one you wore to sleep, the one that no longer smelled of him except through a stubbornness of the sense of smell, a barely-there scent you rubbed against your face trying to resurrect a perfume already dead for weeks. Your eyes were open, and in place of your gaze there were two holes, fixed on the white wall that seemed to grow more distant by the second.

"Girl," she said. She sat beside you on the bed without asking permission, without ceremony, the way someone who has seen it all in this life and still chose to keep having compassion. She held your face with thick, calloused hands—hands that had cleaned other people's houses her whole life, that had raised a child alone, that had learned early that the world doesn't go easy on anyone. "Girl, what did he do to you?"

You didn't answer.

Not because you didn't want to. The desire was there, somewhere behind your breastbone, wanting to escape. But you no longer knew how to separate. You could no longer distinguish where his love ended and the destruction began. The two things had become so tangled inside you that they seemed like a single organism—a beautiful plant whose roots, deep down, were poisonous. You looked at Dona with dry, burning eyes, your mouth slightly open, and for the first time in 23 days there were no tears left to fall. Only emptiness. And silence. And the gray t-shirt you pressed against your chest as if he could still fit inside it.

The news came three weeks later.

Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of a ghostly routine where you learned to exist mechanically—get up, lie down, stare at the ceiling, forget to eat until hunger became a distant pang. You were on the sofa at that moment. The same sofa where he held you while you watched movies that neither of you paid attention to, because he was too busy kissing your neck, leaving a warm trail down your spine, murmuring things in your ear that you would never repeat out loud. The same sunken foam in the center, from the weight of two bodies that insisted on occupying the same space. The same smell of good mold and spilled coffee in the upholstery. Everything there. Everything the same. Except he wasn't.

The newscast said his name.

Benjamin Poindexter. The name you learned to say in the morning, still with a sleepy voice, brushing your lips against his nape. The name you wrote on bar napkins, on the edges of books, on the fogged-up glass of the shower stall. The name you whispered in cheap hotels and on stormy nights, when fear came knocking at your door and he said "relax, I'm here." The name that now came from the mouth of a news anchor with the same intonation as any other headline. As if it weren't the center of your entire world.

"Former FBI agent Benjamin Poindexter was sentenced today to life imprisonment on multiple counts of homicide…"

The rest was static.

Not literally—the television kept buzzing, the anchor kept talking, the colorful graphics kept rising and falling on the screen. But the sound of the entire world went silent in that second. As if someone had pulled the plug on reality. You could only see his face on the screen. Those pale blue eyes—the eyes that looked at you with such absolute devotion that sometimes it hurt to hold his gaze, as if he were, at every moment, apologizing for being too human. Now they weren't looking at you. Now they were fixed somewhere behind the camera, still, empty, two spheres of ice that no longer reflected anything. As if he had already given up on everything. As if the only thing that mattered—and you knew, with a cold tightness in your chest, that this thing was you—was no longer there, no longer available to be the reason he kept breathing.

The images changed. They showed him being led away by two police officers in black, long rhythmic strides, handcuffs tightening around the wrists that once held you with so much force and so much delicacy that they seemed to harbor an impossible contradiction. Head down. The white shirt open at the chest—and you saw it.

Oh, God. You saw it.

The marks. The scars. Every line of irregular tissue, every patch of skin that hadn't regenerated properly. The intimate map of his suffering, which you had learned by heart at your fingertips. You kissed each one before sleeping. It was a silent, almost religious ritual—your lips tracing those paths of pain to say, without words, I see. I know. I stay. And that place near his shoulder, where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. When it was too much. When love was so great that it overflowed and became a kind of agony. You rested your forehead there, and he knew. He always knew. His hand would go up to your hair and he wouldn't say anything. He would just wait. Because he knew that silence, sometimes, was the only language you could speak.

Everything there. Everything the same. Only now he was no longer yours. He would never be again. He was property of the state. A number. A file. A 3x4 photo with a little placard on his chest. The man who taught you what it meant to be loved to the marrow was now a convict, and you watched this sitting on the two-seater sofa, in the living room that still had his towel hanging on the line, his shaving cream in the shower, his last toothbrush in the cup next to yours.

You don't remember screaming.

But Dona said you did. Said you made a sound so loud and so shrill that she dropped the pan on the fire and ran up the stairs, thinking someone was dying. Said it was the kind of scream that doesn't come from the throat of a whole person. Only from someone who has already been shattered on the floor for weeks and finally found a voice for the fall.

And maybe someone was dying, yes. Maybe you died a little that day. A little there, on the two-seater sofa, watching the face of the man you loved disappear behind a steel door that would never open for you again. Or maybe you didn't die just a little. Maybe death came in slices, and that one was the biggest—a cut so deep that you would never look at a pair of blue eyes again without feeling a chill in your stomach. You were never able to decide. You preferred not to decide. You preferred to leave the question open, like a window that never fully closes, no matter how much wind and dust get in.

They didn't let you visit.

That was the first rule. The first boundary that no one needed to explain with many words. His lawyer—a woman named Agnes, thin as a hanger and cold as the glass eye she wore in place of her right one—received you in her office downtown. The office smelled of old documents and disinfectant. There was a dead plant in the corner and a 2003 calendar still hanging on the wall. The kind of place where hope comes in to rot. Agnes didn't offer coffee. Didn't ask you to sit. She opened the blue file on the table, adjusted her glasses on the tip of her nose, and said, with the same intonation as someone reading a grocery list:

"He doesn't want to see you."

You blinked. Thought you had misheard. That the words, somehow, had gotten scrambled on the way from her mouth to your ears. But Agnes repeated, slowly, as if speaking to a slow child or someone who had just suffered a concussion:

"He said, and I quote: 'Tell her I died. It's easier that way.'"

The office seemed to shrink. The walls came closer. The ceiling dropped a few inches. You stood still in the middle of the stained carpet, feeling the entire world spin around an invisible axis—and that axis was that sentence. Tell her I died. As if dying were a simple thing. As if you could receive news of someone's death with the same lightness as receiving a telegram. As if the love you had built together—in that bed, on that sofa, in that tiny kitchen where he taught you to make tomato sauce from scratch and you burned your hand and he kissed each finger—could be undone with a sentence spoken by a glass-eyed woman in an office that smelled of mold.

"Easier for whom?" you asked.

Your voice came out strange. Thin. Distant. As if it weren't yours. As if someone had taken control of your body and asked for you, because you, deep down, no longer had the strength to form words.

Agnes raised an eyebrow. The only one that worked. The one on the side of her good eye. The glass eye kept staring at you—motionless, shiny, accusatory. As if it saw things you were trying to hide. As if it knew about all the nights you lied to yourself, all the times you looked away and pretended not to see the dark stains on his soul.

"For both of you," she replied.

And that was it.

There was no crying in that office. No outburst, no plea for reconsideration, no knees on the floor begging for a second chance. You just looked at Agnes for a few more seconds—long enough to memorize the merciless gleam of that glass eye, to understand that there was no heart to be moved in there—and then you turned. Opened the door. Left.

The hallway was long and poorly lit. Your footsteps echoed on the linoleum. You clutched your purse against your chest as if it could protect you from something, but it couldn't. Nothing could. You went down the stairs because the elevator was broken (of course it was) and reached the street on a cloudy autumn day, with dry leaves piling up on the sidewalks and a cold wind cutting across your face.

And you never asked again.

Never called Agnes again. Never sent letters. Never tried to contact any lawyer, any prison official, any remote contact of someone who might reach him. You simply… stopped. Like a heart that gave up beating. Like a clock that decided it was too late to keep marking the hours.

Because deep down, in the darkest and most honest place in your chest, you knew he was right. Not about having died—because he hadn't died, he was alive, somewhere behind concrete walls and steel bars, sleeping on a thin mattress, eating bland food, counting the days of a sentence that would never end. But about the rest. About the "easier." About the "never again." About the impossibility of the two of you existing in the same world without destroying each other.

You never asked again, but you also never loved anyone the same way. The years passed—and they passed, because time is cruel and doesn't stop for anyone, not even for those who are grieving—and you met other people. Other mouths. Other hands. Other gazes. But none of them had that terrible devotion, that way he had of looking at you as if you were the last water in the desert. And no goodbye hurt as much as that non-goodbye. The one that had no last kiss. The one that had no last fight. The one that had no coffin, no flowers, no body present. The one that had only a three-word note, a glass eye, and the phrase "tell her I died," repeating in your head like a song no one asked to hear, but that never, never, never stopped playing.

The following months were an exercise in survival that didn't look like survival. It didn't have that shine of overcoming stories, didn't have the inspirational soundtrack of weekend movies. It looked like punishment. A punishment with no declared crime, no judge, no sentence read aloud—just the relentless routine of continuing to exist when everything inside you begged to stop.

You started seeing a psychologist because Dona threatened to institutionalize you. Literally. She showed up at your door on a rainy Tuesday with a folder in her hand and the most serious eyes you had ever seen in your life. "Either you go willingly, girl, or I'll drag you there; don't make me do it, because I raised three children alone and I still have the arm strength." You went. Out of fear. Out of exhaustion. Because, deep down, a tiny, still-alive part of you knew she was right.

Dr. Elaine wore tortoiseshell glasses—thick ones, sort of vintage—and had a way of tilting her head to the side when you spoke, as if each of your words was a piece of a puzzle she was trying to assemble with infinite care. Her office smelled of chamomile and had a deep armchair that felt like a hug disguised as furniture. She would look at you over her glasses sometimes, and that look alone made you want to tell her everything. Everything, really. The things you had never said out loud. The things you barely admitted to yourself when you were alone in the dark, with the hum of the refrigerator as your only company.

And you told her. Almost everything.

You told her about the note. About the silence. About the 47 calls and his voice on the voicemail. About the neighbor, about the newscast, about the blue eyes on the television screen. About the glass-eyed lawyer and the cruel phrase that had pierced you like a blank bullet—one that hurts because it seems fake, but isn't. About the nights you woke up sweating, his name on your lips, and the empty side of the bed seemed larger than the whole world.

But some things you didn't tell.

You didn't tell about the patterns he drew on your wrist while you watched TV. Concentric circles. Very slow. Very methodical. As if he were tracing escape maps on your skin. You never asked what that meant. You were afraid of the answer. You still are.

You didn't tell about the whispers in the dark. The things he said after you had already pretended to be asleep. Scattered sentences, almost inaudible, that he probably thought you couldn't hear. "I can't lose you. I wouldn't survive." "You're the only certain thing in my life." "If I ever do something bad, promise you won't hate me?" You never answered any of those whispers. You pretended to sleep. You stored each word in a little locked box at the back of your memory and hoped time would undo them. Time undid nothing.

You didn't tell how he held you. It wasn't a normal hug. It was more as if he were trying to fuse you into his own body. As if you were the only thing keeping him from shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces. His arms would encircle you with a force bordering on desperation, and sometimes you would feel his face buried in your hair, his breath trembling, and you knew—knew without needing words—that he was crying. He never cried in front of you. But behind you, while hugging you from behind, he allowed himself to. And you pretended not to notice, because you knew that for him shame was worse than sadness.

Some things, you decided, are too sacred to be spoken aloud. Even to a professional. Even in a room that smells of chamomile and has an armchair that feels like a hug. Some things belong only to silence. To the silence and to the pillow that still holds the shape of his head.

"He's in prison forever," Dr. Elaine said one session, jotting something down in her notebook. The pen scratched against the paper with a dry, definitive sound. "And you're trapped too. Trapped in a version of him that only exists in your head now. But he's no longer that person. He'll never be. People change, especially in extreme situations. The man you loved… he doesn't exist anymore, if he ever really existed that way. You need to accept that what you had… it's over."

Over. The word echoed through the office, bounced off the beige walls, hit the ceiling and came back. Over. As if it were that simple. As if extinguishing a love were the same as turning off a light. Flipping a switch and done, all dark, move on.

You nodded. Made the mechanical motion of yes, yes, of course, you understand, you're processing, you'll work on it. You paid for the session. Took your card out of your wallet with fingers that didn't tremble—because you had learned not to tremble; Dr. Elaine called it "functional dissociation," you called it survival. You crossed the waiting room, went down the elevator, walked out to the parking lot. Your car started. The radio played a song the two of you used to listen to together. You changed the station. Then changed it again. Then turned it off.

You went home.

Opened the door. Put away your purse. Took off your shoes. Washed your face. Brushed your teeth. Did everything a functional person does before sleeping. And that night—like every night since he left, like every night that would come after, like every night you would spend for the rest of your life without him—you slept hugging his pillow.

The pillow no longer smelled of him. That had been lost months ago, in some distracted wash, on some day when you were so dazed with pain that you didn't even realize you were erasing the last traces. The pillow now smelled of you. Of cheap soap. Of drugstore shampoo. Of poorly slept nights and dried tears. But the shape was still there. The indentation his head had sculpted into the filling. The exact depression, the precise curve that matched the back of his neck, the way he turned his face to kiss you before turning off the light.

You would hug the pillow and close your eyes. Breathe deeply. And for a moment—a brief, stolen moment, a small offense against reality—you would pretend his arm was still there. Pressed against your waist. Heavy and warm and present. You would pretend his breath was stirring your hair at the nape. That he was going to pull you a little closer, groan softly against your shoulder and murmur "I love you" in that dragging voice of someone already almost asleep.

You pretended. Because it was all that was left. And what was left was so little that you needed to protect every crumb, every fragment of illusion, as if they were the last embers of a fire that had once warmed the whole house.

The pillow didn't hug back. But you had already forgotten what it was like to be truly hugged. And maybe, deep down, you preferred it that way. Because if you remembered—if you remembered exactly how it was—then you really wouldn't be able to go on.

The psychologist insisted on a meeting.

It wasn't a request. It was a calculated move, the kind professionals use when they think a patient is stuck in a well too deep to climb out of alone. Dr. Elaine pushed a yellow piece of paper toward you—from one of those sticky note pads she used for quick reminders, always with a faded flower in the corner—and leaned back in her chair with an air of someone who had already decided the answer before you even opened your mouth.

"He's a friend of my nephew's," she said, as if talking about the weather or the exchange rate. "Very polite. Works in credit analysis. Normal. Safe. Nothing special." She paused, adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses, and added with a gentleness that hurt: "Just coffee. So you can see there are still other people in the world. People who won't destroy you."

People who won't destroy you. The phrase floated in the air of the room, accusatory. As if she knew—and she did know, you had told her almost everything—that destruction was your last love's native language. As if she were offering you an instruction manual for a life without craters.

You almost said no. The word was on the tip of your tongue, heavy and familiar, an old friend who had slept on your couch for months and refused to pack its bags. No was comfortable. No was safe. No was known territory where you knew exactly where the floor gave way and where you could step firmly. But something—maybe the exhaustion, maybe the way Dr. Elaine tilted her head with that infinite patience of someone who has seen worse cases, maybe a leftover of stupid hope that refused to die no matter how hard you tried to strangle it—made you reach out.

The yellow paper had small, careful handwriting. The name was Lucas. 34 years old. Likes hiking and specialty coffee. Has a dog named Toby. It looked like a pet adoption form. You almost smiled. Almost.

You went.

And you went for him. Not for Lucas. For Ben. Because a part of you—the part that still woke up in the middle of the night with your heart racing, thinking you felt the weight of his arm on your waist, thinking you heard his breath in the dark—wanted to prove to yourself that you could do it. That you weren't permanently broken. That he hadn't managed to destroy you completely, despite all evidence to the contrary. That you still existed outside his universe, outside the gravitational orbit of that blue-eyed, scar-shouldered man.

The café was a fancy place you would never have chosen on your own. Designer lamps hanging from the ceiling like cold jewels. Low music, the kind no one pays attention to but misses when it stops. You ordered a latte and spent five minutes adjusting the handle of the cup, spinning the saucer, fidgeting with the napkin—because you didn't know what to do with your hands. The hands he used to hold. The hands he kissed, one finger at a time, while you waited for the movie to start.

Lucas arrived late. Nine minutes. You counted because you counted everything now; time was something that needed to be measured in small, controllable portions, otherwise it slipped through the cracks. His excuse came with a tight smile: "Traffic, you know how it is." He was shorter than you imagined. Not much, but enough for you to notice. Perfectly combed brown hair, not a strand out of place. A close, almost surgical shave. The friendly, generic smile of someone who fits into any life insurance ad. He didn't have Ben's crooked smile. The one that went up a little more on one side, as if he knew a secret you hadn't discovered yet.

He asked about your job. You answered with rehearsed phrases, the same ones you used in interviews and family gatherings. He told a story about Toby burying a bone in the yard and unearthing a head of lettuce. You laughed at the right moment, at the right volume, for the right length of time. It was an impeccable performance. It deserved applause.

He asked for the check—and asked for it before you had finished your latte, which you mentally noted as a point against him—and asked if you wanted to do this again. You said yes because that's what you do. Because Dr. Elaine would be proud. Because maybe, if you pretended enough, that strange feeling of wearing someone else's clothes would eventually go away. Because maybe, if you repeated the motion enough times, eventually the gesture would become natural.

But throughout the meeting—one hour and forty-three minutes, you counted, noted on your phone, memorized—your eyes wandered three times to the café door. It wasn't intentional. It happened like a nervous tic, a conditioned reflex. You looked at the door expecting… what? Expecting whom? He wasn't going to walk in. He couldn't walk in. He was behind concrete walls, steel bars, miles away and a lifetime apart.

Twice you looked out the window, through the glass fogged by humidity. Once you looked at a man in a dark jacket sitting in the back, in the farthest corner, near the bathroom. He had his back to you, his face hidden by a dark cap, and something about the inclination of his shoulders—the way he held his cup with both hands, as if trying to extract heat from a liquid that must have been cold for a long time—made your heart stop for a second.

When you looked again, he was gone. The empty table. The chair slightly displaced. An almost full cup abandoned, as if whoever had been there had left in a hurry. As if he had been seen.

You didn't tell Lucas this. He paid the check—nine minutes late and still insisted on paying, textbook chivalry—and walked you to the door. He lightly touched your shoulder when saying goodbye. A dry, secure, absolutely normal touch. You felt the same as you would if a stranger brushed against you on the subway: nothing.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine in the next session. She asked how it had gone, and you said "fine," and she tilted her head in that way that meant she wasn't believing you but wasn't going to push. She jotted something down. You paid. Left.

You didn't tell her that on the way back to your car, crossing the empty mall parking lot, you felt a chill on the back of your neck. It wasn't cold. It was that old, familiar shiver, coated in nostalgia and fear. The same one you felt when Ben was watching you from the bedroom door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, while you put on mascara in front of the mirror. He would stand there in silence, just looking. And when you asked "what?" he would give that crooked smile and say "nothing, just looking." But it wasn't nothing. It was never nothing.

You turned around. The parking lot was dark, the garage lights flickering with the frequency of something that had needed maintenance for years. No one. Just the empty street and the headlights of a car parked too far away for you to see the driver. A black sedan. Tinted windows. The engine running, a thin cloud of exhaust rising in the cold air. You stood there staring for too long. The car didn't move. Neither did you.

Eventually, you got into your car, locked the doors—a habit you only acquired after he left, after the world became a place where any shadow could be a threat—and drove home.

You didn't tell her that when you entered your apartment that night, the first thing you noticed was the smell. Not an identifiable smell, not perfume or cologne or soap. It was the absence of smell. A vacuum. Something that had been there and then wasn't. You put your purse on the counter, turned on the kitchen light, hung up your coat. Did everything mechanically, on autopilot, while a silent alarm sounded somewhere deep in your consciousness.

Then you went into the bedroom.

Your pillowcase had been changed.

You froze. Not immediately—first you thought you had changed it and forgotten, that the pain and exhaustion and sleeping pills had erased the memory. But you didn't have pillowcases like that one. This one was Egyptian cotton, a white so pure it seemed bluish, with a tiny lace detail in the corner. Just like the one that had disappeared three months ago. The one he used. The one he had taken with him in that worn-out backpack, on that last morning, along with his toothbrush and phone charger. The pillowcase you had bought on a work trip, very expensive, and he liked it so much you said "take it, it's yours." He took it. It disappeared. You thought you would never see it again.

It was there. On your pillow. Perfectly stretched, the creases from the packaging still visible, smelling of baby fabric softener. Someone had entered your apartment. Someone had entered your bedroom. Someone had changed your pillowcase while you were having coffee with a credit analyst who had a dog named Toby.

You started to shake.

It wasn't a light tremor, the kind that passes with a sip of water. It was a deep shaking, coming from your bones, shaking your whole body in successive waves as if you were having a silent seizure. Your legs buckled without warning. You sat down on the bedroom floor—you didn't choose to sit, you simply fell—and stayed there, curled up against the foot of the bed, your arms wrapped around your knees, staring at the strange-familiar pillowcase on your strange-familiar pillow as if it were a snake about to strike.

Twenty minutes. You sat on the cold bedroom floor for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes trying to convince yourself that you hadn't seen what you saw. That it was a different pillowcase, that you were confused, that your memory was playing tricks. Twenty minutes trying to quiet the sound of your heartbeat—because it was so loud it seemed to fill the entire apartment, each beat a question: was he here? was he here? was he here?

You didn't tell anyone.

You didn't tell Lucas. You didn't tell Dr. Elaine. In the next session, you talked about other things, smaller things, things that fit in the office. You didn't tell Dona. Who would get desperate and probably call the police, and what would you tell the police? Someone changed my pillowcase?

You didn't tell because you didn't want to hear what any sensible person would say: you're paranoid. you're making things up. you need more medication. you're projecting onto him something he couldn't have done because he's in prison, he's in PRISON, you saw it on TV, you saw the handcuffs, you saw the cell, how could he get into your apartment?

You didn't tell because, deep down, in the deepest and darkest and most honest place, you knew the answer. You didn't know how. You didn't know when. You didn't know by what impossible, miraculous, terrifying means he had done it. But you knew it was him. You knew it as surely as you knew your own name. As surely as you knew the sky is blue and fire burns and hearts break.

And you didn't tell because, if you told, you would have to admit something else. Something you could barely face alone, in the dark, hugging the pillowcase he had returned:

You didn't want him to stop.

The signs only got worse.

The following week, a pair of black underwear disappeared from your drawer. You didn't notice the same day—it took forty-eight hours to register, because you had already given up looking for meaning in small losses, in objects that vanished without explanation, in the empty spaces that opened in your routine like tiny black holes. But the black underwear was different. You knew which one it was as soon as you noticed the empty space between the blue fabric and the red. It was that one. The one he liked. The one he always took off you with his teeth, laughing against your skin, his lips brushing your stomach as he said, in an accusatory yet loving tone, that you wore it just to provoke him.

And he was right. You did.

You searched the entire apartment three times. Opened drawers, looked under the bed, emptied the laundry basket, checked the washing machine, the dryer, the clothesline. Nothing. The black underwear was nowhere to be found. As if the floor had swallowed it. As if someone had taken it.

The following Tuesday, it appeared on top of your dresser.

Folded. Perfectly folded, the corners aligned, the fabric stretched with a care that hurt from familiarity. You knew that fold. He had that habit—he who didn't know how to fold a shirt properly, but learned to fold your underwear with the precision of a goldsmith, because he said each piece of yours was too precious to be wrinkled. In the middle of the underwear, a crease. A deep indentation, as if someone had pressed the fabric against their face while sleeping. As if they had breathed deeply there, trying to extract your scent from fabric that no longer smelled of you after so many washes.

You leaned your hand against the wall to keep from falling. The kitchen spun. The world spun. You stood there for a long minute, your forehead cold against the plaster, eyes closed, trying to convince yourself there was a rational explanation. There wasn't. You knew there wasn't.

You bought a camera. Went to an electronics store downtown, paid in cash to leave no trace on your card—as if you were doing something wrong, as if the victim were the criminal. A small, discreet camera, the kind that connects to your phone. You hid it on the living room shelf, pointed at the bed, adjusting the angle three, four, five times until you were sure it captured the bedroom door and the window and the whole bed. Then you turned it on, tested it, confirmed it was recording, and went to sleep.

The next morning, the memory card was blank.

Not erased—blank. As if it had been formatted. As if someone had taken the original card, recorded over it, and returned a blank card in its place. The same card. The same brand. But not a single frame recorded. You spent an hour trying to recover the files with internet programs, your eyes burning with exhaustion and frustration, your hands trembling on the mouse. Nothing. Zero. As if those hours of recording had never existed.

And that's when the fear changed its nature. Because it wasn't just someone entering. It was someone intelligent. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who didn't just enter your apartment—someone who entered and had time, had calm, had the coldness to mess with your devices, erase your evidence, reorganize your things. Someone who didn't get caught by surprise. Someone who already expected the camera. Someone who, somehow, knew you were going to put it there before you even knew.

You changed the lock. The first was a common locksmith, the kind from the hardware store. Three days later, the black underwear appeared on your nightstand. Not on the dresser. On the nightstand. On your side. As if someone had placed it there for you to find as soon as you woke up. This time you didn't even feel fear. You felt coldness. An iciness that traveled down your spine and settled in your stomach. You picked up the phone, called a 24-hour locksmith, and had them change the lock again.

The next day, the locksmith came. A bald man with a gray mustache and calloused hands. He examined the old lock, the two you had just installed, and said: "Miss, this is the most expensive one there is. Five-bolt lock, European cylinder, no one opens this without the key. No one." He knocked on the door with his knuckles, as if presenting a quality product. "You can rest easy. This is invasion-proof."

You paid. Thanked him. Locked the door behind him. Unlocked it. Locked it again. Unlocked it. Locked it. Stood there leaning against the door for a minute, listening to the silence, the beating of your own heart, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

The next morning, all your sleep shirts were in place. Drawer open, drawer closed, everything seemingly normal. But you were no longer the same person who woke up without examining every inch of the bedroom. You looked at everything now. Every detail. Every object out of place. Every shadow that shouldn't be there. And that's how you saw it.

One of them—the gray one, the old one, the one you wore when he was still here—was wet on the pillow. Not with water. No. The texture was different. The almost imperceptible viscosity. The smell. Oh, God, the smell. It was tears. And sweat. And something else, something you refused to name, something for which your brain created euphemisms while your heart already knew the truth. Someone had lain on your pillow. Someone had pressed your shirt against their face. Someone had cried there. In your bed. In your place. Perhaps for hours.

You sat on the bedroom floor again. You weren't shaking anymore. You weren't crying. You just sat, leaning against the wall, the damp shirt in your lap, your fingers lightly running over the wet fabric. And stayed there. For a long time.

You told Dr. Elaine. You needed to. You couldn't carry that feeling of going crazy alone anymore. You arrived at her office that afternoon with deep dark circles, unwashed hair, the sweatpants you had worn for four days straight. You sat in the deep armchair, wrapped your hands in your lap, and told her. The underwear. The camera. The lock. The wet shirt. You told it all out loud, the words coming out jumbled, rushed, as if you needed to vomit them up before they suffocated you.

Dr. Elaine listened in silence. Jotted something in her notebook—the pen moving quickly, surely, as if she already knew the diagnosis before you finished speaking. She grimaced when you mentioned the wet shirt. Not from shock. From clinical concern. The kind of concern you see in doctors when they examine a test that came back wrong.

"Listen," she said, after a pause that lasted too long. "I know it feels real. I know it feels as real as you and me here right now. But we need to consider the possibility that this is happening inside you, not outside." She tilted her head, her tortoiseshell glasses slipping slightly down her nose. "Dissociative episodes are common in severe post-traumatic stress. Small memory lapses, objects that disappear and reappear, the feeling of being watched… the brain plays these tricks when it can't process the pain."

She increased your medication dosage. One and a half pills now, instead of one. "It will help with the nights," she said. "Continuous sleep reduces these episodes." You took the prescription. Stuck it in your purse. Bought the medication at the corner pharmacy. Took it that night, the next, the one after. The extra pill left you dizzy, heavy, as if you were walking through a vat of honey. But the noises continued.

The footsteps in the hallway in the middle of the night. Always in the middle of the night. Always around 3:17 AM—you started looking at the clock, noting the times in a notebook, trying to find a pattern. 3:17. 3:22. 3:09. Slow, measured footsteps, as if someone were walking barefoot on the living room parquet, stopping near your bedroom door, waiting, breathing, and then continuing. You never heard the door open. Never heard anyone enter. Just the footsteps. And the silence that followed.

The feeling of being watched at the grocery store. You choosing bananas, feeling a weight on the back of your neck, turning around too quickly—and no one. Just the girl restocking tomato cans, just the security guard yawning at the door, just the security cameras in the corners, blinking red lights like mechanical eyes. Once you thought you saw a silhouette behind the cereal shelf. When you went around, there was no one. But the floor was wet. A small puddle, as if someone had spilled water and run away.

The hairs on your arm standing up when you walked past dark alleys. The electric sensation on your skin, the hair on your neck bristling, your heart racing for no apparent reason. You avoided alleys now. Avoided poorly lit streets. Avoided going out after eight in the evening. Your life had shrunk to fit within a five-hundred-meter perimeter around your apartment—the grocery store, the pharmacy, the bus stop. And even there, inside that tiny circle, the feeling of not being alone never completely left.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine that one night, you woke up to the weight of a body on the bed. Not a whole body—if it had been, you would have screamed, jumped up, called the police. It was just the weight. The depression in the mattress beside you, on his side, the side you hadn't occupied since he left. The mattress sinking slowly and silently, as if someone had lain down with absolute care, the care of someone who didn't want to wake you. And the heat. The heat of someone who had been there and left before you opened your eyes. A residual heat, like embers after the fire is gone.

You opened your eyes suddenly, your heart in your throat, your body already tensed in a defensive position you didn't even know you had learned. No one. The empty room. The curtain swaying gently—but the window was closed. You had checked before sleeping, and checked again, and checked once more, until the whole neighborhood must have known you had a thing about windows. The curtain had no reason to sway. But it swayed.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine that that night, lying in the dark, your heart still racing and your body still waiting for a touch that didn't come, you whispered into the silence of the room:

"Ben?"

Just that. A name. Three letters you hadn't spoken aloud in months—not since that last call to his voicemail, not since your voice stopped working and you learned to keep his name locked in a cabinet inside you.

And you heard it.

For a second—just one second, so fast you could swear it was your imagination—someone held their breath. That unmistakable sound of someone who had been holding the air and failed for an instant. A startle. A surprise. As if he hadn't expected you to speak. As if he hadn't expected you to know.

Then silence. A silence so complete you could hear your own heartbeat, the blood circulating in your temples, the little hum that always exists at the bottom of your hearing and that you only notice when everything else stops. You lay there, eyes open in the dark, waiting. One minute. Five. Fifteen. Your heart gradually slowed, like an engine shutting down after a long journey.

No one held their breath again. No one spoke. No one appeared.

But you knew. Just as you knew your father's name and your birth date and how to ride a bike, you knew you weren't alone in that room. Or you hadn't been. Or you still weren't, somewhere beyond your ability to see. The weight on the side of the mattress had already disappeared, the heat had already cooled, the curtain had stopped swaying. But the air was different. Denser. Heavier. Like before a storm.

You didn't sleep the rest of the night. You sat up in bed, your back against the headboard, your eyes fixed on the bedroom door, waiting. You didn't know if you were waiting for him to appear. You didn't know if you were waiting for him to leave. You didn't know if you were waiting for someone—the police, a burglar, God, death. You just waited. And the silence waited with you. Complicit. Patient. Watching.

From outside. Or from inside. You no longer knew the difference.

The night of the second date started like any other. The routine had become a survival mechanism: wake up, take your meds, work, eat the bare minimum, wait for night, sleep poorly, repeat. But that night was different, and you knew it even before you opened the closet.

You put on the blue dress. The one he bought for your birthday, two years ago. You remembered the exact moment: a gift box wrapped in silver paper, a red bow so perfect it seemed fake, and his crooked smile as you opened it. "Try it on," he had said, and you went to the bathroom and put it on, and when you came back he was there, standing in the middle of the room, his pale blue eyes so transparent you could see to the bottom of his soul. He didn't say anything. He just looked. Two years later, that look still burned in your memory like a sunburn.

You hadn't worn the dress since he was arrested. It stayed at the back of the closet, behind the winter clothes you no longer wore, like an artifact from another life. But something about that night—maybe Dr. Elaine's voice in your head, repeating the words "you need to move on" like a secular mantra; maybe the sudden desperate desire to feel beautiful, to inhabit your own body without feeling the weight of an absence; maybe a secret, almost obscene way of provoking the ghost you swore was following you—made you put it on.

The dress still fit. Snug as a glove, the cold fabric against your skin, the blue so dark it bordered on black in the dim light of the bedroom. You looked at yourself in the closet mirror and, for a second, didn't recognize yourself. Or recognized yourself too much. It was the same woman from two years ago. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair. Only more tired. Deeper. As if life had dug holes inside you and forgotten to mention.

Lucas arrived on time. By then, his punctuality had become predictable—a boring virtue, the kind you didn't know whether to thank or resent. He picked you up at your building door, got out of the car to open the door for you, and when you approached, he stopped.

"You look beautiful," he said.

And it was polite. Normal. Safe. The right words in the right tone, the friendly smile, the gaze that didn't linger too long anywhere. It wasn't the first time someone had called you beautiful, but it hurt the same way—because it wasn't the right voice. It wasn't the right way. It wasn't Ben's hoarse whisper, the way he had of saying "beautiful" as if it were a discovery, as if he looked at you and saw something no one else saw, something he himself couldn't name but that made him smile that crooked smile and pull you close, his face buried in your hair, his warm breath against the back of your neck. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a lot of beautiful things, shit."

You got in the car. Buckled your seatbelt. Smiled. The automatic smile, the one you kept in your purse like an extra lipstick, for social emergencies.

The restaurant was fancy. Cloth napkins, waiters in vests, real candles on the tables. You ordered shrimp risotto and ate without tasting it—the shrimp could have been rubbery, the rice could have been too salty, the cheese could have been burnt, you wouldn't have known. The food went down like sand, washed down by gulp after gulp of red wine that you also didn't taste. Beside you, Lucas talked about his work, about the exchange rate, about Toby who had eaten a new shoe. You laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right times, asked follow-up questions that demonstrated interest. It was an impeccable performance. No one in that restaurant would guess that, inside, you were empty.

And all the while, all the while, you felt it.

It wasn't a thought. It wasn't a memory. It was a physical sensation, settled just below the skin, a constant tingling at the back of your neck and on your arms. A presence. A shadow. A weight in the air that made the hairs on your arm stand on end, bristled like those of an animal scenting a predator before seeing it. You felt eyes where there was no face. You felt intention where there was no gesture. You felt someone—and you knew who—watching you from somewhere beyond the light, beyond the movement, beyond the solid reality that everyone in there seemed to inhabit without question.

You looked at the restaurant door three times. The first, an elderly couple saying goodbye; the second, a waitress balancing a tray; the third, no one, just the dark glass and the street. You looked at the street twice. The first, a taxi passing too fast; the second, a woman crossing hurriedly, her coat open to the wind. You looked at the man alone at the bar counter once. He had his back to you, a dark jacket, broad shoulders, short hair. Your heart leaped into your throat. Your whole body tensed, alert, ready for flight or encounter—you didn't know which. When you looked again, he was gone. The empty chair. A half-finished glass of wine. A crumpled napkin. As if he had left in a hurry. As if he had been seen.

"Everything okay?" Lucas asked.

His hand touched yours for a second. The touch was light, dry, careful. Polite. Normal. Safe. His hand didn't have the calluses you expected. Didn't have the scars you ran your fingers over while he slept, learning the maps of another person's pain. Didn't have the contained strength you felt when Ben held your hand under the table, fingers intertwined, his thumb drawing slow circles on your palm. It was just a hand. Polite. Normal. Safe. And you wanted it to be another.

"Fine," you lied. The lie came out smooth, rehearsed, like all the others. "Just a little tired."

Lucas accepted the answer. Of course he did. He wasn't the type to push, to notice the gaps between the lines, to tilt his head and say "lie, tell me" in that thick accent that made you feel like the only person in the world. Lucas was polite. Normal. Safe. And completely incapable of seeing that you were falling apart inside.

He asked for the check. Paid without looking at the amounts. Offered to take you home, and you accepted because his car was warm and the leather seats were soft and you didn't want to wait for the bus at that dark stop where the lights kept flickering. On the way, the car smelled of fabric softener and cold coffee—a smell so different from what you were used to, Ben's smell that was cheap soap and gunpowder, sweat and something indefinable you had never been able to name and that was probably just him, just the unique chemical composition of his body soaked into his clothes, the sheets, your skin.

The radio was playing some random song. One of those generic romantic songs you didn't pay attention to, but Lucas's fingers drummed on the steering wheel in rhythm, and you noticed he had clean, well-trimmed nails, and that irritated you more than it should have. Ben never had clean nails. He had dirt under some, dried blood on others, small cuts he didn't even notice. You would spend hours caring for his hands, filing, moisturizing, kissing each knuckle like a small shoreline of a foreign country.

You ran your fingers over your own wrist, drawing circles without realizing it. Automatic. Mechanical. Patterns that weren't yours. Concentric circles, slow and methodical, exactly the way he did it. You stopped when you realized. Your arm was marked with red, the friction of your own skin creating a familiar heat.

"You're shaking," Lucas noticed. The car had stopped at a red light, and in the red light streaming through the windshield, he looked at you with genuine concern. Polite. Normal. Safe. How annoying.

"It's cold," you said.

It wasn't. The car's heater was on, and you were sweating beneath the blue dress. But Lucas accepted the answer as he accepted everything: without questioning, without digging, without trying to understand what was really happening behind your eyes. He turned the warm air up a little more, a kind and completely useless gesture, and you felt a sudden urge to laugh. Not from happiness. That bitter laugh that rises in the throat when things are so absurd that no other reaction remains.

The car stopped in front of your building. Lucas turned off the engine. The silence that settled was heavy, full of expectations you didn't have.

"Can I come up?" he asked.

The question came in a careful tone, without pressure, the door open for a polite no. He was a good boy. Handsome. Stable. Liked dogs and specialty coffee and probably returned his shopping cart at the supermarket. His mother must have been proud. Dr. Elaine must have been radiant.

You looked at him. The perfectly combed hair. The close shave. The brown eyes with no mystery, no abyss, no scar on his soul that needed to be kissed before sleeping. He wasn't Ben. Would never be Ben. But maybe—and this "maybe" hurt like a broken bone—maybe that was a good thing.

"No," you said.

The word came out faster than you expected, and there was an immediate relief in your chest, as if your whole body had exhaled after holding its breath for hours. Lucas blinked, processed, and then smiled the understanding smile of someone used to hearing no. Polite. Normal. Safe even in rejection.

"No problem," he said. "Another time."

You knew there wouldn't be another time. He probably knew too, from the tone of your voice, from the way you opened the car door before he even finished his sentence. You got out, thanked him, closed the door. The car stayed there for a moment—Lucas waiting for you to enter the building, like a gentleman—and then drove away, its headlights disappearing around the curve, taking with them the smell of fabric softener and cold coffee.

You stood on the sidewalk for a while you didn't measure. The cold night wind bit your bare arms, the blue dress protected nothing, but you didn't feel cold. You felt something else. An electricity in the air. A tingling at the base of your spine. The absolute, irrational, non-negotiable certainty that you were not alone on that street.

There was no one in sight. The building lights were on on the lower floors, off on the upper ones. The iron gate creaked as you pushed it. The stairwell was dark—the hallway bulb had burned out weeks ago, and the superintendent never changed it. You climbed the steps in the dark, your left hand sliding along the railing, your right hand gripping your purse strap as if it were a weapon.

Somewhere upstairs, a door closed. Not yours. Someone else's. But it was late for visitors, and Dona must have been snoring for hours, and the other neighbors you didn't even know. You stopped on the landing, breathless not from exertion, and listened. Silence. The silence of the night, the silence you had learned to recognize in all its variations—the silence of an empty apartment, the silence of a lurking predator, the silence of someone holding their breath.

You climbed the rest of the stairs at a faster pace. Fumbled the key into the lock with trembling hands—the expensive lock that no one opened without the key—and entered. Locked it. Locked it again. Put on the chain. Rested your forehead against the cold wooden door and closed your eyes.

The apartment was empty. The furniture in place. The curtains drawn. The domestic silence of an ordinary Wednesday. You dropped your purse on the floor, kicked off your shoes in the foyer, and walked to the bedroom.

You put on his gray t-shirt. The one that had been wet last time. The one you had washed four times in a row, and still the smell hadn't come out—or maybe you just wanted to believe it hadn't. Lay down on the bed. Pulled up the blanket. Closed your eyes.

Outside, on the street, a car with its engine running waited for hours. You didn't hear it. Or pretended you didn't. By that point, you had given up distinguishing one thing from the other.

The traffic light broke.

It was the first thing wrong that night—but you would only realize that later, when the pieces fit together into a mosaic of terror you didn't yet know you were assembling. You stood at the intersection for five minutes. Five full minutes, your feet cold inside your shoes, your purse heavy on your shoulder, the blue dress—the same one, the cursed one, the one you swore you would never wear again—sticking to your skin beneath your coat. The light was stuck on red, flickering irregularly in a way that wasn't normal, as if someone had opened the fuse box of the world and jumbled the wires just for fun.

In the distance, a siren. Closer, a dog barking—the caramel-colored stray from the corner, who barked at everything and nothing, but that night the bark had a different tone. A warning. An alert. Animals know before we do. They always have.

And the silence. That heavy, sticky silence that wasn't the normal silence of the city. It was the silence of a city holding its breath. A city that knew, in some instinctive and collective way, that something was waiting for you at home. Or someone.

"Weird," Lucas murmured at the wheel, his fingers tapping nervously—a tic you hadn't noticed before. "I've never seen that light like that. Must have been a lightning strike at the control center or something."

You didn't answer. Not because you were being rude—you had already been rude enough to Lucas that night, politely refusing each of his attempts to get closer, each outstretched hand, each "want to talk about it?" You didn't answer because you couldn't. Your mouth was dry. The words had locked themselves inside your throat, little prisoners behind a fence of fear. Because you already knew. You didn't know what—there was no way to know—but you knew something was terribly wrong. Your whole body knew. Muscles tense, ready for a flight you didn't know where to. Breathing short, wheezy, as if you had run a marathon without moving from the spot. Cold hands, tingling fingers, your heart beating somewhere deep in your throat.

It was the same feeling you had before a storm. That weight in the air. That smell of ozone and wet earth. That sense that the world was about to change, and that you had no control over the direction of the change.

Lucas stopped the car in front of your building. Turned off the engine and turned to you with that lost puppy expression he wore every time you said no—which was every time, because you had never said yes. "Want me to come up?" he asked, with polite hope in his brown eyes. The hope of someone who still hasn't learned that certain doors don't open for everyone. "Just to make sure you got in okay. It's very dark, the doorman isn't there… and you seem…" He hesitated, choosing his words with the care of someone who didn't want to scare you. "You seem tense. I don't want you to be alone like this."

"Not necessary," you said. Too fast. So fast that the two words merged into one—notnecessary—and the tone was drier than you intended. You saw his face wilt a little and felt a pang of guilt, but guilt was a luxury you couldn't afford at that moment. "Thank you. It was… it was good."

The lie came easily. So easily that it almost scared you. It was good. It hadn't been good. It hadn't been anything. It had been a two-hour performance where you played a normal woman going out with a normal man, and in the end you had received a note left by a ghost and discovered that the dress you were wearing had been folded on your bed while you ate shrimp risotto without tasting it. But Lucas didn't know that. Lucas didn't know anything. Lucas was a polite, normal, safe man who deserved someone whole and not the shards you called a heart.

You got out of the car. The door closed with a dull thud. You walked to the building's entrance, each step a Herculean effort, as if the ground were turning into quicksand beneath your feet. Felt Lucas's eyes on your back until you went in—polite, normal, safe, watching only to make sure you were okay, not with the devouring hunger of someone who watches because they need to see you to continue existing.

The building door closed with a click. The silence of the lobby wrapped around you like a heavy, damp blanket. The lobby was empty. The fluorescent lights flickered with the same irregular frequency as the traffic light outside, as if the whole city were having an epileptic fit. You clutched your purse against your chest and walked to the elevator. Pressed the button. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. Of course it was broken. Of course. Because nothing that night was going to be easy.

You took the stairs.

Four floors. Counted each step as you climbed, an old habit, a way to keep your mind occupied so you wouldn't think about the noise behind you. One, two, three, four. Because there was noise. Light footsteps, almost inaudible, on the edge of your perception. Someone climbing behind you, keeping the same distance, the same pace. When you sped up, the footsteps sped up. When you slowed down, the footsteps slowed down. You didn't look back. Didn't look because you were afraid of what you'd see. Didn't look because you were afraid of seeing nothing. Didn't look because, deep down, a part of you already knew who it was and was tired of pretending it didn't.

You reached the apartment door. Your heart hammering so hard you felt your temples pulsing. Took three deep breaths. The three breaths Dr. Elaine had taught for moments of anxiety—inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. It never worked. It never would. Anxiety wasn't air. Anxiety was a living thing that lived inside your chest and fed on your fear.

You put the key in the lock.

The door opened before you turned the key.

It was unlocked.

The world stopped. Not metaphorically—the world actually stopped. The sound of the street disappeared. The hum of the fluorescent lights ceased. The dog's bark downstairs fell silent. Everything hung suspended in an absolute vacuum, as if the universe had pressed pause just to see what you would do.

You never forgot to lock the door. Never. Even on bad days, on days you could barely get out of bed, on days you went without eating, without showering, without answering messages—you locked the door. Twice. It was a ritual. A prayer. A silent promise you made to yourself every night: you are still here. you are still trying. you haven't given up protecting yourself yet. The key always turned twice. Always.

The door was open.

And you went in.

The apartment was destroyed.

It took you a second to process. Maybe two. Maybe an entire eternity compressed into a blink. The human brain wasn't made to understand chaos all at once—it needs time, needs layers, needs permission to believe what it's seeing. The door creaked behind you as you stood in the doorway, your fingers still gripping the handle, your purse slipping from your shoulder and falling to the floor with a dull thud. You didn't move to pick it up. Didn't move for anything.

It wasn't mess. It wasn't the kind of disarray of someone rummaging through your drawers looking for money or jewelry. There was no method there. No search. There was violence. Pure, raw violence, from someone who wasn't looking for anything except a place to drain what no longer fit inside their chest. Anger. Real anger. The anger of someone who had waited too long. Who had counted every day, every hour, every minute. Who had dreamed every night of this moment—not the moment of destroying the apartment, but the moment of coming back to it, of finding you in it—and now, finally, after 847 nights, after concrete walls, steel bars, orange uniforms, and meals served on plastic trays, now that the moment had arrived, the anger no longer fit inside the body. It had to get out. Overflow. Break something.

The sofa—the same sofa where he held you while you watched movies neither of you paid attention to—was torn. Not just torn. Shredded. The fabric ripped into strips, the foam torn out in chunks, the springs exposed like the ribs of an animal that had died long ago. The stuffing was scattered across the floor like dirty snow, like the entrails of something that had once been soft and warm and was now unrecognizable, irreparable, dead. You looked at the sofa and felt a pang in your chest—not for the sofa, it was never about the sofa, but for everything that happened on that sofa. The cold nights when he wrapped you in a blanket and said "stay here, don't let me sleep alone." The silly arguments about what movie to watch, which always ended the same way—him giving in, laughing, pulling you onto his lap. The last night. The last time he sat there before writing the note and disappearing. The sofa had witnessed everything. Now it was on the floor, shattered, as if he were trying to kill the memories too.

The pictures had been ripped from the walls. The shattered glass covered the floor like a dangerous frost, reflecting the flickering streetlight in a thousand small sharp pieces. Your photos—the ones on your shelf, the ones he never liked because they had other people in them—all had broken glass, all had the faces of other people scratched out. Coworkers. Cousins. That college friend who hugged you too tight. All scratched out with meticulous fury, as if he had used the tip of a knife to scribble over their eyes, their mouths, their smiles that weren't his. Only your face remained intact. Only yours. As if he had separated each photo, broken the glass with a dry blow, scratched out the others with surgical care, and then—only then—returned the frame to the floor. A curation of hatred. A declaration of ownership written in broken glass.

The kitchen table was overturned. The chairs were broken—not tipped over, broken, legs ripped off, backs split in half. The plates covered the floor in colorful fragments, the silverware scattered as if someone had been looking for a specific knife. And found it. You saw the knife later—a serrated one, a bread knife, embedded in the kitchen wall up to the handle. As if he had thrown it and hit the target on the first try. As if throwing knives was just one more thing he knew how to do and you had never discovered.

The curtains had been torn from the window. The metal rod was bent, hanging to one side like a broken arm. The window glass was cracked—not broken, cracked. A perfect spiderweb in the lower right corner, right in the middle of a smaller, round hole, as if someone had punched it and the glass had held up better than the wall.

Because the wall didn't hold up.

There was a hole in the wall. Not just any hole. A hole the size of a fist—his right fist, you knew, because you knew every bone, every knuckle, every scar on that hand. The plaster wall was blown inward, the crumbled coating on the floor, and inside the hole, mixed with the white dust, there were red marks. Blood. His blood, probably. Or not. You didn't want to think about the "or not."

A lot of blood. On the wall. On the floor. In a trail from the living room door to the back, near the cracked window, where the blood formed a larger puddle. A dark puddle, almost black in the dim light, reflecting the streetlight like a dirty mirror. And inside the puddle, no—beside the puddle, because he was too careful, too meticulous, too crazy to sit in his own blood—he was there.

Ben. Dex. The man who taught you to make tomato sauce and to feel fear in the dark. The man who killed with the same hand that caressed your hair. The man who should have been behind bars, behind steel doors, behind a life sentence that meant forever, that meant never again, that meant you were free.

He was sitting on the floor. Leaning against the cracked wall—the same wall he himself had punched, the bloody fist hole a few centimeters above his head, like an inverted halo. His legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. His hands resting on his knees, palms down, his long pale fingers resting in a stillness that bordered on supernatural. Calm. Strangely calm. As if he were waiting for the bus. Or waiting for death. Or waiting for you—and maybe, to him, all three were the same.

He was thinner. Much thinner. The white shirt—the same one from the newscast, you noticed with a knot in your stomach, the same one from the conviction, the one that appeared in the photos that circulated around the world, his face plastered on every news portal as if he were a monster, and maybe he was, maybe he always had been—that shirt hung on his body like a tent, his once-broad shoulders now looked sharp, his collarbones jutted out from beneath the thin fabric like the wings of a broken bird. The face you kissed every night, that you knew better than your own, was now too angular, too sharp, as if the bones were trying to escape the skin. The cheekbones you used to kiss playfully, saying he looked like a Scandinavian model, now cast dramatic shadows over his hollow cheeks. His under-eye circles were so dark they looked like bruises—purple, purplish-black, almost invisible in the dim light. His unshaven beard was thick, unkempt, grown without care for weeks, maybe months, and barely hid the new scars. Small cuts on his chin. A red line on his jaw. A scratch on his right cheekbone, recent enough to still be scabbed over. His hair was longer. Much longer. Fell over his forehead in a way that almost hid his eyes—but you saw his eyes. You always saw his eyes.

Those pale blue eyes. The eyes that looked at you as if you were the only real thing in the universe. The eyes you saw on television, empty, fixed somewhere behind the camera, as if he had already given up on everything. Now they were different. Deeper. Hollowed out from within, like two caves where light entered but found no exit. More tired—not the tiredness of a bad night's sleep, but the tiredness of years, the tiredness of someone who had carried the weight of an entire life on their back and discovered that the weight doesn't lessen, you just get used to it. And hungrier. A hunger you recognized because it was the same as yours. The hunger of someone who had gone too long without touching, without being touched, without feeling another person's skin against theirs. He was looking at you like a man in the desert looks at water. As if you were the only thing that could quench his thirst. And the light was blinding him—you could see in his eyes that it hurt, that looking at you after so long in the dark was like looking directly into the sun. But he didn't look away. He never looked away.

His shirt was open at the chest. You didn't know if he had opened it or if it had been torn—the lower buttons were still there, but the top ones… gone. The fabric opened in a cleft from his neck to the middle of his chest, exposing the marks you knew so well. The old scars, the ones you kissed before sleeping, the ones you traced with your fingertips while he slept. That place near his shoulder where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. The scar on his chest, close to his sternum, that he said was from "surgery" and you never asked if it was true. All still there. All waiting for you.

But there were new ones too.

Small recent cuts, some still with stitches—makeshift stitches, poorly done, that he must have given himself, sitting in some cold cell, with a smuggled needle and a hand trembling with anxiety. A dirty bandage on his left arm, the tape already peeling at the edges, stained with a yellow that could be antiseptic or could be pus. A dark mark on his ribcage—under his arm, where the skin is thinner and more vulnerable—that could be dried blood or could be a new tattoo, something done hastily, with improvised ink and a pain he probably no longer felt. You couldn't distinguish. Couldn't distinguish anything, because the whole world had been reduced to that man sitting on the floor of your destroyed apartment, covered in blood that wasn't only his, looking at you as if you were salvation itself.

And his face. Oh, his face.

It was dirty with blood. Not his blood—you knew that instantly, with a chill down your spine that started at the top of your head and descended slowly, vertebra by vertebra, like ice water dripping down your spine. His blood was different. You knew his blood—had seen it on various occasions, in small domestic accidents, in the slipped knife while chopping onions, in the scraped knee from a silly fall. His blood was bright red, almost shiny, like stamp ink. That blood on his cheek, his chin, his temple—that blood was darker. Thicker. From somewhere else. From someone else.

And the way he didn't do anything to clean it. The way he let the blood dry on his face like a mask, like a crown, like a trophy he wasn't willing to let go of. That told you everything you needed to know. The meeting. The coffee. Lucas with his perfectly combed hair and his life-insurance-ad smile. His car parked on the street, engine running, the polite hand that touched yours for a second at the restaurant table. You didn't know. There was no way to know. No way to know that while you laughed at Lucas's unfunny jokes, while you cut your shrimp risotto into microscopic pieces to avoid eating, while you wore the blue dress that Ben had bought and that wasn't for him, none of those gestures had gone unnoticed. None.

The blood on his face was a silent confession. A declaration of love written on someone whose last name you didn't even remember. You felt a tremor start in your hands and spread, like an underground earthquake, like the ground slowly splitting open. It wasn't fear. Or it was. Or it was something so mixed together you no longer knew how to separate. Love and fear had become the same substance inside you, like two rivers that meet and never part again.

His eyes met yours.

And something in his face changed.

The rigidity. The artificial calm. The posture of someone sitting on the floor of a destroyed apartment as if it were a throne. All fell away for a second. Just one second. The length of a breath. The time it takes to blink. And beneath, deep down, you saw it.

Saw the despair. Saw the fear. Not the fear of being caught—he had already been caught, already been convicted, already been through everything a man could go through. It was an older, more primal fear. The fear that you would look at him and feel disgust. The fear that you would call the police. The fear that you would say that word he couldn't stand to hear, the word that could kill him more than any bullet, more than any sentence, more than any cell: "Leave."

You saw the man who spent 847 nights locked in a concrete cell, counting the days with nail scratches on the wall, repeating your name like a prayer that went unanswered, drawing invisible patterns on his own wrist because yours wasn't there for him to draw on. Saw the man who broke a window with his own fist—the same fist that made the hole in your wall—to escape. Who crossed states by hitchhiking, on foot, inside trucks that smelled of diesel and sweat, hidden in compartments not made for human bodies. Who killed—you didn't want to think about how many, not now, maybe never—just to get here. Just to see you. Just to come home.

And beneath all the despair, behind all the fear, buried under layers and layers of blood and guilt and madness, you saw something else. Something more frightening than the hole in the wall. More frightening than the shredded sofa. More frightening than another person's blood on the face of the man you loved.

Relief.

He was relieved. Because you were there. Because you had come back. Because you hadn't run when you saw the open door, when you saw the chaos, when you saw him sitting on the floor like a deposed king waiting for the verdict. Because you were wearing the blue dress he bought. That dress. The birthday dress. The dress he had carefully chosen, imagined you in night after night before buying it, could barely wrap because his hands trembled so much. You were wearing it. And that meant something. That meant you hadn't forgotten. That meant part of you, no matter how buried, was still his.

His breath—which you hadn't realized was held, hadn't realized was waiting, which you only now noticed his chest hadn't been moving for an eternity—came out in a slow, trembling sigh, almost a stifled sob. His shoulders, tight as piano strings about to snap, dropped a centimeter. His jaw, which had been so clenched you could see the muscles jumping, loosened slightly. A millimeter. Enough.

He raised one hand.

The right hand. The one he used to draw patterns on your wrist on nights when neither of you could sleep. The one he used to hold yours when you crossed the street, as if you were a child and he the only guardian capable of protecting you from traffic. The same hand that, you knew, had squeezed triggers. Squeezed necks. Opened doors that shouldn't be opened. His fingers were clean, you noticed. Strangely clean. As if he had washed them before waiting for you. Scrubbed with soap, removed every trace of blood from under his nails, rinsed until the skin was red and raw. As if the blood on his face didn't matter—that was an accessory, a declaration, a signature. But his hands—the hands that were going to touch you, the hands that were going to find your face, the hands that were going to ask, in the language only the two of you understood, that you stay—those needed to be clean. Pure. Worthy of you.

His fingers moved. A small gesture. Almost shy. A wave. The same wave he made when he came home late at night and you were on the sofa, awake waiting, and he would come on tiptoe and wave as if afraid to scare you. As if he wasn't sure he could still approach. As if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in prison—lying on the hard bed, the thin blanket warming nothing, eyes fixed on the cracked concrete ceiling—and now that the moment had come, now that you were really there, in front of him, wearing the blue dress he bought, all the words he had rehearsed had disappeared. Evaporated. Left only that small, almost pathetic gesture, a wave from someone who no longer knew what to do with his own hands.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His voice, when it came out, was different. Deeper. Hoarser. As if he hadn't used his voice in a long time—or as if he had used it too much. Screamed too much. Called for you too much. Waited too much. There was a tremor in it, a fragility he hated, that he tried to hide by swallowing hard, but you heard it. You always heard it. You heard the holes in his voice, the fractures, the places where pain escaped the edges like water through a dam about to break.

"Darling..."

The word came out soft. Almost a whisper. Almost a question. As if he wasn't sure he could still call you that. As if he was afraid you would say "no, this is over, you lost the right, you lost me, go away, disappear, leave me alone." And beneath the word, you heard the echo of all the nights he must have said your name in the dark of the cell. To the walls. To the thin mattress. To the other inmates who must have thought he was crazy. And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. But he was your crazy. The only one who loved you in a way that hurt.

His eyes glistened. Not with tears—Benjamin Poindexter didn't cry, he had told you once, on a night you woke up with him trembling beside you, his arms so tight you could barely breathe, and when you asked what had happened, he said: "People like us don't have that luxury." You never asked what he meant by "people like us." You were afraid of the answer. Still are. But his eyes glistened with something else, something that hurt just the same, that squeezed your chest the same way, that pulled the air from your lungs as if someone had opened a window at the bottom of the ocean.

His hand moved again. This time slower. More careful. As if every millimeter of air between you was a minefield. His fingers found your chin—the touch, when it happened, was so light you almost didn't feel it. A butterfly landing. A feather descending. The contrast with the violence around was so absurd, so insane, that you felt a laugh rise in your throat and held it in with force. Different from before. Before, he held you with force, with desperation, as if you were going to slip through his fingers at any moment, as if he needed to apply constant pressure to be sure you were still there. Now he touched you as if you were made of glass. As if you were the most precious and fragile thing in the universe. As if he was afraid of breaking you with a rougher movement, afraid you would shatter into a thousand pieces and he would spend the rest of his life trying to put you back together, cutting his fingers on each shard.

His thumb traced a circle on your jaw.

Automatic. Instinctive. Like breathing. The same circle. The same pattern. The same gesture he made every night before sleeping, when you had already closed your eyes and he thought you weren't watching. The same drawing he made on your wrist, your palm, the back of your neck. Concentric circles. You never asked what they meant. You were afraid the answer would be something you didn't want to hear. Or maybe you knew. Maybe you'd known from the beginning that those circles were him trying to map you, possess you, turn you into sacred territory that no one else could occupy.

Your body responded before your mind.

A betrayal. A truth. A piece of you that no longer obeyed your brain, that acted on pure animal instinct, on muscle memory, on the habit of so many nights of love and fear mixed together. Your eyes closed for a second. Your head tilted against his hand, heavy, surrendered. His skin was warm—warmer than it should be, fever-warm, the warmth of a whole life burning from within. And a sound escaped your throat. A small, painful moan, not entirely human. A sound that was both relief and despair.

He heard it.

And something in his face broke.

The control. The facade. The posture of a man who had just destroyed an apartment and sat among the rubble like a king. All fell. Not for a second this time. It truly fell. Like a house of cards finally finding the right breath. For a moment—a single, brief, luminous moment—he wasn't the elite sharpshooter. Wasn't the convicted murderer. Wasn't the fugitive who had just crossed the country with blood on his hands. He was just Ben. The Ben who pulled you closer in the middle of the night, when you were already asleep, as if even unconscious he needed to be sure you hadn't left. The Ben who whispered things in your hair, things you never repeated to anyone, things he probably didn't even remember saying because they came out of him like confessions from a sleepwalker. The Ben who was afraid to fall asleep first because he needed to be sure you wouldn't run away while he was vulnerable.

His hand trembled against your face.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The other fingers, the ones resting on your jaw, vibrated like violin strings after snapping. The tremor traveled up his arm, through his shoulder, shaking his thin body for a second. He held his breath—you saw his chest stop—and then let it all out in one jet, as if he had held the whole world inside his lungs and could finally let go.

His blue eyes wandered over your face, slowly, as if he were re‑memorizing every detail. As if afraid of forgetting. His nose—you noticed his nose was now slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and hadn't healed right. The line of his lips—chapped, dry, the lower lip split in the middle. The new scar on his eyebrow. All the marks that prison time had left on him, all the stories he wouldn't tell, all the pieces of him that had been broken and hastily mended, without anesthesia, without care.

His thumb resumed the movement. One circle. Another. Another. A rhythm. A prayer. A thread connecting this moment to all the past nights, to all the promises tattooed on skin and in silence.

His mouth almost touched yours. Close enough for you to feel the promise of a kiss, the ghost of a kiss, the warmth of a kiss that didn't happen but vibrated in the space between your mouths like a stretched string.

His eyes met yours. And he smiled.

The smile was small. Crooked. Disturbingly familiar. The same smile he used before kissing you, before pulling you into the dark, before doing all the things you kept in your memory like a photo album you would never open again but also never throw away. But there was something different now. Something broken and lit at the same time. Like an exposed wire, sparking, smoking, but still conducting electricity. Like a house on fire but still habitable, walls in flames and the sofa still soft, windows bursting and the bed still warm. Like someone who had gone to the bottom of the well and come back, but brought the bottom of the well with him—stuck to his shoes, under his nails, at the back of his throat.

The smile widened. Showed teeth. His eye gleamed—not the wet gleam from before, but a dry, electric gleam, a little bit crazy. There was joy there. A dark, dangerous joy that you hadn't seen since before the prison, since before the note, since before the end of the world. The joy of someone who survived something they shouldn't have. Who escaped a cell that was meant to be permanent. Who came back from hell in jeans and a white shirt open at the chest, dirty with blood, thin as a thread, but alive. Alive.

His free hand—the left, the one resting on his knee—rose slowly. His fingers found your hair. Buried themselves in it. Pulled a little, not hard, like an owner. With the familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. With the certainty of someone who knows that hair, that smell, that temperature still belong to him. It was a possessive gesture, but it was also a request. Let me stay. Let me touch. Let me be yours again, the same way you've always been mine.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The fingers in your hair tightened a little more. The blue eyes, those eyes that looked at you with devotion and despair and hunger and love and madness, fixed on yours like two nails. The smile was a crack in his face, an open wound, a wide-open door to a place you knew well because you had lived there for a long time.

"Guess who's back from jail?"

note: he’s pretty pathetic here, i think we all want to see that… reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

You have spent years working right beside Wilson Fisk. He trusts you without hesitation because you earned that position through loyalty. Managing the organization for him requires being the bridge between Fisk and the people working beneath him. People who need access to him have to go through you first. You hear the desperation in their voices whenever they beg for an audience. Sometimes being that bridge gives you satisfaction since everyone knows he is the man in charge. Being someone he completely trusts gives you access to handle sensitive information and coordinate operations before those requests ever reach his ears. You make sure the plans reach the right people without mistakes, because if something falls apart, you are the first person expected to fix it. You earned your job through results rather than ruling by fear. Fear breeds cowards, but competence keeps the empire standing while Fisk values competence above other traits.

You have proven time after time that you can solve problems before they get messy. You rarely wait to be told about what needs doing because you already know his expectations. You understand his demands just by watching the way his jaw tightens. Anticipating his needs requires you to notice details other people overlook, and noticing those details means you catch subordinates when they stumble over basic instructions. Watching them fail means you routinely tie up loose ends before they become liabilities for the business. Leaving a messy trail guarantees an early grave, but you will never ever let that happen. You will burn the evidence away until there is no proof to trace back to him, yet some evidence can’t be burned or buried, so you make sure it never speaks again. Handling that dirty work yourself feels like something you must do because others inside the syndicate only rely on clumsy brute force or intimidation.

You view their loud displays of anger as a weakness rather than a threat. True power means knowing when a conversation has reached its end without needing to raise your voice. You handle the jobs yourself without hesitation, as having blood on your hands is something you refuse to deny. You refuse to lie about the monster you became to survive, since guilt stopped bothering you a long time ago. It no longer drives your decisions, so you never feel the need to remind people who you are. You see their shoulders stiffen the second you enter a room, and the sudden drop in their voices tells you what you need to know about their fear because power doesn’t need to be flashy. You prefer to keep your influence out of sight until the moment it matters, as bragging about authority only makes you a bigger target. You don’t have to shove it in their faces to get respect when the way they scramble to follow your instructions serves as proof enough.

Any hesitation disappears the second you look their way. People understand that ignoring your orders is the same as ignoring Fisk himself. They know the punishment for crossing you will be the same as crossing him. That fear makes them shut their mouths when they leave, and their silence ensures very few people outside know your real name. Keeping your identity a secret prevents people from understanding your influence over the city. They spend years trying to figure out the criminal empire. Reading their flawed reports proves they rarely realize how many pieces happened through your hand as they chase the wrong suspects while you orchestrate the operations from the dark. You prefer keeping out of the spotlight while other men take the attention. Letting them take the credit saves you from being targeted. You have no interest in fame or building a new empire of your own. Your work is for the stability of the organization.

The desire for power did not appeal to you as much as the desire for control alongside this life because it gives you a purpose. You firmly believe loyalty is proven through actions rather than empty promises. You have spent years proving where your loyalty belongs. That proven loyalty is exactly why overseeing the personnel takes up a large part of your time, and Fisk trusts your judgment enough to leave the daily management in your hands. He focuses on expanding his empire while you ensure every worker serves their purpose. Everyone beneath him has a specific job to do, and you make sure they never step out of line. You watch over the employees to ensure the operation runs smoothly, and you always review their backgrounds to understand their capabilities. You understand that loyalty can’t be demanded of everyone in exactly the same way, since some are motivated by fear, while others care about money or ambition.

One of your skills is remembering details about the people working for the business, and you treat them all as replaceable tools to maintain order. The syndicate survives because you figure out what drives someone before managing them, and that responsibility extends to Benjamin Poindexter. You know who he is from his history long before ever meeting him, and you memorize his reputation without forgetting the role he fills within the business. His records mention his accuracy just as often as they mention his psychiatric history, but neither detail changes your opinion of him. Knowing those details is part of your job because you refuse to oversee someone without knowing how they think. The reports reveal a pattern you use to keep the organization running efficiently since Benjamin performs best when someone gives him structure alongside direction. He seeks approval from authority figures and becomes unstable whenever that approval disappears.

You ignore his personal issues as long as he does exactly what he’s told. You adjust your approach by giving clear instructions and maintaining consistent expectations to ensure he becomes a reliable asset. Praise is never excessive while criticism is never emotional because you know inconsistency creates unnecessary problems. You never view your approach as manipulation since it’s simply effective management. He begins responding to your routine faster than you expect as he handles the messy jobs other people fail to finish without causing problems for the business. He starts completing assignments exactly as instructed while paying attention to the details you point out. He always waits for your opinion before considering a job finished, and you see it as proof your methods are working perfectly. You have never concerned yourself with building personal relationships inside the business, so you don’t see him as a friend.

You see no reason to treat him any differently than anyone else since you care only about his usefulness and view him as just a weapon for Fisk to use. Keeping a professional distance has always made your job easier, even when small acknowledgments gradually become enough to shape his behavior. A simple nod after a successful assignment keeps him in line, and you allow him to stand at your side during meetings. None of those gestures mean anything unusual to you because you offer them for a purpose. Benjamin begins attaching far more meaning to them than you ever intended. The people around you notice the difference before you do because Benjamin rarely questions your decisions. He follows your instructions without hesitation, and some coworkers assume Fisk placed him under the only person capable of controlling him. Others joke about Benjamin being your favorite operative, but you pay little attention to the comments.

You believe you found the most effective way to manage him without realizing you’re becoming the center of his need for approval. The desperate need for validation makes his failure today unacceptable because the plan was supposed to end with Karen Page dead. You had already removed every possible complication you could predict before handing the final part to the one person you believed could not fail. Karen had survived far too many situations she shouldn’t have survived, and you were tired of adjusting your plans because of her luck. This assignment wasn’t just another routine job for him to complete. This was Benjamin’s chance to fix his mistake with Foggy Nelson, where he almost got caught and exposed the entire operation. Completing this task was his way to prove you were right to keep defending him to Fisk. Karen Page being alive and breathing completely ruins that effort.

You hear the news of his failure before he can make an effort to tell you, so you make sure you are already waiting inside the safe house when he finally arrives. You hear the lock click before the door swings open to reveal him standing in the hallway. You don’t bother greeting him or asking if he took any damage during the fight. He steps inside the room, knowing immediately from your expression that you aren’t interested in hearing his excuses. Coming close doesn’t matter when the target walks away, and it will take a long time to get that chance to put them on the ground again. The job wasn’t finished, so whatever he has to say means absolutely nothing to you. You stare straight at him while he closes the door behind him and looks uncomfortable under your glare. You let him take a few short steps inside the room before you confront him about the outcome. You don’t raise your voice at him because you have never needed to yell to get your point across.

The anger is already obvious in the way you look at him. You cross your arms over your chest while waiting for him to speak first. He refuses to meet your eyes, so you decide to break the silence yourself. “Tell me exactly how Karen Page managed to walk away from you,” you demand in a calm tone while watching his reaction. Benjamin stops walking right in the middle of the room as he finally looks up at you. He opens his mouth to speak but quickly closes it again when he sees the disappointment on your face. You know he hates failing you more than he hates failing the actual mission itself. “She had help,” Benjamin replies while staring at a spot on the wall right next to your head. That excuse does nothing to improve your mood since you explicitly told him to anticipate interference. “I don’t care who helped her because you were supposed to eliminate anyone who got in your way,” you state plainly while watching his jaw clench.

You take a step closer to him so he is forced to actually look at you. “He was waiting for me,” Benjamin says while shifting his weight nervously under your gaze. He knows he messed up, and your lack of sympathy makes his failure even worse. “Daredevil showed up before I could take the shot,” he adds to explain the fight on the rooftop. You observe his expression as he talks about the interference. The more he talks, the less interested you become in the details because every sentence sounds like another excuse instead of accountability. You remember giving him the specific instruction to expect interference before the operation even began. You chose him over everyone else for this job because he was supposed to adapt to any obstacle. He was supposed to overcome the problem and finish the job anyway. All you hear is him trying to convince you that the outcome was unavoidable.

“She escaped while he kept me pinned down,” Benjamin continues to defend his failure. He speaks fast, as if an explanation will make you forgive him. A short laugh escapes you before you shake your head in disbelief. You throw his own words back in his face to make him hear how pathetic it sounds coming from someone with his reputation. “A blind man,” you say while looking into his eyes. “You lost your target because of a blind man,” you repeat to mock his excuse. His jaw clenches tight before he looks away from you. The thought that Benjamin Poindexter came back defeated because of a blind vigilante makes you feel insulted. “He isn’t just some regular guy,” Benjamin argues to defend his loss. You refuse to accept that excuse when you put your own standing on the line for him. You close the distance between you two until you are standing right in front of him so he has no room to step back.

Benjamin is the person you defended when no one else in the organization wanted to take the risk. You stood up for him after the Foggy Nelson disaster. You cleaned up the consequences to protect his place within the syndicate. You made yourself responsible for him to convince everyone his mistake wasn’t who he was. You gave him this chance to fix things, but he repays that effort by coming back empty-handed. “I defended you,” you remind him while holding his gaze. Benjamin’s throat bobs as he stares at you. “I know you did,” he mutters while keeping his hands tight at his sides. “I stood in that room to tell them they were wrong about you,” you say as you watch his expression fall. You risked your own position for him, and he makes your judgment look foolish in front of Fisk. You refuse to let him look away from you. “Do you have any idea what you just made me look like?” you ask while letting the anger show in your voice.

He opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. He clenches his teeth together as he tries to figure out a better response. He realizes this is much worse than just missing a target. You stare at him while he struggles to find an excuse that matters, but he finds nothing because you both know he ruined the one chance you gave him. “I know I messed up, but I can still fix this,” he says to salvage whatever trust you still have in him. He keeps his hands at his sides as he tries to find a way to fix the situation. He takes a breath before speaking again, “Just give me another chance to go back there-” You uncross your arms to lift a hand, then you slap him across the face with all your strength before he can finish another excuse. You don’t strike him out of pure anger. You only do it to make him stop talking. The room becomes dead silent, and you watch his face turn to the side from the impact.

He stands there looking surprised because slapping him in the face was the last thing he expected you to do. You don’t give him a single second to recover when you grab his jaw with your hand. Your nails dig into his cheeks hard enough that he has no choice but to face you. You want him to see how angry you are right now since he has never seen this side of you before. You never raise your voice at him, which makes the situation feel much worse for him. “Look right at me when I’m talking to you,” you demand while pressing your thumb against his cheekbone. He doesn’t look away from you, and his pulse races under your palm. “You don’t get another chance until I decide you deserve one,” you state while your fingers dig deeper into his jaw. He needs to understand his place before he tries asking that you let his mistake slip. “That bitch should’ve been dead,” you tell him as you force his head up a little higher. You are tired of changing every plan just because Karen Page survives every attack.

She is a problem that should’ve been eliminated months ago, and this assignment was supposed to put a stop to her interference, yet Benjamin let her walk out of his sight. Your nails bite harder into his cheek to make him listen to every word. “I am so fucking tired of cleaning up after Karen Page,” you say without yelling. You wonder how a reporter manages to survive a highly trained killer. “Every time I think she’s finally gone, someone gives me another reason to deal with her,” you add as you glare at him. You observe his chest rise and fall rapidly as if he’s trying to calm himself. “Do you have any idea how much time I’ve wasted because of that bitch?” you ask while pulling his face a little closer. He just had to put a bullet in her to end the problem, but he failed you. You have to fix his mistake yourself today. You keep your hand tight around his jaw to bring up why you trusted him in the first place.

“Bullseye,” you say to him so he remembers his own title. Everyone knows him as the man who never misses. You expected him to live up to that reputation tonight instead of returning empty-handed. “Maybe I gave you too much credit,” you state as you watch his posture stiffen. Benjamin doesn’t pull away from your hand even though your nails hurt him. He says nothing to defend himself and just waits for you to finish talking. He knows interrupting you again will only make things worse, so he accepts the pain. “I know I failed,” Benjamin says while his breathing picks up. It sickens you to see a trained professional acting like a desperate child. You want him to realize apologies mean nothing when a job is left unfinished. “Send me back right now,” he begs for a chance to fix the mess he created. He looks at you like a stray dog begging for a scrap of approval. You refuse to reward his incompetence with an immediate yes.

“I won’t come back until she’s dead,” he insists in a rushed voice to prove he can still be useful. He assumes finishing the assignment late will erase the disrespect he brought to your name tonight. “I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he promises as he leans into your touch. You wonder if he hears how pathetic he sounds. Empty words do nothing to rebuild the reputation you risked for his sake. “Just give me the order and I-” he starts to say before you cut him off. You squeeze his jaw much harder until his words stop right in the middle of the sentence. He winces from the pain, but he refuses to step back. You have zero interest in hearing another useless guarantee. “You still don’t get it,” you say while shaking your head at him. The problem goes far beyond a single surviving reporter. “This stopped being about Karen the second you walked back in here,” you tell him as you force his face closer.

He needs to understand failing a mission is bad, but making you look stupid is unforgivable. “You need to realize the true price of your mistake,” you state while watching him struggle to figure out the real issue. “Your incompetence makes me look like a fucking idiot for trusting you,” you tell him so he understands exactly what he ruined. You refuse to let anyone else think you made a mistake by keeping him around. “I put my own reputation on the line when I swore you were worth the risk,” you state while keeping your hand firm on his face. You convinced everyone he deserved another chance after his last disaster. You put your own judgment behind him so he could keep his place in the organization. “You knew I stood up for you, yet you still repay me with this pathetic failure,” you say as you observe his expression change. The harsh insults never seemed to bother him, but hearing how deeply he humiliated you finally gets a reaction.

He always focused on proving himself to Fisk without realizing you were the only shield keeping him alive inside the syndicate. “God, I was fucking stupid to believe you were better,” you spit out while glaring at him. Benjamin finally understands what you are really saying. “Please don’t regret choosing me,” he begs as his chest rises faster. The panic in his voice shows exactly how terrified he is of losing your protection. “I never meant to make you look like a fool in front of them,” he says to salvage your trust in him. His eyes search your face for any sign of forgiveness to keep you from turning your back on him. He stares at you like a dog waiting for its owner to fix the mess. “I’ll make it right. You’ll never have to defend me again,” he promises to convince you he can fix this. His hand lifts for a second, as if he wants to reach for your wrist. He stops himself before his fingers can even brush against you.

He knows better than to make another move without your permission. All he can do is stand there and let you hold his head in place. You refuse to let go of his jaw even when he looks at you with that desperate expression. “I have no reason to keep protecting you after tonight,” you state while pushing your thumb harder into his cheekbone. You have already spent way too much time cleaning up his mistakes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t replace you right now,” you demand in a cold tone. You want him to realize how close he is to losing the only person who covers for him. “Tell me why I shouldn’t walk out that door and let you face the consequences alone,” you add to make the threat perfectly clear. He knows he will fall apart the second you stop telling him what to do. “Because right now I am struggling to remember why I ever gave a shit about you,” you tell him while watching him panic.

The thought of you walking away terrifies him more than the anger in your voice. He needs your orders to keep himself grounded, so losing you means losing his purpose. “You’re the only one who understands how to use me,” Benjamin answers while maintaining eye contact. You can hear the pure desperation behind his words. He sounds completely willing to do whatever it takes to stay under your control. “I’ll do exactly what you want without asking questions,” he swears to secure his spot at your side. He wants to prove his obedience right here so you don’t replace him with someone else. He doesn’t care about Fisk or the organization anymore because his only concern is your approval. “Tell me how to fix this, and I’ll do it,” he pleads while standing under your hand. He waits for your command because he refuses to let you abandon him over one failed assignment. “You think you’re the only guy we have?” you ask in a cold tone while digging your fingers into his face.

You wonder if he actually believes his title makes him immune to consequences. “I can find a replacement to clean up your mess by tomorrow,” you tell him so he understands how fast you can throw him away. Your hand drops from his jaw the second he lunges forward to grab both of your hips. He catches you before you can step backward because he hates hearing how disposable he is to you. His hands hurt your waist, but you don’t break eye contact as he refuses to let you walk away from him tonight. He acts desperate to keep you close by dropping his head forward to hide his face right against your neck. “N-no. You can’t replace me,” Benjamin argues as his fingers dig deeper into the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath against your neck when he speaks into your shoulder. “Nobody else can do what I do,” he insists in a panicked voice while shaking his head against you.

His desperation makes you want to laugh right in his face. You expect a trained killer to have at least a shred of dignity. “There is only one Bullseye,” he adds as he tries to convince you he is the only weapon Fisk will ever need. Hearing him use his own nickname sounds more like a plea than a threat. “I won’t fuck it up next time,” he promises while holding you tighter against him. He needs you to believe he can fix this failure. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he begs in a rushed breath. You wonder how much pride he is willing to lose to earn your forgiveness. Listening to him beg proves exactly who holds the power between you two. “You need me,” he says to convince you not to abandon him. You realize how much you owe him when he acts this pathetic for your approval. You shove his chest backward with enough force to make him stumble away from you. He loses his balance for a second before you grab a handful of his hair.

You yank his head backward so he is forced to stare straight into your face. “Ah- fuck,” he grunts, but he lets you drag him without fighting back. You want him to realize he has no room to negotiate with you right now. “Whatever I want?” you ask as your fingers tighten in his hair to keep his head pulled back. He gulps nervously before nodding as much as your hand allows. You take his desperate promise to heart to see how far he is willing to go. “Then get on your fucking knees,” you command without hesitation. He drops to the floor without waiting because he fears making you angry. You let go of his hair so you can grab his jaw again once he is down there. You angle his face upward so he has to look up at you from his knees. “Look at me,” you order while digging your thumb into his cheek. He keeps his eyes glued to yours as his life depends on it. “Prove you can be useful,” you demand while looking down at him.

Benjamin leans forward to rub his cheek harder into your hand. He turns his face to kiss your palm before he opens his mouth to take your thumb inside. He sucks on your finger to show you exactly how desperate he is for your attention. He keeps both of his hands at his sides while using only his mouth to please you. You watch him act like a pathetic animal begging for scraps. “Tell me how,” he mumbles against your fingers. You pull your hand away from his mouth so you can take a slow step backward across the floor. “Show me you know how to follow,” you order while looking down at him. He refuses to let any empty space exist between you, so he follows you by crawling forward on his knees. You observe him drag his knees across the floor without ever trying to stand up. His eyes never leave your face as he follows you across the room and keeps his hands to himself. You don’t stop taking those steps until the back of your legs brushes against the edge of the living room sofa.

You sit down on the cushions, and you spread your knees apart to give him access. He keeps crawling until he places himself right between your legs. He wraps both of his arms around your thighs so you can’t shove him away from you again. You look down at him while he kneels on the floor directly beneath you as he holds your legs tight enough to make sure you can’t push him back. He buries his face directly into your stomach to hide his expression from you. He holds your thighs tight while his hands slide upward to grab the fabric of your waistband. He takes a deep breath against you before he finally lifts his head back up. He looks up at you with his chin resting against your belly as he waits for your permission. He stares at you with pure desperation in his eyes. “Let me make it up to you,” he whispers against your shirt. He refuses to let go of your clothes until you tell him what to do next.

You run your fingers through his hair very slowly to keep your voice gentle because hearing you speak to him that way destroys his pride. He pulls his face away from your stomach just enough to put a little distance between you two. His hands move down to the buckle of your belt before he undoes it. “I gave you this job because I wanted you to be the one to do it for me,” you tell him as you watch his shoulders drop under your touch. “It makes me so sad that I trusted you with this,” you add while running your thumb across his cheek. He flinches at the disappointment in your tone, but he leaves his hands on your waist. You offer him a sympathetic smile as you look down at his face. He doesn’t like feeling inadequate, and he has a desperate need to prove he is good for something. He tilts his head back to look up at you right as his fingers shake against the fabric of your pants. He pops the button open before pulling the zipper all the way down.

“You tried so hard, but you just couldn’t manage it, could you?” you ask while letting him undress you. “I really wanted to be proud of you tonight, Dex,” you murmur as you stroke his hair again. He looks completely devastated by your words, but he refuses to get up off the floor. You sigh quietly like you are exhausted from defending him. He grabs the waistband of your pants right as you let out that breath. He leans back to give himself room to work the clothing down your legs. He pushes the fabric down your hips and thighs while you monitor him from above. “I tell everyone that you are my best guy,” you state as you run your nails over his scalp. He pauses to take a shaky breath. “Now they are going to think I was stupid for believing in you,” you say while watching his hands shake. He clutches your pants tighter as he stares up at your face. He reaches down to pull the pants over your ankles before he throws them onto the floor.

He leans forward again to hide his face right against your thigh. He presses a desperate kiss just above your knee to find some comfort. “I’m sorry... please don’t sound so disappointed,” he begs into your leg. “Please don’t replace me,” he pleads while shaking his head against you. He kisses your leg again to show his devotion. “I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good,” he tells you as he holds your thighs. “I’ll do anything you want,” he promises in a rushed breath. He lifts his head from your leg to look right up at your face. His hands drag up your legs until his fingers hook underneath the elastic band of your underwear. He stares up at you while waiting for an answer. “Let me take care of you... please,” he whispers as he keeps eye contact. He sounds so desperate to prove his worth right here on the floor. “I can still be useful. Tell me I can take these off,” he insists while tugging on the waistband. You don’t say a word back to him, so he realizes he has to ask better.

He clenches the elastic band of your underwear as he stares up at your face. He refuses to pull the fabric down until you give him explicit permission to uncover you completely. “I just want to make you feel better,” he says from between your legs. He waits for your order since he refuses to make another mistake today. “Can I? Please?” he asks while looking up at you like a dog. You swat his hands away from your waistband before his fingers can slide your panties down. You grab his wrists, and you shove his arms straight down to his sides. “Did I ever give you permission to do that?” you ask while he stares up at you. He realizes he crossed a line, so he forces both hands behind his back to prove he knows how to follow orders. You check his posture to make sure he does what he is told. “You haven’t earned the right to have me tonight,” you state as you look down at his pathetic expression. A heavy swallow escapes him, and he refuses to move his arms from behind his back.

You grab a handful of his hair to yank his head forward until his face presses against your crotch. His breath hitches from the closeness, and he leaves his hands right where you told him to put them. He takes a deep breath against the fabric of your panties while he waits for your next command. “You have to work a lot harder if you want these off,” you tell him while tightening your hand in his hair. He shakes against your thighs because having you this close drives him crazy. “Don’t move your fucking hands from behind your back,” you warn him to ensure he doesn’t try to touch you again. He rubs his nose right against your covered cunt to show you he understands. You look down at him while he waits against you for some kind of release. “You failed your assignment today, so you have to taste me through the fabric,” you declare to remind him about his mistake. “Lick right through the material,” you order while forcing his head down onto your crotch.

He lets out a needy whine, and he parts his lips to obey your command right away. “You only get to taste whatever soaks through because you were useless today,” you say as you watch his mouth open wider. “Make it wet enough, and I might forgive you,” you add to give him a reason to try harder. He presses his tongue against the fabric to follow your order without a second of hesitation. He licks right over the seam of your panties while he tries to balance himself without using his hands. You watch the material turn dark with his saliva as he tries to please you. He wants the real thing so much, and he accepts being denied since he knows he deserves the punishment. You feel the wet heat of his mouth seeping through the panties to soak your cunt. He drags his tongue up and down the seam time after time to drench the entire area for you. He refuses to bring his arms forward even when he wobbles on his knees.

He pauses to breathe before looking up at you from between your legs. “Mnn... is this good?” he asks while looking at your face. He dives right back down to lick the soaked material before you can even answer him. You feel his tongue working the wet fabric into your slit so he can taste you. “I’ll make it so wet for you,” he mumbles against your crotch before letting out a grunt. He stops licking to look up at you with desperate eyes. “Please let me taste the rest,” he begs while staring up at you. You hold your hand tight in his hair to remind him who is in charge right now. He leans back so he can look into your face while leaving his mouth very close to you. “Tell me I’m doing a good job,” he pleads to get some validation for his efforts. You refuse to give him any praise until the fabric is ruined with his spit. He takes your silence as a cue to work harder, so he pushes his face right back into your cunt. You let out a sigh as his tongue laps at the soaked material.

“Mmf- please tell me I’m good,” he whines into your crotch while rubbing his nose against you. The urge to use his fingers makes his arms twitch, but he forces his hands behind his back anyway. The punishment drives him crazy because he wants to touch your cunt. His mouth has to do all the work while he kneels on the floor between your legs. You see him shove his face into your center to get a better angle. His hot breath fans the damp fabric of your panties before he opens his mouth. “Fuck- just like that,” you groan while staring down at his head. “Ahhn- keep going,” you command as you tighten your hand in his hair. A wet sound fills the room when his tongue drags hard against the center seam to find the exact spot you need. The soaked fabric turns see-through under his mouth as he laps right over your clit. “Shit- right there,” you curse while your hips jerk upward. You feel the rough texture of the panties rub against your folds.

He parts his lips to close his mouth right over your clit through the material and sucks it. “Mnn- suck it harder,” you demand while tilting your hips forward. “God... fuck yes,” you sigh as his tongue flicks against you. The annoyance of not having the whole thing makes him too impatient to wait any longer after being denied for so long. Tasting you through a layer of fabric frustrates him because he craves the real thing. You feel him turn his head just enough to bite down on your panties. He hooks his teeth into the fabric and tries to yank your panties to the side so he can taste you without it. He drags the material far enough out of the way before releasing it from his teeth. His mouth dives forward the second his lips are free. A hot breath escapes him when he swipes his tongue against your slick folds. He laps you up with a sloppy sound while his nose nudges into your thigh. Tasting your cunt makes him groan right against your slit, and he devours you without using his hands because you told him to leave them behind his back.

Your juices coat his chin while he eats you out, and you feel his tongue working deep into your hole as he tries to make up for lost time. He wants to prove how useful he can be right here on the floor. “Did I say you could move those?” you ask while looking down at his head. You yank his hair backward to stop him from licking your cunt any further. A whine escapes him, but he lets you drag his head away from your center. Your juices shine right on his chin when he looks up at you with needy eyes. He pants through an open mouth as he waits for your next instruction. You hold his head tilted back to make him look at your face. “You’re so fucking impatient,” you taunt while watching his chest heave. He tries to lean forward again, but you pin him in place. “Fucking desperate,” you state as you observe him beg for another taste. The punishment of being so close yet so far from his reach drives him crazy.

A heavy breath escapes him while he stares up at your face, and his hands twitch behind his back as he fights the urge to grab your thighs. You let him suffer on his knees for a few more seconds before deciding what to do next. The desperation in his eyes proves how much he hates disappointing you today. He rubs his cheek against your thigh to ask for forgiveness without using his words. Refusing to give him an immediate answer makes him squirm under your gaze. You run your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into the touch. You let go of his hair and point straight at the floor. He frowns at you because he hates being pushed away right when he got a taste. He wants to dive back into your cunt, but he waits for your next instruction. “Move backward on your knees,” you order as you glare down at him. You can see the annoyance in his expression over the distance.

“Why do I have to move?” he whines while staring at your wet slit. Looking so desperate makes him pathetic. He actually thinks he gets a say in this. “I was doing what you wanted,” he argues as he refuses to budge. You wonder if he really believes arguing will change your mind. “Did I ask for your opinion?” you ask while keeping your finger pointed down. His eyes widen when he realizes you might make him stop for good. “Four steps back right now,” you demand so he knows you mean it. Frustration makes him groan before he shuffles backward on his knees to put some distance between you two. You watch him move away before you lift your hips off the couch cushion. You slide your wet panties down your legs so you can step out of them. You grab the soaked material before tossing it onto the floor right in front of his knees. Pure instinct makes his hand shoot out from behind his back to snatch it up.

“I’m keeping these,” he grunts as he shoves the wet fabric into his pocket. He acts like a feral dog hoarding food because he refuses to let you take it away. “Don’t try to take them back,” he begs while guarding his pants. You roll your eyes at his behavior before deciding to give him a break instead of punishing the slip. “You can bring your other hand out from behind your back,” you state to give him full permission. He brings his arms forward to reach for you because he thinks he gets to feel your body after being denied for so long. He wants to grab your thighs, but you point straight at his pants before he can touch your legs. He drops his hands while he looks up at you in confusion. “You won’t let me touch you?” he whines as he stares up at your face. He stares at his empty hands like he expects you to change your mind. You can see how much he hates being denied after following your orders. “I just want to hold your legs,” he pleads while looking between your face and your thighs.

Begging only proves how desperate he is for physical contact. “Take it out and touch yourself,” you command as you point down at his pants. He swallows hard because he realizes you intend to keep denying him. You lean back against the couch cushions while you look down at his pathetic expression. “You haven’t earned the right to touch me,” you state to remind him of his place. He looks down at his jeans before looking right back at your wet cunt. “Just tell me I can taste you again,” he begs while his hands shake in front of his chest. You refuse to answer him until he does what you told him to do. He undoes his belt and unbuttons his pants to free his hard cock from his jeans. He pulls his dick straight out from his underwear without taking his clothes off. He wraps his fingers around himself to stroke his cock while he watches your face. “F-fuck- mmh,” he stutters as he pumps his fist up and down his shaft.

You nod in approval so he knows he can come back to his spot between your legs. “Come here,” you offer as you monitor him jerking off. He works his hand faster as he scrambles forward on his knees to reach you. He hurries back to his spot between your legs without stopping his hand. He buries his face back into your wet cunt so he can lick you out while stroking his own dick. He pumps his fist along his shaft as his tongue swipes right against your slick folds. He lets out a muffled groan against your slit when he tastes you again. He laps at your clit as he jerks himself off right in front of you. You watch him devour you while his hand moves fast over his cock. He uses his mouth on you without hesitation since his hands are too busy to touch your thighs. He dips his chin down a bit to align his mouth with your opening before he curls his tongue to push it just past your folds.

He slides it into your slick entrance before dragging it back out to thrust in again while a sloppy noise comes from his lips. He strokes his own cock with his fist while he breathes loud enough to hear over the sounds of his mouth. “Fuck- Dex-” you groan while tilting your hips closer to his face. He looks good on his knees. “Ahhn- right there,” you curse as his tongue works inside you. You watch him swallow saliva leaking past his mouth. He takes orders better than you expected. “Keep doing that,” you command while looking down at him. He needs leverage to hold his mouth in place, and his empty hand reaches out to grab your thigh for support. You smack the back of his hand the second your fingers brush your leg, but he brings his arm right back up. His fingers twitch toward your knee a few moments later because he wants to grab you. “Mnn- keep your hands down,” you warn while glaring at his messy face.

You slap his knuckles hard enough to leave a mark the moment he tries to sneak his palm toward your waist. A pathetic whine vibrates against your cunt every time you reject his touch, but he refuses to pull his mouth away even after you slap him. “F-fuck... yeah,” you sigh while he swallows down another whine. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft while his tongue laps at your opening. He attempts to slide his fingers over your calf one last time before you lift your foot and dig your heel right into his shoulder to push him back. “You don’t get to touch me,” you taunt as he whines against your slit. He takes the rough treatment without a fight because he refuses to stop tasting you. He presses his empty hand against the base of the couch to hold himself back. He pants through his nose to catch his breath between each push of his tongue. “Feels good,” you praise while watching him take the punishment.

You see his eyes dart up to follow your hip movements. You want him to beg for a touch later. “Shit- fuck yes,” you curse as his mouth laps at you. He looks up at you through his eyelashes to gauge your reaction, and the sight of his messy face makes you arch your back off the cushion. Arching your hips forces your clit to bump right against his nose while his tongue pushes at your entrance. “Nngh- take it,” you demand while your hips press forward. He exhales against your folds while his hand moves fast over his cock. You stop telling him what to do once the pleasure gets too much and your breath breaks into ragged sighs. You drop your head back against the couch cushions before lifting one hand to cover your eyes and hide your face while Benjamin watches you fall apart. “Nnngh... fuck,” you whine as you struggle to catch your breath. He lets go of his own shaft because he needs to use both hands.

He ignores your previous warnings to reach up from between his legs and wrap his fingers right around your bare thigh. He pushes your knee outward to open you up for his mouth while your free hand tries to swat his knuckles. You move too slow to stop him, and his other hand comes up fast to catch your wrist before you can slap him. He forces your arm straight down into the upholstery to hold you in place. He presses your arm against the cushion while his other hand holds your thigh tightly. He observes your face while you gasp for air. “Shh- let me just hold your leg,” he murmurs while staring right at you. You yank your arm against his grip, but he refuses to let go. “Y-you don’t get to do that-” you stutter as your hips twitch. “You don’t have to fight me,” he interrupts without raising his voice as he waits for you to stop struggling. “Mmn- let me take care of you,” he tells you before leaning forward.

He holds your arm down and brings his mouth back to your folds while his tongue moves slowly over your clit. A frustrated noise escapes you when he refuses to go faster, and your hips jerk forward to chase his mouth. He pulls his head back an inch to let his tongue graze your clit because he refuses to give you the pleasure you want. “Hah- nngh... faster,” you beg while twisting the wrist he presses against the couch. He ignores your begging and instead uses the distance to speak. “Don’t cover your eyes,” he instructs while squeezing your thigh harder. You press your hand against your face to hide your expression until he nudges his nose against your clit to force a reaction out of you. “Fuck you- ahhhnn,” you curse while moving your hand away from your eyes to glare down at him. “Look right at me,” he demands before diving his tongue back inside your hole. You stare down at his messy face while he drags his tongue over your clit over and over without speeding up.

He knows you need him to go faster, but he refuses to change his pace while your toes curl and you squirm against the cushion. “Hngh... Dex, please,” you beg while arching your back. He pushes his tongue inside you the second you ask for it. “I got you,” he promises while he laps at your entrance to make you beg for everything. You drop your free hand from your face down to his head to tangle your fingers in his hair. You shove his face hard against your folds to force his nose right into your slit. You thrust your hips up to grind your cunt against his mouth. “I never told you to touch me,” you spit out while glaring down at his messy face. You tighten your fingers in the strands at the base of his neck. “Y-you didn’t get my permission to put your hands on me- nghh,” you scold while you grind your hips against his nose. He ignores your complaints to let go of your thigh and move his hand higher up your leg. He finds your clit and rubs his thumb over it to shut you up.

You thrash against him, but he shoves your pinned arm harder into the couch to stop you from fighting back. He thrusts his tongue inside your hole while his thumb rubs over your clit. Your words cut off into a loud groan because his tongue and thumb move at the same time. You yank his hair to hold his face against your slit because you want him closer. “Hngh... f-fuck,” you stutter as your hips grind up to chase his mouth. He strokes your clit with his thumb right in time with the thrust of his tongue. He rubs you over and over to make your hips shake against the couch. Your breathing turns into short gasps while you ride his mouth. “Hah- ahhhnn... right there,” you beg while your back arches up. He pushes his tongue further inside your cunt to answer your demands. You lose the ability to scold him because you need his mouth too much. Your toes curl against the floor while you grind against his face.

“Don’t you fucking stop- nnngh,” you command while your nails dig into his scalp. He rubs his thumb over your clit to make you beg. You gasp for air because you need what he does to you. “I swear to God, Dex- mmph,” you curse while your hips jerk against his nose. Benjamin feels your hips jerk against his face before he leans back to take his mouth away from your slit. He moves his tongue just out of reach while you thrash against the sofa because you want the release bad enough to fight for it. “Wh-what the fuck are you doing? Nnh- don’t stop,” you complain while you tug his hair to force his head back down. He refuses to budge, but he presses his thumb over your clit. He looks up at your face while you stare back at him. “Tell me how much you like my mouth on you,” he demands while he watches your expression. He presses his thumb against you to make you speak.

“Tell me to make you cum,” he taunts while he drags his finger over your clit to pull another moan from your throat. You spit out a curse, but your chest heaves for air. “Fuck you... You don’t get to order me around- ahhn,” you stutter as your hips jerk up to chase him. Your cunt clenches with a need you can’t control while your legs shake on either side of his head. Your fingers twist into his hair before you stop fighting him because you crave his mouth way too much. “Fine... God, I like it,” you admit while you let out a ragged breath. Your fingers untangle from his hair when you give up. “Please Dex... mnnnh- make me cum,” you beg as you give him all your attention. He pushes his face right back into you the second you confess to sliding his tongue over your slit. You let out a loud gasp when he releases your pinned arm and his fingers dig into your thighs while he speeds up his pace. He moves his thumb faster until your breath hitches, and you lift your shoulders off the backrest to get closer to him.

Your hands leave his hair to grab his shoulders to drag his mouth straight against your folds. “Dex- Fuck- yes...” you gasp while you dig your nails into his skin. He grunts against your slit before dragging his tongue over your clit to make you cum. His mouth makes your head fall back before a loud moan escapes your throat. Your toes curl while your back arches off the sofa. You squeeze your thighs around his ears while you thrust your hips up into his face. Your hips jerk while you cum all over his tongue. He leaves his mouth against your slit to swallow every drop. He laps his tongue across your folds to clean you up, and he refuses to move away until your legs stop shaking. You drop your back onto the couch to catch your breath. “God... hahh... you’re a bastard,” you mumble while you let your eyes fall shut. Benjamin chuckles against you before he speaks up. “I always get what I want,” he states while he places a kiss right over your clit.

Benjamin pulls away from your thighs before he gets up from the floor. He places his feet on either side of your legs to tower over you. Both of you look down at his cock because he stopped jerking off to make you cum. His dick twitches in the open air while he catches his breath. You tilt your head back to look up at his face. A smirk forms on your lips when you look at his undone pants. “Looks like someone got left out,” you point out as you gesture toward his crotch. You lean forward to reach your hand out toward his waist. You wrap your fingers around his cock to take him into your palm. “Sh-shit- fuck,” Benjamin groans when your hand grabs him. He tilts his head back while a rough breath escapes his lips. You drag your hand up and down his dick without speeding up the pace. He thrusts his hips forward into your palm because he needs more. You squeeze his cock to stop him from moving.

You rub your thumb over the tip of his dick. “Let me finish what you started,” you offer while you look up at him. He lets out a rough grunt before he glares down at you. “D-don’t play with it- ngh,” he grunts as he pushes his waist against your palm. You ignore his words to drag your hand up his length again. You wrap your fingers tighter around him to make him gasp. “Mmn- I guess you want this,” you murmur while you stroke him at a slow pace. Benjamin mutters a curse under his breath before his fingers clamp around the wrist of the hand wrapped around his cock. He pulls at your arm to move your fingers away from him, but you refuse to let go. “You’re going to make me- ngh,” he groans while his knees buckle. You use your free hand to grab his hip to pull him closer to the couch. You pump your hand over his cock again to pull another moan out of his throat. He watches your face while you move your fist up and down.

“Fuck... do it,” he commands as he lets go of your wrist. You grab his hip to drag him down onto the other side of the couch before he drops onto the seat to face you with his legs spread wide apart. You scoot forward to close the distance between your bodies, and he watches your face when you tighten your fingers around his cock. You lean in to put your lips against his neck as you pump your hand up and down his shaft until a loud breath escapes his throat the second your mouth touches him. “Are you going to beg for my mouth?” you ask him before you press kisses up to his jaw and you rub your thumb over the tip of his cock. He thrusts his hips into your palm to get closer to your hand as you move your face next to his ear to keep teasing him. You drag your fist down to the base of his shaft to force a loud gasp from his throat. “Or should I just keep using my hand?” you mock him while you stroke him again.

He tilts his head to the side to give you more room before you speak up. “Are you going to cum like this?” you whisper right next to his ear. Benjamin lets out a loud groan to stop your questions. He grabs your thigh to dig his fingers into your leg while he shoves his hips forward into your hand to force a faster pace. “F-fuck you... just use your mouth,” he demands while he glares at you. You smile at him because you got the answer you wanted. You slide your hand up his length one more time to torture him. “Stop talking and do it- ngh,” he curses when you squeeze his cock. You lean back from his face to look at his cock before you let go of his shaft to lower your head between his legs. Benjamin tilts his head back when you open your mouth over him to take the tip of his cock past your lips. He lets out a loud curse when your tongue slides against him. His fingers dig into your thigh while you take more of his length into your mouth.

“God... f-fuck,” he groans as he thrusts forward into your face. You move your lips further along his shaft to take more of his length into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head before you suck him deep. Benjamin thrusts his hips forward to chase your mouth while he moves his free hand to grab the strands of your hair. He throws his head back to take a loud breath before he curses out loud. “F-fuck yes... don’t stop,” he groans while his hips thrust toward your face. You keep your head lowered to give him what he wants. He guides your head with his fingers to control the pace. You reach your hand out to wrap your fingers around the base of his cock to stroke him while your mouth takes the rest of his length. Benjamin digs his other hand deeper into your thigh when you use your mouth and hand at the same time. You trace your tongue along the underside before you drag your mouth toward the tip.

He pushes forward from the couch to get deeper past your lips. “God... you feel so fucking good- hah,” he pants as he watches you take him. You stroke the bottom of his cock while your mouth slides over the tip. His breathing speeds up every time your lips move against him. You slide your mouth up his shaft to tease the tip with your tongue. Benjamin lets out a loud grunt before he tugs on your hair to guide your head back down to his cock. “Put it back in your mouth... f-fuck,” he demands while he glares at you. You sink your mouth all the way down to his base to give him what he asked for. He shoves his hips forward to bury himself deep in your throat. You gag around his cock, and you let out a muffled sound against his base while you take his full length. He holds your hair so you can’t move away from him. You suck his cock while you stroke his base with your hand.

Benjamin thrusts his hips forward every time you lower your head. He squeezes your leg because the feeling gets too intense. “Shit... mmf- yes... keep going- nghh,” he curses as he watches your mouth move over him. You circle your tongue around the head one more time before you move your lips back to the tip. He tilts his head back against the couch to catch his breath. You move your hand faster while you watch his face. Benjamin lifts his fingers from your thigh before he grabs your wrist. He pulls your arm away from him to remove your hand from his cock. He drops your arm to your side because he prefers your mouth on him right now. He stares down at your face while you kneel on the couch. “Keep your hands off... take it the right way- ahn,” he commands while he waits for you to obey. He thrusts his hips forward to get closer to your mouth. You open your lips to do exactly what he says. You suck the tip of his cock, but you refuse to take his full length.

You swirl your tongue around the head to tease him instead of going deep. Benjamin mutters a curse before his fingers twist into the strands of your hair. He thrusts his hips forward into your face without giving you time to adjust. He forces his cock down your throat to make you gag around his shaft. A muffled noise escapes you when he bottoms out past your lips. “F-fuck... I told you to take all of it,” he groans while he pushes your head down. He refuses to let you pull back from him. You pull your head back a few inches to glare up at his face. You reach out to plant both of your hands onto his covered thighs. You dig your nails into the fabric of his pants to push back against him. Benjamin keeps his hand tangled in your hair to guide your head up and down his cock. He forces a slower pace to keep himself from thrusting deep into your mouth again. “Yeah... look right at me while you do it- hngh,” he pants as he watches your eyes.

He bobs your head over his shaft while you swallow around his length every time he pushes you down. Your hands tighten on his thighs whenever his cock hits the back of your throat. He lets out a loud grunt when your lips wrap around his base. He uses his hand in your hair to make sure you take every single inch of him. “Keep your mouth wide for me... fuck,” he demands while he speeds up his movements. You let out another gagging sound when he forces his entire length past your lips again. He watches your mouth take his cock without looking away. His hips thrust forward into your face despite his efforts to hold himself back. “God... this feels so fucking amazing- mmf,” he groans as he keeps pumping your head. Benjamin keeps his hand tangled in your hair so you can’t pull away from him. He holds your head in place to stop bobbing you up and down because he wants to thrust his hips forward from the sofa instead.

He shoves his waist forward to do the work himself. He forces his length past your lips without waiting for you to adjust. “Take it all the way down- fuck,” he pants while he pushes right into your face. He thrusts his waist forward to bury his cock deep past your lips. He forces his full length down your throat every single time he shoves it in. You gag around his shaft when he reaches the very back of your throat. He pumps forward to force you to swallow every inch of him. “Ghk- Mmph-” you choke out while you take his length. You try to latch onto his covered thighs to dig your nails into his pants while he thrusts forward. He pulls his cock out to the tip before he shoves it straight down your throat again. He lets out a low groan while he fucks your mouth at a faster pace. He watches your face to see you take his entire length. “Swallow it all for me,” he tells you while looking down at you. His hips slap against your face while he speeds up his thrusts.

He trembles under your hands because he gets closer to cumming. He shoves his cock deeper down your throat to make your eyes water. You choke around his shaft while you struggle to swallow his full length. He tightens his fingers in your hair to make sure you take all of it. “Shit... I’m so fucking close-” he curses while his knees start to shake. Benjamin thrusts his hips forward to shove his cock as deep as it can go. He forces his full length down your throat to make you choke. His fingers twist tighter into your hair when his shaft buries inside your mouth. “Fuck... don’t move,” he groans while his hips push forward. You gag when he reaches the back of your throat. He shoves forward to make sure you take every inch of him. He lets out a loud grunt when he shoots his cum down your throat. His load fills your mouth until it starts to spill down your chin. “Mmmph- hkkh!” you choke around his cock while he pumps into you.

He twitches inside your mouth while he empties his shaft completely. You swallow as much as you can to handle the amount he forces out. He keeps his hand tangled in your hair, so you have to take every drop. He takes a fast breath before he pushes your head away from his crotch. He lets go of your hair to slump back against the couch so you can breathe. His cock twitches with a few drops of cum right at the tip. “Haaah... shit- you took all of it,” he pants while he looks down at your face. You move away from his thighs to lean back against the sofa. He spreads his legs a bit wider on the furniture while he catches his breath. He rests his head against the backrest to watch you recover. You let out a cough to clear your throat. You wipe the spit and cum from your chin before you glare at his face. You shoot him an angry look because he made you choke on it. “A-asshole- you didn’t even warn me,” you spit out while you catch your breath.

He chuckles a little bit while he watches you wipe your mouth. He reaches out to rub a drop of spit from the corner of your lips. “You handled it perfectly,” he says while he traces your jawline. You reach out to grab the front of his shirt to drag his face closer to yours without giving him a chance to back away. He doesn’t fight you because he wants to hear what you have to say. You lean in to brush your lips right next to his ear. “I know exactly how good I took it,” you whisper while you breathe against his neck. He tilts his head to give you more room to speak. You change your tone to bring up the job he messed up today. You remind him that he disappointed you when he failed to kill Karen. His jaw clenches the second you mention Karen and ruins his good mood. “It’s a damn shame you let that bitch live,” you mock him right next to his ear. He turns his face to look at you with an annoyed expression while you smirk back at him to show you aren’t intimidated at all. You tap your fingers against his chest to make your point clear. You glare up at him to show you’re serious about the job.

He watches your eyes while you tell him what to do next. “You need to fix your mistake before I lose my patience,” you demand as you dig your nails into his shirt. He lets out a hard breath through his nose while he listens to every single word you tell him. You drag your eyes down to his twitching cock before you look back up at his face. You promise him a much better reward if he actually finishes the job this time. “Bring me her head, and I’ll let you fuck my cunt,” you whisper while you trace his jawline. He chuckles because he likes the way you threaten him. “You drive a really hard bargain,” he pants as he imagines it. “I’ll get it done if you promise me that,” he tells you while he leans his forehead against yours. “Do we have a deal?” you ask him after you move your head back a little bit to look right into his eyes. You watch his face because you know he will never turn down an offer like that. He nods to agree while he rests his hands on your waist. “Consider her dead,” he promises before he leans forward to kiss you.

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⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

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