#dex x reader

he would kiss you on the head, tell you how proud he was of your efforts, and promise to take you when he had the time. you had slowly given up on your road trip getaway, stuck admiring the view from your window of the apartment building opposite yours. where drunken men would stumble at early hours of the morning, where fights would ensue between a toxic couple, and where bottles would smash and crunch under your feet leaving your building.

dex had woken you up in the middle of the night, something he never did, not if he wanted to protect his peace and sanity. but you felt him brushing at your cheeks, squeezing your hands to coax you out of sleep.

"sweetheart," he whispered against the skin of your shoulder, your eyebrows scrunching as you stirred, "wake up."

"dex." you breathed, peeling your eyes open to the dimly lit room, dex's face on the pillow beside yours, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "what time is it?"

"early. too early to be up, but," he laughed, brushing the hair from your face as you nestled into him, "we got a long drive ahead of us."

you sat upright, eyes widened with anticipation at his next words. the getaway you'd been pleading for, probably begging of it in your dreams next to him. "where?"

"that lake cabin looked pretty nice, so i—"

you squealed, jumping atop your boyfriend as he secured his arms against your shoulders, holding you up as you celebrated. he laughed as you bounced, rocking against him with pure excitement. as if you hadn't just woken up moments before.

"let me pack, i'll be ten minutes." you scuffled away from him, yanking at your drawers to find your new bikinis.

your energy had slumped once again, because the sun was still yet to rise, and you were fast asleep in the passenger seat. you were dex's passenger princess, this was your seat. your spare makeup was tucked away in his glovebox, you bedazzled your name into the sun visor, your snacks were tucked into the car door.

and today had been no different. your seat was fully reclined, you had your eye mask on, your car blanket wrapped around you, you even let dex suffer with your music playlist as you slept. not that he minded. sure, he kept you in check and remained the dominant in your relationship, but he loved that his life was infested by you. every part of his life, everything he owned, everything he touched and saw and owned, had your mark on it.

dex was enjoying whatever pop song was playing, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel as he cruised down the highway. the sun was rising, barely any cars on the road for this time of morning. and a weekend away with his favourite girl.

"wake up." he shoved your leg. "i'm bored. miss your voice."

you groaned, kicking him back gently. but you peeled your eye mask off anyway, adjusting to the lightening sky. it felt like you hadn't slept long, but your back ached, and your legs were stiff.

"there she is," dex smiled, "my pretty girl."

you were silent for a while, not yet fully awake. but you leant against the window to enjoy the sunrise, with your legs in dex's lap. the music was quiet now, dex's gaze constantly flickered between you and the road ahead. your feet rubbing subtly against his thighs.

at first it was totally innocent, just enjoying the friction between your socks and his pants. but your foot slid up, padding at the bulge forming as you persisted. you could feel dex's eyes on you, a disapproving glare, but you continued.

"i liked you better when you were asleep." he joked, but made no effort to move your feet. even though you were both aware he had every right to.

"oh, come on." you pouted, arms folded. "never done car stuff before?"

"not whilst i'm driving."

it felt like a dare, like he was encouraging you to push him, as you did all the time. it required no effort, it was so easy to get under dex's skin, and have him correct you. or not, if he knew that was what you wanted.

so you pushed. you crawled over to him, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, then his jaw, making sure to moan sweetly in his ear. you could feel the tension between his grip on the steering wheel in the flex of his arm. which only meant you must kiss down his arms, licking his muscles until your head landed in his lap.

"you're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart." he spoke, voice low to hide any sort of enjoyment from your mouth. "i'll turn this car around right now."

"you wouldn't." you hummed, pulling at his belt to undo it.

you were right. he wouldn't.

so he let you have your fun, pawing at his cock as it strained against his pants. if it weren't for the fact he was driving, you would have mounted him and let him feel just how wet you'd become for him. his fist took hold of your hair, the car turning and rolling to a stop on the breakdown lane.

"you wanna be a brat, huh?" he craned your head up with his grip on your hair, watching your puckered lips smirk. "go on then."

you were frozen. you had become so entranced in teasing, now suddenly being thrusted into performing, you felt a stage fright. dex had to tug his pants down just to get you started, placing your mouth on his cock for you. from there it felt natural, your whimpers and moans muffled by him in your mouth only made him buck up into you.

"that's a good girl," he breathed, "just like that."

"you wanna play around, hm?" he cooed. his hand slid down your back, beneath your sleep shorts and stopping at your soaked pussy. he could feel it without having entered you. his cock twitched in your mouth and the feeling, before his fingers slid into you.

the newfound feeling of pleasure halted you in your movements, but dex was quick to shove the back of your head until you were taking him fully once more.

"did i say you could stop? s'what you wanted, right?" he spoke through gritted teeth, fastening his pace inside both holes. thrusting up into you to reach his high quicker, shoving his fingers into you with such force, you were being jerked back and forth between his fingers and his cock.

"you wanna swallow it, sweetheart?" he whispered. your eyes lifted upward, eyebrows tilted as you nodded. and he did just that, he emptied into the back of your throat, holding the back of your head for you to keep your word.

when you sat up, a sweet smile on your face, he pinched your cheeks with a nose-scrunched smile.

"what about me?" you asked, dex merging back onto the highway as you pouted at him.

It hurt his heart to think about. He didn't like when you were upset or distressed. He was the stalkee to your stalker, he wasn't supposed to cause you unnecessary stress. It pained him to even chew over on. He tried not to think about that as he got ready for bed, slipping his shirt and pants off, leaving him in his briefs.

His mind wandered to you. It always did, that's no surprise, but it did take a turn. It wondered to how you'd feel around him. It wondered to what you would like if he fucked made love to you. If you liked it rough or gentle. If you liked it fast or slow - fast probably.

He pulled his underwear down to his knees, releasing his straining, hard cock. If he was going to jerk off, he wasn't going to do it like a teenage boy. He moved to grab the lube in his bedside drawer, pausing when he saw a brand new, unopened tube attached with a red sticky note on it.

Think about me ;)

Dex huffed out a laugh, shaking his head at your scrawly handwriting as a heat filled his stomach. Cheeky, he thought as he removed the sticky note, leaving it in the drawer as he took the lube out. He uncapped it, putting a good amount on his hand before closing it, leaving it resting on the side table.

He wrapped a hand around himself, eyes fluttering at the cool sensation around his sensitive skin. His thoughts went to you, thinking about the moles littering your smooth skin, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you were passionate about, the way the veins in your hands shifted when you were using them, the way you stood tall and confident, the way you were you.

His strokes started slow but tight, moving back and forth and up and down, before he started to move faster, fucking into the vacuum of his hand.

He felt hot as he thought about how you were probably watching him right now. Watching him through some hidden camera or watching him in person like a pervert.

He panted, strokes fast and tight, wishing you were right there with him, jerking him off or taking him in your mouth or sinking onto him or even into him.

That was something he hadn't ever thought about - bottoming. He definitely wasn't going to complain, though, if he were to bottom to you. Dex thought he would probably like it if you prepped him with your fingers first and then sunk into him with your slick cock. If you moved fast with your super speed, nailing into his prostate over and over and over, bringing him to the edge before climbing over it.

He wondered what types of sounds would come out of your mouth as you grunted and groaned and moaned because of him. There was still so much to figure out.

Dex finally came with a loud, uncontrollable groan, his warm white release coating his hand. He caught his breath, chest heaving as he grabbed a tissue off the side to wipe his hand and spent cock with.

You, on the other side of the camera, came like you were watching your favorite porn video - which you were. You knew Dex would find your gift in his bedside drawer, you knew it wouldn't be long 'til he used it. You just had to wait until he started, skin thrumming with excitement.

Then he did, tugging his underwear down to his knees, revealing his hard, jutting cock which made your breath hitch at how long and fat it was. Your hand wrapped around yourself as you waited for his reaction to your present, strokes slow and loose.

His breathy chuckle made you keen, moans leaving your mouth as you stroked yourself faster. You matched your strokes to his, hand slick like his, eyes heavy lidded like you wanted to close them in pleasure, but didn't to keep watching him. His groans and whimpers made your skin feel electrifying and you wanted so badly to be there with him to be the one causing him to make those noises.

You came in sync with him, throwing your head back in overwhelming pleasure as your vision blurred, your hips bucking up into the air.

After the fun night Dex had, he came up with the idea of doing something for you in return for all that you've done for him. He knew that you loved your job and what it entailed - after the conversation yesterday afternoon - so he had the smartest idea of leaving you a gift. It was a perfect, well thought out plan and nothing could go wrong, Dex hoped.

So, he waited, sniper planted on the edge of the railing, hunched over, eye looking through the scope as he patiently waited for the ATF officers to arrive at the port area where he faked a call saying he spotted Daredevil, face mask secured snug on his head.

Fucking dumbasses, Dex thought to himself when the person on the other side of the phone said they'll send someone shortly.

About two minutes later, a black van pulled up, coming to a quick stop as agents in gear rushed out of the back, guns in hand, faces covered, moving in a unit as they searched the place.

Dex waited for the right moment before he attacked. He threw one of his knives, aiming to hit the first two guards, successfully hitting his targets.

"It's Bullseye." One of the guards yelled out as the two bodies fell, heads whipping around like chicken. They had been trained to recognize the signs of certain vigilantes and rivals, "Spread out!" The officers scattered like ants, all ready to fight with their bullets.

Dex took them all out, one-by-one. He took a few out with his knives and then he sniped some, then he killed some with their own weapons. He wanted to leave the scene as neatly for you as he could manage.

Just as he was taking out the last few from the rooftop, a yellow blur sped past Dex, knocking him off his feet and from the rooftop onto the gravel where the bodies lay. He landed on the concrete with a grunt, pain radiating through him as the wind got knocked out of him.

Dex huffed as he picked himself up, whipping his head around for the mysterious blur, hands ready by his side to hit a target.

At first, he thought it could be you, but you were too fast to leave a trace - no lightning or blur - plus, you would never hurt him, on purpose. He, wholeheartedly, trusted that.

The yellow blur appeared out of nowhere, punching Dex in the face, knocking him back down, blood spurting out of his mouth. The figure kept attacking him, moving too fast for Dex to even get a hit on. He still tried, though, trying to stab the blur in the stomach, but failing when they just intercepted him, driving his own knife into his shoulder, making him let out a low moan of affliction.

"Stop!" Dex heard your voice shout in panic, groggily looking up through the pain to see you in a red leather suit, a lightning symbol on the emblem on your chest, your cowl not covering your face.

You looked like an angel in red, he thought. Then, he thought you shouldn't be here. What if you got hurt?

The figure in yellow, holding him up, stopped phasing, letting Dex get a good look at the yellow suit, almost a copy of yours, but in reverse. "Guess I figured out your weakness," The man in yellow smugly said, looking down at Dex.

Dex didn't know who this guy was or why he had a problem with you, but he aimed to figure that out as soon as he could find a way to get away from him.

"Don't do this," You tried to plead, "not to him. You can kill me, just don't hurt him."

Dex's breath hitched at your words, there was no fucking way he was letting that happen. "N-no." Dex mumbled out, disorientated from the beating he had taken, but fully aware of the words coming out of your mouth.

The man looked at Dex in mock surprise, "Looks like he has something to say about that, Y/N," He hefted Dex up, grunts leaving the bigger man's mouth as he aggravated his injuries, "It's you or him, make a choice."

"Me," You and Dex blurted out at the same time, looking at each other in shock. You both would do anything for each other, even sacrifice yourselves.

"Take me!" You added on, you didn't want Dex hurt any more than he was. This was all your fault, you felt incredibly guilty Dex was even involved.

"Aw, that's poetic," The man - who Dex still doesn't know is - teased, "I was just kidding, there was never a choice." His hand phased, molecules vibrating through the limb - too fast for Dex to even see it anymore - he brought his hand back into the air before moving it closer and closer to Dex's spine.

Dex knew what was coming. He was angry about it. He should have had more time with you. He deserved it, you deserved it. He finally found something that could've lasted a lifetime, and something just had to come up and take it away from him.

Matt ignores the exchange or at least pretends to. “Did he say anything else that would explain why Luca’s men are taking orders from the Russian mafia?”

“Oh, didn’t you tell him?” Dex asks with the ego of someone who just found a sizable chink in his armor.

You try not to roll your eyes or change your breathing because Matt is much too observant for either. “Didn’t get around to it.”

“Tell me what?” He stops walking and it forces you to as well. Dex loiters nearby, watching.

“A while back I crashed a party of a few figure heads. One of them, some Russian named Isaak, said he put a bounty on me.” You try to explain it quickly just to get it over with. Matt tilts his head in a way that you know means he’s about to speak, but you cut him off. “It isn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” He asks, voice disbelieving. 

“Tell him your theory.” Dex’s tone gets even more self-satisfied.

You sigh, “I think the Italians and the Russians are helping each other with ammunition, protection, maybe information. Without the Task Force around to gun people like us down it looks like they’re taking matters into their own hands.”

Dex scoffs lightly. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

Matt takes a step closer to you, the lower half of his face that’s exposed under his cowl tenses. “If they’re hunting you specifically, that’s a huge problem. Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

“I don’t know that they’re only hunting me–” “Well, you are the only one Isaak seemed to care about–” Dex starts.

“Shut up.” 

Matt shakes his head, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Technically, none of us should be here.” You reply.

“I’m serious.”

“Me too.”

Dex strolls over and puts himself in front of Matt, facing you. You’re forced to pull your attention to him and you notice the wrinkles around his eyes intensify. “Maybe you two should save the domestic dispute for after.”

You think he sounds intentionally calm. He gets this way when something you do upsets him but he doesn’t want you to know that it does. You frown behind your mask and say, “Come on. There’s a maintenance entrance over there.”

“Where do you think a cocaine smuggling, arms dealing, Bugsy Malone would sleep?” Dex asks, following. 

“The entire ground floor level is unavailable for rent, under construction. All the units are empty–” You say as you reach the metal door, pulling out a tension wrench and pick. “Or they’re supposed to be.” The keyhole jolts under the pressure and then clinks. You hold the door open for them.

Matt steps inside right after Dex, then he moves his head like he hears something in the distance. “Definitely not empty.” 

As you catch up, your shoulder brushes Matt’s arm. “What is it?” You ask quietly while falling into step.

“Cigar smoke. Cash. They’re counting bills.”

“How many?”

A gloved hand wraps around your elbow and pulls you gently from your position in between the two men to Dex’s opposite side so that he’s in the middle now. He lets you go in the next second without speaking a word, eyes staying forward with his shoulders pulled back like he’s solely focused on the mission. 

“Seven… eight.” Matt says.

When the three of you near the end of the hallway, Matt stops and you stick your arm out to stop Dex too. The back of your hand is connected to Dex’s abdomen, but you drop it the moment he looks down at you.

“What is it?” You ask, voice hardly above a whisper.

Matt looks torn between turning left or right. “One of them’s leaving out the east corridor. He’s on the phone, sounds like he’s about to meet someone…”

You don’t hear or see anything besides the grossly dim fluorescent lights that wash the entire building in a sickly green color. The beige flooring holds track marks of dirty boot prints and you take a look back down the way you came just to make sure nobody was sneaking up behind you. Dex makes the decision to start walking left towards an emergency exit.

“Don’t.” Matt says in a stern voice. 

The command makes Dex turn back around to face him, but he continues to saunter away slowly, “Why not?”

“Don’t need you running off by yourself.”

“Actually I was planning on taking Raven with me.” His eyes move from Matt to you and then back.

“She’s staying with me.” 

You watch the subtle shift in Dex’s posture, how he straightens a fraction before catching himself. He makes no other move for half a second like he knows that if he acts on instinct it would lead somewhere bad for all of them. You take a step towards the emergency exit and pull Dex back over so you’re replacing his spot.

“Should’ve done this alone.” You mutter under your breath. “I’ll take the one outside, you two obviously need time to bond.”

“No—“ “Not gonna happen—“

“Wasn’t asking.” Your attention is diverted when a door swings open several feet down the hallway. You nod, “And we’re not alone anymore.”

The man that walks out holds a duffle bag and carries a lit cigarette between his lips. When he looks over to see the three of you, all suited up and staring him down like a pack of wolves, he instantly starts yelling. None of it is in English and it makes whoever else is in the room rush out with guns.

You can hear more shouting in Russian, hurried footfalls, clips being loaded— Bullseye and Daredevil are already running towards them as you slip outside. You aren’t very worried. One of them alone could handle it, so together it’s almost unfair.

The side of the building you’re on has a huge lot with only a handful of junk cars scattered around. You sweep over the entire area, looking for the man Matt had heard. The street lights glow faintly across the wet black pavement and your boots crush on gravel and trash. It takes a bit of walking around the perimeter of the complex, but then you hear low voices from behind a black van– you stop to listen, back pressed to a wall.

“Pickup’s moved to 41st.”

“We just moved the location last week—“

“And we’re moving it again.”

A new voice cuts in, “Because you can’t protect any of the properties.” 

The last guy sounds angry. You wonder how solid this allegiance is, whether it was fragile enough to break under your constant pressure. If you keep this up, interrupting their operations, maybe it’ll make the Italians rethink their position on working with the Russians.

“Because your men could not disarm a single woman.” 

You peek your head around the corner to see them. Your view is limited, but you can just make out all three men. There’s one bald white man with excessive tattoos stretching from his neck to his hands, a large spiderweb circling the crown of his head. The two men he’s with are bigger, both have tanned skin and dark hair. One has his longer hair pulled back in a pony tail and the other has a thick mustache, nicely groomed. 

They’re still arguing, going back and forth about whose fault it was that their numbers are shrinking. You can’t wait much longer but you also don’t want to leave without getting something on Luca. One of them mentions him after a minute and your muscles tense as you focus.

“Your boss doesn’t want any more attention. This will need to be handled soon.”

“Our boss, Yevgeny.”

Baldy straightens and shoves a duffle bag at the long-haired one. “Our boss,” he spits, “has yet to do as promised.”

“Isaak will be released by Monday.” Mustache says in a placating, tired tone.

Fuck. You thought that motherfucker was taken care of. This isn’t getting you anything, sitting and waiting, so you take careful steps— trying not to make any noise. As you approach the backside of the van, they stop talking. You freeze in your spot for a long moment. The conversation picks up again lightly but you can hardly make anything out. 

Just as you wrap your hand around a blade in your belt, you hear fast footsteps approaching and a bat is swinging at your head. You duck just in time, hearing the thwip sound of metal close to your ear before it crashes into the car.

“Fu—“ You throw a boot out to knock him off his balance and he drops to the floor. You shoot back up when the other two men circle around from opposite sides of the van.

“Don’t move!” One of them shouts at you, holding a gun in your direction.

Your eyes skirt from him to the Russian, then to the idiot stumbling back up onto his feet. Now you have three guns trained onto your head so you raise your hands slowly, making a show of it.

“Bold of you to come here alone.” Yevgeny says, shifting his weight. He almost looks afraid to approach. He must think you’re more dangerous up close… you can’t help the small smile under your mask at the thought.

“Well, given your track record I don’t have much reason to be scared, do I?”

He sneers at you, thin lips pulling away to reveal his teeth. “The only reason you are not dead yet is because Luca wishes to kill you himself.”

That’s interesting. 

“Kneel,” Rat-tail says.

“Rather not.”

“Kneel or I shoot you in the leg.”

“Can I ask first, how is Costello holding up with losing half a mil worth of assets?” You tilt your head in feigned thought. “Is he mad?”

Yevgeny tightens his grip on the pistol, shoving it an inch closer towards you. “What he is, is vengeful. After we take you to him it will only be the beginning, suka– your mother, your father, every one of your vigilante comrades will hang.”

You want to roll your eyes. Mother and father and friends, Christ he’s a predictable one. “Yeah I’ve heard the horror stories.” You drop your hands because the pretense is fading. Then you shrug and say, “When I beat you three senseless do you think he’ll just take your teeth and fingers? Or your family’s too?”

A shot fires next to your face and pierces the van’s window– shattering it. You don’t flinch. It makes Yevgeny angry enough to take a couple long strides towards you and it’s all you need. You jerk his arm to the side and hit him with his own weapon. He cries out in pain while his head flies back. Another shot rings out but you pull the man towards you so the bullet hits his shoulder instead of your head. 

“Aghh!” He screams.

“Fuckin’ bitch, shoot her!” Mustache yells.

You careen around Yevgeny as you let him drop to the floor. You’re able to knock both of the pistols out of the Italian’s hands, but now they’re both trying to grab at you simultaneously. One gets you by the shoulder and you kick rat-tail in the groin at the same time. As he’s doubled over, you throw your head back and knock into the other one. 

It takes several minutes of slamming your fists into their heads, their sides, breaking bones and cracking the cartilage of their noses, but you finally get down to just you and the Russian. He’s panting, in pain from the gunshot wound, and standing wobbly in front of you. Mustache and rat-tail are sprawled out on their backs, not even groaning anymore. 

You breathe hard in measured intervals, trying to keep your heart rate under control. “Give it up, Yev. All this shit is going under. You know it is.”

He’s licking his teeth to clear the blood. Then he smiles at you. “You are– you are persistent bitch.”

“Luca wants me, yeah? He can have me.” You seethe. That makes him stiffen up, muscles flexing as he scans you over. “You can tell him I said so.”

“You have a death wish?”

“Like you said, I have persistence.”

He chuckles lightly, dropping his head down and shaking it as if he’s too amused. “Yes.” When he looks back up he says, “I will ensure he knows how eager you are to meet him.”

“Could save you the trouble, tell me where he is now since it obviously ain’t here.” You gesture to the run down complex.

“It isn’t known. Not to me, not to most.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.” He takes a step closer and you unsheath a blade. His eyes land on it and then back up to you, but he’s still clutching his bleeding wound and looking too weak to even attempt to make a move. “But I tell my boss, he tells his, so on…”

You consider him and what he’s proposing, fingers tightening on the handle of your weapon. This could be exactly what you’ve been waiting for. The opportunity to arrange some type of meeting– or ambush. You’re sure that whatever Costello wanted to do to you would be much worse than his usual methods, but that’s only if he can actually get his hands on you in the first place… You crack your neck, already feeling sore from all the fighting. 

A loud bang off in the distance— the sound of a door colliding with a brick wall, snaps you out of your thoughts. Yevgeny launches himself at you the moment it happens, like he was just waiting for the split second your attention was diverted. He gets you by the arm and twists it hard enough to make you drop the blade. You try to reach for another one with your free hand, but the prick slams your head into the van before you can, dizzying you. You grunt from the impact– as you try to steady yourself, a gun clicks. 

You curse under your breath, “Are we seriously back to this?” It takes a moment to right yourself. When you do, you see the barrel is once again pointed at your forehead, his shaky hand is trying its best to stabilize itself. 

“Your worth has gone up, Raven. I get you alive, it is fifty thousand. Dead is half… I can do a lot with half.”

You nod, assessing the situation, blood pressure spiking now. You have few options and even less time. This son of a bitch is forcing your hand. Suddenly you feel a crack in your guise, something splits open in a millisecond that makes you want to drive your blade into his sternum and push it up up up right into his tattooed throat and then keep going until it reaches the soft under portion of his fucking jaw– you have to stop the train of thought. 

Reasses.

Just as his finger is about to squeeze the trigger, you run at him. The shot is loud but it doesn’t hit you and the next thing you know, you have him down on the cold, hard, ground. Soft sirens go off somewhere far away and a light drizzle of rain begins to coat everything in a shimmery layer of wetness. Your fists pound down on his face once, twice, three times, again, more– you can’t stop. 

“Ahhhh!” You scream in his face.

Your knuckles are getting soaked the longer you go on for. There are noisy, squelching, thwacks with every connection between your wrapped knuckles and his head. He can't speak anymore. The blood that sputters between his lips comes out in sharp nasty garbles and instead of it sickening you or slowing you down, you go faster, harder. 

The natural color of his face is no longer visible. He’s been unconscious for the last several punches now, so you begin to slow down. You can’t make yourself stop even as your fist aches and your arms burn from the constant movement. 

It keeps going until someone says your name behind you, making you freeze in your spot.

The frenzy ends in an instant and you look down on the carnage you wrought, one fist still pulled back. They say your name again, closer now, but it feels like your head is under water. All that exists is torn skin and the slick, hot, blood that coats your hand wraps and sinks past them– warming your skin. 

After a lengthy stretch of time that could have been seconds or minutes, you look up and to the right to see Daredevil– Matt– holding his hands out towards you as if he wasn’t sure what to do. How to act. You pull your mask down to heave out a breath, averting your gaze so you can avoid a question, or his worry, or whatever he might’ve said next. 

You’re still situated over Yevgeny, suspended there like any movement might make you snap. Then two gentle hands are grabbing you by your shoulders and pulling you upright. Your first instinct is that it’s another person trying to kill you, so you strike at them blindly.

“It’s just me.” Dex catches your wrist before you could cause any damage. His voice is controlled but his eyes aren’t– they’re scouring over all of you. His voice drops to something only you can hear, “Just me.”

His mask is off and his hair is tussled like he removed it hastily. There’s a small cut along the bridge of his nose and for some reason you focus on only that. Dex. His scarred face, his soft words, his blood… You pull yourself out of his hold and step back, but for once it isn’t harsh, only tired. 

“Fuck,” You mutter. Too many things course through you, shame and regret and the last vestiges of your adrenaline that keep your senses so sharp like the edge of a butcher's knife. The light rain pelts at your face like a stinging reminder of where you are.

“Are you okay?” Matt asks now, still apprehensive.

“I’m fine.” You say, too quickly.

“Your head is bleeding.”

You reach up to your temple and your fingers come away red. “It’s nothing.” 

You look over the two of them and while Matt looks mostly alright, you notice that Dex’s arm is torn up. “That looks bad.” You tell him, motioning to the wound that spans horizontally across his bicep. He’s standing closer to you now, not crowding, but near enough that you can reach out to him easily if you wanted to. 

“Moron was aiming for my head.” He smirks.

Matt cuts in once more, pulling your attention away from Dex. “Luca wasn’t in there.”

You clear your throat, pulling your head out of the clouds. “No… no, he’s hiding somewhere else.” You glance down at the near-lifeless body of the man you nearly beat to death a minute ago. “I almost got it.” You say quietly. 

Fuck, this was a god damn mess. What a complete failure of a mission, you think. Costello is still god knows where, you dragged Matt and Dex into a lion’s den full of trigger-happy mafia goons for no god damn reason, and you came a hairs breadth away from almost killing someone again. It doesn’t matter that he threatened you. It doesn’t matter that he would have killed you given the chance. What matters– what you can’t stop thinking about is that you wanted it. 

You wanted to watch him die. To see the moment he realized his life was over, that it was you– a vigilante whom he despised, that did him in. All that underestimation, all that vitriol, washing away with his final breath.

“We need to get out of here. Two of the tenants called 911 about the noise.” Matt says.

You nod even though your skull is pounding, old injuries are flaring up after new ones have been layered on top. “The ones inside, they didn’t give you anything?” 

“We’ll go over all of it. Later.” Matt responds.

You want to argue. To make him tell you what he knows, anything, a shred that would have made this night worth it. Instead you sigh and say, “Okay.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The second Dex got outside, his shoulder slamming against the exit because it hurt to move his arm properly, his eyes searched every inch of the space where he thought you’d be. Him and Matthew had spent far too much time fighting and interrogating those men inside, bloodying the floors and getting nowhere. Or close to nowhere. Every minute that you were out of his eyeline his movements got faster, more agile, trying to clear a path straight back to you. Murdock interfered more than once, pulling him back, blocking the shots that were aimed to kill and not maim. It riled him up further, made him punch harder.

He’d left Matthew inside dealing with the last mafia member while he trudged through the parking lot. It was dark and it felt like his balaclava was beginning to suffocate him so he removed it to prioritize finding you. 

He heard it before anything else. Relentless sounds of fists hitting flesh again and again. Then a scream. Your scream. He ran in the direction immediately, prepared to snuff the life out of whoever was pulling that from you, a loud horrible sound that made his teeth clench and body light up with fury. When he gets his hands on the person hurting you–  

Then Dex saw you.

From behind all he could make out was damp hair and a hunched spine. Then he saw the man beneath you. How his legs were splayed out, unmoving. You wailed on him mercilessly like someone possessed by a rage only few could even aspire to. He moved closer with light steps to get a better view.

You looked beautiful.

It stopped him in his tracks. A feeling that can only be described as enthrallment gripped him and all he could do was watch, could only allow the soft rain to fall between him and you while he stood there at a safe distance, capturing everything. He was transfixed. Unmovable.

Then Matthew caught up. His interruption made you stop and Dex swore that was the moment he really could’ve ended him. He ruined it is the only thought that repeated in his mind. He knew he was holding you back and now Dex saw for himself just how much. He did what Matthew couldn’t and pulled you back to reality. Your eyes were wild and your hands were covered in blood that wasn’t your own and if you’d have let him, he would have devoured your lips then and there.

Dex stayed close to you the entire way home. He didn’t touch you or say anything unless you spoke first, which wasn’t often. Your eyes stayed forward, shoulders pulled back, gait sure and steady as always, but still he could tell that you were off. No smart remarks. No instigating. Hardly any acknowledgement of what transpired. 

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Murdock asks you as the three of you reach the block where your complex is.

“Yes.” You say in an even tone. 

The drizzling has stopped, replaced now by an eerie stillness as cold air seeps into Dex’s skin. You don’t look like you’re cold. You don’t look any particular way. He studies the up and down movement of your shoulders as you inhale and exhale. A nice calming pattern that his mind latches onto and his body mimics unknowingly. Then he examines the cut on your head that you’ve paid no mind to. He has an urge to reach out and push a loose strand of hair away so he can get a better look at it– make sure it wasn’t bad.

Then the three of you approach the backside of your building. There isn’t a sole out at this hour but none of you felt like taking the chance of being seen.

“Tell me what you learned.” You say to Murdock, arms crossed and a small crease between your eyebrows. He makes a noise as if he’s tired, then he removes his mask. 

“It can wait until the morning.”

“It can’t.” 

“There's nothing that you can do about it tonight, anyway.” Matthew says.

“It doesn’t–” You catch yourself before you get worked up. When you speak again, your voice has gone flat. “It doesn’t matter.” He watches you think of what to say next, how you can be more convincing. “If we don’t find him, more people are going to die. Innocent people.”

Murdock takes a step closer to you. “We’ll find him.”

“Dex.” You find his eyes and tilt your head like you’re pleading with him. It’s so foreign to him, the way you seek him out right now. He’s much more used to being ignored or fought with. 

He shouldn’t. You’ll get all mad and then you’ll probably refuse to sleep, too wired from thoughts and schemes once he tells you– but fuck you’re staring at him expectantly and it’s him that you’re asking, not Matthew. It feels like you’ve chosen him and he has to hold on to that for as long as he can before it disappears.

“They’re funneling the money from their drug operation into developing more properties along the Hudson.”

Matthew sighs and paces away from you two while you frown in thought. “For what?”

“Didn’t get that far, but it’s probably not for fun.”

Matthew’s voice is full of weariness, apparently resigned to the fact that you weren’t letting it go, “They said storage. Could be anything.”

You nod like you’re relieved that you got even a fragment of information. Then your gaze drifts some more, putting some pieces together that Dex wishes he could see. “When it was Michele in charge– when he controlled Atlas, all he cared about was making sure the money was clean. The whole firm was just a front, but maybe Luca’s turning it into something else.”

“A legitimate channel to bankroll future expansions.” Murdock says, feeding off your speculation.

Dex asks, “What does that mean?”

You shrug. “They could start dipping into more than drugs and munitions… if they get the space for it, maybe racketeering or human trafficking.”

Matthew straightens, his voice tenses, “I’ll look into it some more. Get in touch with some people that were involved with Michele’s defense, see if they know anything.”

“Thank you, Matt.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a chance they won’t talk.”

“I mean– thanks for coming tonight. Both of you.”

Dex sees how your features soften even in the darkness. The tired way your eyes scan over him and he wants to be alone with you now. It’s a good thing that Matthew decides to leave shortly after so he wouldn’t have to make him. It took another few minutes of quiet conversation and lethargic discussions about what to do next, but now it’s just you and Dex. You make no move to walk away from him despite how exhausted he knows you must be.

There’s very faint music playing from someone’s unit high above them that he hadn’t noticed until now. Probably because you’ve been looking at him in a way that didn’t suggest you wanted him to leave for once and his arm has been thrumming with a dull pain the entire time.

“You’re…” You start and then trail off. “Do you want to come inside? I could take a look at your arm.”

Dex smiles at you. “You’re inviting me to stay?”

“I’m inviting some medical attention. Don’t want you blaming me for an infection.” You’re already making your way to a back entrance.

He follows behind quietly, deciding not to push his luck here. You’ve never offered your place to him like this. Either you’re starting to trust him or the night’s events have seriously messed with your psyche. Not that he’s complaining. 

When the two of you make it inside your apartment, he watches carefully while you flip on the lights and kick off your shoes. Then you take off your mask completely and loosen the braid in your hair as you make your way over to the kitchen sink. He watches you unwrap your hands and run your knuckles under some cold water to get rid of the blood. They’re torn up and brusied, but you don’t make a face at it. 

Dex is accustomed to being here in the way a stray cat would be, waiting for the moment he’ll be kicked out and left in the cold. This is new. You must sense his uncertainty because you look over at him from your spot and motion for him to come over.

“Take off your shirt.” You tell him as he approaches.

“Getting right to it, hm?” He smirks.

This time you don’t roll your eyes or say something caustic like he’s expecting. “Knife or bullet?”

He hums, “Bullet.” 

Then he removes the strap along his chest that holsters a gun he wasn’t allowed to use all night thanks to Saint Matthew. It’s discarded on top of the island counter. He watches you while he removes the dark blue and black long sleeve, taking his time because now his bicep burns from the sudden action. He hisses lightly and you move closer to get a better look. Your scent invades his space but he tries his best not to think about it, to not think about what he did with you on this same counter not too long ago.

Your eyes squint for a second while your fingers lightly trace against the underside of the wound, being careful not to touch it directly. “It isn’t bleeding anymore… but you should let me suture it so it doesn’t later.”

“As long as you’re gentle.”

That pulls a mild laugh from you, something breathy and warm that makes a genuine smile pull on Dex’s lips. You’re pretty when you laugh, he thinks. It’s not the first time he’s ever heard it but it is the first time it wasn’t laced with confusion or irritation and he wants more. He wants to smooth out those worry lines that warp your features into the hardened vigilante he’s come to know. Wants to kiss you again and have you kiss him back, zealous instead of angry.

You pull away from him and he forces himself not to clasp a hand around your wrist to keep you close. As you move around and gather supplies to fix him up you say, “I’ll be as gentle with you as you were with me.”

He nearly groans. “I’m not a trained medical professional.”

You scoff under your breath, “Got that right.”

You lay out everything you need on the counter and then pull over a stool for Dex to sit on. When he does, you get to work right away. Your face is close to his but all of your attention is on being efficient. His skin feels like it’s on fire but he knows that it isn’t due to the pain anymore. The rubbing alcohol stings as you swipe a cotton pad across the long gash. All the blood gets swabbed away after a minute. Then the needle slides beneath his skin and he clenches his teeth, trying not to make a sound. He can’t help the throaty groans as you keep going, your delicate touch clashing with the pinching sensation again and again. 

“Shut up.” You mutter.

He smiles and then winces. “No bedside manner.”

“Don’t remember you giving me any comfort.”

“Mmm… so this is payback?”

Your hair brushes his naked arm and goosebumps rise instantly. “No, honey. This isn’t payback.”

Dex sighs at the softness in your tone, tension draining from his muscles. His free hand comes around to rest at your waist. “You called me honey.”

You glance at him with a small smile, then go right back to work. “I guess I’m feeling sorry for you.”

“You should feel sorry for me more often.”

You tie the end of the thread and even though he should feel relief that it’s over, he doesn’t. He’d let you hurt him for a little bit longer if he could keep his hand on your waist and listen to your quiet laugh one more time.

“All done.” You say, about to move away.

“Wait.” He tightens his grip on you but not enough to hurt. You raise an eyebrow at him in question. “Your head needs to be cleaned, too.”

“Yeah, I’ll get to it–”

“Let me.” You shake your head a little like you might argue, so he cuts you off. “Please.”

He sees you swallow as you deliberate before you say a soft, “Alright.”

Dex pushes some of your hair out of the way and you close your eyes from the contact. He smiles at that while he takes a clean cotton pad and douses it with alcohol. You don’t make a sound while he runs it over the cut at your temple. He wonders who did it. If it was one of the men you’d knocked onto their backs or if it was the one you almost beat the life out of. When he thinks of that again a feeling grows in his chest. More than intrigue, more than excitement, even more than want.

It was admiration.

Your voice comes out close to a whisper, “Isaak’s going to be let out of jail.”

Dex stops his movements as he scans your face. Your eyes are still closed. You didn’t sound worried about the statement, it just seemed like you were letting him know. Sharing intel. “That’s a problem.”

“I know.” You say as you open your eyes. Dex drops his hand and sets the bloodied cotton on the counter, then grabs some medical tape. As he places small strips onto your head, you talk a bit more in a low voice. “I don’t know what to do about him… what to do in general.”

“What do you want to do?”

You stare at him unblinking, but don’t answer. He thinks he knows what you want to say. What you want to do, too. It’ll take a lot of persuading, possibly some interference between you and Matt, but he can get you to do it. It’s your nature, like it is his. 

“Done.”

The quiet permeates through your apartment as neither of you make a move. It feels less like a strained silence and more like a truce while you both look at one another.

There’s something strange that happens after you get to know the intricacies of someone. When you’ve breached that imaginary line that’s meant to separate two people– to keep a safe distance. Dex has crossed it at some point although he can’t exactly put his finger on when. Maybe it was that night in the file room. Maybe it was when he discovered that he shot you. Maybe it was only a couple hours ago as he witnessed you in your true state– but now your face has stopped being an amalgamation of features. Your eyes and nose and lips, once individual characteristics he studied and filed away, have become something else. Everything has gone from bits and pieces of a puzzle into a complete picture of you. 

Dex refuses to go one more second without having your lips on his, so he snakes a hand around the back of your neck and draws you closer. He makes himself stop when he’s a hair's breadth away so he can ask first, “Can I kiss you?” 

You place your hands on his sides and he feels your short breaths on him while you think. “Hm, I really like it when you say please.” You whisper.

A warmth spreads beneath his ribs that threatens to consume him. “Please, baby.”

You smirk at him and then pull him in the rest of the way. Your mouth concedes to his and he makes a noise into you that you take and give back. You’re warm and pliant, moving against him slowly. One hand reaches out to his arm and rests there lightly. He can tell you’re trying to avoid touching his wound and he almost breaks the kiss with his smile. You really can be sweet when you want to be and it’s getting to be more difficult to act like he doesn’t want more of that from you.

Dex realized a while ago that everything you’d allowed between you two was all physical. He could kiss you sometimes and fuck you if you allowed it after a long day, but the moment it became a real conversation or anything resembling personal you’d shut him down. Nothing seemed to get past those walls of yours. The thought makes him feverish– needy in a way that’s unrecognizable to him. 

He pulls you into him more with a flat hand at your lower back. The kiss gets deeper but not faster, both of your heads tilting in opposite directions so that you can taste each other better. He trails up your spine and feels you shiver a little. You break the contact first and he watches you with hungry eyes and parted lips as you take a deep breath. 

“Are you about to kick me out?” He asks, only half-joking.

You study his face with a pinched expression as if you were actually considering it and it twists something in his stomach. “Are you going to give me a reason to?”

He shakes his head and then gathers you into his arms, lifting you off the floor. “No.” 

Your legs wrap around him while he slowly carries you towards your bedroom. The press of your lips against his jaw and cheek nearly makes him moan. Your body is pressed flush against his bare chest and your fingers thread nicely through his hair. It creates a soft buzz under his skin, lighting up all of his senses. The way you nuzzle into him with each passing second opens something wider inside of him, a horrible craving that he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to fully satiate. Not if you continue to shut him out emotionally… he has to occupy more than your body, he thinks. He wants your mind and your sense of humor and your trust, too. It will take a lot, he knows, but Dex feels that he’s just committed himself to obtaining it. Obtaining all of you. 

He can bring your walls down. Chip away at it, little by little, day by day for a very long time because the fact of the matter is he isn’t going to leave. 

Not even if you beg him to.

Previous Chapter 12 · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Next Chapter 14

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——————

Your boyfriend hides things from you. You don’t mind it. Everyone has secrets, old aches and wounds from the past that they would rather not reopen. Dex has more than most. You would never push him to reveal them to you, never pressure him to speak about anything that causes too much pain. When he wants to talk about them — if he ever wants to — you’ll be there.

His emotional issues and the strain they’ve put on your relationship stem from a past he hasn’t been willing to describe, although you’ve gathered over your time together that it began when he was very young. When those issues arise, you talk it over with him in a gentle tone.

“Baby, I know you’re anxious, but we talked about this. I promised my friend I’d go out with her tonight.”

“Dex, honey, I just need some space. Relax—just breathe, ok? I’m not leaving, I’ll just be in the other room.”

To his credit, he tries. Tries to breathe through the anxiety. To trust that you still love him, even when his thoughts are loud and grating. To not be too much. There are good days and bad, but you try to keep him grounded through all of it, praising him for his progress and thanking him for all the work he’s done to be better for you.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you for trying. I know this isn’t easy.”

And maybe you should be worried about all of it. About how dependent he’s become on you for support and stability. How he looks to you for validation always, his eyes watching your face for any sign of disapproval. How the slightest sense that you’re pulling away can send him spiraling.

You should worry, maybe, about how much you enjoy it. Dex needs an anchor; you’re it. The only thing keeping him grounded and steady through the storms of his emotions.

What Dex needs is patience, and someone willing to listen whenever — if ever — he decides to open up.

So when he asks you to get rough with him in the bedroom, you don’t pry. Dex likes it when you push him around. When you bite and scratch just a little too hard. When you tease him for his clinginess, his neediness. It’s fun to be a little mean during sex. Playful. You don’t think anything of it.

For Dex, it isn’t quite enough. He asks you to be rougher. Meaner. He brings it up while you’re on top of him with a hand wrapped firmly around his neck. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pressure. The tensing and bobbing of his throat as he swallows beneath the pads of your fingertips. The request is breathless and desperate.

“Harder. Please, harder.”

You tighten your fingers where they rest around his throat, feeling the muscle and tendons underneath his skin. The hitch of his breath as that pressure increases. Dex groans and rolls his hips, rutting up into you. His face twists in frustration.

“Harder,” he repeats.

Your grip tightens again, and now his breath really is strained. Rasping underneath the heat of your palm where it presses against his airway. His hips roll underneath you again and the movement is tense, irritated. He grits his teeth, muscles clenching at his jaw, and you’re about to slow down, to ask him what’s wrong, when his hand flies up to cover yours and squeezes.

He clamps down on his throat with his own calloused fingers, forcing you into a grip more powerful than you’re comfortable with. In the beginning it was fun. Now it’s starting to feel violent.

You try to pull your hand away but he holds firm, locking you into place with ease.

“Dex,” you say. “That’s—this is too much. Relax.”

The skin of his face is blooming red all over, brows pinched, mouth slack as his hips drive up, up into you. His grip around your hand is almost painful, fingers locked over yours, and you can feel his throat clench and spasm under your palm as he tries and fails to suck in a breath. He’s strangling himself, actually strangling, and he’s making you do it.

“Enough. That’s enough,” you say with another futile tug at your hand. This is not fun anymore. Something cold and heavy is pooling in your gut, and for the first time since you’ve been together, Dex is making you feel scared. You plant your other hand on his chest and pull hard at your arm. This needs to stop now.

Beneath you, Dex’s mouth pulls into a snarl. His other hand snaps to your arm where it’s braced against his chest and he locks you into place with it, like he can’t hear you at all, like he’s not going to let you go. Panic skitters up your spine.

“Dex, stop!”

Something inside him breaks back to the surface at the fear in your voice. His eyes snap open, face going slack with shock, and when his fingers release you snatch both of your hands away from him. He’s sucking in hungry breaths and looking at you like you’ve just struck him. For one charged moment, you think you could. Rear back and slap him for what he just put you through. You curl your fingers into fists and resist the ugly urge.

“What–what is wrong with you?” you say, and immediately regret it. You never speak to Dex like that. Never insult him or degrade him or imply that he’s broken, like he so deeply believes he is. You shift on top of him, to slide off of his member and end this session that got far, far out of hand, but Dex’s hands snap to your hips before you can leave and he sits up, chest pressing against yours and eliminating any distance you put between him.

“No!” he says, panicked. He seems to realize that he’s forcing you to do something you don’t want again, and his hands ease and slide up and down your waist in soothing, shaky strokes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But it’s always been there. I was born wrong and I—I need you—I want you to hurt me.”

His eyes are almost manic as he stares up at you. You stare back, nerves still wrecked, as you struggle to form a response to his frantic rambling.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Dex,” you say slowly. He sniffles and you realize he’s got tears welling up in his eyes, red around the rims.

“I want you to hurt me,” he says. “I want you to hit me. I—I deserve it, right? For scaring you? You can hit me. You can hurt me for it. I deserve it. I’m sorry. I deserve it.” During his babbling, he’s pressed his face into your body, his mouth hot and wet against your skin.

In your mind, a thought is forming. A vague understanding of where this outburst has come from. The old wounds he’s been picking at, aches that he’s never spoken but that you’ve seen the lingering evidence of. Through your anger a dull ache begins to thrum in your heart, and you drop a hand to the top of Dex’s head. The action isn’t quite comforting. Your fingers are tense with your agitation, still simmering under your skin.

“You don’t deserve to be hurt,” you say slowly. “You just need to calm down.”

“I do,” he argues into your body. “I do. I deserve it. I didn’t listen, I didn’t—I wasn’t good. I deserve it.”

His hips roll again, a stilted little movement that has him hiccuping into you. Against the skin of your chest you feel a damp warmth where Dex has finally begun to cry, his tears catching between his face and your body. His shoulders shake with ragged breaths, and despite their broad width he feels small below you. As if he’s shrinking in on himself.

He ruts into you until he’s trembling, fingers clenching against your hips, voice catching mid-babble as he pulses inside of you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—nngh.”

He spills inside of you as you watch in numb silence, your hand a weight against the back of his sweaty head. You sit, unmoving, as he sucks in breaths. Eyes on the wall. White. Empty.

When he’s slipped out of you without meeting your eyes, head bowed like a dog caught chewing the furniture, you slump against the headboard without speaking. Dex is panting where you’ve left him, a clarity returning to his eyes as he comes down from whatever manic space he’d sunk into. His fingers fidget with the sheets. From the corner of your eye, you can see him watching you, gauging your expression for how upset you are.

He crawls up the bed to lay beside you, his hand reaching for yours and stopping just short, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. The sound of both of you breathing is the only noise in the dim room.

In the time you’ve been together, nothing like this has happened. Dex has his issues, but he’s always been sweet to you. At times even excessively so. Eager to please. He’s never ignored you like this, and he’s never forced you into something you asked him not to. Especially not during sex. You swallow the thought down, bitter in the back of your mouth.

“You’re mad at me,” Dex says. His voice has leveled out again, tired and anxious but not frenetic. “I—I messed up, didn’t I?”

You take in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow exhale. “Yeah. You did.”

Dex shifts next to you and you feel his fingers clench in the sheet next to your hands. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, you’re not,” you say. “You’re upset that I’m mad at you.” You don’t know if he’s ever been sorry for anything in his life. Sorry isn’t something Dex feels. Guilt is not an emotion he’s familiar with. Anxiety, yes. Fear of being left. Fear of not being good enough. But not sorry.

“That can’t ever happen again,” you say.

“It won’t,” Dex answers quickly. “It won’t. I swear. I won’t scare you again. I won’t make you do anything you don’t like.”

“If you want to try something new in bed, something . . . intense,” you begin. “You have to ask me first. We have to talk about it.”

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”

A silence stretches between the two of you. Even in the dark you feel Dex’s eyes on you, watching and assessing. Always studying for your mood. Outside, in the streets below the window, a siren wails and rushes past, the sound dull and muffled. Dex extends a finger towards your hands, linking his pinky tentatively with yours.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks.

You sigh. A moment passes, and you consider letting the silence hang, leaving him to stew in his anxiety. But you’ve never been very good at denying him. You curl your pinky around his and he sighs at the contact, relief softening his features as he drags your hand to his mouth, greedy for your touch. He presses the back of your hand to his lips, breath hot against your fingers.

You suppose you should shower. Brush your teeth and go to bed. Probably have another conversation about this in the morning, just to make sure Dex understands that it can’t ever, ever happen again. Before you can rise you feel his mouth move against you.

“If we do talk about it,” he starts, voice small. “If I tell you what I want first, you’ll do it?”

You sigh and grit your teeth. Squeeze his hand and stand from the bed.

“We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

———

Days later you stand in the hall bathroom in a t-shirt and underwear, staring yourself down in the pristine mirror. Not a speck mars its perfect finish — Dex and his compulsive cleanliness keeps the apartment as spotless as a showroom. You try to help where you can, sweeping, wiping down counters, scrubbing dishes. Dex inevitably follows behind you and repeats the work you’ve just done. It isn’t just about the cleanliness. It’s about the ritual. The routine of sterilizing the space himself.

Dex loves his routines. Loves order. Loves rules. You’d given him a lot of those after he told you what he wanted from you. A very long conversation and a few tears from him followed.

“Why do you want this, Dex?” you had asked him. He stared at you with an emotion you couldnt quiet place behind his eyes, heavy and intense.

“Because I trust you,” he said. “Because—because I trust you not to hurt me.”

Hurt as in mentally. Emotionally. The kind that would leave lasting scars on his already damaged psyche. The physical pain, he very much wanted.

And somewhere underneath his voice, quiet but sure, you thought you heard the words unspoken.

Because I trust you not to hurt me like they did.

Dex didn’t want a safeword. Didn’t want to hear you explain the stoplight system — green for continue, yellow for slow down, red for stop immediately. You made him learn it anyway and repeat it back to you, to his chagrin.

You know that behind the bedroom door Dex is laying right where you left him, bare-bodied and handcuffed to the headboard. You had cinched the cuffs around his wrists with a gentleness few others would offer to a killer. But this was your Dex. You can’t help but be soft with him. At least, until it’s time to begin.

In the mirror, your lips are still flushed lightly from when you had kissed him slow and deep, before leaving him with a soft “I love you” and a reminder to use his safe words. He huffed into your mouth. You stood and shut the door behind you.

That was ten minutes ago. It’s time for you to go back in.

Dex wouldn’t tell you where this request had come from. Wouldn’t explain his reason for wanting you to do everything he had asked of you. But you could infer. Dex wanted you to help him, in his own damaged way. Wanted you to soothe an ache he had lived with long before meeting you. And helping Dex was what you did; what you would always do. As you made your way back into the hallway and outside of the bedroom door, a part of you hesitated to do what came next, to play your role in this performance, but another part was thrumming with anticipation.

Dex wanted you to make him feel worse, and then better. No one in the world knew how to make Dex feel better than you.

You push open the door. At the other end of the room, Dex lies on the bed, naked except for his sock-covered feet and looking at you with the weariness of a caged animal. You take a long moment to rake your eyes over him, the strong muscles of his body, the red marks on his wrists where he’s pulled at the cuffs while you were gone, his cock lying soft against his leg. You move across the room in languid strides, coming around to stare down at him from the side of the bed. His chest rises and falls in barely-controlled breaths, the tension in his body betraying that he’s already worked himself up into fear.

“Don’t look so scared,” you say, your voice a perfect mask of indifference. “We both know you’ll enjoy this.”

The line of Dex’s mouth presses flat. He doesn’t respond. You bend and tug open a drawer in the nightstand by the bed, rummaging in it for one special item. Your hand closes around it and you take a moment to feel its weight, the smooth silicone of the shaft, the soft leather of the harness. When you stand and dangle the strap from your hand, displaying it like a threat to the man in front of you, his nostrils flare at the sight of it — and his cock twitches. The corner of your mouth tugs up.

“See?” you simper. “If you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t have pissed me off.” You step into the harness smoothly, cinching the straps around your thighs and hips. The weight of the dildo is familiar, and you trace a finger from the tip to the base, watching it bob between your hips. Dex’s eyes are fixed on it, pupils blown wide.

“You know what happens when you disobey,” you say conversationally. “So I don’t want to hear you bitching and crying when you take it.”

You swing a leg onto the bed, climbing between his thighs and he flinches like he’s going to resist. You swat him on the ass — hard.

“Uh-uh,” you chide him, voice low. “I can make this a lot worse for you, sweetheart.” You snatch his ankle in one hand and heft the leg up into the air, swinging underneath it and positioning yourself between his hips. His body is tense and flushed before you, sweat already beginning to dot his chest and neck. You lower the leg to rest on your shoulder, tracing a finger down the outer length of his muscled thigh. He shivers and tries to pull away, but you pin him against your shoulder and graze his calf with your teeth. Tasting the salt on his skin, already dotted with nervous perspiration.

“Look at you,” you sigh against his skin. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty. I guess it’s the only thing you’re good for anymore.”

From where it’s pressed into his calf, you let a hand trace down the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, drifting nearly to the crease where it meets his pelvis and sending more shivers across the muscle while you continue sucking and nipping at him. Between his hips his cock kicks again, and you laugh, dragging your fingertip to skirt around the edge of his member.

“See?” you say. “You’re already acting like a slut for it.”

A rustling from the handcuffs has you looking up just in time to see Dex spit at you, the glob of saliva landing on the front of your shirt. For a moment, you’re frozen, eyes stuck on the dark spot in the fabric. When you lift your gaze to meet his, he’s staring back at you with whatever defiance he can muster. It’s less than you know he’s capable of, in different circumstances. When he isn’t naked and restrained.

“Fuck you,” he says, but his voice lacks the fight you would expect. Instead he sounds . . . resigned. Like he already knows what’s coming, and that he can’t stop it.

Your mouth breaks into a grin that doesn’t reach your eyes. You laugh once, clipped. “Oh no, sweetheart. I’m not the one who’s about the get fucked.”

You pitch forward and slap him. The impact lands with a crack that bounces off the walls and sends shocks through your palm. Dex gasps and you freeze, a pang of worry shooting through you that almost has you breaking the performance. You want to cup his stinging cheek in your hand, to press your mouth to his face and say you’re sorry, you’re sorry, everything’s ok — and then you see his dick beneath you, stiffening into an angry erection.

He likes it. He wanted this. He asked you for this.

You take a breath and settle.

“You must really want me to make it hurt,” you say. You shove his legs up to his chest and line up the tip of your strap with his hole. “And you know what, baby? I’ll give it to you exactly how you want it.”

You push inside of him in one fluid thrust. A strangled sound punches out of Dex from his gut and his entire body pulls tight, arching and curling against the bed. You would be struck with worry again, if you hadn’t stretched him out with a finger and lube just minutes before. Not enough to fully prepare him, but enough to blunt the pain. You place your hands on his thighs and press them into his chest as he takes deep, ragged breaths, eyes scrunched shut and face screwed up.

“There’s my pretty whore,” you coo. “Always desperate to get fucked. Is this why you’re always being so fuckin’ difficult? You just want my attention? Want my cock inside of you?”

Dex takes a sharp breath. “I—I’m not a whore,” he says weakly.

“No?” you reply. “But you take it so ___well.” You punctuate the sentence with a slam of your hips, punching into him with force. “You like being used. You like getting fucked. You’d let me take you whenever I want, wouldn’t you?”

The pace you set has Dex groaning, choked and raspy. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No, no, I don’t. I don’t.”

You hit him again, a sharp slap against his already red cheek.

“What did I say about crying?” you say, voice low. “If you can’t stay quiet maybe you should roll over and whine into the pillow. Ass up.”

You pull out of him at once and Dex jerks as the head slides out of him with a wet pop. With clumsy movements he scrambles to turn over, the chain of the cuffs twisting, burying his face in the pillow and presenting himself exactly as you ordered, hips up and waiting. You smooth a hand over the curve of his ass. The muscle trembles under your palm.

“See? You do know how to listen.” When you line up the dildo with his hole again, you take a moment to linger, tracing the tip around his opening as he tenses up underneath you. He clenches around nothing, his body practically vibrating with nerves. From here, you have a perfect view of the jagged scar that follows the length of his spine. Another permanent reminder of the abuse his body has taken.

When you press inside him again he groans low into the pillow, the sound muffled into the soft fabric. You curl your fingers into his hair and wrench his head back, and he rewards you with another pitiful noise. You just told him to be quiet, but fuck it. You want to hear him when he moans.

You set a brutal pace again, hips snapping against his ass as he cries.

“You love it,” you say with effort, you breath becoming heavy with exertion. “You were practically begging me to fuck you.”

“I wasn’t,” he cries. “I don’t! I don’t like it.”

“No?” you ask, releasing his hair and letting his forehead drop to the bed beneath him. “You know what happens. If you don’t want it,” you say, punctuating your next words with unforgiving punches of your hips. “Then why do you always—piss me—off?”

Dex wails into the bed. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to,” he cries. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t want it!”

Dex cries into the bed with earnest. That ache in your heart starts up again, thrumming beneath the surface.

“I never—never wanted it. I didn’t want it then, and I didn’t want it when — when they put me in — they told me I wouldn’t be there, they said I would be in solitary.”

Your pace stutters. Something hot is building behind your eyes, and Dex’s shoulders are wracking with sobs as he babbles into the sheets.

“Dex,” you say, your voice a touch too soft to be in character. “What’s your color?”

“Green,” he gasps. “Green. I’m green.”

You continue pounding into him, sweat beading on your skin as Dex sobs underneath you. A thought creeps into your mind then. Would Dex even tell you if he needed you to slow down? If he needed you to stop? Or is he so far gone that he would let you do anything to him? At some point this could have moved from catharsis into self-flagellation, and Dex would grit his teeth and bare it because he believes he deserves it. Because he’s only ever known love through pain.

You make a decision. It’s time to tone things down. This needs to end soon.

Your hips slow into a softer grind and Dex pants into the sheets, now wet with snot and tears.

“Look at you. My pretty boy, taking my strap so well.” Dex shivers under your hands.

“You don’t like this? You don’t want it?” you coo at him.

“No,” he rambles. “No, no, no, no—“

“Shh, I know. I hear you,” you say. “Roll over for me.”

His legs shake as he turns over for you again, wincing as he rolls without losing the strap inside of him. When he slumps against the bed you settle his legs around your hips, rubbing your hands up and down the shaking muscles of his thighs.

His face is red and wet with tears, snot smeared under his nose, mouth trembling. He is absolutely wrecked. Pathetic and broken beneath you.

“Oh, baby,” you say, swiping away the snot on his face with your hand. “My poor baby. You look just pathetic.”

Dex sniffles, fresh tears sliding down his cheeks. His limbs are limp, the fight drained out of his body and mind.

“Not pathetic,” he argues weakly.

You cup his wet cheek in your palm. “Hmm,” you say, as if you’re thinking. “You don’t like it when I fuck you? You don’t like this?” You drag the tip of your strap over that spot you know makes him melt, and a moan tears from his lips. Dex jolts underneath you, his cock bouncing with the movement. His erection looks painful, red and leaking at the tip. He hasn’t been touched since you began, and you know him well enough to understand that he needs to come, soon.

You swat at his ass again, just hard enough to get his attention. “Answer me when I ask you a question, baby.”

“No,” he moans. “No, I don’t want it. I don’t —ohhh,” his voice breaks off into a keen as you stroke that spot again, rocking into him with steady movements.

“Right,” you say, leaning over him. “You don’t like it. What else does my baby not like?”

The muscles of his abdomen tense up, and you know that heat is pooling in his belly, the beginning of the slow build-up of his orgasm.

He huffs, a frustrated little breath as he tries to gather himself enough to speak. “I don’t — I don’t like it when you fuck me. Don’t like it when you touch me. When you call me — call me baby. When you, when you . . .” his eyes drift down to your mouth. “When you kiss me.”

“Oh, baby. You want a kiss?” you fold over him, taking his face in your hand and catching his mouth in a tear-damp kiss. He moans into you, panting against your mouth. Your lips work against his steady and firm, and you feel the hard length of him twitch where he’s pinned beneath your belly.

As if remembering that he doesn’t like this, not at all, he tries to turn away from you, snapping his mouth shut. You follow him, fingers grasping his chin and mouth hovering over his.

“Where you going? You don’t want anymore? You want something else?”

Your hand skims down his chest to the sensitive skin of his belly, where his cock lies hard and waiting. He jumps when you wrap your fingers around it, not stroking, but holding its weight in the warmth of your palm. Your hips are still grinding in little back-and-forth motions over that sensitive spot, and the twist of his face tells you that he’s fighting a losing battle. Tipping closer and closer over that edge.

“Is it time to come, honey? Hm? Are you ready?” His exhaustion is wearing him thin, the emotional drain of the role play breaking him down into someone small and weak below you. This is your baby. Your baby, protesting with half-hearted nonono’s as you slide your hand up his shaft and his legs begin to shake around your hips. You know what he needs. You always know what Dex needs.

Your hand moves in steady strokes, pumping him firmly as your strap works over his prostate in rhythm. His body pulls tight with the rising pressure of his climax, legs curling up into his chest, toes flexing in his socks. His lips part around an agonized “ah, ah, ah.” The strong shape of him splayed out in front of you, desperate and needy and perfect.

“There you go,” you say. “Give it to me. Let me see that pretty face.”

His orgasm spreads through him slow and thick like honey. Every inch of him reacts as it thrums under his skin, from his feet that flex and curl, thighs shaking, to the taut flex of his belly and the anxious scrunch of his brows. His cock kicks as he spurts onto the soft skin of his belly, the plane of his chest. Dex comes like it hurts, like every part of him is buzzing with a heat that overwhelms. No one else knows how to break him down like this. No one else gets to see Bullseye, big and vicious and terrifying, open up the softest and most vulnerable parts of himself.

His voice pitches up into a pained keen. “Ughnn, ughn!” Cheeks blotchy and wet. Lips pink and bitten.

“There it is,” you breathe. “There’s that pretty face.”

With one last little twitch, his cock spends the rest of his cum onto his tummy. His body stays locked up, muscles tensed and rigid, panting through his teeth as the last remnants of his climax fizzle out. You spread your palms over his thighs and rub soothing strokes up and down them, encouraging him to relax, “shh”ing him as he whimpers.

His body wracks with fine tremors, exhausted and spent. Taking mind of your own body, you realize how tired you are as well. Aching, sweaty.

That ache in your heart persists as you remember Dex’s ramblings. His mindless begging and pleas. The implications behind all of them. Dex has hurt people; you know this. But he never, ever deserved anything like that.

His voice cracks as he calls your name, quietly bringing your attention back to the present. Looking up at him you see his hands tugging at the cuffs.

“Ok, ok baby,” you say, and slide out of him. He winces as the head pulls free and you hurry to loosen the straps around your hips, tossing the strap away and crawling over him to remove the cuffs. Finally freed, he slumps into the bed and pulls his arms to his chest where you take his wrists gently in your hands, rubbing at his stiff muscles, taking care not to irritate the angry red marks where the metal bit into his skin.

He reaches for you and you collapse into him instantly. Pull him into your arms, cradle his head against your chest. He curls into you without hesitation.

“It’s ok. It’s ok, honey,” you say as his shoulders begin to shake. Fresh tears spill down his face and into the soft fabric of your shirt, the cotton muffling his weepy breaths. His crying brings heat to your own eyes, and you blink the tears back before they can fall.

“I don’t want it, I don’t want it,” he rambles into your chest.

“I know. I know, baby.” You stroke his back with a warm hand. “You’re safe.”

“I didn’t want it. I didn’t mean — didn’t mean to — to mess up again.”

“Dex,” you say. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. You didn’t mess up.”

His hands fist into your shirt as his sobs go dry. Like his tears have been spent. Like his voice has gone hoarse from all of his protesting. You hold him through it, let him listen to your heartbeat and the steady rate of your breathing.

“Just breathe, baby,” you say. “Breathe with me.”

His chest stutters as he tries to match your breathing, deep and slow and controlled. It’s an exercise you’ve done many times before, when he’s lost in a spiral he can’t end on his own. The media calls him cold and the internet calls him heartless, an unfeeling psychopath with a glaring hole where his heart should be. But you know the truth. Dex feels everything in overwhelming intensity, and never learned how to bring himself back from the highs and lows of his moods.

“There you go,” you say as his breathing begins to slow. “It’ll pass. The feeling will pass.”

Minutes pass with his head tucked into your shoulder and your hands rubbing soothing circles across his back. When he at last pulls away to look at you, his eyes are still red and weary but the panic has faded. His mind is back, the clarity in his eyes returned. You comb your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, brushing sticky strands away from his forehead.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask.

He looks away. “No.”

You won’t press him to speak. You never do.

“Ok,” you answer, and press a kiss to his brow. His skin is hot and flushed beneath your lips. Tacky with drying sweat and tears.

The room falls into silence for a moment before he speaks again, and there’s a scraped-raw quality to his voice that tugs at the strings of your heart.

“Thank you,” he begins. “For doing that for me.”

“Did it help?” you ask. “I mean, do you feel any better?”

He takes a moment to consider, brows furrowing slightly. “I think so. It feels like . . . like picking at a scab.”

Picking at a scab, or clawing into an old wound? you want to say. Instead, you say, “I want you to tell me if it’s worse. If I did anything you didn’t like.”

“You didn’t,” he says quickly. “I wanted it. I trust you.”

A part of you is anxious, fearful of the possibility that you hurt him in any way that would linger. That he would ask you to do it again.

“I don’t ever want you to use me to hurt yourself. Ok?” you say quietly.

His eyes dart away again, fixing on a spot somewhere on your shoulder. “Ok.”

The response doesn’t assure you, but the slump of his shoulders and the weight of him cuddled up against you quiets any argument building under your tongue. That conversation can happen later. Right now, there’s a stickiness coating your skin where sweat is drying down, the fabric of your shirt and the sheets underneath you clinging uncomfortably to your body. What you need is a bath and a long drink of water, for you and for the man lying limp beside you. You start to rise but he stops you with a hand around your wrist and a noise of protest scraping from the back of his throat.

“Stay,” he says.

“We’re tired. And dirty,” you say gently. “Let me run a bath for us.”

“Later,” he says. “Just stay with me. Please?”

And because you’re still no good at denying him, you simply smile and say, “ok.”

When you let him tug you back down to the bed with a hand pressed into your hair, he stares up at you with tired eyes. “Kiss?” he asks.

You press a soft kiss against his lips, warm and lingering. And then again. And again. When you both fall back into the blankets, he curls into the heat of your body again. The room is quiet, the air cool against your sticky skin. You curl your fingers through Dex’s hair again and he turns into your palm with a pleased hum.

“I love you,” he says, muffled into your shirt.

“I love you,” you answer, your lips pressed to his hair.

He falls asleep to the beat of your heart, steady and constant beside him. You lie awake for minutes after. Counting his breaths, soothing him when he jerks and twitches in his sleep. When he wakes later in the night, you’ll slip out of bed as he paws at you again, return with a warm cloth and wipe away the sweat and spend on his body. He’ll tug you back into bed and you’ll cover him with a blanket before he returns to his refuge in the crook of your neck.