#ew!writings

A week had passed since the call, Matthew’s call. You had recognized him instantly—that hoarse voice, threaded with a rough undertone, couldn’t be mistaken. He had said something along the lines of: “Due to logistical issues, your package is currently stuck in our shipping enterprise, we apologize for the inconvenience.” You had cracked a knowing smile at this ingenious method to contact you. “A receipt will be delivered to your address this afternoon,” he had continued. “Our company apologizes for any potential damage caused. Thank you for your trust.” As expected, you found a piece of paper in your mailbox later that day, an address printed across it.

A little over three years ago, Matthew and you had worked together for two consecutive months. It was during that time that you grew closer—saving each other’s lives had oddly a way of forging solid bonds. The two of you had talked a lot during those long, solitary nights. He told you about his father; you told him about your childhood. Trust—that was what defined your relationship. Trust in each other’s abilities, words, demons, actions. When he needed you, you were there. And he was, in return.

You had immediately recognized something familiar in Matt’s glassy gaze. And your intuition had only been confirmed when you saw the rage driving every one of his blows once that devil’s mask was fixed to his face. There was something like déjà vu in the scars cutting across his torso—a recognition of the fragility of his morality. All vigilantes, no matter how different their original motivations are, shared one thing: rejection of injustices. You could always see a fragment of yourself in the broken gaze of a man in a suit bearing American colors, just as much as in the tortured eyes of a green looking woman.

But with Matt, it was different. You had never asked him for stability, because you had none to offer in return. He had never looked for love in your arms, because he wasn’t capable of it himself.

You had spent several nights together though, a way of letting out everything that couldn’t find its way into words. Those were the moments when you were most alike. In that intensity. That deliberate clumsiness. Violence was part of your lives. It had seeped into your DNA from the very first blow struck in a deserted alley. You couldn’t rid yourselves of it anymore. It clung too tightly to your veins—removing it would be like tearing your blood out with your bare hands, draining it from your body while it was still keeping you alive. Violence, hatred, brutality, all those pretty words were bleeding into every act you attempt to do, no matter how small. So when the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and you spent a night tangled in the same sheets, it felt almost like a fight—liberating, intoxicating.

Consequently, when you found that address in your mailbox, when you heard the exhaustion in Matt’s voice, how could you have refused? He was your friend. One of the dearest.

You followed the numbers written in that faintly ink-scented style, ending up not far from the Red Hook docks. The sun was slowly sinking behind the buildings crowding New York, its light brushing against the calm waves below. And then, from behind an abandoned container, Matthew’s voice reached you.

“Right on time,” he greeted, a smile in his voice.

“Couldn’t miss the opportunity to see your little demon corns” you laughed, pulling him into an easy embrace.

You felt his hands gripping tight on your clothing, and you knew it meant something was wrong. 

Matthew led you up to a rooftop, as he always did. From there, the view was even more striking, and more importantly, you both were safe. AVTF agents didn’t bother coming this far during their patrols. The sky had darkened quickly, making the city lights of New York all the more vivid. Matt explained the situation—Fisk’s grip on the city, the Task Force, the damage it had caused…

“I need your help,” he said, his tone serious. You could almost picture those puppy-like eyes behind the red-tinted protection of his mask. “We need help as much as possible”

You both sat at the edge of the rooftop, legs swinging loosely at different rhythms. You had always liked these moments, when Daredevil softened in the presence of someone he trusted.

“So you only call me when you need backup? Good thing I’m not easily offended,” you teased, earning an easy smile from him.

Being around Matt always gave you the strange feeling of being seen. Not emotionally, and even less physically. But you knew his senses caught everything. That his nose captured each of your scents, that every breath you took was like a wave to his ears. It was an unsettling feeling, hard to acknowledge. He could hear your heartbeat, the blink of your eyes, the slight parting of your lips. Sometimes it was too much, overwhelming, especially at the beginning of your friendship. But over time, you learned to ignore the subtle shifts in his posture when he picked up on a shallow breath or a sudden spike in your pulse.

“So what do you have for me?” you continued.

“There’s a man, dangerous one,” he explained, his throat tight. “I need him under control, to prevent his own excess or at least to contain it.” He sounded exhausted. “He’s unstable. He wants to kill the Fisks. And I— need constant eyes on him.”

You let out a faint laugh. “So you’re asking me to babysit?”

Matthew let you glimpse his face, painted with a falsely apologetic expression, like he was about to make it worse. “Actually… I’m asking you to find him. And bring him back to HQ.”

If he had been able to see you, he probably would have laughed at your expression—eyes slightly widened, lips parted. “Why don’t you ask Jessica? She’s a damn detective and for God’s sake—” You stopped yourself from telling Matt's name out loud. “She has powers. I don’t. Do I really need to remind you?”

And there it was, that unmistakable Matthew Murdock grin. Sharp with irony. He knew exactly what he was asking. “You’re smart and Bullseye requires more intelligence than strength,” his croaky voice said. “Most people underestimate him. I know you won’t. I know you.”

And that’s how you ended up joining what you liked to call “Daredevil’s rebellious squad”.

Thick dirt was filling the air, condensed with this nauseous smell of sweat and old blood. Josy’s place had lost its typical welcoming atmosphere. You were still remembering how this bar illuminated every customer. At this time, those horrible tasting alcohols were the source of delight, the toilets’ tagged-walls were often crushed by heated bodies. This place was alive, an appreciating freeze within brutal Time.

But now, as your boot hit another pile of broken bottles, you were struggling to bring back this vanished memory.

“Any questions?” Echoed Karen’s voice from afar.

You cleared a path through the debris that had piled up over the months spent in this place. Torn chairs and sofas had been set up on either side of the room—feigning a semblance of warmth—unfamiliar faces greeted you, a faint smell of cold coffee still lingering in the air. You instinctively searched for Karen among the tired silhouettes, your only other source of comfort in this small group. She stood a little further away, one hand resting lazily on her hip as usual while the other pointed at a corkboard pinned up in front of her. It was covered in newspaper clippings, tiny printed photographs, question marks scrawled in red marker. A neatly organized puzzle that concealed the horrors Wilson Fisk was spreading across the city.

Standing across from Karen was a man dressed in an AVTF uniform, stolen a few days ago by the blonde woman. From what you had gathered, he was going to try to obtain further information by infiltrating the Task Force. God be with him, you thought with a hint of irony.

But you weren’t here for him, you had come for Daredevil.

“Know where’s Red?” you asked the blonde woman who had turned toward you. She gave you a nod, pointing toward the stairwell with the tip of her chin. The warped wooden steps caught your attention for a brief second before you thanked Karen with a polite smile.

The first floor was better lit thanks to the long windows running along the main wall. The windows had been manually covered with paper—newspaper scraps and posters—to ensure discretion within this hideout that was supposed to be abandoned. Brown was a great color—underestimated shade. Easily faded into orange, yellow. The windows of the HQ were tinted brown, which mixed with sunlight created that particular yellow glow the room was bathed in. In this new light, you could now clearly make out the dust particles drifting in the air all around you.

You had been working on the “Bullseye” case for a week now, ever since Matt’s call. Collecting his psychiatric files hadn’t been easy, but it mattered to you. You had used the security pass of one of your contacts at the Riviera Institute, then made a digital copy of the heavy patient file labeled “B.L. Poindexter.” Matthew had offered to help, providing his own experience with the man as testimony. His behavior during fights especially—details so subtle only your blind friend could perceive. The count between each active breath that signaled a strike from one side or the other, for instance. Details so minute you struggled to grasp all their uses.

He had also given you a perfect description of the placement of every weapon Bullseye carried, tracing them in the air with his hands as he spoke. When he did that, you couldn’t help but saw an artist painting a canvas with colors visible only to him—it had always fascinated you. Sometimes you wondered whether what your seeing eyes perceived was far from what his imagined, and during these wonderings you liked to play with abstract numbers to calculate the distance between your visual reality and his.

During that week of research, the city, of course, hadn’t stopped living—and God knew how fast New York had been moving since Fisk took office. Daredevil had fought Bullseye twice in such a short time. Things had accelerated for you after that. Bullseye hadn’t just tried to kill Vanessa Fisk—he had also managed to get himself shot in the abdomen. Which meant you had to find him today.

Four hours had passed since the shot—time for Daredevil to try to track the wounded man, and for you to wake up in the middle of the night to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen knocking against your kitchen window. “We have a problem,” he had said, out of breath with blood still faintly running along the edge of his jaw. From that moment, a countdown had started against your will.

This task required methodical precision—and at the same time, confusion. Benjamin Leonard Poindexter was outrageously tidy, but Bullseye—oh, Bullseye—was pure chaos. The combination of the two within a single body was terrifyingly dangerous. You understood now why Matt had called you and not Jessica. No superpowers—just a human, in all its beauty and its flaws. No alien traces in your family tree, nor super serum crawling under your skin. But you knew how to fight—more than enough to hold your own against the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Strategy was your strength—measured thoughts, a steady mind.

“How’s your back?”

“I can live with it,” Daredevil smiled, his silhouette emerging like charcoal from a shadowed corner of the room. His black suit, streaked with blood-red paint, fully came into view in the honeyed light of the floor. Out of habit, you studied the cracked textures of his “vigilante uniform”, the red carefully chosen by blind eyes that had been told what blood looked like. He pulled you into a familiar embrace, his rough gloves patting your back in a way that felt both grounding and reassuring. “What’s your plan?”

“Basically checking every shitty place around Fogwell’s,” you sighed, voice exhausted. “Pretty much all I can do with so little time.”

Matthew’s face shifted beneath his mask, apologetic. “Sorry about that,” he murmured sincerely. “I wasn’t expecting the situation to turn out chaotic, or at least not so quickly”

This room brought a small sense of comfort to your worn-out heart, its warmth lights probably helping. Of course, you believed Matt, how could he have predicted any of this mess? The fight at Fogwell’s, and now Bullseye’s attempt on Vanessa. New York was truly tipping into its worst impulses, gently pushed along by your dear mayor Wilson Fisk.

Now that Matthew had found Bullseye’s apartment, you were really struggling to pick up his trail again. He obviously hadn’t returned there—the place had been completely trashed by the AVTF anyway.

He was injured and wanted, which meant he would favor abandoned buildings over motels. Unfortunately, Hell’s Kitchen had no shortage of those. “He’ll need to heal his wound,” you had pointed out to Matt, to which he had replied, “The bullet was still inside.” Hospitals would have been the best option—if you ignored the fact that he was a vigilante. Or a criminal. Whatever label had been hung around his neck. From what you had read about him, Poindexter had never formed any real attachments, which suggested he had no contacts in the medical field who could help him.

Keen sense of smell would have helped a lot in your situation. You could have followed the cloying blood scent, or the alcohol from disinfectant. Instead, you used logic and patience.

At four in the morning, you stood in front of Fogwell’s gym shattered glass windows. Task Force agents hadn’t wasted any more time at the crime scene, quickly dispersing into the surrounding streets under Fisk’s orders. You really needed to find Bullseye before they did, otherwise you’d be bringing a corpse back to HQ—assuming they’d only shot him and not tortured him first. In that case, you might end up carrying something much lighter under your arm, like a head or some.

Searching for any trace of your target, you managed to locate the spot Matt had described to you a few minutes ago—where he’d heard the cartridge case hit the ground after the bullet lodged itself in Poindexter. Judging by the caliber, you could easily tell the man must be suffering. You slipped the evidence into one of your pockets; the AVTF didn’t need it anyway.

The place felt frozen in time, caught in some imaginary, icy beam. Overturned chairs and pools of blood were the only witnesses to the massacre that had taken place here five hours earlier. Your fingertips traced the outline of a mark left by one of Bullseye’s knives—he put so much force behind his throws that even a blade that thin had managed to carve into the concrete wall used as a rebound surface, before embedding itself into an eye or any other exposed part of an agent.

You were impressed. Honestly, you truly were impressed by his skill.

Chasing, hunting, was part of your job. The intensity, the thrill—the sharp rush of adrenaline when you finally locked your target. But this time, there was something else. Something you couldn’t quite shake, couldn’t quite put into words. Every mission was different, it could end in a quick fight or stretch into a hunt lasting months. Either way, you slipped into the other person’s mind. It was instinctive—a way to cover your back.

But Bullseye was different. You struggled to process the fact that he stirred a knot of excitement deep in your stomach. This hunt entertained you—more than you ever allowed others to. He was intelligent. Erratic. And there was something strangely human beneath the hysteria that defined him. Matt’s words had only confirmed what you’d already gathered from the psychiatric files. He was euphoric, psychoactive. Emotional in his own way. Matt lost control more easily around him, as if Bullseye released something into the air—something contagious, something that slipped into every organic cell already weakened by it.

He didn’t only act incoherently, he put logic into it. He genuinely believed he was helping Matt by killing the Fisks himself. So it wasn’t quite hard to picture the confusion that must have settled in when Matt met him with nothing but disappointment.

How am I supposed to find him? you exhaled, rubbing your hands over your face as if you could mix your thoughts together and force something useful out of them. You stepped over the jagged edges of the broken glass again, careful not to slice your skin. Your gaze swept over the surroundings, searching for any additional clue in the dusty sketch of alleys ahead of you.

A pigeon flickered into the corner of your vision, your eyes instinctively following its grey shape. That’s when you saw it—your way out.

Flying. Not literally, but you needed height, enough to map out the possible places to search. Where Daredevil climbed to hear the city, you would need to see it.

Your foot pushed off against a dumpster, propelling you with little effort toward the nearest wall. Your hands caught the edge of a window, allowing you to pull yourself up onto the roof of the small building. Straightening your full height, you looked around. From up here, the streets formed a puzzle with strangely linear edges—a map you had learned to read over the years spent carrying out your vigilante work. New York was a disturbed city, broken down to its deepest roots, but it was your home, a home for all of yours.

You methodically analyzed the landscape. From here, you could hear the Task Force sirens more clearly, only a few streets away. They were looking for him. Fisk most certainly wanted his skin hanging high like a trophy above his marital bed—or perhaps laid out like some gory rug.

The nearest church’s bells rang loudly behind, making you almost flinch. The church, you thought instantly, of course the church!

You turned, now facing the sacred building. Didn’t think twice, your feet carrying you into a run that let you leap onto the neighboring roof. The concrete almost vibrated beneath your soles. You quickly mapped out the path ahead, repeating the motion from one rooftop to the next until you reached a point just a few meters from the church.

Forgive me Lord, you murmured as you landed on the slanted roof of the holy place. Matt clung to the Catholic cross often enough—a simple jump didn’t feel nearly as blasphemous.

The old linoleum floor squeaked beneath your feet as you entered the building thanks to a left open window, the faint cry echoing through the emptiness. The priest Matthew had mentioned didn’t seem to be there, you were alone in the now remaining silence.

A pale light followed your steps as you moved down the long corridor. You were walking on a mezzanine, kind of balcony overlooking the most frequented part of the church. From here, you had a clear view of the rows of benches below.

You never found yourself at ease in empty churches. This feeling never failed to provoke shivers down your nape. You had this sensation that they weren’t meant to be empty, that they weren’t allowed to be. That something was always hiding in the smallest corners, watching you—spying on you. God’s eye, or moral conscience, whatever you liked to name it.

You moved forward carefully across the creaking floorboards, each step making your presence more known within the space. One reassuring thought lingered, Bullseye was weakened. But he was still dangerous. Even half-dead, he was just as lethal as a snake bite—precise, painful.

Blood. There was a trace of blood. A cloud undressed the sun enough to allow you to catch the faint gleam of those scarlet stains below. Once, you had found Daredevil covered in his own blood here, beneath this sacred place, in a spacious basement where you had assumed he hid during that time. Maybe Bullseye had followed the same idea.

You didn’t hesitate any longer. If he was somewhere beneath your feet, dying, you needed to find him.

Your palm rested slowly against the already half-open door leading to the basement. Fingers tightening around the metal handle of your knife, every muscle already tense. You pushed the door open, forcing your eyes to adjust as quickly as possible to the darkness swallowing the room.

A narrow entryway, split by a staircase carved directly into the stone. The damp smell in the air almost masked that metallic, iron hint—blood. He had to be here.

You descended the stairs carefully, one hand already resting on a dagger tucked into one of the pockets lining your belt. Guns weren’t your thing. You were good in close combat, in dodge—strategy was far more effective than a bullet. And with this enemy, even a bullet fired from your own weapon could easily turn against you.

You heard sounds at the bottom of the stairs — whispers. A single voice, young, nervous. Your steps landed steadily against the worn stone, your back pressed against the damp wall.

“I must call a doctor sir” the voice trembled, stress was consummating the already tightened man’s throat.

That’s when you heard your target, as distant as a door slamming somewhere far away: “Don’t you dare, Father.”

So the priest was with him, held hostage by his own devotion. To save. To help. Even criminals. You needed to avoid any damage—avoid having a shard of stained glass lodged between the boy’s eyes.

“But you’re losing too much—” the priest cut himself off as he saw your face emerge into the room. The relief in his eyes was quickly shadowed by fear, the kind that imagines one more presence might tip the balance toward death. Die with the Lord, every believer must dream of it.

Your gaze instinctively fell on the body slumped against a bookshelf. Bullseye, in all his glory.

You gave the priest a head tilt, signaling the exit. He hesitated, glancing at the wounded man before looking back at you. In his brown eyes, you read concern and a lack of trust toward your unsettling silhouette. Maybe it was the dark circles beneath your eyes, staining them with something almost raw. Or maybe it was something else—the way you carried yourself, that determination reeking desperation. Maybe he saw marks a demon might have left behind your shoulders. Or simply emptiness—your dearest friend—holding you tightly enough to pierce its mesmerizing claws into your flesh.

You looked away, suddenly suffocated by God’s crooked gaze. The priest obeyed your silent request, his footsteps echoing behind you as he left the room.

Blood framed Bullseye’s body, already sketching the outline of one of those chalk silhouettes from crime scenes. You stepped forward, taking in his features. Even with this unfamiliar form, you recognized him. You could picture the unshakable precision of his muscles—something you had only ever heard described by Matt. Those muscles worked like oil for the true machine, center of his body: his mind.

His mind was the weapon you should fear.

Pigeons saw different layers of reality—sharper, more vivid than ours. Benjamin Poindexter was a pigeon in his own meaning.

You knew that, to his eyes, your body was nothing more than a map not yet annotated. Distances. Mass. That was what his cola-brown eyes were searching on your skin. Within seconds, your gravity center was calculated, measured along the force behind your strikes.

But behind that façade, you saw something else, a wall beginning to crack under your gaze. He was smiling. Not the kind of smile that could be described as a grin—something else. Something you couldn’t put into words. Words, that what had been stripped from you the moment you started breathing the same air as him. Not in a lovely way, nothing similar to those fawning romance starts.

But you felt it—that God’s crooked gaze was no longer fixed on you alone. That emptiness, your closest companion, no longer had its claws buried only in your flesh.

“You need to come with me,” you said, your voice strangely familiar—like those mothers used to scold their child, firm yet still laced with uncontrollable softness.

“Who the hell are you” Not quite a question, because somewhere deep inside him, something was already telling him to pull back his claws, to bare no teeth.

You sighed, as if you were already carrying the weight of his injured body on your shoulders. The rest of the room had almost disappeared from your mental map. Almost. You took another step forward, muscles still tense despite the low, steady hum settling in your mind. The man lying before you made a weak attempt to sit up—as if trying to gather the scattered pieces of his thoughts, to rebuild what you were already dismantling against your will.

“I’m here to save your ass,” your footsteps echoed louder than expected. “Task Force are tearing the city apart to drag you to slaughter. We need to get out of here.”

A deep laugh shattered the atmosphere, breaking the silence into something that sent a chill through the air. Bullseye apparently found it hilarious. You frowned, half irritated, half intrigued by what that reaction meant.

“I don’t deserve mercy,” he argued between blood-laced coughs. “I did what I had to. Let me die here.”

Mercy. Forgiveness. Absolution. Pardon. Pretty words blurred beyond recognition with the rise of vigilantes like you. Like him. Who decides what is right or wrong? Who delivers justice? Who stands still and watches?

This time, it was your turn to let out a short, dry laugh, teeth clenched. “You’re fucking insane, get up” you said as you closed the lasting distance between you.

Your hands gripped the man’s left arm from underneath, pulling him off the ground. You could feel his muscles tense beneath your fingers—but not to help you. No, he was deliberately making himself heavier.

“Get your hands off me!” he growled, shoving you back with bloodied hands, leaving dark stains across your black clothing.

You hissed through your teeth—not out of irritation or pain, but because the impact of his hands against your bicep resonated deeper in you than it should have.

You were friends with Matthew fucking Murdock, so one more stubborn man wasn’t going to make you back down that easily. You grabbed him again, sliding your hands beneath his arms to haul him up against the wall his back had been resting on. A string of insults and pained groans was thrown at your impassive face. In other circumstances, it might have made you step back—pull your hands away—but his strength had been draining with every drop of blood lost over those five long hours.

And yet, as you restrained his clumsy attempts to push you away, you couldn’t ignore the almost deliberate weakness in his movements. Even half-dead, Bullseye was still Bullseye. Weapons were within reach all around your belt, brushing against his trembling fingers. But he didn’t use them. Just like he didn’t truly use his strength to resist.

You managed to get him fully upright, his weight naturally settling against your side. He had calmed down—maybe he cared more about staying alive than he let on.

You both stepped out of the confined space, the air growing increasingly suffocating. The priest was waiting at the basement exit, his black robe wrinkled by nervous hands, looking almost like a ghost in the wash of early morning light. He offered his help to carry the wounded man—martyr in a man of God’s hands, what an irony.

As you weaved past the rows of benches, you couldn’t help but imagine the blood now staining the priest’s immaculate clothing. Maybe he was used to the stubborn traces left behind by dried blood, at least you hoped so. Otherwise, he would truly suffer trying to rid his clothes of it. You had long since given up on that idea yourself—black clothing became your best ally.

The silence pressing into your ears was anything but peaceful, filled instead with everything left unsaid. For a moment, you wondered if Bullseye was even still alive, but you could still feel his hand gripping hard on your shoulder to stay upright.

The lighter stained glass of the door filled the exit with muted color. Despite yourself, you noticed the carefully arranged fleur-de-lis patterns and the simple decorative shapes embedded in the glass. Your ears searched for any threatening sound on the other side, but all you heard was the usual breath of Hell’s Kitchen.

In one motion, you turned toward the priest, who helped you settle Bullseye against the wall behind. Your gaze drifted briefly across the man’s features, noting the natural bounce of the dark brown curls framing his face.

“Thank you, Father,” you whispered.

He nodded in response, his expression still that of an injured animal. “God bless both of you.”

You didn’t answer—God hadn’t set his sanctified gaze on you in a long time. You pushed open the door to your left before taking the full weight of your mission back onto your shoulders.

He clung to you, fingers digging into your shoulder bone. Holding on—to you, to life perhaps.

The alley you stood in opened onto a main street, something to avoid. The sun was already too high in the sky to move freely through the city. AVTF agents were deployed across New York again, and if they weren’t completely incompetent, they would soon return to the crime scene to search the area once more for the man in your arms. Waiting here for nightfall wasn’t an option, so you must came up with something quickly.

“Cat got your tongue?” Bullseye muttered with a weak laugh, his head barely supported by his neck muscles. “That’s what happens when you save sinners from divine judgment.”

“Shut up,” you murmured, more out of reflex than intent. “There’s no divine judgment in this shitty place.”

Your muscles strained under his weight, but you had endured worse. You exhaled slowly, clearing your mind. You’d have to stick to narrower, less-traveled streets—the ones used by people like you. Those who knew the darkness of this neighborhood better than its tourist spots. It was risky, but it was the only option.

“Your horned friend wouldn’t be happy hearing that,” the bloodied blond shot back.

You froze for a second. “How did you know?” you asked, already starting to move again.

You crossed the street as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the groans brushing against your ears. A car passed behind you just as you pulled both of you down behind a dumpster. The stench of garbage filled your lungs, making you scrunch your nose even more than the smell of blood did.

“He already tried to save me, I’m not an idiot,” your companion muttered, resting briefly against the wall. “And you have something— like him,” he added, voice trailing off, his nose twitching in a nervous reflex.

You tried not to dwell on his last words, unsure how to interpret them. It wasn’t the first time someone had told you that. Karen had implied it the first time you met. “I understand now why he likes you so much. You’re similar,” she had said, her voice carrying that knowing undertone.

Josie’s bar wasn’t far in terms of distance—maybe two hundred meters—but measured in the steps of a man who had been shot and was wanted across the entire city, it felt like twice that.

You were moving slowly, and the pauses you were forced to take every time a voice rose or an engine roared too close didn’t help. But you had all the time in the world. It’s not like the man beside you was still losing blood, did it? About that, you took advantage of a quiet corner to improvise a bandage. Pulling adhesive tape from your pocket—something you had brought along in anticipation of this exact situation—you managed, despite Bullseye’s protests, to stop the bleeding. At least for now.

Your gaze swept left and right across the street you needed to cross to finally reach your destination. Bullseye rested behind a pile of cardboard while you cleared the way.

He seemed to have come to terms, somewhat, with the idea of being saved—even if he didn’t look enthusiastic about it. During your improvised journey, he had forced conversation between the two of you, filling a silence that had likely become too heavy to bear. Just a few sentences, not enough to seem invested, but enough to get under your skin.

“So no divine judgment for you?” he had asked between coughs.

“I wouldn’t be here if it existed,” you had replied, trying to end the conversation. But you felt his gaze linger on you, pulling more words from your mouth: “This city its people are  forgotten from God. That’s all.” And in the way he looked away, you knew he understood exactly what you meant.

Churches were often empty in Hell’s Kitchen. People no longer bothered to show up for words whispered into void. When Matt spoke to you about his faith, you never argued—because when he spoke, you believed it too. Sometimes, you believed in the possibility of divine justice. And then you stepped outside. A woman was assaulted, another killed. And when you turned on the TV, Fisk filled the screen, his scarred face barely concealed beneath layers of makeup.

There had to be a place on Earth to dump the waste. Even God had a trash heap. It just so happened that you lived in it.

“Come on, we’re almost there,” you murmured, a note of encouragement in your voice that surprised even you.

The alley opened onto a stretch of shops, most of them abandoned since the incident. Josie’s had once kept this part of the neighborhood alive but after it closed, the others followed. Here, you could lower your guard slightly. No one came down this street anymore. No one but people like you. Trash had piled up in the corners of old restaurants. Windows were shattered, poorly patched with pieces of cardboard. A gust of wind brushed against your bodies, making the man at your side shudder on unsteady legs.

He had been quiet for several minutes now. His grip around you had weakened. He was still alive—you could feel his ragged breathing against you.

Out of curiosity, you lowered your gaze toward him and saw his eyes closed, his face slack despite himself. He looked harmless like this. A deer struck by a car. The sudden shift in weight told you he had finally slipped out of consciousness. His legs dragged behind him like an anchor, forcing you to tighten your hold around his waist to keep him upright. No light escaped from behind the paper-covered windows. That was a good sign.

You pressed your cold hand against the glass of the front door, pushing it open with what strength you had left. Your heart hammered against your ribs—from the effort, and perhaps also from the blond head resting against your chest, tapping faintly in a steady, almost soothing rhythm against your tense muscle. Your tired eyes lingered a moment longer on the image Benjamin Leonard Poindexter offered you. Here, you only saw him—not Bullseye. In the fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes, in the blood drying in his dust-streaked hair. It was hard to see the man with flawless aim in this state. He appeared when he opened his eyes—when, deep in his pupils, you caught a color that mirrored something in your own reflection. He was there when a laugh thick with desperation tore through his throat.

But when he slept, it was as if a fire had dimmed. A fire that usually burned through every part of him.

As if he were extinguished—held upright only by your strength. As if Bullseye himself had gone out. As if the flame that kept him standing had burned itself to ash, leaving behind only a shell and embers.

And yet, as you kept moving forward, you thought back to the look you two had exchanged in that church basement. And maybe that even awake the shell and the ashes were still there, drifting in the light stirred by that same flame.

“Oh my God—” Karen’s voice struck like a blow as you stepped inside.

The filthy floor of the HQ welcomed your heavy steps. You lifted your gaze from the man against you, meeting Karen’s shaken expression.

She clearly hadn’t been told who you’d been searching for these past few days. You had assumed Matt, as her boyfriend, would have told her—but apparently not. He never changed. Always carrying secrets too heavy for himself. Of course, you thought of Foggy. You had, the moment Matt asked for your help. You hadn’t really known him—back then, you were part of the hidden side of Matthew Murdock. The one kept in a half-open jar, waiting for him to crack.

“Where’s Red?”

You lowered Bullseye against the wall with a care that made you swallow hard. Others were in the room, Angela among them. They stared at you, mouths slightly open. You hated how used to that look you had become. The disgust you felt toward yourself because of it. They looked at you like a circus animal—half impressed by your tricks, half repulsed by what you were.

Karen ran a hand over her forehead, a bitter smile curling on her lips as she turned away from the sight you had brought in. “Upstairs.” You knew she wasn’t personally angry at you. You weren’t directly involved—but she needed time to process.

The fingerless gloves clinging to your hands only worsened the burning sensation spreading through your body. You pulled them off in a sharp motion, shoving them into your back pocket. The dust in the room felt even more suffocating than the stale air of the church. You glanced toward the stairs, then turned back to retrieve the body you’d been dragging for the past hour. You weren’t about to leave him unattended—not here. Or you were afraid to come back to find him bruised, or with a hole in his skull.

Circus animals without cages always end up with peanuts thrown at their faces.

The stairs creaked under your combined weight, announcing your presence even though you knew Matt had heard you coming from halfway down the street.

“Little help maybe?” his voice echoed, naturally deeper with the horned mask fixed to his face. You could hear the smile in the slight curve of his words.

You shot him a look—half annoyed, half amused—and jerked your head for him to take the weight off you. Together, you dropped Bullseye onto the cot set up in the room. His body bounced slightly on impact. He was still out, deeply submerged in unconscious dreams.

“Tell me,” Matt said, sitting down on a chair he dragged closer, “where did you find him?”

You stayed on your feet out of habit, your hands resting loosely on your hips. “Church, yours,” you finally said, already seeing Matt’s features shift into confusion. He gave a vague shake of his head before bringing it into his hands, as if they could somehow bear the weight of the thoughts pressing down on him. You gave him the time he needed to process it. Your hand came to rest instinctively on his shoulder, offering support in a way you knew he understood.

His hand tapped lightly against yours, thoughtful—then he straightened. He had removed his mask when he recognized your heartbeat in the street, so you could now see his face fully, unobstructed.

“Go get some rest. You look like you need it,” he finally added, reaching into the back of the couch to pull out a phone—the one he and Karen used to contact people without being traced. The one he had used to call you. “I’ll call a friend for him. A nurse.”

You could only nod, your muscles giving in as you let yourself fall onto the couch. The springs shifted beneath your side, creating the illusion of comfort along your ribs.

Red—the fabric stretched tightly across it. Marbled—its texture trembling under your exhausted fingers. Dusty—its smell filling your lungs with every breath.

And further away, stretched out in front of you, perfectly aligned in your field of vision, the last embers of a fire like yours flickered faintly. A fire that had burned beside you for an hour. Spitting sparks at your impassive face. Its black smoke had filled your lungs, staining them slowly with its poison—only to realize they had always been that same unhealthy color.

He slept despite himself. His intensity forcing him into rest. Deep down, you hoped that when he woke, the fire would burn again.

Your eyelids closed, pulled under by your own imposed exhaustion. And you shamefully imagined that when you woke up, Poindexter’s brown eyes would be fixed on yours again.

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Cloud’s shapes are precious, from his eyes. Unique, in constant movement, pure entertainment for his geometric shaped mind. Density, water, that’s all they are made of.

Dex was leading himself into a diner. Not to drink, not for alcohol nor headache. Even if in a certain way, the reason why his relaxed hand grabbed this particular diner door could be compared to a headache. Interest and a glint of obsession.

Exactly one week ago, Dex saw him. He stood straight against the grey wall of an unpronounceable store. Phone stinked to his right ear, his lips were moving into words Dex wasn’t able to catch yet. The sky was as dark as the wool sweater this stranger was wearing. Dark clouds, unreadable, dense. One of Dex’s favorite weather, when even New Yorkers are afraid to put a foot outside, when one single weakness could break the clouds open and soak the city. The only people walking under this sky are forced, because of a job or a meeting, and maybe a few of them also love this weather.

Something about this moment hooked Dex. The correlation of every different images he saw just felt right, and that attracted him. His brain is built this way, far from physical attraction and desire, next to perfect boards and structures. It needs to be correct and above all coherent. And at the same time, this feeling, the one who’s shaking his guts, is closer to chaos than order. Similar to when his blades cut the air to jab someone’s thigh.

That’s what he felt when he saw you.

Intensity is part of him, if not what defines at least seventy percent of him. Intensity in how he approaches life, how he notices its duality. Intensity in his brain’s structure, this complex tool. Especially intensity in his social network, what he gives to the external world, which emotion his behavior imparts to other humans. Dex is intense, in its every definition. That’s a part of why he was tempted by your dim silhouette.

You reminded him of clouds.

A deep blue cap firmly placed on his head, Dex was sitting next to the diner’s biggest bay widow. Outdoor though. He was not sitting in the warmth of this place, he wasn’t able to smell the freshly baked cookies. Instead, cold stone underneath his body was soothing his mind. His back confidently rested against the thick glass, Dex was holding a half folded book in between his hands. He already read it multiple times, this antiquity was only brought there to offer some material support to his fingers, and also incidentally conveys the image of a simple man reading on the street.

He was waiting for you. Not in a harmful way, nor threatening. He was just waiting.

Your shift began at 7AM with a lunch break at 1PM and then you finished at 6PM. One week was more than enough for Dex to catalog and memorize your timetable. Through these seven days, he made an imaginary plan of not only the diner but also your whole path. Which street for which day or weather or mood, how many coffees per day. Your every moves were stocked in a part of his brain, and all of this for distraction, enrichment. Because it was intense, order from chaos.

The wool of your black sweater left a mark in his brain chemistry.

But that doesn’t mean you should consider yourself as unique from his eyes, you were not. Love and interest were completely opposite ideas, interest and distraction even more.

Dex brown eyes scanned vaguely the landscape in front of him. Children playing with soap bubbles, grey bricks, and a broken mirror. This mirror was the reason why he sat here. Earlier in the morning, he throws a coin into this flawless mirror to shatter it in pieces. Why? To have different points of views of the diner behind him, without risking to be seen. He then meticulously placed every piece in strategic positions.

Milkshake, he was going to take a milkshake. He did not necessarily love this, it was way too smooth and thick. But the itch of fantasy surely will pique your curiosity, and that was the purpose of it.

A small noise reached Dex’s ears, from his right. The diner’s door, meaning you were beginning your shift. Dex didn’t move a foot, his eyes back to the black alphabet scribed on his book. But his mind was in full function. He pictured yourself walking right behind his back, behind the bay widow. Your quick steps, checking every furniture placements, surely smiling at your coworkers as you walk past them. He could almost hear your voice, still deep from sleep.

The diner was neatly printed in his thoughts. Each door and table drawn in perfect shapes. How the dawn sunlight must be laying on the false wood floor, and what importance it had for Dex. Which angles were blinded by this soft light, which were still in darkness. One thing he appreciated about this place was its quietude. The coffee machines weren’t too noisy, the lights not too bright. This diner was not overwhelming, it inspired peace in a certain way.

Again, the door tinkled and Dex knew the first customer was now inside. He’ll have to wait two more before entering too.

The first one is the more stressful, they start the day and the human brain loves to imagine that the first experience will define the others. Second, still anxiousness lingering. Third, already boring. Fourth, fourth is for opportunity, enough place to attract curiosity without anxiety. That’s why Dex will be the fourth.

You honestly had a terrible night. Couldn’t find any trace of tiredness, until this morning at 6AM, right when your alarm echoed through your poor ears. Look awful, had told you Tommy, the cook. You only responded with an ironic “thanks Tom”.

But no matter how many sleep hours you had in your body, the diner needed your energy.

“Hello, smiled your hoarse voice, may I help you?”

A tall — and actually cute — woman was standing behind the counter. Her velvet red lipstick brought some color into your grey mind.

“Hum yes,” she started presumably not sure about her choice, “I’d love a cold brew latte please and— well I don’t know if you already have some cookies baked, but if so I’ll take two”

You vaguely checked above your shoulder, even though you knew the answer.

“They just came out of the oven,” you gently said while taping her order into the small ipad, “that’s all for you?”

She gave you a firm nod, a hand already in her back jeans pocket. She paid, you invited her to wait ; the usual.

Back to cleaning, you were weaving past the tables, a dirty cloth in one hand while the other was spraying some alcohol based solution. In profound concentration — and thinking — you didn’t notice the door bell indicating that a new customer just arrived.

One man and a little girl, welcomed by one of your coworkers.

Then, one minute later, an old couple.

Then, two minutes later, a man, alone.

“Hello, how can I help you?” Echoed your now softened morning voice.

“Vanilla milkshake, M size, with whipped-cream supplement,” voice low and smooth, “Please.”

You looked up from the ipad once the order typed, and struggled to compress a smile. Hell, he was handsome. Neat posture, deep brown eyes, brutally defined jaw.

“That’s it? No cherry on top of that sweet mountain?” You asked, not looking right into his eyes.

The blonde man cracked a light smile, almost not reachable for your sight. You were good at persuading customers to add a little extra here and there, that was a part of the job after all.

Dex nodded deliberately slowly — not too much though — brown eyes still planted in yours. He always did that, staring at people, even more if they interested him in some ways. It was a part of the distraction, analyzing and destabilising you.

“Perfect, then it’s 6$ please”

You unconsciously rested on one foot, the other moving in quick movements. You’re waiting, trying not to look too intensely into this stranger’s pupils while he was searching for money. He had a scar, a big one, cutting his right cheekbone in harsh reliefs.

Dex placed six dollars on the counter, not dropping it in the palm of your hand like he should. You didn’t seem surprised, your eyes were lost somewhere else in the shades of his skin. He liked it, your glance on him, also hooked by his intensity.

Sun now high in the sky, projecting its golden touch through the diner’s windows. You took the small coins from the sleek wood of the counter, your fingertips leaving a foggy mark on the texture. Dex noticed it, of course. You were anxious, or at least your body heat was hotter than before he passed this diner’s door.

“Will be ready in a few minutes” you managed to articulate.

Perfect, thought Dex.

Maybe you were just tired, but this guy was truly making you lose your shit. Your pulse was way too rapid, hands too sweaty, cheeks too colored. You acted like a teenager and it annoyed you.

He just had something. Like he already knew untold truths. He had slow and deliberate moves, as his whole body was programmed to act mesmerizing. Tilted head in the right angle, cracked smile carefully controlled. You had this feeling that he knew you, but not exactly like Tommy knew you for example. This guy wasn’t analyzing your whole person like a stranger should, he wasn’t looking at your mole, he wasn’t surprised by your voice tone. Not like he should be surprised by you, but when one meets someone it’s a normal path to discover each other's features.

Whereas, this man didn’t seem to notice your features and that was weird to experiment, because it gave you the impression of not being a total stranger to him.

“Vanilla milkshake” signaled Tommy through the passing window.

You stood up from the coffee stained floor you were cleaning — a distracted clumsiness of yours —. The military shaved head of Tommy welcomed you, his hand holding the sweet drink. Honestly these milkshakes always made you salivate. Smooth milk, intense vanilla flavor, homemade whipped cream and dark red cherry, all of that in a huge glass.

You put the milkshake in the middle of one of your round plates, added a white napkin embroidered with the diner’s logo, and then placed your hand firmly under the tray. Your walking body navigated across the tables, smiling at the little girl drawing a rainbow into her dad’s forearm. Blond man, blond man, was repeating your trained brain while your eyes were searching for your target.

Dex sat next to the bay window. He liked the view here ; gray walls and broken mirror. Patterns soothed his mind, repetition calmed his nerves. He knew this view, and that alone contained the merge of his new euphoria. He noticed how you hid behind your big counter once he walked away from your personal space. He didn’t know this about you, couldn’t detect it from the calculated ten meters which separated him from you when he was following your silhouette a week ago. You were actually pretty shy, didn’t want unknown figures in your personal environment. Shy might not be the right word, discreet either. Watchful maybe. Aware.

Dex appreciated wary persons, because they were observant.

“Your vanilla milkshake sir” Your voice resonated.

The burgundy red cherry echoed through Dex’s mind, rebounding against different layers of thoughts. Your hand appeared in the man’s sight, putting the drink-full glass in front of his crossed hands.

Your eyes narrowed on the blonde’s face, even more on his skin textures. Tiny wrinkles, dry skins, poorly healed scars. You knew, you knew that he was fully aware of your curious gaze on him, and it worsened the soft knot in your stomach. Chaos had agglomerated in your mind since he entered the place. Chaos, made of this attraction and unease at the same time. Chaos, formed by the delicious desire to flirt with him, and the dangerous shivers your instinct was sending to you.

Dex leaned forward, his hands neatly linked together. He looked up from the bay window, his cola brown eyes back to your glassy stare. You suppressed another shiver crawling down your spine.

“Fancy drink at 8AM isn't it?” You tried to full-filled the intense silence. “People usually goes for coffee”

A smile formed on his pale pink lips, his eyes looking for a moment at the napkin’s pure white before tilting his head back to your standing figure.

“Would you have talked to me if I’d ordered a coffee?”

You dropt your head a little in a faint laugh, nodding in agreement.

“You got a point here,” you responded, leaning against one of the couch behind your back, "although I might have approached you and your pretty face”

Dex cracked another knowing smile, glancing for a minute at the untouched milkshake and its melting whipped cream before looking at you again.

“You’re sure it’s my pretty face that interests you?” Dex said with his natural soft and low voice tone.

He was right. You both were aware of that lingering atmosphere, dark and intense. Similar to when a creep follows you in the street, but with this something else. This order within chaos. Dex was controlling this whole moment, planned one week ago in his tidy mind.

A delectable silence passed by, timidly walking between your two stares. Then, you inhaled some new air, cold in your overheated mouth.

“May want my number?” You asked.

“You want to give it to me?” He answered.

You nodded, mimicking his slow gestures. Dex made a forward head movement, inviting you to write on the napkin. You took out of your pocket the pen helping in the afternoon rush and bent just enough to scribed the few numbers on the white paper. Your hand pushed the napkin back to its place, almost touching his scarred hands.

You then straightened, resting your black tray in between your thumb and forefinger’s bone.

The little rainbow girl and her dad were not here anymore, a student took their place. The sunlight was now hitting the diner’s furthest wall.

“What’s your name by the way?” You remind yourself to ask.

“Dex” He said with a little delay.

You hummed, lips in an upside down smile as you acknowledged the information. Sounds right, you thought.

“And you don’t ask for mine?” Interrogated your voice as you were gathering some dirty glasses on a table nearby.

“Don’t need it” responded Dex before eating a spoon of whipped cream.

You laughed faintly, already standing up again, tray full of dishes.

“Then enjoy your milkshake,” you said with a smile “and don’t forget to ask me out before leaving”

You walked past the solo table, weaving back to your barman counter. Your ears catched Dex’s voice, a soft murmur, as it wasn’t meant to be heard:

“Sure thing sir”

Dex loved to play with his enrichment, and you were such a great one.

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The FBI had always been the best option, the most reasonable one. A stable job, a flawless structure, an opportunity to put his talents to use. It was the best option.

Dex liked his work. He liked the sense of pride blooming in his chest whenever people stared at the three yellow letters stitched onto his uniform with wide, almost dazzled eyes. A soothing warmth purred low in his stomach—the feeling of doing something good, something meaningful, something that mattered.

The hardest part had always been the coworkers, the interactions. It was like an athlete being forced to go through reporters and their intrusive stares just to earn his medal. Dex felt like that athlete. He only wanted to do his job, follow orders, act, then go home. But on the way there, he also had to greet the idiots swarming in the department, offer them coffee whenever he made one for himself, pretend to care while someone rambled about their kid’s first steps.

He had a list ready inside his head, similar to the one he used at Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center—a neat little A4 sheet, organized into rows and columns highlighted with neutral colors. He forced connections to form across that imaginary page, stopping his lips from parting too quickly and saying something wrong.

It was exhausting, draining.

Sometimes he locked himself inside a maintenance closet, or the bathroom if it was clean. He took deep breaths, trying to steady the subtle tremors in his hands. In those moments, his eyes instinctively searched for a loose nail on a stall door—a sharply tipped brush, a toxic spray can. He let them search for a weapon, because for a brief second it soothed his mind. Then he walked back out, wiping the last beads of sweat from his forehead.

He liked his work. But sometimes it was hard, really hard.

However, within that fog, there was something stirring excitement inside him.

You had been introduced to the department exactly two months ago. Hattley had walked in, her tired eyes and permanently irritated expression accompanying her as always, and rested a hand on your shoulder to draw everyone’s attention toward you. She stated your full name, your CV—and what a CV it was, complete, impressive. That was the first thing that caught Dex’s attention, like a slimy tentacle finally wrapping around its prey before sending out the seven others. Hattley had looked almost proud presenting you, like some rare collector’s item—a knife, a card, a stamp. A smile, rare on her face, had brightened her features for a second, and it was enough to convince everyone of your capabilities.

Dex watched the scene from afar, leaning against the section of wall he often used as support. Arms crossed, he’d initially thought it’d be annoying—bothering. But then the days passed. You didn’t work directly with him, though you wandered the same floor. Agent Nadeem was supervising you while you got used to the agency’s endless offices. Ray was a coworker Dex frequently dealt with, so those were the circumstances in which he saw you—or during meetings, or coffee breaks. He’d also crossed paths with you once outside the building. You hadn’t noticed him.

Actually, you never really noticed him—that’s what he thought. He watched you, observed you perhaps far more than he should have allowed himself to. Yet your eyes rarely met his, and whenever they did, he almost fled from your line of sight.

The first few days, once he realized how he was behaving, he’d wanted to slap himself.

“Got a soft spot for the newbie, Dex?” Mark had asked while taking over his shift, bumping his shoulder in what was supposed to be a friendly gesture. Dex tried changing the subject but Mark was clingy, irritating, intrusive. “Since I’m such a good mate, I’ll tell you a secret,” he’d continued despite Dex’s obvious disinterest. “This guy is not a real one, if you know what I mean.”

Dex hadn’t reacted outwardly, making Mark sigh before wandering off to bother someone else instead. But once home, Dex searched your name online.

He understood your trans identity almost immediately, and somehow it had only increased the admiration he felt toward you. Because he wanted to believe you both were similar—no matter how far your life experience must have been from his, you had suffered and he did too. You fought against yourself, your demons—he did too. And maybe that if he was similar to you in this case, he could be in others.

You were so sociable, so comfortable. His eyes couldn’t stop analyzing your movements, trying to understand them, absorb them.

But the thing that fascinated him most was your natural authority. You earned respect without raising your voice or resorting to threats. People gravitated toward you because they instinctively trusted whatever it was you radiated. You handled weapons, hand-to-hand combat, paperwork, and human beings with equal ease.

You were so talented, and it fascinated Dex.

During the monthly training sessions held in a privately rented gymnasium, you were impressive as always. You helped Margot climb the rope, every single one of your bullets hit the target during shooting practice, and you slammed Ray to the floor with admirable effortless strength. Usually Dex avoided those pointless sessions as much as possible, considering they were optional, but to everyone’s surprise he signed up—just to watch the spectacle.

And because of that, he didn’t even notice that his own shots landed within the exact same crater every time, nor that he’d been among the fastest to climb the rope, nor even that he’d nearly dislocated Mark’s shoulder during the mock arrests. No, all he saw was your hand gently patting someone’s back in encouragement, the sweat sliding down the exposed curve of your neck, the lines your muscles drew beneath your skin with every movement. That was all he saw, with an expression that was absolutely not subtle.

One day, you spoke to him. He remembered it vividly.

It had been late in the evening. The sun was particularly inspired that day, painting magnificent palettes of color across the sky. Only a few people remained in the break room. Dex was grabbing coffee to survive the field mission waiting for him in less than an hour. The overly strong-smelling liquid was pouring into his paper cup when you detached yourself from the group you’d been talking with for a while.

The second he saw you approaching, Dex tried to run away like he always did, but the coffee hadn’t finished pouring yet.

“Hey, heading to Red Hook?” you asked with a smile, leaning so naturally against the wall.

Dex made a superhuman effort not to let his eyes drift toward the curves your arms created when you crossed them over your chest. Yes, he was heading to Red Hook—for a narcotics arrest operation. He was wearing his SWAT uniform, a khaki set that attracted far too much attention for his liking.

“Yes,” he answered simply, already feeling panic rising inside him.

The coffee machine finally stopped pouring. Dex grabbed the cup with visibly trembling hands and quickly escaped the situation.

You had watched him leave, brows slightly furrowed, a faint amused smile on your lips. Poindexter was always like that around you. It was strange, but you didn’t take it personally.

The foam ball traveled at a steady speed between the wall and his hand. A barely audible sound marked the impact against the clean white surface before Dex caught the object again without even looking at it.

He was bored. He was on call, which meant sitting around the office waiting for a potential emergency in his sector. He wasn’t alone—the FBI offices were never completely empty—but throwing a ball wasn’t exactly disruptive.

Another sigh slipped past his lips. Dex stared at the ceiling, lazily rocking his rolling chair while never missing a single throw. That ball—that distraction—was always tucked away at the bottom of his work backpack. Not large or solid enough to concern security, but substantial enough to occupy his restless mind during moments like these. He only took it out when he was alone in a room. He didn’t want to attract attention in a potentially dangerous way. But maybe the exhaustion mixed with the complete absence of events for too long kept him from hearing your footsteps approaching the office he’d been assigned to.

He heard the handle. His eyes snapped toward the metallic object lowering just before the white neon light flooded the room. You appeared in the doorway precisely as the ball flew past your head before bouncing neatly back into Dex’s already outstretched hand.

“Oh wow—trying to kill me, Poindexter?” your voice smiled while you leaned casually against the open doorframe.

Irony always took longer for him to process when you were breathing the same air as him. Dex straightened up immediately, like a child caught doing something forbidden. The ball squeezed tightly in his palm, he tried regaining control over the panic rapidly building inside him.

You were here. He’d been caught throwing an object. You were here. Why were you here?

“Huh—no, no, of course not.” He awkwardly cleared his throat. “What are you—doing here? I mean, it’s late.”

Benjamin Poindexter had always been somewhat of an enigma to you. He kept to himself, avoided social interactions like the plague, and yet he remained one of the agency’s best agents to date. Avoid forming attachments, never bring your private life to work—those were unavoidable rules drilled into all of you the hard way from day one. Working for the FBI demanded constant emotional and intellectual effort. Trust was one of its central pillars, yet everyone was taught to expect betrayal eventually.

Even served on the prettiest silver platter, beside the finest dishes imaginable, a knife remained a knife and a fork remained a fork. Useful, necessary—but their steel prongs stayed sharp. Ready to feed mouths in need, or stab a butler in the back.

Dex looked like he’d mastered that art of the table called “FBI”. He offered parts of himself whenever required, then bared his teeth the second someone tried to polish him smooth.

“Hattley wants some files on her desk by six in the morning, so here I am.” Your hands lazily gestured toward yourself before crossing over your chest again, unintentionally drawing even more attention to that area. 

Your gaze wandered around the room opening before you. A space no larger than a small bedroom, suffocated by heavy filing cabinets storing old case reports. A desk organized down to the millimeter whenever Dex was on duty. A computer screen that was barely ever used. A cold coffee cup dreaming of its past warmth. And in the middle of that landscape stood Poindexter. He was looking at you again with that same intensity that had unsettled you since day one. You felt like you were watching a child stare at their favorite teacher. At first, you’d assumed maybe he was simply curious about the fact that you were trans—because yes, nothing truly remained secret inside the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That slightly too-wide stare whenever you entered a room had seemed like the kind of unhealthy curiosity you’d unfortunately grown used to. The kind that led to invasive questions or offers to “experiment.”

But eventually you realized it was different. Poindexter had never attempted any sort of approach. Quite the opposite—he physically avoided you while unconsciously seeking a connection he couldn’t control.

During conferences, whenever you spoke, his gaze burned through your entire body. Not like a fleeting warmth. His eyes scanned you with such intensity that you could almost feel spikes piercing through the deepest layers of your organism. Tiny injections of unknown substance.

“You?” you shattered the silence beginning to wrap its suffocating hands around the room. Dex visibly swallowed. You watched his Adam’s apple ride the tight elevator of his throat.

“On-call duty.”

You already knew that. You’d checked the on-call schedule earlier just to see who would be keeping you company during your late-night work. But conversation had to start somewhere.

The blue foam ball had absorbed the faint sweat coating Dex’s palm. He sat up straighter again, his back cracking pleasantly with the movement. You were looking at him, and he felt like he was being evaluated for an exam he hadn’t prepared for.

His office suddenly seemed even smaller. The walls had judgmental eyes. And something kept whispering in his ears. Pathetic, you can’t even hold a conversation, this is embarrassing. He wanted to slap himself hard enough to restart the machine inside his head—the one responsible for telling him how to behave in public. What to say. What to do. When to smile, when to speak, when to let others speak.

But the machine malfunctioned whenever you were nearby. It was as if Dex only had a flashlight for company, and you were some living Vantablack swallowing every trace of light from his pathetic little beam. It terrified him. He hated feeling those hands regain control the moment you turned off the light. Or rather—to be honest—the problem was that he adored it. And that was dangerous, because uncontrollable. He’d spent years keeping those hands restrained, those hooked nails tearing into his flesh and making him feel like he could finally breathe. The blood pouring from those wounds was his oxygen. But he kept it far away from himself, only allowing enough to surface that he could still maintain control over it.

Your footsteps echoed too close to him, dragging him violently out of the spiral of his thoughts.

“You’re pretty good with this.” Your hand rested naturally against the back of his chair, your warmth radiating enough to flush his skin. “Aim. Shooting.”

He was suffocating. He was certain he must’ve been visibly sweating by now, maybe even breathing too heavily. You were so close. Everything felt dark.

“You know, I read some of your files. Not to be weird, but you’re talented, Dex. Actually, I was… kinda impressed.” Your eyes lingered on the top of his head, perhaps a little too long on the different shades of blond threading through his hair.

You were sincere. Truly sincere. Some considered it a bad habit, but you liked skimming through the files of the people you worked with. If someone was going to stab you with a fork, you might as well know who sharpened it.

There weren’t many attachments in Poindexter’s FBI file. Mission reports, handwritten notes from former military superiors, a few photographs of him in various uniforms—basic military gear, then higher-ranking attire, FBI SWAT equipment, civilian clothing. And buried beneath all the praise-filled reports, you’d also found two or three pages heavily blacked out. But you recognized the logo printed at the top of each one. The department responsible for government employees’ mental health and psychological evaluations. It didn't surprise you. Everyone had mandatory evaluations every three months—including you.

“Impressed?” he somehow managed to say.

“Yeah, impressed.” You stepped away from his chair, his warmth beginning to affect you too. Instead, you leaned against the corner of his desk and sat there absentmindedly.

Dex looked like he’d just walked into a wave of scorching wind. His hair was slightly disheveled—remarkable feature considering how meticulously arranged it usually was. His chest, hidden beneath a white shirt and sweater, rose and fell at an obviously uneven pace. You didn’t worry about it. He often reacted like this around you—maybe you’d simply grown used to it.

His trembling hand brushed against his forehead, trying to restore some illusion of control—or confidence. “Thanks, but I think you’re the one supposed to incite impressiveness.” Maybe he should stop talking. But exhaustion made words slip too easily past the filters he normally forced them through.

You chuckled softly, fatigue making you easier to approach—to hold in a hand like his. “Well, I’ll take the compliment, thank you. But I’m not the one with an FBI SWAT uniform in my wardrobe. And I definitely can’t throw a ball like you do.”

He wasn’t only talking about work, but you couldn’t know that.

Dex finally loosened his grip on the poor suffocating ball, staring at it for a moment. “I can—show you, if you want.”

A genuine smile spread across your lips. “I’d love to.”

In the whistling silence of the FBI offices, a faint echo began bouncing through the room, interrupted by quiet laughter and all those mute little things the human body created. A breath caught because of a perfectly controlled gesture. Sparks trembling deep within irises. The tightening of the vital organ called heart. Poorly organized paperwork waited peacefully for your return, abandoned on the desk that belonged to you. The surveillance camera kept performing its usual mechanical sweeps across the spacious main office where you were technically supposed to be working. It scanned the room robotically, imprinting the digital landscape into its artificial memory. If it had possessed intelligence—and a soul—it might’ve noticed your reflections in the glass. Standing close together. Maybe it would’ve appreciated the smile brightening your face with every flawlessly executed throw from your coworker. And if it had been truly attentive, perhaps it would’ve heard the child buried deep inside Dex laughing loudly and freely because you were there, and you were so kind to him, so attentive, so interested.

His flexible wrist moved with a precision that couldn’t help but captivate you. You wished you owned glasses capable of altering reality itself, just so they could show you the numbers activating beneath your eyes. The angles, distances, perfectly measured equations producing such precise results every single time. It was math. Purely math. Nothing supernatural or magical. And yet watching the ball strike the exact intended point again and again made mathematics suddenly feel like the closest thing to magic—when mastered that perfectly.

Dex struggled to swallow properly. His mouth had gone dry. You listened to his explanations with such genuine interest that it made him dizzy.

“Your fingers need to be aligned around the ball, like—imagine there’s two lines here.” His fingers fought to control the tremors shaking his entire body while tracing imaginary lines around the blue sphere. “And you just have to remain still while throwing it.”

Your brows furrowed in concentration, forming a fixed wave between them. Your fingers followed his instructions perfectly, settling along the invisible lines you tried to picture beneath the spongy texture. You glanced toward the man sitting in front of you, leaning too far forward in his chair. He was already watching you, though his eyes immediately darted back toward the ball once your gaze met his.

“And it makes it curve, doesn’t it?” Your question visibly surprised him. He hadn’t expected you to understand the movement’s physics so quickly.

“Yes. Like crazy.” The smile on his lips made his voice vibrate softly. “Have a try.”

You turned away from Dex, pushing yourself off the desk to face the wall he’d been throwing toward. The wheels of his chair squeaked quietly as he rolled backward for a better view of you. His trained eyes scanned your entire body—not to admire it, but as a security scanner analyzing data to ensure everything aligned correctly.

Your shoulder sat too far back. Your elbow wasn’t raised enough. The distance between your face and the ball was wrong. Dex’s mouth parted instinctively, wanting to correct your entire posture so everything would be perfect, so you’d succeed, so you’d realize he was a good teacher.

But you spoke before he could.

“Whatcha think? Am I doing good or bad?”

His eyes returned to your face, truly looking at you this time rather than the calculations clouding his vision. “Don’t arch your back. Lift your elbow a little more and bring the ball closer to your face.”

You adjusted your stance, trying to follow the new instructions. But judging from the restrained expression on Poindexter’s face, you understood it still wasn’t right. “Maybe you should adjust it for me?” Dex’s strangely colored eyes widened before he could stop himself, making you chuckle softly. “If it’s okay for you, of course.”

“Yeah—yeah, it’s okay,” he corrected himself quickly, nearly tangling his own tongue.

Once again the chair squeaked as his weight left it, almost like an incomprehensible complaint. He took advantage of the moment you looked elsewhere to wipe his sweaty palms against his thighs. His tangible silhouette moved behind you, casting an additional shadow beside your own against the wall. You heard the air scrape painfully through his throat when he breathed, the moisture in his mouth, even his faint heartbeat.

His right hand wrapped around your wrist with barely restrained weakness, adjusting it so slowly you briefly wondered whether Poindexter had the ability to turn you into porcelain and feared you’d shatter beneath the slightest pressure. It was unsettling in a way you couldn’t properly describe. To be touched without sexuality being the reason. Without it existing anywhere inside the gesture.

“You must be able to see the ball in your peripheral vision, if that helps,” his voice murmured above your shoulder. The position was now perfect. Dex stepped back to admire the structured line your arm created.

You understood the silent permission and refocused. If you really concentrated, you could almost see the faint crater formed where that ball had struck the wall countless times before. That was your target. A deep breath filled your lungs before you held it to eliminate any unwanted movement. Then you threw.

The ball nearly hit the exact spot, grazing it. You let out a quiet groan of fleeting disappointment. But for a first attempt, it was already impressive. You knew that.

You stepped forward to retrieve the small object rolling across the floor, attempting a pathetic little escape. Behind you, Dex stared at the precise point where the ball had struck the wall. You’d miscalculated the shift of impact caused by your arm movement. But you’d still nearly hit the target—good thing.

“Seems pretty fair for a first try,” you said while straightening up. “If I beat you in a single throw, it wouldn’t be funny, would it?” Your outstretched hand captured his softened gaze, an expression you’d never seen on his face before. He looked comfortable. Less tense.

“I guess.” His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your palm to get back the ball.

A comforting silence attempted settling between you both—bringing along its oversized pillows and heavy blanket. You let it happen, while Dex no longer seemed capable of noticing it. Something told you comfortable silence was a recurring concept for the awkward man standing before you. A familiar subject he’d stopped recognizing long ago because it had followed him everywhere.

But suddenly, the artificial sound of a notification echoed through the room, making both of you turn toward its source. An email had appeared on your coworker’s computer. One he had to answer. 

And suddenly reality caught up with you like a slap softened by a cotton glove. 

You had work too. A lot of it.

As if your thoughts had tangled together, your gazes met again, the same expression carved into marshmallow-textured marble. Disappointment. Melancholy. Peace. The moment was over. But at least it had existed somewhere within those cold walls.

“Maybe we could do this again one day?” you asked.

“Yes, I’d love to,” he answered, unconsciously regurgitating your own words without you noticing.

marvel masterlist

images : Pinterest

You'd never really imagined this part in your previous relationships. They couldn't be described as boring, but let's just say the flame wasn't always as strong as in your relationship with Frank. One of your exes had asked you for nudes, but you refused, finding it odd at the time.

Yet, the day you officially established your relationship with Frank, it was as if hundreds of doors had opened for you. So this is trust, you told yourself.

Frank had experienced this with Maria, but he never thought he'd find happiness again.

So you'd been a little shy at first about the idea of ​​sharing your intimacy somewhere other than in bed, but Frank quickly reassured you, and now you were the first to start sexting in your messages. Especially since your boyfriend's long absences were the perfect excuse for these activities.

Right then, sitting on the pillows of your shared bed, your phone in the palm of your hands, you chewed your lower lip in deep thought. Frank had been gone for exactly eight days, in Hell's Kitchen to help the man he called "Red." He was due back in two days, which meant it was the perfect time to start teasing. Realistically, you could have done it sooner, but if you were honest, you didn't because, unlike Frank, you didn't have fights to distract you, and so you ruminated on your conversations and his photos.

“—Hii” —Are you awake?? —Please be awake, and alive.”

You unmuted your phone, placing it under the covers. Weakly stretching your back, aching from the day before, you took the opportunity to gaze out at the dark night outside. A smile touched your lips when you thought that a few kilometers away, Frank was surely seeing the same sky, the same stars.

Your attention wandered to the decorations in your room, which you'd made yourself at the beginning of October. Orange lights shaped like pumpkins, teddy bears dressed as ghosts or skeletons, and jars filled with Halloween candy. Frank had surprised you when he admitted he enjoyed Halloween. You'd imagine he hated the holiday, as it was the perfect opportunity for criminals to commit their crimes in masks, and since the Punisher had become known, many people took advantage of the holiday to dress up as him. And of course, seeing little children knocking on your door with big smiles always made your heart ache, imagining the memories Frank must have had with his children during that time.

But ultimately, he loved Halloween. He loved seeing people out in costumes in the streets, hearing children's screams and then their laughter, or simply admiring the decorations people took the time to put up in their homes. It's warm, he told you one evening while you were strolling around your neighborhood.

This year, you had decorated your home alone, Frank being away, but you could already imagine his smile at the cozy autumnal atmosphere mixed with spooky Halloween.

"💌 —Yea im here babe"

Hearing the distinctive little sound of a message, you almost threw yourself at your phone. You had to admit that you missed Frank, a lot, despite the dozens of messages you exchanged every hour. At times, you even suspected he was replying to you in the middle of a fight, or at least when he was with other people—like Daredevil. You liked to imagine those kinds of scenarios actually, the great Punisher replying to your messages with his little loving smile.

So you picked up your phone again and started a rather banal conversation, because you still wanted to know how Frank was doing before diving into the heart of the matter. He briefly explained the end of his day, calm because he had "only" been spying from afar while Red dealt with personal stuff. You told him about yours, just as calm—although your definitions of that term differed—you had taken advantage of that Saturday to clean the apartment and add new decorations. You sent photos of the orange leaf-shaped garlands you had installed in the bedroom, Frank admitted that they gave the room a comforting vibe. Your messages gradually turned to other topics, such as the healing of one of Frank's wounds, which was hurting a bit, then little by little you introduced the subject.

"—And in another tone, are you alone?"

A short pause passed before the reply came, perhaps he was checking the surroundings, or closing a door.

“💌—All alone, yes 💌—Ya?”

Your smile doubled at his question. Frank was naturally jealous, and even though he trusted you completely, he surely couldn't stop his worried mind.

“—Yes, I’m alone, Frankie —Just me and my horniness 💌—Horniness, huh? Well, maybe I can help with that.”

You briefly thought about where Frank might be. Staying at Daredevil’s HQ? Hiding in an abandoned building? Lying in the back of his car? Maybe there were people nearby, maybe not.

“—I’d appreciate it, since it’s your fault 💌—My fault?”

Lying back a little further, you could almost hear Frank’s tone through his message. His smirk, and his look full of "I already know everything that's going on in your head, but I want you to say it out loud."

"—You go help your super friend and you let me here alone, for weeks."

Under other circumstances, you wouldn't have written this message because you knew Frank well enough to know that he felt very guilty about leaving you for so long. But this was a different situation.

"— With only my poor hands to satisfy my needy body 💌—Such a shame bby 💌—Bet you desperately rock against my pillow, aren't you darling?"

You couldn't help but glance at the famous pillow, which indeed served as both a giant stuffed animal and an improvised sex toy. How could you not? It was permeated with Frank's scent.

“—I did yes, the night you left. 💌—So soon? You really are a naughty boy. 💌—You’re in bed right now? —Yes. 💌—Good, can we call? If you want to darling?”

Despite your rising excitement, you had a fond thought for his question. Frank was always so attentive to you, knowing your dysphoria and how stifling it could be in private if things were done wrong.

“—Yes, we can :)”

You barely had time to close the bedroom door—just to mask any future noises for the neighbors—before your phone rang. You hurried to answer, and after half a second, your boyfriend's gravelly voice echoed in your ears. Instinctively, your shoulders relaxed. Frank had a knack for calming you, even when you thought you didn't need it.

"Hey baby boy."

Your pulse automatically quickened when you heard that particular tone of voice that Frank only reserved for you on these occasions. You answered, trying to keep your voice not too feverish, but you couldn't help but imagine your boyfriend lying in some random bed, his bare chest perhaps still slightly damp from a shower, his muscles tensing with that disconcerting ease. You saw him again in your shared bed, stretched out on the pillows, breathless, his face twisted in an expression of pleasure while you were taking his cock in your mouth. The image alone made you drool.

Your attention refocused on the man on the other end of the line when he asked you a question. You asked him to repeat it, not having heard.

"Aready all brainless?" He asked rhetorically before repeating his question. "I said, do you feel okay with pillow humping tonight?"

The way the word rolled so perfectly off his tongue made you shiver, and you immediately accepted the offer. You sat up in anticipation and grabbed Frank's pillow.

"Just need to picture ya' on top of something," he continued.

Your teasing smile returned to your face as you put the call on speakerphone—the neighbor problem no longer having a place in your head.

"Does that mean you'd have let me ride you, if we were together?" you asked.

A small, muffled chuckle came through the phone, letting you imagine the look that accompanied it : Frank turning and then lowering his head with a smile that meant "you're a smart little thing." Then you heard a soft "maybe," making your smile double. Frank had a bad habit of always ending up in missionary position when you rode him, which at the time hardly frustrated you, but in hindsight, it bothered you. This position put Frank in a “submissive” place because, in fact, you were the one controlling the pace, and it was always hard for him to accept completely letting go and letting you do what he wanted. He wanted so much to please you.

"Anyway," his voice continued, slightly more breathless, "ride that pillow f' me darlin'."

All your gentle teasing quickly left your brain, preferring to be replaced by a pleasant fog. You made a small noise of affirmation before grabbing the pillow already placed between your legs. Your hands firmly gripped the end of the fabric, making it bulge between your thighs. You quickly grabbed your cell phone and placed it nearby. With the call in front of you, you took the time to admire the photo of Frank that you'd associated with his number.

You exchanged for several minutes, the time it took to build a palpable and lasting excitement. Then, you took off your boxers before Frank even asked. The feel of the warm fabric against your bare skin made you gasp, drawing teasing from your boyfriend.

"Don't you dare change that fuckin' pillowcase when you're done," Frank growled. "Want to smell your scent when I come back."

You nodded weakly, before remembering he couldn't see you. Your already breathless voice vaguely answered him with a "promise."

"Good boy," Frank rolled off his tongue before a moan interrupted him, "fuck baby—speed up for me, k? Need to hear ya moan."

Your pelvis reacted before you could really register the information. Your sex met the soft fabric of the pillow in a steady rhythm that drew a few moans from you. Your thighs contracted with each thrust, creating additional friction that made you want to continue for hours. You took just two seconds to get into a more comfortable position, and as if Frank were reading your thoughts—or seeing you—his voice echoed through your phone again.

"Tell me how ya' do it, I need to—picture yourself."

A small smile played on your lips as you imagined Frank's cock throbbing from the image he had in mind. You decided to give a precise description, but above all, slow, just to make him wait a little longer.

"Well, I am on my knees," you began almost in a whisper, "your pillow between my thighs. My feet are further away from my legs, so I can move with more ease." You took a short break to savor your boyfriend's heavy breathing, “and my upper body is leaning back, supported by my hands. Remember? This position is perfect for riding your cock, Frankie, you don't even need to lift me up."

The raspy moan that followed made your head tilt back slightly. You knew Frank too well, so well you could perfectly see the gestures that went with that sweet sound. One hand wrapped around his dick, the other clamped around his phone for fear that you'd disappear. He must have been naked, or perhaps he'd only taken his cock out, remaining fully clothed in his impatience. A layer of sweat covered his body, giving his muscles a shiny appearance with each in-and-out movement. He was definitely head back, pressed against a pillow, eyes closed, mouth half-open to let out all his grunts.

Your pelvis accelerated its movements, bringing your sex against the soaked fabric. The mixture of your scent and Frank's perfume was getting to your head, making you moan louder and louder. Your ears caught Frank's voice, growling encouragements, even though your mind could no longer fully interpret what was coming out of his mouth.

"Fuck—good boy, such a fucking good boy," he said, interrupted by his own moans, "riding my pillow like a real cowboy, that's my man, huh?"

Your lips parted on their own, guided by an instinct that only emerged in Frank's presence. You repeated variations of the same word several times, earning a broken, tender laugh from Frank.

"Would give anything to see your dumb face," he declared, "bet ya' got those glassy eyes, aren't you?"

You imagined Frank next to you, he would surely have cupped your face with one of his hands so you could look at him, then he would have smiled, and you would have melted even more into his arms. Unfortunately, he wasn't physically with you at the moment, so you let out a higher-pitched moan, dripping with frustration, the kind Frank got when he made you wait to come.

"Is my boy edgy?" smiled your boyfriend's voice on your cell phone. "Do you want to cum, baby?"

Your breathless voice answered quickly, making Frank's cock throbs on the other end.

"Then go on, and make as many noises as you want," he continued. "Want all the neighbors to know you're fucking mine baby, even when 'm not there."

Your thighs clenched so tightly around the poor pillow that your pelvis could barely move, only making a few broken movements. You sat up reflexively as your orgasm hit you, gripping the headboard with a force that turned your knuckles white. Your voice breaking completely on Frank's name, which you repeated as if it were suddenly the only known word in the dictionary.

Across town, Frank had just painted his chest with white streaks, his hand still making slight movements as if he were continuing to accompany you through your orgasm. His forearm covered his moan, trying to soothe his conscience, even though deep down he knew very well that Red must have heard everything from his room. His teeth tightened a little more around his skin, imagining the demon from Hell's Kitchen enjoying your moans.

"Frank?" your softened voice interrupted.

He sat up slightly, grabbing his phone again to bring it to his ear. His other hand managed to snatch two tissues to clean his skin.

"Yes, baby, I'm here."

"Do you have time for another round?"

His laughter echoed deliciously through the call, making you smile even more.

"Of course, darling."

The neighbors enjoyed your moans for several more hours, and perhaps a certain lawyer also picked up on them.

images : Pinterest

The sunlight over New York that day was generous, birds chirping cheerfully from every branch they crossed. Clouds looked like drops of paint spilled across the bright blue sky, as if the celestial painter had accidentally tipped some warm milk onto the atmospheric canvas. You had taken advantage of the clear weather to breathe in the mixed scents of a neighborhood you barely knew. Restaurants, gyms, cafés—and you had also spotted a bank.

And then you saw him at the corner of a street. He walked with the kind of confidence only certain men possessed, the kind that could make a shiver run down your spine. His hands were shoved firmly into the high pockets of a jacket perfectly tailored to his waist. Head held high, he was whistling—the sound having first drawn your attention to him.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a handsome stranger in the street, and maybe the sunlight, suddenly too bright, had filled you with a burst of courage you didn’t think you had. So you followed him, trying to catch up to his long strides in hopes of starting a conversation.

He was heading into a diner, a uselessly lit neon sign displaying the name “Bel Aire Diner.” You didn’t know the place, and from here it honestly didn’t look very appealing, but you stepped inside anyway because he did.

“Thanks,” you said, closing the door he had held open after hearing your footsteps behind him.

Your voice didn’t seem to reach his ears. His gaze looked relaxed yet condensed into a narrow tube—like he was listing a pattern step by step inside his head. He walked up to the counter and lazily pulled out one of the unappealing stools.

Come on, it’s just a man, you encouraged yourself inwardly while taking a breath of fresh air. You didn’t notice the lobsters trying to escape their glass prison, nor the little dog sitting on its owner’s lap. Your attention was fixed entirely on the relaxed silhouette of the man with dusty-gold hair.

“Hi,” the stool creaked faintly against the floor as you pulled it out to sit beside him.

Dex restrained the instinctive twitch in his jaw. He spent a few moments deciphering the color of a cup far too red sitting in front of him, then finally let you see his face—a friendly expression he mastered perfectly. “Hi.”

To him, you were a parasite. A buzzing fly hovering around his freshly polished plan. Under different circumstances, you could’ve been seen as a beetle to crush, or a butterfly with pretty colors. But right now, in this exact moment, you were a fly.

“I’ll take a banana milkshake please,” your voice rang far too loudly beside his already boiling ears.

The ambient scent of caffeine filled your lungs, coating them with another layer of courage—or recklessness. The man beside you stared for two long seconds at the waitress pulling a large clean glass from one of the cupboards. Then his gaze dropped back to you, with a new gleam embedded deep in his pupils that you didn’t understand at the time.

It wasn’t interest. At least, not the kind you imagined. No, it was the same look a cat gave at a mouse’s sweet silhouette. That visceral curiosity of wanting to catch the poor little thing out of sheer boredom—just to entertain itself for a while.

Dex was looking at you, and now you had his attention, because with every word you spoke you became even more of a problem to solve. The kind of problem he solved with one single equation—assuming you pushed him far enough to reach that result.

“If I give you my number, you’ll leave this place?” his voice asked, far too calm, vibrating despite itself with an electrically dangerous smile.

The question caught you off guard, his unreadable expression only deepening your confusion. He looked controlled, but excessively so—unstable. The slight smile lingering on his lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes—everything seemed restrained, contained. But the way you swallowed wasn’t frightened at all. Quite the opposite. It was innovative, new. The human mind fears the unknown, yet in that moment you decided to mute every warning light just long enough to savor the thrill sliding down your spine.

“Yeah I will.”

“Perfect,” a smile carved itself differently onto his features—a smile that had appeared before his thoughts could catch up and restrain it.

And that was how you ended up with the stranger’s number saved in your contacts under the name Tony.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He should’ve understood. He should’ve understood why Dex did all of this. Why didn’t he understand? 

His still-booted feet struck the shattered remains of a picture frame broken across the floor. The room was drowned in silent, frozen chaos. Impact marks on the walls, overturned furniture, blood staining the wallpaper. Dex stared at the scene, unable to process the events—unable to handle them.

Daredevil had found him, they had fought, and then Dex had run away. But he had wanted to come back, just to see, just to witness it.

His heart was beating too fast for the situation. The adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, and yet the pounding of his heartbeat slammed violently against his ribcage. It vibrated through his body, rippling against every rib until it settled deep inside his stomach. The taste of blood still flooded his mouth, something he had learned to enjoy—something he may have always enjoyed.

The Task Force brigade would arrive soon, he knew it. The neighbors must have called those idiots, thinking they were being useful.

Dex was useful, yes he was. He needed to be.

So why didn’t Murdock see it? Why hadn’t he noticed? He did things right, he did everything right. Why did Matthew look at him like a dog failing a trick? Dex had learned all the tricks, and he showed them to him, so why wasn’t he proud?

A spiral had begun the moment Daredevil stepped into Dex’s intimacy. A whirlwind growing taller and wider behind him. He could feel its icy current. He could already feel his muscles slipping into hypothermia, his teeth shaking. He wanted to curl inward, hide inside a shell and only emerge once all of this was over—once the storm died down. But he remained frozen in the wind that had numbed his entire body. It always took over. Always.

Anger, disappointment, disgust, then distress. A cycle structuring his thoughts into an obsessive choreography. Obsession, need, craving. Air no longer reached his lungs properly.

Solution—he needed a solution.

The repeated blinking of his eyelids created a cinematic effect around the trembling phone held in his left hand. Blood was rushing to the wrong place, the worst place.

Need to please him, need to please him. Why can’t he accept my sacrifice?

Several streets away, resting on your bedside table, your phone vibrated. A quick, sharp vibration signaling a new message.

Tony 💌—can we meet up?

The overly bright screen made you squint slightly. A stray droplet of water slid down the back of your neck, running along your still-bare spine from your shower. You had to dig through your short-term memory to find a trace of this “Tony.” Then finally, it came back.

—hello? —so you ditch me and now you change ur mind?

💌—sry 💌—wasn’t in the mood 💌—can we meet? pls

You rolled your eyes, tossing your phone onto the sheets while you went to grab clean clothes. You weren’t difficult in bed, but there still had to be some minimum effort involved. This Tony guy would need to show a little more interest.

💌—I’m sorry for how I treated you 💌—was not good 💌—pls I need to see someone

Your eyes skimmed the notifications while pulling on a t-shirt. Apologizing was already a good start. Most people stopped before that point. But you still wanted to see him struggle a little more, just to know whether he’d really hold out.

—so now I’m just “someone” —you makes things worse yk

💌—ok ok I’m sorry yes I want to fuck 💌—and you’re the only option 💌—sorry

An amused smile spread across your face. At least it was honest. And actually, for a hookup that was all that really mattered, so why keep denying it?

—’k because I love honesty —and you’re hot

Your fingers mechanically typed your address, not wanting to make the effort of going out just to fuck in some shabby hotel.

Dex was already on his way. He had left his apartment the second the little reply bubbles appeared in your conversation. He didn’t have time to find someone else, to pay someone. And he needed someone. He needed a substitute. Someone strong, confident, assured. Someone who could place their hands where bloodstains were drying—where an imprint had sunk deep into flesh. You matched, at least a little, and that was enough for him.

He was freezing. His skin felt tight—shivering every time fabric brushed against him. It hurt. God, it hurt.

For a fleeting instant, his mind wandered to the medication he had stopped taking months ago, since the mental institution. The medication would’ve stopped all of this. He knew it.

His pale knuckles tapped weakly against the smooth wood of what he hoped was your door. On the other side, your hand settled against the cold handle, fingers brushing the wood.

The hallway light gently spilled into your apartment when you opened the door. And there stood a man—Tony. Completely ravaged by an ache you didn’t know and yet could smell.

He vibrated with a deafening intensity.

“Hi come—” His lips crashed against yours, and suddenly the ache had a taste.

Salty. Chemical. A bitterness like household cleaner forced down your throat. You swallowed, your back colliding with the nearest solid surface. Somehow, amidst the storm, your hand still managed to shut the front door. The man was suffocating you—not physically. In fact, he hadn’t touched you at all, barely even looked at you. But his lips acted like a conduit siphoning something out of you. Maybe your common sense. Your dignity.

You were starting to run out of air. He wasn’t even moving his lips. His tongue wasn’t searching for yours.

Your fleeting hand pressed against his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt beneath your palm. “Wait—wait, let me breathe.”

Your eyes tried to adjust to the sight before you. He was sweating, but more importantly covered in blood. Now that his mouth no longer monopolized your attention, you could smell the iron clinging to him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing far too much of the earthy color of his irises. He was panting, each exhale striking your face.

He looked like a dog that had lost its owner. A wolf hit by a car—or rather, a deer.

He was waiting for something from you, like you were about to order him back into his basket or reveal treats hidden in your pockets. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something—anything, because holy shit this situation was surreal, abnormal. But the words never found their way to your vocal cords. They all shoved each other deeper into your throat instead.

He looked pathetic like this, and the problem was that you found it incredibly attractive. Just like the blood now staining the corner of your lips. Just like the coldness of his skin.

Actually, the storm—the ache acting like a rope around your neck—was captivating. Being held down this way by an invisible force, restrained by abstract hands, it was thrilling. Nothing new about that. Humans had always craved being held, no matter the method. Still, it remained disorienting and exciting.

“You still want to fuck?” were the first words you forced out of your throat.

Dex nodded vigorously, his eyes never leaving yours for even a fraction of a second. He pierced through you in the filthiest way possible, the most sickening, disgusting way.

“Right then let’s head up to my room.”

He followed you, his footsteps unconsciously mirroring yours, slipping into the prints only his eyes could see. The concept of a bar suddenly felt instinctive to you, an atmospheric pressure capable of crushing the human body through self-destruction alone. Our own weight multiplied until it resulted in death. Our very impact causing an explosion.

Your bedroom door was already open. You stepped in first, with the strange feeling the man behind you wouldn’t have wanted to pass ahead.

A creak, a lock clicking shut, and your back once again struck a surface far too hard for your poor muscles. His lips were on yours again, but this time you took the reins, imposed your own rhythm. A storm couldn’t be controlled, but you could at least try to follow the circular motion of its gusts. You forced your way into his mouth, your tongue slipping in like a serpent entering Eden. He whimpered faintly, the sound swallowed immediately within the chaotic dance your tongues began. Your hand searched for stability, as though despite the excitement you feared your body might be swept away and shredded apart in the air. His sticky hair tangled between your fingers, accidentally knotting together blood and sweat—a lock keeping him trapped in your grasp. His weight crushed harder and harder against yours, pinning you between himself and the wall until breathing became difficult.

You yanked your hand sharply, forcing his head back. Your lips separated noisily, teeth knocking together for an instant. He groaned, his head still firmly held in your grip. The taste of blood coated your entire mouth, making your brain wonder whether you yourself were bleeding.

It was intoxicating.

Dex trembled, his knees struggling to hold his weight upright. It hurt, it hurt so badly. Your touch reminded him of his. He could almost feel fists slamming into his ribs again, horns grazing his shoulder.

Your glassy eyes observed the image the man before you offered. He looked insane like this, completely ruined.

You straightened slightly, releasing your hold on his skull. And to your surprise, he collapsed immediately to the floor, dropping to his knees in front of you.

“You—you good? Tony, you want to stop?”

His glossy eyes met yours, pupils charcoal-black. It took him time to process your voice, as though he first needed to make space inside his head before acknowledging your words. But his head answered before his vocal cords did. He slowly shook it side to side, his gaze jumping between your eyes, searching for a color he wanted to recognize.

His hands settled on your thighs before you even noticed. He gripped tightly, nearly pinching the muscle. His face pressed against your hipbone, and you physically felt a heartbeat miss its route, forgetting to follow its vascular path. He looked like a puppy like this—a puppy with blood coating its jaws, a dead rat laid proudly at your feet.

“Call me Dex, please my name’s Dex,” he whispered breathlessly, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to reach your bare stomach. His lips pressed to your skin, and for the first time in your life you felt like a kiss could also be a bite—a snakebite. “Please call me Dex, please I need you to call me Dex,” his saliva staining your skin in a way that felt permanent.

“Such a freak, you know that?” This time a wide, stupid grin spread across his lips, making you smile despite yourself. “Ok I need you to listen, can you do that for me?”

He nodded, the involuntarily sexy gesture making you swallow hard. Your eyes searched for an easy word to remember. “Red. Red is our safeword, ok?” Your partner’s eyes closed for a moment and you thought you heard a strangled moan. How could you have known that word was the nickname of the man putting Dex in this state? How could you have known his cock was throbbing just from hearing it?

Your fingers tightened around Dex’s chin, forcing his head back up toward you. “I asked you a question. Use your words. Red is our safeword, understood?”

“Understood,” his voice dripped out.

You shifted away from him, constantly burning beneath the intensity of the gaze that refused to release you. “C’mon. On the bed.”

For a moment, you thought about your trans identity, about how you hadn’t really had time to bring it up to him. Then you saw him, ghostlike, crawling toward your bed, desperate and pathetic for an unnamed service. You saw the curve of his back, deciphering the waves of his spine beneath the fabric. And then you saw yourself—not physically but sensorially—shaking in a way similar to him, ache scratching at the inside of your carcass. And suddenly, what was inside your pants became ridiculous compared to the strange molecules filling your four lungs.

Your hand found its way to the nearest part of the man lying on your bed.

His back—his spine.

Your index finger followed by your middle met the damp texture of the shirt he wore. Your eyes slowly traveled across his entire silhouette, admiring the face he tried to hide in the sheets, then the dip of his lower back. An invisible force pushed you to fully touch his spine, your palm settling entirely between his shoulder blades. And as though your touch had burned him, he arched his back. As though your hand carried an energy too heavy, he moaned open-mouthed, a poor scrap of sheet trying to absorb the sweet sound. Your eyes widened more and more at each reaction his body had to yours. It was new, unusual—a concept to explore, to turn over from every angle.

On a second impulse, you moved closer, one knee sinking into the mattress so your still-standing body could lean over his. Dex whimpered like an injured animal, lips shaping muffled words.

Your hand pressed harder against the area that seemed so sensitive to him. A second moan tore from his throat, louder this time.

Your eyes devoured the sight, and you realized you needed more. You needed to touch him, to see his skin, to hear every other sound he could make.

So your second knee joined the first, sinking the mattress deeper beneath the pressure. Your hands sprang into action as though a switch had been flipped—electric current restored to your muscles. Dex helped you pull off his shirt, and you removed yours as well. As though he had always been meant to do this, Dex rolled back onto his stomach, propped up slightly on his elbows. No sweat coated your back; instead, it was replaced by waves of irrational shivers that refused to stop. Seeing your partner’s position, you leaned over him—trying to ignore the visible jolt of anticipation that crossed him—and grabbed one of your pillows. His gaze, still glassy and dependent, never left you. He waited for the slightest request from you, the smallest demand. You motioned for him to place the pillow beneath his torso so his body wouldn’t tire unnecessarily—and of course, he obeyed.

Straightening up, you settled your seated weight on the tops of Dex’s thighs, your legs straddling his. And then you saw it, splitting his back in two.

A scar.

Large. Long.

At first it had gone unnoticed, hidden by the dim lighting. But now it leapt at you, making your lips part and your eyes widen. You understood now why your fingers had felt like fire when they brushed his back, why your hand carried so much energy whenever it neared that area.

Driven by an irrepressible urge, you leaned down. Your hands naturally rested on either side of Dex’s head, surrounding him in the best possible way. And your lips met the scar. The imperfect, discolored, horrific skin of it. You kissed that damaged flesh, not because you wanted to fix it, but simply because you wanted to—because it was terribly mesmerizing and your lips needed to touch it.

“Oh god don’t—” Dex began melting beneath your touch, more and more with every kiss pressed along his spine. “Don’t touch—” Every sentence suffocated before it could fully form. And your hand sliding along his back did nothing to help his diction.

You continued your kisses, accompanied by your wandering hand in the dip of his back. You grabbed his hip, his pelvis instinctively lifting at the contact. A small chuckle left your lips, sending a puff of air across the dampness left behind by your kisses.

The atmosphere around you—smothering your cells—deepened. The pressure weighing down your human body became scorching, clawing the air from your lungs with bare hands. And you knew its source. He was lying beneath you, trembling harder than you had ever seen someone tremble. He produced this macabre mechanism. And he suffered from it, perhaps even more than you did.

Suddenly, those gentle caresses began to ring false. Those kisses were creating acidic marks on his skin despite yourself, acid eating away at something inside him. Your lips had touched it, drawn like an insect to the venom coating the back of a multicolored frog. You wanted more too. More than these futile little caresses.

Your hand left the delicious dip of his back, instead grabbing his shoulder to force him onto his back. His face turned toward you, such a disconcerting picture that it froze you for a second.

That expression of need, of pleading, had never left his eyes.

He wanted more from you.

Always more.

You shifted your weight with the support of one hand against the mattress, your hips once again settling over his thighs. Even through the layers of fabric separating you from his body, you could feel the thickness of his muscles—contracting more with every movement you made.

Your eyes locked onto his, refusing to leave now that they had found them. Your hand blindly found the opening of his pants, undoing it like a seasoned burglar. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling through your peripheral vision. Your second hand joined the first, yanking the garment from his body in one sharp motion. He barely moved, obediently lifting his legs when you silently asked him to.

And then, when your hand tried to return to his hips, a strange texture made you glance down.

He had already come in his pants.

A breath escaped your lungs at the sight. Your eyes snapped back to his face, a face flushed with a mixture of shame and excitement intensified infinitely by the expression painted across your own features.

Your palm never left the bulge desperately trying to gain friction against it. You pressed down—not softly, not gently. He moaned loudly, head falling back despite himself. He trembled beneath you, beneath your grip. His cock was throbbing, creating an even worse mess in his underwear.

You needed to touch him.

Saliva gathered in your mouth, blood rushed between your legs, making you throb too.

So you finally pulled off his boxers, unable to stop yourself from smiling at the true state of them. Then your eyes fell back onto the subject of your thoughts, twitching ridiculously beneath the burn of your stare alone. You wanted to take him in your hand, your mouth, inside you—anywhere. You wanted to taste him, breathe in his scent until it gave you a headache, until you could no longer erase his traces from your memory.

But instead, the pads of your fingers brushed along the flushed skin of his cock.

Your gaze lifted back to Dex’s face now hidden behind one arm. You let him do it, let him think he could hide from you. Small loud sighs echoed through your bedroom, all coming from one single person. You still didn’t let your palm fully touch his cock, only your fingers stroking up and down his length.

His back arched beneath your gaze, his spine cracking occasionally in the sexiest way possible.

Then it was your turn to break. He was too loud, too visual, too intoxicating for you to hold out any longer.

Your hand finally wrapped fully around his dick, making him sob gorgeously and costing you yet another breath. Your heartbeat was just as fast as his, even though no hands touched you the way yours touched him. But he transferred everything onto you, dripping all over you—metaphorically and literally.

You leaned over his body once again, your free hand reclaiming its place beside his head. He barely noticed your movement, his mind too crowded by the motions of your hand lower down. Yet his eyes still found a way back to yours.

He cried.

He was crying.

Clear tears streamed down his cheeks and temples, creating dark stains on the sheets around his head. You wanted to speak to him, but words failed you and you had the feeling he was trapped in the same situation. Muted by tape far too sticky to remove.

So the silence remained exactly as it had settled between you, and strangely enough it was louder than any sentence either of you could have spoken.

However, the symphony playing in the background only grew louder. Wetness, whimpers.

Your gaze tore itself away from his and you heard a faint cry from that single act. Pre-cum leaked from his cock, mixing with the remnants of his earlier orgasm. He was close, he had looked close since the moment he entered your apartment. Your movements sped up, wanting to pull more sounds, more reactions out of him.

“You close?” you asked even though you already knew the answer.

“I am,” his broken voice answered, wavering between high and low tones.

Your own hips made faint unconscious movements against the nearest source of friction they could find, desperately seeking some relief from this infernal suffering. You straightened once again, your body drowning in that intoxicating discomfort.

A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed your arm, making you almost jump from how burning the contact felt. Dex tried pulling you toward him, his orgasm striking him in small blows—punches forcing more blood to spray with every hit.

He looked pathetic like this—trying to obtain a touch that seemed to consume him.

And yet you gave in, because you weren’t any better than him, and because you too wanted to become ashes just to feel the flames calcine your body for a second. You pulled him against you, his own weight collapsing onto you without restraint. Your bodies toppled farther into the bed, ankles and shins tangled in the sticky sheets.

He threw himself at your lips. He devoured them. Not from want, nor from genuine desire—but because he needed it. He needed to feel something, even if it was disgust toward himself or sensory overstimulation. He needed to burn, to be scorched to the bone, because whatever gnawed at him never hesitated to reach such deep parts of his being.

Maybe if he burned alive, this ache would burn too—no matter if it killed him, no matter if it dragged you down with him.

His saliva stained yours like gasoline. His teeth clicked against yours like a lighter. You were drowning in a bath of combustible liquid that, if it didn’t burn you, would dissolve your insides with acid.

His bare skin rubbed against yours, his cock leaking over your body, repeatedly slapping against the sensitive skin of your stomach. He was breathless, and so were you. Your frantic breaths mingled over and over inside formless kisses.

Your hand found its way to his neck, then his hair. The blood had dried in his blond strands, cracking when your fingers tangled through them, your second hand joining the first. You held him in your hands, his skull resting in your sweaty palms—while he held you in his fangs. His hands planted on either side of your head painfully gripped the sheets, his knuckles white as snow.

Again, you were suffocating, and he was suffocating with you. The air he exhaled into your mouth stole the oxygen from your lungs. He bit your lips hard enough to make them bleed. And in loud, broken moans, he tried to collect the scarlet liquid like an elixir—like a solution.

Then all at once he exploded over you. His head collapsed against your chest while he cried through his orgasm. Muffled cries, sobs you couldn’t characterize. White streaks coated your stomach, mixing with sweat and older traces of blood.

His arms began trembling, his tears endlessly falling into the reddish puddle sliding along your collarbones. He stained you in every possible way. With his sorrow, his problems, his pain and his pleasure. He poured himself all over you, without you being able to stop him—without you even wanting to.

Later that night, when Morpheus finally released you from his sedative embrace, the bed felt strangely empty, the sheets cold. Your eyelids opened and somehow you weren’t surprised to discover you were now alone in the bed.

Dex was gone, and his number had mysteriously vanished from your contacts.

He left you with ruined sheets, and gasoline flowing through your veins.

marvel masterlist

images : Pinterest

You had a few friends — two or three who didn’t live in New York, and the rest who were usually busy. Saying you didn’t like them would have been an exaggeration; you did like them, or at least you appreciated them. Let’s just say that there was always something off in your relationships. An uneasiness. A restraint. An apprehension. At first, you had told yourself that the problem came from you, and that it was therefore up to you to fix it. But after many moments of self-questioning, you had come to realize that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t entirely theirs either. It was a subtle, insidious mix of upbringing, principles, values and a touch of selfishness.

All you wanted, all you needed, was respect.

The kind of respect we’re supposed to show when we learn that a friend’s father has died, when we mechanically repeat “my condolences.” Or the kind that comes instinctively when we see someone in a wheelchair and hold the door open for them. Respect for boundaries imposed by certain situations, often sensitive, often painful.

You didn’t want useless condolences or doors held open for you. You wanted a similar kind of respect, but one that differed slightly. That’s where the complexity of your situation came in, that constant puzzle of “Is it my responsibility to say it? Or is it theirs to understand?”

Children are taught to greet their parents with a kiss, to comfort with a hug. The world — almost entirely — is taught to interact through touch, through physical closeness. But you didn’t function like that. You had been born with a foreign body, one that reminded you of what you were not with every single movement. Your way of communicating had grown through words, actions, even scents. Maybe it was hypersensitivity. Maybe autism. But whether there was a diagnosis or not didn’t matter — you were like this, with or without a piece of paper to prove it.

So it wasn’t your fault if you needed to sit a little farther away when talking to someone. It still wasn’t your fault if physical contact made you uncomfortable. And yet, you struggled to tell yourself that it was other people’s fault either. Not everyone had grown up with that awareness, sometimes it had to be learned later.

Every day, you tried to put boundaries in place. Simple things, things that seemed easy enough to understand to you, accessible enough that the people facing you would do little more than raise a surprised eyebrow upon hearing them. But it was never enough for you to feel fully at ease, fully yourself. That was why saying you loved your friends was complicated. You were never completely free, always on edge. How could you appreciate people wholeheartedly if they were constantly a potential danger?

One day, you found the courage to talk about all of this with a friend. She looked at you for two seconds too long before saying, “You know you’ll never find what you’re looking for, right? No one knows how to react naturally with someone else.” You simply nodded, holding back your tears and swallowing the knot in your throat. She’s right, you told yourself. And yet, on some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come and you imagined a perfect life, you could hear an inner voice screaming that she had been wrong that day. No one should accept a life like this, the voice echoed. It’s their responsibility to make the effort and if they don’t, then they’re not real friends.

You liked that thought. It sounded right.

A few weeks later, you met Agent Benjamin L. Poindexter.

You were waiting for your order at the counter of the small diner-bar where you sometimes went for lunch when a blond man walked in. Several heads turned at the sight of the Federal Bureau of Investigation uniform. Yours was no exception, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He ordered a strong black coffee, paid, then waited for his cup. When you picked up your bag of food, you couldn’t help but notice the focused expression on the stranger’s face. It didn’t worry you, after all he worked for the FBI. That coffee will probably do him some good, you thought, checking that nothing was missing from your order.

Unfortunately for him, his phone started ringing, and you didn’t need to be a genius to understand that he was being urgently called somewhere. He left in a hurry, one hand resting on his service weapon. Everyone in the restaurant stared at him wide-eyed, wondering what was happening in the streets for an FBI agent to be summoned like that. And you, more than anything else, stared at his still-steaming coffee, barely touched.

After that, you did what was probably the stupidest thing you had ever done : you took the coffee and brought it to the FBI building. You didn’t think, driven by a deep empathy for a man who hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy his drink.

Of course, you weren’t welcomed with open arms. Two security agents took the cup and threw it on the ground. Sorry, one of them said, you’re not coming in, and I won’t be giving that coffee to the agent. You had expected it, but at least you had tried.

As you turned back, however, you miraculously crossed paths with the blond stranger. He was coming back from the mission, covered in a thin layer of sweat and dust. You wanted to go talk to him, but this time your shyness caught up with you.

He’s gonna think I’m sort of a creep, you murmured, watching him pass through the security gates.

However, what you hadn’t known at the time was that one of the two security agents had later informed Poindexter that a young man had tried to bring him his coffee. That agent — a little more human than the other — had found it romantic, and if regulations had allowed it, he would have gladly handed the drink to Dex. But it could just as easily have been an attempt at poisoning, or even a bomb — very well concealed.

From that point on, Dex had discreetly checked the surveillance cameras to see your face. And three days later, thanks to what you believed to be pure coincidence, he saw you again in that same restaurant. He thanked you; you had been incredibly embarrassed that he had learned about your little ordeal. Then, without really explaining why, he had shyly invited you to share that famous coffee with him. You had said yes.

That was how you discovered what friendship truly meant, because two and a half years later, Dex had become your one and only friend. The only one with whom existing in society no longer felt like a burden.

He had never imagined welcoming someone into his home, even less on a regular basis. His space was precious, structured, and the idea of another person moving through it had once seemed absurd. And yet, you were often stretched out on his couch, and the traces of your presence had slowly seeped into the rooms, as if absorbed by the walls themselves.

Most of the time, he no longer paid attention to it, the kind of indifference humans display when witnessing an armed robber assaulting a woman, when they close their eyes as a form of self-protection. Dex did something similar, though in a healthier way. Years of psychological conditioning couldn’t be undone in the blink of an eye without consequences, so his brain adapted like this. It felt as if you had always been part of his life.

“Coffee?” your voice echoed through the white living room.

Poindexter lifted his gaze from the newspaper he had picked up from his mailbox and gave you a small nod. You accepted it with a smile.

You didn’t live with him, but you spent most of your time together. You had a strict routine, one that was strangely pleasant. You finished work at 5:30 p.m, he at 6:00, so you walked halfway, reaching the intersection of a crowded street with an unpronounceable name. You turned left, arrived in front of the FBI building, and at 6:05 your blond friend stepped through the metal gates to join you. Simple.

Friday was the only exception. That day, he picked you up from work, and you went to the pizzeria Dex had introduced you to. He always ordered the same thing, while your choice depended entirely on how you felt that day. Then you went back to his place — or, very occasionally yours — to talk while eating. That was your daily life. It could have been frightening to be caught in such a routine, but strangely enough, it was reassuring.

Reassuring, you often thought of that word when you were with Dex. You felt safe, not only because he worked for the FBI, but because he respected you without you ever having to ask.

“Do you remember Alex?” you asked, setting the steaming mug down on the high table.

He gave another affirmative nod, brief and gentle. If only you knew how many things he had memorized about you, you would probably have felt embarrassed, just like you did when he ordered your favorite drink for you at the coffee shop.

“I think he tried to get my number from another coworker,” you admitted as you sat down across from him.

Situations like that always make you uncomfortable. It was flattering, and yet the same question always crept into your mind. Did he see you as a man? Or… a woman?

Dex never took his eyes off you, as usual. One hand wrapped around his snow-white mug, he unconsciously tightened his jaw in a calming rhythm — as if telling himself it’s fine, nothing’s wrong yet.

“And you felt the same as usual?” he asked.

You had explained your anxiety to him before, that fear of being loved for something that disgusted you. He had seemed to understand better than anyone else, which had reassured you yet again.

“I think so,” you said quietly. “I wanted to crawl out of my body or… snap my fingers and transform, even though I know I’m a man, and that some half-stranger isn’t going to change that.” You paused, searching for even a trace of boredom in the blue eyes across from you, but instead you found an overwhelming interest in your words. “The worst part is that I know most people who… flirt with me don’t have bad intentions. I just can’t stop seeing a reflection of a woman in their eyes.”

Silence settled above your heads, the kind that always accompanied the time Dex needed to form sincere answers, to shed the mask of the perfect citizen he wore daily.

“If you feel it,” he said, his voice roughened, “then there’s probably some truth to it. At least, I think so. When I stop a man, I see it or maybe I feel that he’s dangerous.”

Your curious gaze lingered on his lips for two long seconds, letting your mind absorb the words.

“And what do you do in those moments?”

“I shoot.”

The smile that split your lips sent a shiver through Dex. You understood him so well.

“So I guess I’d need a gun for every Alex I come across,” you laughed, letting your head rest on your crossed arms. “But then you’d have to arrest me.”

The coffee in your friend’s mug was cooling at a steady pace as you brushed the cup with your fingertips, occasionally feeling the warmth radiating from his hand resting against it.

“You’re not dangerous,” he said softly.

You lifted your head just a few centimeters, enough to look at the man sitting across from you while still hiding your smile.

“And you’re not an Alex. That’s why I feel so safe around you.”

The rest of the evening unfolded as it usually did. You spent most of your time talking. He told you — without too many details — about the heavy report he had to finish, and mostly about the fact that he didn’t really know what to put in it. You asked him several questions to help him think it through, and at the last one he answered: She was going to throw herself onto the tracks. The train was coming, so I neutralized her before she caused an accident. She was a criminal who had been wanted for years. I just did my job. You then told him that he had just answered his own question — he had done his job. That was exactly what he needed to explain in the report.

Dex sometimes had moments of clarity, flashes where he wondered how you could stay with him, how you could be his friend. He had always been afraid that people would abandon him and most of the time, they did. Yet there was something deep inside him, a quiet certainty whispering that you would never leave. It wasn’t enough to make his insecurities disappear, but it helped.

He told you about his days at work, about the things he did there, and you were just as kind whether he talked about paperwork or a murder. He didn’t try to understand why you were still there after everything he said, he simply appreciated the way his muscles relaxed in your presence. Just as he noticed how your behavior shifted around him.

You were anxious, always at least slightly on guard, in a park just as much as in a grocery store. You were bright, but veiled, a veil that seemed to dissolve when you were with Dex. At his side, your shoulders were no longer tense, your whole body moved more freely. The simple act of sitting comfortably with one leg tucked under you felt natural with him, whereas elsewhere it didn’t. You had never really explained this to him. You dropped hints — that you felt safe with him, that you trusted him — but you never spoke about the main reason, even though you knew it well.

You didn’t really know how to bring it up, unsure whether your friend himself was aware of his own reactions. It wasn’t about fear, but you didn’t want to trigger a spiral of self-questioning in Benjamin. Still, one would have had to be blind not to notice his difficulties. They weren’t a problem in your eyes, but you saw them. The way he seemed to handle the world so differently, as if he perceived the universe from another angle. It wasn’t just a few odd or abnormal behaviors, it was an entire personality that stood outside the norm.

For example, you had noticed that he copied the common reactions of people he saw regularly. You had always made a habit of glancing behind you when entering a place, to see if someone was there and hold the door open. Only two weeks after the beginning of your friendship with Dex, he had started doing the same, and now it was second nature to him.

Despite all of this, you were still there. Maybe because there was a subtle bond between the two of you that allowed you to understand his reactions instinctively. Two men described by the world as “weird” and “lonely” it was almost inevitable that your paths would cross.

Dex, on his side, sometimes saw you as a sign, a person sent by whatever divine figures might exist, meant to put him back on the right path.

Another Friday over, another sigh of relief escaping your lips as you stepped out of your workplace. It was 5:38 p.m. You hurried to grab your things, leaving your post like a thief or a sudden gust of wind.

December. A month filled with melancholy, appreciated only for the holidays that came with it. You hadn’t celebrated Christmas with people in a very long time, yet the idea didn’t repel you. And this year, your winter solitude might finally change, because you were increasingly considering asking Benjamin to celebrate it together.

Truth be told, you had a hard time imagining how he might react. To your knowledge, he had never really celebrated the holidays or maybe only vaguely at the orphanage, which didn’t seem like the most joyful place for it. You had thought about inviting him to your place for Christmas or New Year’s before, but he was always on assignment during that period. The FBI took advantage of the fact that he was single and childless, sending him to work in place of the parents on the team. This year, however, he was finally on vacation and you saw it as your chance to invite him.

Your hands buried deep in the pockets of your coat, you smiled as you breathed out little clouds of steam. There was no age limit for doing that, in your opinion, and it helped pass the time while you waited for Dex.

He shouldn’t be long. Knowing him, he probably timed his movements down to the second to arrive exactly on time at your workplace. The thought made you smile again. Benjamin was truly one of a kind, between his way of interacting with the world and the way he said things that unintentionally sounded like dark humor. You could never be bored. And more than anything, you were grateful to be able to see him like this, because in the same way that you were only truly yourself with him, he was only truly himself with you. For instance, when he talked about a meeting he had had with his superiors, it wasn’t uncommon for him to mention intrusive thoughts that had crossed his mind.

You were interrupted by the sight of your friend appearing at the corner of the street. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face as neutral as possible until he reached you, his backpack perfectly adjusted on his shoulders. You waved at him as you walked closer. Dex scanned the area behind you at an almost imperceptible speed before stopping in front of you. You were never offended by his lack of physical interaction in public — or even in everyday life. It was actually a quality to you, because everything passed through other means : listening, presence, intention, respect.

“Hey,” you said with the smile that always seemed so welcoming to the blond man in front of you. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

As usual, you watched Benjamin’s features relax when he heard your words.

“Some colleagues absolutely wanted to wish everyone happy holidays,” he explained as he started walking beside you. “I figured I had to stay. Otherwise, I think it would’ve been weird.”

You nodded softly, watching your footprints in the freshly fallen snow of the late afternoon. The idea of inviting Dex made you anxious, you were afraid he’d feel awkward, or that he’d accept out of obligation.

“You did the right thing,” you said quietly. “Though… you’re not forced to do everything other people do.”

You dared to glance at him, unable to stop yourself from admiring the structured yet gentle line of his profile. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, probably to stay focused on what you were saying. Still, you noticed a faint expression on his face — something like doubt — which made your unease grow. Dex wore that expression when he didn’t dare ask you something. You tried to push it aside — along with your own anxiety — and finally worked up the courage to ask your question.

You quickened your pace just enough to step in front of him and stop, forcing his full attention. His blue eyes inevitably landed on you, slightly widened by the sudden movement.

“It’s been two years since we met,” you began, almost out of breath from stress, “and I was thinking that it might be kind of silly that we always spend important times of the year separately like Halloween or New Year’s. So maybe, if you want to and if you feel like it, we could spend the holidays together? I mean, Christmas, Christmas Eve, all that? Only if you really want to. I won’t be upset if you say no.”

The cold had nothing to do with the pink tint on your cheeks, nor with your racing heart. You watched every small movement of the man in front of you, searching for something that might make you panic even more.

What you didn’t know, however, was that since the night before, Dex had wanted to ask you the exact same question. That he hadn’t slept, trying to anticipate every possible reaction you might have. That since the morning, all he could think about was how to bring it up, which words to choose, when to say it. That for the past ten minutes, he’d been summoning the courage to invite you to spend Christmas together too.

“Okay,” Dex said, his voice just as tense as yours. “Actually, I— I wanted to suggest it too.”

A silence settled for three long seconds before your stress finally burst into uncontrollable laughter. Dex looked at you, unable to hold back a smile of his own.

“Oh wow,” you laughed, “we really need to learn how to communicate better about how we feel.”

As if your voice had pierced the clouds above you, the snow began to fall in thick flakes.

Dex couldn’t take his eyes off you, the same smile refusing to leave his face. You were beautiful, that was what he’d been thinking for months now. He hadn’t found the right words to describe what happened in his mind whenever he saw you, but he was certain of one thing : it was addictive. He wanted more of it every day. He wanted to see you, talk to you, listen to you. He felt all his barriers crumble in your presence, his mind scrambling in panic to rebuild them, yet deep down it felt like a positive destruction. A healthy one.

You inspired sanity in him. A concept he had been denied at birth.

Love or friendship, he didn’t really know where he stood. He’d never had either in his life. He’d tried to find examples around him : a couple of dealers whose case he was handling, best friends at work. None of it resonated with him. Everything felt dull compared to what you made him feel.

But as he looked at you — your contagious smile, snowflakes settling in your hair — he forgot about labels altogether. Love or friendship mattered little when an overwhelming joy tightened his chest at the thought of the two of you standing in front of a Christmas tree on December 24th. And for the first time since his birth, he knew he could share that euphoria with someone.

With you.

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With your morning drink in hand, you watched the city wake up through the bay window of your living room. The lights of Metropolis came on too early for you to see them first, but the most beautiful sight wasn't man-made. What was worth getting out of bed before ten o'clock was more special, sweeter, and had a charming smile. Superman fluttered through the many buildings that housed the town, performing some sort of security routine. His suit, with its identifiable colors, became like a trail left behind by planes, a mix between a flag blurred by the wind and the northern lights with golden touches. You wished you had super hearing to hear your boyfriend, and thus capture his impeccable breathing in a body that beat the sound barrier. A smile drew a soft line on your face as you imagined the typical phrases of the man you loved. “Take a deep breath, you’re ok now” “Is everybody fine here?” “Oh no problem, that’s my job”.

You left the show playing outside to wash your now-empty mug. You'd be lying if you said that watching Clark play superhero instead of staying in bed with you didn't frustrate you a little. But how could you not? Even the strongest man would have succumbed to the powerful arms you could wake up and fall asleep in.

In any case, Clark probably wasn't going to spend the day outside—at least you hoped not—because it was Saturday and even Superman got weekends.

Putting your thoughts behind you, you went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. The residual scent of Clark having stopped by to do his hair made you smile, as if he didn't realize that even after hours of flying, his hair still looked so good. You grabbed what you needed and began your task, your mind wandering this time to more mundane topics.

Your morning passed like this, at the pace of any human being on a Saturday. You stayed in your pajamas, tidying up the living room and bedroom a bit, doing some laundry—the sort of thing that had to be done despite your wishes.

Around one o'clock, you took a break on the balcony. The fresh air whipped across your face as you closed your eyes, a sigh of well-being rumbling softly in your throat. Suddenly, a surplus of air made you smile, and when you opened your eyes again, you were not surprised to see Superman.

"Nice day, isn't it, young man?" his deliberately deeper voice echoed.

You tilted your head in a smile that only he could make you pull off. Your body bent a little, supported by the protective barrier, and you grasped the collar of his suit with a little gentleness.

"Stop acting like an idiot and kiss me."

All resistance disappeared completely in the man hovering in front of you. It was as if he melted between your fingers, like gold handled at the right temperature. His lips met yours with that delicacy that defined him so well. His body, even in the air, was capable of such gentleness and patience. He pushed you toward the inside of your apartment, never leaving your lips for a single second.

“Did you miss me?" you asked with that smile that always made him arch his back a little.

His hands firmly grasping you, he lifted you both off the floor as high as the living room ceiling would allow. He did this often, it was a way of being alone with you. No one could soar like he did on a daily basis, so no one realized how intoxicating the sensation was. One evening, Clark confessed to you that he compared having you with him above ground to the feeling he experienced when you were intimate. Your two bodies pressed against each other, surrounded by the emptiness and at the same time the fullness of air, there was only you. And ever since you were able to experience a flying kiss, you understood what he meant by that.

"You have no idea" he replied, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

Your hands slid into his brown hair. You hugged him tightly, and he hugged you back so tightly that your back arched somewhat unpleasantly. But even the most horrible pain paled in comparison to the love you felt at that moment.

"Rough morning?" you whispered against his ear.

He nodded softly before letting out a breath that seemed trapped for hours. Slowly, he lowered you a few inches, your feet touching the cool living room floor. You guided him to the nearby couch, and he told you most of his thoughts. You stayed like that for over an hour, though neither of you noticed the time passing.

You placed two cups of hot chocolate on the coffee table, your gaze then lingering on Clark, still in his suit. You smiled, turning back to face him.

"You should change, right? A neighbor might ask questions."

He leaned over to pick up the mug and took a long sip.

"Discretion wasn't an issue when you kissed me earlier," he replied with a smirk.

You nudged him on the shoulder, barely moving him.

"You kissed me!" you retorted, feigning annoyance, but your smile betrayed you.

Your little squabble quickly ended, from fear of spilling hot chocolate on the couch.

"Actually, I wanted to suggest something," Clark began.

You looked up from your mug, a glint of curiosity in your eyes.

"What would you think about flying with me? Other than in the lounge, I mean."

The idea surprised you, but it didn't look distasteful. In fact, you'd already thought about it, but you imagined Clark would refuse because of the risks.

"Why this sudden urge?" you asked, placing your hand on his knee.

His blue gaze avoided yours for a couple of seconds, a slightly embarrassed expression on his face making you even more interested in the subject.

"I guess I want you to see what it's like," he said without much conviction. "It is a bit of a hobby."

You moved closer, close enough for your legs to intertwine and you could speak more quietly.

"I believe you," your voice began, full of mischief, "but you're hiding something from me."

You knew you'd hit the nail on the head when he struggled to maintain eye contact with you.

"Well...yes, maybe," he replied, "maybe I'm a little ashamed or afraid you'll find it weird."

You gave him a look that said, "I'm dating a man from another planet, nothing's weird at this point," and he finally gave up, letting his head fall back a little.

"Okay, I admit it's a little exciting to imagine you with me up there."

You remained silent for a few seconds before cupping his face in one hand so he would look at you.

"Whatever fantasies you have, I love you Clark you know that," you affirmed, "and in the end, it's pretty logical. I mean, you have abilities we don't have, so that unlocks new fantasies." You finished your little speech by kissing the corner of his lips, "and I like the idea."

He was reassured, the blue of his eyes on you again. A second or two passed, just the comforting silence of shared love, then he straightened up and got off the couch, tipping you back a little.

"So? Shall we go?" he asked with that silly grin.

Your gaze screamed "now?" to which his replied "yes, now." You stood up too, quickly finishing your hot chocolate before going into the bedroom to get a jacket. When you returned, Clark had already opened the bay window again, making you smile with his impatience. He cast a questioning glance at the jacket in your hands.

"The higher it gets, the lower the temperature gets, I remind you," you explained, "and unlike you, Mr. Superman, I don't have a super body to protect me from the cold."

Barely had you put your clothes on when Clark grabbed your waist in a movement that almost made you jump.

"But you have a super-boyfriend who'll hold you so tightly that you'll end up feeling hot."

Your laughter was muffled by the muscles two inches from your face. You lifted your head a little, enough to admire your boyfriend's face. In agreement, he tightened his grip on you to avoid any risk—although even if by some miracle you fell, you wouldn't have time to realize it, he'd be moving so fast to catch you.

You took the time to close the bay window behind you, as if it were a front door and you were simply going for a drive through the city. And then, your feet were lifted off the ground, along with your whole body. He was right, it was a hell of a feeling.

Clark didn't get in too fast, knowing that the speeds he was usually going weren't made for your body, and besides, you had plenty of time. No traffic jams, no idiots yelling to move faster. Only the wind whipping your bodies, the oxygen gradually getting stronger, a distant plane on the horizon. There was only him, Superman. Head held high, eyes fixed on the sun. The red cape billowing behind him, hitting your side every two seconds. His chest burning beneath your hand, giving off a heat you suspected he was deliberately creating right now.

You closed your eyes, letting your head rest against the man who made your heart race.

Clark looked down at you, thanking the universe for having someone like you by his side.

You were now around the 100-meter mark, which didn't seem so high when said. Your eyelids had remained closed for most of the journey, but now the cool air hitting your cheeks made you reopen them.

You wanted to raise your head to appreciate Clark once more, but the back of your neck felt like it was frozen. Your brows furrowed. The rhythm in your chest sounded suddenly out of place. The heat against your body made you break out in a cold sweat. The scarlet fabric seemed to be cutting into your skin.

Panic took hold of your body without your permission. Like an authoritarian hand wrapping itself around your suddenly fragile neck. You wanted to breathe, to get some air, to live. But everything stopped. Your body was going to crush, to be shattered, you were sure of that. Your brain was going to implode, leaving a lifeless lump of flesh in your boyfriend's arms, it was inevitable.

Above, Clark opened his mouth to ask you if you were liking the view, but his voice caught when he saw the panic in your eyes. He immediately stopped his ascent.

"Love? Are you okay?"

He ran the hand not holding you against him over your face, but received almost no reaction. His heart was pounding.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice trying not to betray his fear. "Angel, answer me, Angel, are you hurting anywhere?"

His Kryptonian brain was boiling.

A move from Lex? A new enemy? Mentalist? Hypnotist? Did he drug you? Poisoned? Was it really you? A clone? Respond to a trauma you hadn't told him about? A dysphoric moment? A crisis of...

Of course. How stupid was he.

"Listen to my voice, darling," his voice murmured, now less intense. "We are fine, you are with me."

He loosened the pressure on your waist—without putting you in danger, however. His body heat dropped under his command, as did your altitude. His hand cupped your cheek with nameless delicacy, making you raise your face towards his at your own pace. You were greeted by a dimpled smile.

"Stay with me, can you? Love to see your beautiful eyes."

Anxiety attack. That's what was happening to you. No mentalist behind all this, no clone, and absolutely no Lex. Only humanity, and the purest.

Clark spoke to you, again and again, in that same tone low enough to be heard only by your ears. He kept your attention on his words, not on the void that separated you from any natural gravity. And it was working, he could see it. Your features relaxed a little more with each smile, your eyes regaining their usual glow. You were slowly coming to, little by little, in his arms.

A few minutes later, your feet found the familiar ground of your balcony. Clark carried you, clearly seeing your legs unable to support your weight at the moment. He set you down on the couch, snuggled up against him.

Another ten minutes passed, fueled by the same voice, right next to your head, whispering meaningless stories so you knew he was still there. Clark was still there, with you, and he stayed with you until words found their way back to your lips.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

Clark immediately took your face in his hands, frowning like a disgruntled child.

"I don't want to hear that," he said. “I'm going to cut off your unnecessary guilt right away. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. An anxiety attack doesn't give warning, it's natural, it happens."

Your eyes filled with tears, and it only made Clark's love for you worse. You rested your cheek against his chest, a long, suppressed sigh escaping your throat.

"You're right," you declared.

"When I was a kid, I used to have them frequently," your boyfriend admitted. "Even Superman has anxiety attacks."

His words relieved you more than you could have imagined, a small sob of relief leaving your lips. You weren't sad, but grateful, to have Clark in your life. He understood this cry, holding you a little tighter against him.

A few tears, needing to escape, wet your cheeks, before all the remaining anxiety completely vanished from your body. You still felt tired, but there was nothing wrong with that, it was Saturday.

"Can we try again later?" you asked.

The Kryptonian laughs, vibrating against you, bringing a smile to your face.

"As many times as necessary," he said, kissing your damp cheeks, "and I'll always be there to bring you back to Earth."

pictures : Pinterest