#daredevil fic

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.

⠀⠀⠀

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

⠀⠀⠀

His bare torso rose and fell slowly with each breath. He had fresh bruises everywhere, shades of purple and black marking his ribs, shoulders, and abdomen. A deep cut crossed his left eyebrow, still crusted with a bit of dried blood. His face, which was usually disturbingly attractive, now looked beaten and swollen… but it was still him.

The man who had killed Foggy. The man who had nearly destroyed your brother. The man Matt, in a damn stupid act of heroism, had decided to save.

Your hands clenched into fists on your thighs. You remembered the exact moment you found out about Foggy’s death. Foggy was family, and Dex had erased him like he was nothing. Since then, every problem, every sleepless night, every time Matt came back injured… everything had Benjamin Poindexter’s name on it.

Matt had brought him here, to one of the hideouts only the two of you knew about.

“I can’t let him die,” your brother had said with that damn voice full of guilt and responsibility. You hadn’t answered him, only looked at him with so much hatred that Matt almost stepped back. And now here you were. Watching him. Because Matt had asked you to while he went out to get supplies.

Dex stirred slightly on the bed, letting out a low groan of pain even in his sleep. The movement made the sheet slide further down his hips. Despite the hatred, your eyes lingered there a few seconds too long.

You hated him even more for that.

Suddenly, Dex’s eyes snapped open, not slowly or confused, but instantly, like a predator that never fully lowers its guard. His dilated pupils focused on you immediately. For a second he said nothing, just stared at you with that disturbing intensity that defined him. Then a slow, pained smile formed on his split lips.

“Murdock…” his voice came out hoarse and broken. “What a nice way to wake up.”

You froze. You hadn’t expected him to wake up so quickly.

Dex tried to sit up a little, but the pain made him hiss and lie back down. Still, he didn’t stop looking at you. His eyes traveled down your body for a moment before returning to your face.

“You’re still here… watching me while I sleep.” He let out a low laugh that ended in a cough. “Are you thinking about killing me? Go ahead. It would be… poetic. Daredevil’s adoptive little sister avenging the fat guy.”

The hatred burned in your throat.

“Foggy had a name,” you spat with venom. “And you killed him like he was just another target. Like he meant nothing.”

Dex stared at you in silence for a few seconds. His expression changed. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I’ve killed a lot of people,” he said coldly. “He was just one more.”

You stood up from the chair so fast it fell to the floor with a loud clatter. In two steps you were beside the bed, looking down at him with trembling fists.

“You’re a plague. Everything that’s gone wrong in our lives has your fucking name on it. If it weren’t for Matt, I would’ve let you bleed out.”

Dex held your gaze. His eyes shone with something dark, almost excited.

“So why don’t you do it now?” he whispered, almost defiantly. “I’m hurt. Unarmed. It’d be easy for you.”

He stayed quiet for a second, then added in a lower voice.

“Or… is it that deep down you don’t want me to die?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Your hand moved before you could think twice. You grabbed a fistful of his blond hair and yanked his head back violently, forcing him to look up at you. Dex let out a rough grunt of pain, but his eyes locked onto yours with that damn intensity that drove you crazy.

“I’m not leaving things like this,” you hissed through your teeth, your face inches from his. “As soon as my brother takes his eyes off you… I’m going to take care of you myself. I’m going to make you pay for every tear. I’m going to destroy you, Poindexter.”

Dex breathed heavily, lips parted and a crooked smile on his face despite the pain from his split eyebrow. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a second before returning to your eyes.

“You’ve never killed anyone in your life…” he murmured in a deep, mocking voice. “Do you really think you can kill me, princess?”

You tightened your grip on his hair, pulling even harder until he hissed.

“You could be the first,” you replied with pure hatred. “And I’d enjoy it.”

The silence was electric.

Suddenly, Dex pushed himself up, ignoring the pain of his wounds, and crashed his mouth against yours with brutal force. It was a furious kiss, full of rage and something much darker. His lips were split and tasted like blood, but that didn’t stop you. For a second, you responded with the same violence, biting his lower lip hard.

Then you reacted.

You pulled away sharply and slapped him across the face with such force that his head snapped to the side. The sound echoed in the room.

“Son of a bitch!” you growled, breathing hard.

Dex let out a low, dark laugh, his lip now bleeding even more. He looked at you again, eyes bright with excitement and madness.

And he kissed you again.

This time it was you who pulled him in. You grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him with even more fury, as if you wanted to punish him with your mouth. Dex moaned against your lips. One hand slid to your waist and pulled you against him hard, even though his body protested from the wounds. The kiss was dirty, desperate, full of teeth and resentment. Your hatred mixed with something you refused to name, something hot and sick that made you wet between your legs.

When you pulled away again, panting, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You looked into his eyes, breathing ragged.

“I hate you,” you whispered against his mouth.

Dex smiled with that disturbing smile that defined him, running his thumb across your lower lip.

“Good,” he answered hoarsely. “Then use me to take it all out…”

You hated him. You hated him because your body responded before your mind did.

You shoved him hard against the mattress. Dex grunted in pain as his bruised back hit the bed, but the sick smile never left his face. You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You could already feel him hard beneath the thin sheet.

“Shut up,” you growled, yanking your shirt off with rough movements and throwing it to the floor.

Your hands were shaking with rage and something more you didn’t want to admit. Dex looked at your breasts with shameless hunger, his hands sliding up your ribs to squeeze them hard, almost brutally. His thumbs brushed over your already hardened nipples.

“You say you hate me… but look at you,” he murmured mockingly. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” you repeated, weaker this time.

You leaned down and kissed him violently, biting his wounded lip until it bled again. Dex moaned into your mouth and thrust his hips upward, rubbing his erection against you. With a quick movement you unbuttoned his pants and freed him. He was rock hard, thick, and already leaking at the tip.

You impatiently stripped off the rest of your clothes and positioned yourself over him. You rubbed his tip against your soaked entrance. Dex clenched his jaw, his hands digging into your hips with force.

You sank down hard.

A rough moan escaped you as you felt him stretch you open completely. He was big and filled you too much. You stayed still for a second, breathing heavily, refusing to move.

Dex looked at you with narrowed eyes, that crooked smile still on his lips.

“You gonna stay there pretending you feel nothing?” he taunted, voice broken with pleasure. “I can feel how tight you’re squeezing me…”

“Shut up,” you growled, starting to move.

You began riding him hard, with rage. Every downward thrust was brutal, punishing him, using him. Your hands braced on his bruised torso, digging your nails into his bruises on purpose. Dex groaned in pain and pleasure, but never looked away from you.

“Just like that… fuck,” he panted. “Harder, princess. Take it all out on me.”

You increased the pace, moving your hips with fury. The wet sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room along with his groans and your ragged breathing. You tried to keep the look of hatred on your face, tried not to moan… but it was impossible.

Every time you sank all the way down, a treacherous moan escaped you. Dex noticed immediately.

“There it is…” he whispered with dark satisfaction. “You can’t pretend with me. Your pussy is gripping me like it wants to swallow me whole.”

Dex slid one hand up and grabbed your throat, squeezing just enough to make you feel dominated, even though you were on top. With his other hand he pressed his thumb against your clit and started rubbing it in fast circles.

Your body tensed. A louder moan escaped you.

“I hate you…” you gasped, but your hips started moving more desperately, chasing more friction.

“I know,” he replied with a sadistic smile, not stopping his movements. “And yet you’re going to cum on my cock like a desperate little slut.”

That infuriated and aroused you at the same time. You started riding him faster, deeper, almost violently. Your moans could no longer be contained. Every time you came down, he thrust up, slamming hard into that spot that made you see stars.

“Dex… fuck…” his name slipped out without you meaning it to.

He let out a rough, victorious laugh.

“Say it again.”

You didn’t want to, but the orgasm was approaching too fast. Your movements became erratic, your thighs shaking. Dex kept rubbing your clit mercilessly, squeezing your neck.

“I’m not… I’m not going to…” you tried to lie, but your body betrayed you completely.

You came hard, moaning loudly, clenching around him as waves of pleasure tore through you. Your nails dug into his chest, leaving red marks.

Dex cursed under his breath, mesmerized by the look of pleasure on your face. He fucked you faster through your orgasm, prolonging it until it almost hurt, until your moans turned broken and pleading.

When you started to come down, he suddenly flipped you over, getting on top despite the pain of his wounds. He spread your legs roughly and thrust back in with one deep stroke.

You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.

“Well that’s sad,” you say.

Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”

“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”

“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?” 

Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.

But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.

Instead, you say, “Even if.”

A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.

The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.

Ironic.

If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.

But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”

With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.

You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.

Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.

Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.

“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.

Apologies don’t cure pain.

Distraction might.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”

True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.

Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.

You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.

Not that Matt would care.

…

…

…

Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.

He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!

Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.

And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”

He had.

Countless times.

Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.

Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.

“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”

He shakes his head once.

You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”

Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.

“Hold your breath,” you tell him.

His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.

“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”

A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”

“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”

“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.

You tut. “How ableist.”

“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”

“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”

He chuckle-coughs.

You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”

“You mean the body of Christ?”

Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”

Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?

Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.

Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.

“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”

“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”

“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”

“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”

“A barrister’s wig?”

“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”

“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”

You laugh.

A comfortable silence settles.

Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.

The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.

You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.

The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.

But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.

Matt is proof of this, too.

When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.

Matt’s dead.

Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.

You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”

“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”

“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”

You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.

“Would you miss me?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Of course.

Of course you’d miss him.

“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”

Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.

He keeps them open.

“Three,” he says.

“Waffles?” you ask.

“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”

Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.

“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”

He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”

You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”

“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”

“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”

“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”

“I just said so, didn’t I?”

His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.

“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”

The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.

Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?

Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.

You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.

This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.

You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.

And yet.

“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”

Matt likes this question.

“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”

“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”

Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.

“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”

You say nothing.

Needle in—

You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.

—out—

You think about the breakup.

—pull thread—

The breakup you’d initiated.

—repeat.

“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”

Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.

I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.

At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.

At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.

“Some of your best work.”

The praise straightens your posture.

The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”

“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”

“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”

With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”

“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”

Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.

He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.

Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.

Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.

Matt will never blame you for evacuating.

With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"

The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."

Matt nods. "Good message."

You nod. "Indubitably."

Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.

A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.

As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”

You don’t answer. You don’t know.

You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.

“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”

Your eyes start to burn.

He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.

You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.

“I know,” you say.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”

Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”

He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.

It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.

“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”

He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.

“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”

An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.

You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.

Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.

Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”

But that doesn’t free you from pain.

You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.

Distance will not spare you.

You will feel it.

It will hurt.

And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.

You’re not happier without Matt.

You’re not happy, period.

The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.

He speaks.

“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."

His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.

"You're still the only one I want around.”

You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."

He smiles at you. "I know."

"It was never you I wanted to get away from."

He hesitates. "I know."

You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.

Daredevil.

God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?

It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.

You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?

You don't think so.

But you know Matt holds a different opinion.

A stupid opinion, but.

"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."

Okay, fine. Some jokes.

Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”

“Can’t say I blame them.”

You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.

You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?

No.

You're not sure you can survive that, either.

But what does that leave?

"Let me buy you dinner."

Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”

"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."

You should say no.

You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."

A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.

Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.

"I wouldn't have it any other way.”

A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.

You take a deep breath and walk into the darkened room, dim light filtering in through the door's small wire and glass square.

"You know the precautions, agent?" the guard asks.

"Yeah, I do.” Your gaze flickers to the cuffs and chains encasing Dex’s hands. “Don’t think they’re necessary, though.”

“Just standard procedure. We don’t take any chances with this crazy asshole. I’ll be outside.”

“Thanks.”

The guard leaves and now, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, it’s just you and Dex.

You can already tell that there's something different about him, something subtler and deeper than just trading his FBI jacket for a DOC jumpsuit.

The Dex you had known always looked like he was in control. But underneath the cool, composed exterior and the dry wit and smirks, when you actually got close enough to pay attention, there was a faint current of anxiety emanating from him; nerves stretched tight like a rubber band. Like he was working overtime to keep his shit together.

But that kind of uncertainty, that noticeable tension he had carried, had seemingly vanished. In its place was a kind of relaxed ease, a looseness in his being, even as he sat there bound and chained to the desk. And part of you wondered and worried, that the Dex you knew—or who you thought you knew—was truly gone.

The other difference was much more evident: he was fucking jacked, which was not helping your already racing heartbeat, your eyes roaming over his biceps, the veins standing out in his forearms.

Focus.

He breaks the ice first.

“I didn't think you'd show."

You try to keep your head on straight, to not get immediately floored by that gravelly voice you loved so much. But it's hard. Really hard.

"Surprise," you reply, making jazz hands before you shove them back into your pockets, lowering yourself into the chair next to him.

Then, he gives you that same stupid, sweet half-smile that you’d come to know and miss. And even though you try to fight it, relief floods through you.

Because it tells you that your Dex is still there.

"It's good to see you, Y/N."

Fuck.

You want to say it back, but it gets stuck in your throat. Yes, you had been dying to see him. But the fact remains that you're seeing him in prison, a sobering reminder that the kind of future you had once dreamed about having with him was gone.

"Why am I here, Dex?" you ask instead.

"Because I missed you," he says quietly. It’s such an immediate, sincere response that it cuts you like a knife.

“And I wanted to talk. Like we used to.”

"So, talk."

He pauses, suddenly apprehensive, and there’s a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes as he meets your own.

"How are you?"

"How am I?" you repeat back slowly, and you want to laugh and scream at the same time because it’s such a loaded question.

I’m ok. I’m a mess. I’m alright. I’m heartbroken. I’m so fucking mad at you. I’m so fucking happy to see you.

"Fine, I guess." You shrug. "I've actually only been back in the city for a few months. They put me on assignment in LA last year, organized crime. It was good, got really tan, surfed a bit. But wearing tac gear in 90-degree heat got old real quick. So, here I am."

Dex looks at you strangely.

"Did you put in for it or did they ask you?"

You pause.

"I put in for it." You start bouncing your leg, unable to keep your anxiety in check.

"Why?"

Your fists clench tighter in your pockets and you avert your eyes away from him, staring at the ceiling.

"Because when you … left, I was struggling. They thought a change of scenery would be good."

It’s silent for a few moments until Dex speaks.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you look at me? Please?”

You take a deep breath and force yourself to meet his gaze, and the sight you’re met with shatters your heart further than you thought was possible, threatens to break all your resolve.

Because Dex—whom the world has deemed as a volatile, soulless, irredeemable killer—is now sitting across from you with tears in his eyes.

"I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. All that ease you had initially noticed, it’s gone. He looks like how you feel, how you’ve felt every day since he was out of your life: broken.

“For what?” you manage to ask, trying to push down the lump in your throat, the stinging building in your eyes.

“That everything just … fell apart. That I couldn’t say goodbye because I didn’t even know I was saying it until it was too late. That I couldn’t tell you what was going with me. That I was too much of a pussy to just ask you out like I wanted to.” He takes a deep breath. “And fuck, I really wanted to. I was just … afraid. And I’m sorry.”

You brush the back of your hand against your eyes quickly.

“I don’t know what I'm supposed to say to that.”

“Say that it wasn’t just me that felt it,” he pleads, and it’s taking everything in you not to fall apart in front of him. “That it wasn’t all in my head.”

“It wasn’t,” you whisper. “Of course it wasn’t.” And your eyes burn more as they stare back into his own, trying and failing to steady your breathing. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He shakes his head.

“Yes, it does,” he says firmly, and it’s his conviction in contrast to the reality of the situation—the one he put you both in—that finally sends you over the edge.

“No it doesn’t, Dex. It can’t!” you yell, and this time, you don’t bother to wipe away the tears that start falling. Your eyes flicker to the door, and you lower your voice. “I’m still an agent, and you're sitting in front of me in a fucking DOC jumpsuit with multiple life sentences for murder. And every day I go to work and all I think about is how you’re supposed to be there but you’re not, because you chose blood instead of me.”

“That’s not what-” he tries to cut you off, but you keep going.

“And I feel insane because even after all that, I look at you for one second and I still feel the same goddamn way about you that I always have." You laugh without humor. “So I can’t get over you. And I can’t be with you because you’re here. And I am left fucking dying inside in the middle of that.”

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, and then they land on the table.

Now, you’re the one pleading.

“So just tell me, why? Fucking why, Dex? Why did you do all this, choose this? What the fuck happened to you?” Your voice is shaking uncontrollably now, and it drops to a miserable whisper. “And why didn’t I see any of it coming?”

Dex inches his chair forward, trying to get as close to you as he can with his restraints still in place.

“Listen, you were—you are—the best part of my life,” he says desperately, and you choke back a sob and a scoff at the same time. “You have to know that. But I can see how it could look … otherwise. I’ll tell you everything, ok, you deserve that, but don’t.”

He stops, breathing deeply through his nose, but when he continues, he sounds almost angry; his frustration with your version of events spilling over; possessed by an ardent need to keep you on his side.

“Don’t ever think I did any of this because I didn’t want you. Us. That’s not right at all. I just …” He takes a deep breath again, steadier this time, and sighs. “I’ll start at the beginning.”

So, he tells you everything, all the way back from Mercer's therapy tapes and creating his North Stars to stopping his meds and planning to kill himself, Fisk manipulating him into murder and then snapping his spine.

And throughout it all, the relentless buzzing in his head that only ever seemed to quiet when he was around you.

You sit there, wide-eyed and listening intently, and you find you knew bits of it; the fucked-up childhood, the anxiety, the need for structure and control, the loneliness. But when he lays the full depth of everything out in front of you, the disparate puzzle pieces clicking into place, it's like you're seeing him again in full light for the first time.

And you're not repulsed, you’re not scared, you're not even angry.

You're just sad. So fucking sad, your heart breaking that he had been carrying all this by himself, trying to fight his own mind day in and day out. That Fisk had taken advantage of his trauma, of the deepest, most vulnerable part of him that had never known love as a little kid. That the fear and the pain and his wiring had blocked out any consideration for a different path forward.

And that you didn't know about any of it.

You wipe your tears on the edge of your sleeve.

"Why didn't you talk to me?” you ask.

"I thought if I tried hard enough, I could outrun it," he says slowly. "That I could be different. Better. But we are who we are." He looks at you, and suddenly, he seems exhausted. "I wanted to tell you, but I … I couldn’t handle you looking at me differently.” His voice quiets. “Like I was an animal.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“And now?”

You shake your head. When you had walked into the room earlier, part of you had wondered if you had just been blinded by your feelings—that maybe you were a lovestruck idiot and he really was just another psycho male shooter. But your heart had won out, and now, he’d confirmed what you had already known deep down.

He wasn’t a monster. He was just Dex: complicated, traumatized, mentally ill, Dex.

And Dex was your person.

"I still don't think you're an animal. I think, to some degree, you actually make … sense,” you say. You sigh, running a hand down your face. “I also think you need help. Serious, professional help, Dex." You wave your hands. "And probably some kind of, I don’t know, some fucking spiritually cleansing Ayuhsaca trip and R&R on a beach in Belize."

Dex suddenly smiles.

"You're still doing it."

"What?"

"Trying to make me laugh."

He’s not wrong. You manage a half smile back.

"Old habits,” you say softly. You shift up in the chair, cross your legs underneath you. “So, after Fisk, what happened? Your phone was disconnected and no one told us anything at the Bureau, it was just like ... like you never existed.”

He explains the operation and how when he woke up, he was in the psychiatric facility.

"It was worse than this," he says, nodding his head up at the prison. "The drugs they put me on, I could barely remember who I was, could barely move, barely think. Like I was drowning in cement. And I was starting … not to remember you." He pauses for a second, and you can see the weight of his time there etched in his face. "So I had to get out. I had to get my mind back."

"So how did you?"

"I got an offer. My freedom for a job. So I took it.” His jaw sets in a hard line. “I wasn't supposed to end up in here. I was supposed to come find you.”

Your eyes widen as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

"Josie's was a hit," you breathe out, and the revelation hits you like a freight train. "Who hired you?”

He shakes his head slightly.

"I can't tell you that."

"Oh, yes you can, and you better," you reply furiously.

"Or what?” He smirks. “You gonna arrest me?"

Goddammit. He could be a such a little shit when he wanted to be, and normally, it'd make you laugh. But right now, sitting across from him at Rikers, you’re infuriated.

"No, but I will punch you in the face for being an asshole! This isn't a joke, Dex, this is your life!" You watch the smirk slide off his face, eyes widening slightly. "This changes everything related to your case!”

"I know,” he says hurriedly. “I just can't tell you. You'll get hurt, and I can't have that.” His voice lowers. "Not again. But I'm supposed to meet with an attorney later. Matthew Murdock."

"The guy who's best friend you killed? Who helped put you in here?” you ask, your voice laden with skepticism.

Dex nods. “He’s gonna want to know who hired me. And I’ll tell him, but only if he can get me outside.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“That has about a 2% chance of working.”

“I’m gonna take those odds." He gives a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and even though he sounds nonchalant, you can sense the strain underneath.

"They, uh, they put me in gen pop yesterday, so I don’t have a lot of time to figure out a better plan. That’s also why wanted to see you now. Just in case.”

Your brain starts whirring, real panic setting in.

“What do you mean they put you in gen pop? You’re a former federal agent who can’t use his hands! Dex, you have got to cut the bullshit and tell me who’s behind this.”

“No, I told you, I’m not getting you involved.” His tone suddenly flattens. "But anyways, it doesn’t really matter, right? If I live or die. It’s not like I have anything good waiting for me out there. Not anymore.”

Your stomach drops and you look at him, confused.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

That ease, that kind of assuredness you caught right before you walked in, it's now suddenly back. He’s eerily calm, his intense gaze boring into yours. And it all tells you that he knows exactly what he's doing.

“You said this, us, it can’t matter anymore, right? And that was the only thing keeping me going, so who knows?" He leans back and smiles, actually fucking smiles, and you really do think you might punch him in the face. "Maybe I won’t meet with Murdock. Maybe I’ll just let karma do its thing, balance the scales. Because if we don’t matter, then my life doesn’t matter to me.”

His words leave you speechless for a few reasons.

1) On one hand, you’re absolutely seething—because after everything, how dare he try to pull some blatant bush league, guilt-tripping, Quantico 101 shit on you and then sit there and look so goddamn smug about it? But it also makes your heart skip a beat, in a twisted way: that he’s willing to try absolutely anything to get you to stay in his life for good. To make you promise that you can still figure things out together.

2) You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time today, you don’t just see Dex. You see Bullseye.

And you like it.

“Jesus Christ,” you chuckle darkly, resting your head in your hands.

And as you sit there, you realize you’re tired. Tired of, as Dex said, “trying to outrun it.” Tired of pretending like you were ever going to be able to walk out the door today without knowing he’d end up back at your side. Tired of pretending like you couldn't be together, that you wouldn't give anything to make it happen.

Fuck it.

You lift your head up, mirroring his calm demeanor.

“Why are there no cameras in here?”

Dex frowns, thrown slightly by the seemingly random ask and looking at you curiously.

“Attorney-client privilege, you know that. And I’m pretty sure the guards use it for drug deals. But don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.” You drag your chair forward until you’re within inches of him, your pulse picking up immediately. “I asked a specific question for a specific reason.”

And before he can reply, before you can change your mind, before you decide to listen to the voice in your head yelling "this is crazy!!!,” you grab his face in your hands and you kiss him.

As you pull back, your hands still on his face, Dex looks dumbstruck for a second, lips slightly parted as he stares into your eyes. Then, you catch the briefest flash of a triumphant grin before he practically headbutts you, so eager to get his lips back on yours.

You smile against him, dizzy from the dopamine surge as you match his pace, his fervor, before you slip your tongue in to meet his; heat flooding through you at the wrecked little groan he makes. The angle isn't perfect and it's a little rushed, a little messy, but you don't care—because finally, everything that ever went unspoken between you two of you is out in the open.

And there's no going back now.

Suddenly, he bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it might've broke skin, and you quickly pull back.

“Hey,” you say firmly, shaking your head. “No evidence here.”

He looks gorgeous like this: hazel eyes fixed on yours, blown-out and ready to devour; breathing gone ragged with want. Simply starving for you.

He gives you a wicked grin, chuckling.

“Have it your way, pretty girl, but just wait until I’m-”

“‘Till you're what?” you cut him off. “You can't do shit since you’re stuck in chains and gonna die here, right?”

“Hm. Change of plans,” he breathes out, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

Men.

His gaze follows you as you duck under his restraints, crawling up onto his lap and straddling him. Your hands slide to his shoulders, working your lips, your tongue, up his neck; still mindful enough to fight the urge to sink your teeth in, to mark him up and finally, rightfully, claim him as yours.

"Fuck, Y/N. Don’t stop,” he rasps as you slowly roll your hips against him. You hear chains rattle suddenly and Dex growls with frustration. You look down and see the restraints pulled taut, veins practically popping out of Dex’s forearms from trying—and—failing to get his hands on you.

Five minutes ago, you would've felt bad. But that was before he thought he could play games with you, before he tried to turn his life into a bargaining chip.

So, as much as you love him, you laugh.

“Aw, this is hard for you, isn't it," you coo, tilting your head slightly.

"You finally get what you want, and you can’t do anything about it. Can’t touch me like how you want to.” You bring your mouth to his ear and graze it with your teeth, relishing the low drawl of “fuck” that falls from his tongue.

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“But unfortunately for you, you’re not in any position to tell me what I will or won’t do.

Before he can reply, you grab his hair in your fist, yanking back and tilting his head up to look at you.

“Now listen very, very carefully. If you ever try to pull that manipulative, 101 psyops bullshit with me again, I am gone." Your voice lowers further. "You will never taste me again, you will never get to use those hands on me, and so help me God, Dex, I will fuck every guy that looks my way within a 20-mile radius of here and I will send you detailed letters about it. Do you understand?”

Even though you’re threatening him, Dex just grins at you like he's won the lottery.

“There she is,” he breathes out with an exhilarated chuckle, eyes sparkling with awe as he stares up at you. “You're amazing.”

Your grip on his hair tightens, and the strained, contented little sigh he lets out might be the best sound you've ever heard.

“Answer my question.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” You let go of his hair and gaze into those hazel eyes, run your thumb across the scar on his cheek.

“Now, stop being a dick and ask me what you really wanted to ask in the first place."

“If I get out," he says slowly, bringing his forehead to yours. "Will you still want me?”

“Yes, Dex, I will still want you,” you murmur. “I never stopped.” You pull back to look at him. “So you’re going to stay alive in here and if you want to ‘protect me,’ fine. But I am only giving you 48 hours to figure out how you’re getting out of here and coming back to me, or I will be back for that name myself, which I will get from you by whatever means necessary.” You poke his chest. “Got it?”

And God, he looks transformed, glowing like you turned on a light switch inside him; brightening the weathered lines on his face, eyes filled with rapturous, slightly manic devotion.

“I’m gonna make things right with us,” he says fervently, nodding his head. “I promise. I can do it.”

And tears start to well up in your eyes, because you know he means it.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.

“I just. I missed you, too,” you reply, voice cracking. “So much.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, and you melt into it. Then, you duck back under the restraints, smoothing your hair out and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Good, no blood.

"How do I look?" you ask him.

"Beautiful."

You smile.

"Thanks, but no, I meant, 'Do I look like I just made out with you in prison?'"

"Oh. No. You're good." He actually sounds a little disappointed, and you try not to laugh. You cup his face in your hand.

“48 hours. Stay safe. For me,” you add softly.

He nods. “I will.” He turns his head slightly, eyes still on yours as he grazes your fingers with his lips. “See you soon, baby.”

You head to the door and turn back one last time, and you see the version of Dex you arguably love most: the version you obsessively devoted yourself to drawing out at the Bureau, the version that filled your entire body with warmth whenever you caught it; slipping through the cracks in his armor and gaining the privilege to see the rarest, most precious side of him.

It’s the version of himself where he lets himself be happy.

You force your smile away, draw your face back into a what you hope is a neutral expression, and knock on the door. The guard opens it.

"How'd it go?" he asks, letting you walk out as he shuts the door behind him.

You shrug.

"Unproductive. Like you said, crazy asshole."

The guard grimaces sympathetically. Phew. He bought it.

As you move from the lonely bus off Rikers to the familiar bustling rhythm of the city, wandering your way back to your apartment, you feel elated and hopeful and nauseous all at once.

Because holy shit, that had really happened: you’d finally kissed Dex. He’d kissed you back, he wanted you, you were going to be together.

And holy shit, yes, Dex wanted you and you were going to be together—and it would be an ill-logistical, most likely illegal, clusterfuck to make it work.

You had signed your life over the second you’d kissed him, surrendering any semblance of a normal existence.

But yet, you can’t stop smiling on your way home, can’t stop replaying the feel of Dex’s lips on yours, the way he kissed you like he was drowning and you were the only source of air; your body still humming electric from his manic adoration for you, only you.

His parting words to you are stuck on repeat, your new favorite song echoing in your head:

“See you soon, baby.”

And when your head hits the pillow that night, for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread waking up in the morning.

---

The next two days are the longest of your life, punctuated only by your frequent, covert refreshes of the local news website and glances at the TV in the FBI lobby. Waiting for any hint that Dex either secured an appeal or got out by … other means.

And if you’re honest, at this point, you don’t even care which it is. You feel like an addict going through withdrawal, hungrily waiting for another fix.

As the 48 hours approach, you trudge home from work and realize that you’re disappointed. That while you had given him a seemingly impossible, insane task, you really had believed he’d be able to figure it out.

Because if nothing else, you knew Dex liked a challenge.

You get home and unlock the door, kicking off your shoes and flicking on the light switch at the same time. You sigh and head toward the kitchen, fully ready to grab yourself a beer and order consolation takeout before you plan your trip to Rikers tomorrow.

Then, you stop in your tracks.

“What the-”

Your kitchen counters have been covered with a very expansive, very neat buffet from your favorite Mexican restaurant, everything from tacos and a rainbow of salsas and toppings to churros. There’s even two margaritas at the end, adorned with perfectly symmetrical salt rings.

But what gets you the most, what makes your heart want burst out of your chest, is the bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.

Because, while you'd never admit it out loud, you had daydreamed wya too many times about getting flowers from your favorite FBI coworker.

And now, there they were. And clearly, so was he.

“Dex?” you call out, and then, he’s there; rounding the corner from your hallway into your kitchen.

Suddenly, you’re breathless, heart racing like a teenager.

Except for the neat stitch on his forehead, Dex doesn’t look like someone who just escaped from prison.

He just looks like an ordinary guy who’s nervous before a first date. He looks, well, good. Like he took time to think about what he was wearing, which makes no sense considering where he just came from. Dark jacket, grey jeans, and a hesitant half-smile, his eyes flickering from you to the kitchen.

And you know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s waiting for your approval.

You break the silence.

“I take it you’re not getting an appeal,” you say.

Dex shakes his head.

“Nah. Murdock wasn’t interested. But it all worked out anyways.” And now I don’t have to wait to see you.” He smirks slightly. “Your locks are shit, by the way. I expected better security from you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, the next time I know you’re planning to break in, I’ll make sure to turn the laser beams on.”

“It’s fine, I’ll get you better locks this week.”

Fresh out of prison, and he’s worried your safety. And maybe you should think that's insane. But you don’t.

You think it’s romantic.

“Just to be clear, you’ve just been out for like a day, right?” you ask. “And you somehow managed to do … all this?" Your voice quiets. "For me?”

His gaze softens as he nods, fingers tapping on his leg.

“I told you, I was gonna make things right. To do this right with you. Like how I should’ve in the first place.”

And you can’t help it, heat rises in your cheeks, a giddy little smile blooming on your face at his words, at the way he's looking at you.

“Well, I’d say you’re off to a very good start.”

Dex looks relieved, smiling fully this time, and it feels like the goddamn sun is inside your chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And you were right. Dex was just waiting for the green light—your validation—and it sends him half-running across the kitchen, practically tackling you into the counter as he kisses you.

His freed hands roam from your face to your hair to your waist; curious and ecstatic and possessive all at once, like you’re the precious treasure he’s spent a lifetime searching for and finally found.

You pull back only to bury your face into his neck, your arms around him and his own wrapping you so tightly against him that you’re surprised you can breathe.

Happy tears spring up in your eyes as you savor how he feels, how he smells (delicious); warm and solid and real and finally, finally back where he belongs, where he was always meant to be.

With you.

“You’re really here,” you whisper, and he shifts you back slightly, one hand framing your face.

“And you’re really mine,” he murmurs, grinning broadly, the corners of his eyes creasing. You match his smile.

"Always was." You swat his chest lightly. “But we have to be so fucking careful, Dex. Not to insult your intelligence, but so I don’t have a panic attack, you’re not on any CCTV footage around here, right?

“That is insulting, actually; it’s a good thing you’re cute,” he says, smirking, brushing some stray hair behind your ear. “No, and the camera closest to here now has ‘mysterious damage.’”

“Ok. And you’re obviously staying here until any press dies down but, after that?”

“Somewhere in this neighborhood, close to you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Until we can find a new place together.” He sounds excited—almost too excited. “Wherever you want. You liked California, right?”

Tires screech in your head, everything coming to a jarring halt because woah, woah, wait, California, what?!

“Uh, yeah,” you say with a half laugh. “But I don’t work in California anymore, honey, I work here. In New York.”

Dex frowns, looking confused.

“Wait, you’re still planning on going to work?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

He looks at you like you’re insane, the irony of that not escaping you.

“You’re a federal agent harboring a fugitive. And you were the one who went off about how we couldn’t work as agent-convict.” His laugh is too sharp, a mocking grin appearing on his face that makes your eyebrows raise. “Now, not to insult your intelligence, but how could going into the Bureau every day make sense?”

Your heartbeat accelerates again, but this time, it’s because you’re pissed—at his shitty tone and because you know he’s not exactly … wrong.

“I know it doesn’t,” you huff. “But I’m just trying my fucking best here, given the circumstances. You got any better ideas?”

“Yeah, quit.”

“What?!”

Dex shrugs.

“I can make more in 5 hits than you make in a year.” The bite in his tone vanishes entirely, going sweet and earnest so quickly you feel like you have whiplash. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.” He grabs your waist again, thumbs tracing your ribs. “You could do whatever you wanted, we could go wherever we wanted, and you could just," he pauses with a smile, “let me take care of you.”

You’re silent for a few moments. Honestly, you don’t really have a strong rebuttal. On the surface, the offer seems thoughtful, domestic, even—even though, yeah, it involves homicide. Because you know Dex really will do anything, will give absolutely everything, to keep you safe and happy with him. To create your own little world together.

And also, hell yeah, early retirement!

But there's also the faintest chill running up your spine as you let his words, that light-switch change in his demeanor, sink in. Because despite the genuine care in his voice, you know that his offer isn’t really an offer.

It’s a demand.

You should be more unnerved by that fact, should be running full speed in the opposite direction. But you're not. Because if you're honest, there's a small, secret part of you that wanted to be wanted like this, chosen so fully that everything else in the universe just faded into the background.

You want to be mad at Dex, but you can't, can't blame him for being who he is—not when you were the one who saw the danger in the riptide and still dove in headfirst.

Now, it was time to go where the current wanted to take you.

“I need at least a month,” you finally say.

Dex opens his mouth to reply, but you hold up your hand, stopping him.

“I can’t just up and leave without it seeming suspicious. I need to make it seem reasonable, drop hints around that I’m burnt out.” You sigh. “Which is not a total lie. But I'm gonna miss it. So just … let me at least pretend I can have you and still do the job I love for a little while.” Your voice quiets and you blink back unexpected tears. “Please. You owe me that much.”

Dex nods quickly. “That’s fair.” Now, it's his turn to sigh, genuine distress appearing on his face as he cups your face in one hand. "Fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t want to ruin tonight and-

"Hey, stop, you haven’t. I mean, between the two of us, you’re actually presenting the more logical option. It’s not like I wanna keep my boyfriend a secret forever.” Dex visibly perks up at the word “boyfriend,” and you can't help it, you smile.

“So I guess the ‘murder sugar daddy route’ does have its perks.”

Dex’s brow furrows.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he mutters sulkily, and you have to fight back a laugh.

“Oh yeah?" You wrap your arms around his neck. "What would you call it, then?”

“Hm. The ‘being an extra good boyfriend’ route.”

“You know what? That does sound better.”

Dex chuckles before he kisses you again, slower this time but with the same pressing need that leaves your head spinning; flooded with how good he feels, how right this feels.

So, consequences be damned.

He takes your hand in his, eyes never leaving yours as he brings it to his lips with a tenderness no one else would ever believe; butterflies dancing throughout your whole being.

“I’m gonna make this worth it for you. All of it. I promise.”

And you smile and tell him the truth—the most irrational, beautiful, simple truth you know:

You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.

"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"

A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.

"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."

You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.

"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."

"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.

The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.

And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"

He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.

"What?"

A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.

"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"

Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.

"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"

"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"

"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"

It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.

Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.

"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."

"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.

"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."

He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.

"You've got a lot over here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch your back more often."

"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.

"What happened here?"

"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."

"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."

"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."

Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.

"Do any of them still hurt?"

He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.

"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."

"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.

Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."

No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.

Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.

"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."

The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.

It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.

One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.

"What's this one from?"

Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.

"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.

"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.