-Wallflower-

The snow had been falling since before noon, whisper-quiet and relentless. By six o’clock, the city had turned to static—blanketed cars, muffled traffic, and sidewalks packed in white silence. You stood at the top of the apartment building’s front steps, bundled in a thick blue sweater with the sleeves tugged over your hands, peering out into the icy swirl with expectant eyes. Somewhere out there was your pizza. Probably lost. Maybe frozen.

Ben had been standing by his door for five minutes.

He hadn’t meant to. Really. He was just heading out to grab his mail—something he already did three times a day now, ever since you moved in two months ago. Not to stalk. He wasn’t like that. He was just...paying attention. Just in case you needed something. Like protection. Or salt for your stairs. Or someone to talk to when you were walking back from the subway with your headphones in and that look in your eyes that meant today had been a lot.

But right now? You weren’t even looking at him. You were watching the snowfall like it was something sacred, nose pink from the cold, bouncing slightly on your toes like it might speed the delivery up. You looked ridiculous. And beautiful. And warm, somehow, even standing in the chill.

Dex’s throat felt tight.

Your sweater was oversized again—he liked when you wore those, how they made your hands disappear and clung just enough to your shape when you moved. This one had little flecks of silver woven into the threads. He’d noticed them when he passed you in the stairwell that morning. Now the hallway light caught them again, soft and shimmery like frost.

He had no business looking at you like this.

You weren’t for him. You were for good people. People who didn’t have to clench their fists just to stay calm. People who didn’t sit in the dark at night trying not to think about the way your shampoo smelled when the wind caught your hair on the balcony. He wasn’t supposed to want anything.

But God, you made it so hard.

Especially when you turned suddenly, catching him there—standing with the mailbox open like he’d forgotten what he was doing.

You blinked, then smiled. “Hey, neighbor.”

Dex swallowed. “Hey.”

Your cheeks puffed a little as you breathed into your palms for warmth. “I think my pizza’s dead in a snowbank. Starting to lose hope.”

He smiled faintly, trying not to let it reach his eyes too much. “Need a search party?”

You gave a little laugh. “Only if you come with a shovel and thermal goggles.”

Dex hesitated. Then stepped forward, slow and careful. His boots didn’t make a sound on the carpet. You always smelled like cinnamon in the winter. And he was close enough now to see the flutter of your lashes where snow had started to collect on them.

“You really shouldn’t stand out here too long,” he said gently, voice low. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m okay,” you said, and nudged him with your elbow, teasing. “Just being dramatic.”

He could feel the echo of your touch long after it was gone.

“Still,” he murmured, shrugging out of his own black coat. “Here.”

You blinked. “Ben, no—I’m just waiting—”

He didn’t say anything. Just held it out, eyes fixed on the pink of your nose and the way you were starting to shiver beneath that sweater. Not for long. But enough.

You stared at him for a beat.

Then slowly, you took it.

He hadn’t expected you to put it on right there in front of him, but you did—slipping into the warmth of it with a quiet sigh, tugging it around you until it swallowed the sweater whole.

“...Wow,” you mumbled. “Okay. This is really warm. Like illegally warm.”

Dex smiled, barely. “Military-grade.”

You looked up at him with those eyes of yours—mischievous, unguarded—and he swore his heart did something it shouldn’t have. Something not normal. Not safe.

“Thank you,” you said softly, then leaned against the rail again. “You’re always so nice.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

So he stood with you.

Waited for your pizza with snow collecting on his hair and hands shoved in his pockets like it might keep all the things he wanted to do—to you, for you, because of you—from showing on his face.

And when the delivery car finally came, skidding through the snow and crunching to a stop on the curb, Dex didn’t say anything else. He just opened the door for you like he always would.

Because for you?

He’d be good.

Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected by emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents. 

They weren’t exactly hard to track and they weren’t subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of “order.” You’d been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didn’t like being hunted.

And they were definitely hunting you.

You were an “Asset Gone Rogue.” At least, that’s what you were in their files.

In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself. 

Because you refused, because apparently, if you weren’t loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you. 

You didn’t mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right?  At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you. 

Until Fisk became mayor. 

That’s when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for “assets” as a threat. So they slapped the label “vigilante” on you and processed your arrest warrant. 

The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire.  

They were your friends. 

Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. He’d get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. You’d told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, they’d need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer. 

Layla would laugh and ask, “You? C’mon. You’re not stopping nobody from coming in.”

Darren would say, “My cousin’s like 6’5. He can do the job.”

You’d laugh, because they didn’t really know your past. They didn’t know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didn’t know the blood on your hands. 

You’d take a drag out of the blunt. “Trust me, man. I’m scary as fuck.”

They’d laugh and say, “If you say so.”

But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.

And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, they’ll get a vigilante.

Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for. 

Because if there’s one thing you’re good at doing with your hands, it’s killing for sport. 

—

What you didn’t expect when you started to hunt them… was competition.

On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldn’t have been knives. Pencils where they shouldn’t be pencils. And glass where they shouldn’t be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force. 

You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler. 

You smiled a little. “‘M not the only one, huh?”

—

The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive. 

It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on. 

Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour. 

One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.

You stepped in.

Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.

Another came at you from behind.

You didn’t turn.

You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.

He folded.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work. 

The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream. 

You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets. 

Shiny, you thought. It’s mine now.

“Messy,” you heard a voice say from the darkness. 

You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.

The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like he’d always been there.

He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.

It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldn’t tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him. 

What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.

Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.

“Oh?” you said, almost amused. “You got notes?”

His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.

“You were in my line of fire,” he said bluntly.

You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. “I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.”

To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.

You felt bone crunch under your heel.

You didn’t even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.

You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. “You see something unfinished?”

His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. “They were mine.”

Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.

“Well.” Your head tilted. “You should’ve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.”

“I don’t need to be close,” he replied.

“Mm.” You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. “Shame. You’re missing out.”

“And you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,” he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.

“It’s more fun,” you shrugged. “I like it when I feel it.”

You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile. 

“Oh,” you said with a cynical grin. “There it is. You do have a personality.”

The tension didn’t ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.

“Got a name?” you asked casually, like you weren’t standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.

A fraction of a second passed before he answered. “Dex.”

It fit him.

You nodded once, like you approved. “Dex,” you repeated, tasting it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You?”

You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Tsk. Tsk.” You stepped a little closer. “I’m not that easy.”

Dex managed a real laugh. “I didn’t think you were.”

That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didn’t understand. 

—

You kept running into each other. 

Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.

Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding. 

You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.

You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.

When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. “You stalking me?”

“You’re predictable,” he replied.

You smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still alive.”

“…For now,” he said. There was something almost playful in it.

A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, you’ve started actively looking for each other before fighting. 

This time, you moved without speaking, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

You drew them in. Dex picked them off.

At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.

You didn’t even look.

“Gotta be careful,” he called.

“Relax,” you shot back. “I trust you.”

Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said. 

You grinned. “Too late.”

By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.

You’d show up. He’d already be there. Or vice versa.

You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.

You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. “You gonna share?”

“Depends,” he shrugged.

“On?”

“Whether you slow me down.”

You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. “Or speed you up.”

That got you a sweet smile. “We’ll see.”

And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it mattered—

“The enemy of my enemy…,” you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.

Dex eyes locked on to yours.

“…is useful,” he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether. 

After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.

—

Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.

He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.

“You’re late,” he said, not even turning. 

He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.

You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadn’t just sprinted across half the block. “Just got back from a hot date.”

That got a pause. Was he… jealous?

“Really?”

You gave him a deadpan look he couldn’t see. “Yeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.”

His head tilted just slightly.

You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. “Of course not. I don’t have time for dates.” You huffed, almost amused. “My laundry, though? That needed folding.”

As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.

“Target’s moving,” he said.

You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.

“Mm,” you hummed. “You taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?”

“I’ve got it.”

You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was… fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours. 

His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.

Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.

“Dex—”

The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.

Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder. 

It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.

Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.

“Shit!” Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day. 

Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.

“What did you do?” He demanded, almost a sneer.

You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. “You’re welcome?”

Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.

Another shot rang out.

Oh, so that bastard was still there. 

Dex knew he had to go now. 

His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired,  like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.

A body dropped across the street.

“You’re hit,” he said, attention turning back to you. 

You huffed weakly. “Wow. Observant.”

Your knees buckled. This time, they didn’t recover. He held you up anyway.

“Why?” he asked.

You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. “What?”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. “Wow. No ‘thank you’? I’m hurt.”

“You are hurt.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. “At least I’ll get a cool scar from it.” Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, “like yours.”

His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you. 

What a foreign feeling, indeed.

“Stay with me,” he said.

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Stay. With me.” You’ve never heard him sound so… serious.

Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. “…Alright.”

For once, you didn’t fight him. You didn’t joke or deflect.

Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. “You owe me,” you murmured.

“What?” He asked, as if he couldn’t believe where your priorities lay right now. 

You managed the ghost of a grin. “Saving your life. Obviously.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he managed, exasperated.

You exhaled, breath catching halfway. “Yeah… well. I did.”

He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.

You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.

His eyes weren’t steady anymore. 

“C-Careful,” you managed, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re s-starting to sound like you care.”

Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, “I do.”

Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.

“…Huh,” you whispered.

And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.

—

You came back to the land of the living slowly.

You didn’t just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You weren’t at a hospital— there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just… peace and quiet.

Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.

And it was definitely not your ceiling.

You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.

Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.

“You decorate like a serial killer,” you muttered, voice rough from disuse.

“You’re awake,” Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like he’d been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Was hoping I died. This is disappointing.”

You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. “Tragic.”

You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. “…How long?”

“Eleven hours and forty-three minutes.”

“Mm.” You swallowed, throat dry. “You carry me all the way here?”

“Yes.”

A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”

Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory. 

You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. “Come here.”

He didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.

You tilted your head, studying him. “I just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.”

He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.

You watched him for a second. “You’re weird,” you said.

“Mmhm,” he managed a laugh.

“At least you’re self-aware.”

You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. “You ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“All of it.” You gestured vaguely. “Of this.”

“No,” he said, and it was resolute. 

You studied him, like you didn’t quite believe that. “I do,” you admitted quietly.

That earned his attention.

Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. “When I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more… being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.”

Your teeth tightened slightly.

“I tried to be normal,” you continued. “Did the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.” You managed a faint humorless smile. “Turns out I’m not built for normal.”

Dex didn’t interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you. 

“They came after me anyway,” you said. “Didn’t matter that I walked away. To them, I don’t get to just… stop being what they made me.”

“And that is…?” Dex looked at you now.

“A killer,” you replied, sighing, “that’s all I’m good for.”

“Well,” Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, “that makes the two of us.”

You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasn’t distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.

That was new.

“I knew who you were,” Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. “Even before you told me your name.”

“That so?” you replied lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like your name hadn’t gotten people killed before. 

He nodded once, finally looking at you. “Your MO was familiar."

Your lips curved faintly. “Flattered.”

“I knew I read something about brass knuckles,” he continued. “Used by a close range combat specialist.”

You just watched him, eyes sharper now.

“I was a fed,” he added. “I read your files a few years ago.”

That made you smile properly.

“Yeah?” you said, amused. “How much did you remember?”

“You were on the FBI watchlist,” he said. “It said that you were ex-SHIELD with an impressively high body count. High adaptability. High lethality.” He paused. “It said that you were high risk and… that you were volatile.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly against the pillow. There was no bitterness in it. No anger, just acceptance. Like he’d told you your eye color.

Dex studied your face, like he was expecting more of a visceral reaction. 

“You’re not bothered?” he asked.

“Should I be?” you shot back lightly. “You already kept me alive. Bit late to get scared of me now.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

You smiled at that. 

The lights dimmed around you both as the sun set outside, the tension unwinding. You adjusted slightly, wincing as your shoulder protested, and he noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he almost reached for you before stopping himself.

Your voice dipped, teasing again. “So you knew all along, and you still chose to work with me.”

Dex nodded as if it was never a question.

You raised an eyebrow. “That seems irresponsible for a federal agent.”

“I’m not a federal agent anymore,” he reminded, “and you are not as one dimensional as the files say you are.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “So what am I, then?”

He paused again.

You watched him carefully this time, vulnerability threading through every word.

“Am I a problem?” you asked. “A liability? ‘Enemy of my enemy’ and all that?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “No.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, firmer now.

You let that sit between you for a second before pushing just a little further. “So what am I to you, Dex?”

He was thinking about it, you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes now locked onto yours like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“A friend?” you offered. “Is that what this is?”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. 

Then he shook his head.“‘Friend’ feels too tame.”

Your eyebrows lifted, interest sparking. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said.

You shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer despite the pull in your shoulder. “So what, then?”

For once, he didn’t look like he was calculating. For once, he just… felt present. “You’re…” he started, then stopped, like even he didn’t have a good word for it.

Your lips twitched. “C’mon. You made it this far.”

“You’re the only one I can’t reduce to a target,” He let out a faint exhale, “and the only variable I don’t want to correct.”

Ah. Okay.

Your expression didn’t change much, but it felt like the lens behind your eyes had shifted. 

“I think…” you let a smile pull on your lips, “I like that answer better than ‘friend.’”

—

You didn’t go back to “normal” after that. It wasn’t an option anymore.

But you found something else, and it started the first night you cleared yourself to move properly again.

Dex watched the way you stretched, testing your muscles, the way you flexed your fingers like you were reacquainting yourself. 

That’s when you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.

“You’re still hurt,” he said.

You scoffed. “I got shot three days ago. Do I look like I have a healing factor?”

“You’re arrogant. One day, it’s going to kill you,” he pointed out, as if your death was something he was dreading. 

“You like that about me.” You grinned. The arrogance, you mean. 

He paused, thinking. “I like you.”

“Jesus, Dex,” you laughed under your breath. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

“I don’t see the point in lying to you.”

So now, working together became less of an accident. You stopped pretending you ran into each other. Now, you wouldn’t go into a fight without knowing the other had your six.

—

And afterwards… After the bodies were dropped and blood was spilled, you didn’t walk your separate ways. Instead, you kept each other company. 

Which was new.

You’d sit on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, boots tapping idly against concrete slick with drying blood.

The city stretched out below you.

You leaned back on your hands, breathing steadying after the fight. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

“Not really,” Dex said.

“You should. It’s weird.”

You were met with another bout of comfortable silence. Then, he said, “You talk more after fights.”

You smiled, glancing sideways at him. “Adrenaline. Makes me charming.”

“You’re already… that,” he said, like the word didn’t come naturally.

You blinked. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.”

“Mmhm.”

Dex shifted closer. His hand moved, stopping just shy of yours.

You turned your head to realise how close he truly was.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. He did the same.

Was he… leaning in?

Before you could meet him halfway, the church bells rang.

You flinched back on instinct, breath breaking as the moment broke clean in half. You dragged a hand through your hair, shaking your head slightly. “Timing’s shit.”

Dex didn’t look away. “…Yeah.”

—

Sometimes, you would sit on bridges.

You leaned against the railing, staring down into the dark. Dex stood beside you as you nudged his shoulders with yours. 

“You ever think about it?” you asked once, more fragile than usual.

About jumping, you meant, and he knew that. About ending it all. 

“Yes,” he said. It surprised him how easily he was admitting this to you. 

You glanced back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

You nodded, turning back to the water. “Me too,” you sighed, wishing the void beneath you were a giant pile of comfortable pillows. “But not anymore.”

“I—“ he managed to choke up, looking at you. “Me, too.”

The words didn’t feel separate. They felt… tethered. Like a promise neither of you meant to make.

The wind rushed up from the dark below, cold enough to sting. Your fingers curled tighter around the railing as you turned your head.

He was already right there. 

You realised a terrifying truth: If you jumped, he would.

And worse, if he did, you wouldn’t hesitate to follow.

You took a deep breath and leaned in anyway.

Dex did the same, like he understood exactly what this meant. Like he knew what you were giving him.

Your breaths mixed, you lips barely a breath apart—

—and a violent blast of car horns tore through it.

You jumped back like the world had yanked you apart.

Reality crashed in as you turned away, swallowing hard, grip tightening on the railing like it was the only thing holding you in place now. 

Dex sighed, knowing that it was not the time, it was not the place. “Right…”

You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah.”

—

Most nights, though, you’d take him to sit on a bench by the river, tucked away just enough that no one bothered you.

It had a plaque on it, one that you bought. One that said— in memory of beloved friends: Layla Gras and Darren Walsh.

You blew half your savings account paying for the goddamn bench. 

So after most nights of fighting Task Force, you’d make your way there and sit with your legs stretched out. Dex would follow, and you’d lean into him without thinking. 

You’d talk about nothing and everything. You’d talk about small things like the weather, but you’d also talk about deep shit. Real shit. Your days with SHIELD, and whatever he would offer from his past. You’d talk like this was a confessional booth, like you’ve sworn under oath in court— that’s how freely you divulge information about yourselves to each other. That’s how safe you felt around him. Ironic, considering his… professional reputation. 

Today, you were sat there after ambushing more Task Force agents than you were expecting. You had gotten bruised, so you were pressing your fingers against your side with a small wince. “I’m getting sloppy.”

“You still won,” he said immediately, “shoulda seen those guys.”

You scoffed. “That’s a very you way of measuring success.”

“It’s the only way that matters.”

“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but you didn’t argue. Your hand drifted down absently, brushing against your belt. 

You froze for a second before pulling it free.

It was the knife you took from him on the first night you met.

You turned it in your hand. It was still in perfect condition, and of course it was. You’d taken care of it, maybe more than you needed to.

Your thumb traced the handle.

“Do you want it back?” you asked, holding it out slightly toward him.

Dex didn’t even look at it. “Keep it,” he said. 

You blinked once, then let out a chuckle, lowering the knife back into your lap.

“Wow,” you said lightly. “How very sentimental.”

“It’s practical.”

“Is it?” you tilted your head. “Because I’m pretty sure you just gave me your weapon as a keepsake.”

“It’s not a keepsake,” he replied, but there was a slight delay. “You should use it.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

You flipped the knife once in your hand before catching it again it was almost as if you were imitating him. “You know,” you added, voice quieting, “most guys give flowers.”

“I don’t think you’d like flowers.”

You turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “Excuse you. I love flowers.”

He finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your face.

“No,” he said after a second. “You’d forget to change the water.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly. “That is—” you pointed at him with the knife, offended but amused, “—so disrespectful of you to assume.”

“You forgot to eat yesterday.”

“That is different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” you insisted, though you were already smiling. “One is basic survival. The other is… decorative responsibility.”

“That’s worse.”

You scoffed, staying silent for a long time.

This peace… was nice. 

You looked out at the water, closing your eyes for a good five seconds before you opened them again. Then, you added, “I’d keep them alive if they mattered.”

Dex didn’t respond right away.

Your eyes dropped back to the knife, fingers tightening around it. “This matters,” you admitted shyly. 

You didn’t look at him when you said it.

Instead, you carefully slid the knife back into your belt, adjusting it into place like it had always belonged there.

When your hand pulled away, you placed it on the bench. 

Your fingers stayed there for a second… before you hooked your pointer finger around his. 

You did it so casually, like it didn't mean anything. But it meant everything.

You leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulder bumping his just enough to close the space between you.

He leaned into your touch.

You smiled to yourself, eyes drifting out over the water as you let your thumb brush absently against his pinky.

Dex’s vision shifted to you, then to the small plaque fixed into the bench beneath you. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to read it properly.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew there must be a reason you brought him here like… what? Seven or eight times now?

He just never thought to ask because he didn’t know when the right time to ask would be. But it might as well be now.

His fingers adjusted, holding on slightly firmer. “Tell me about Layla and Darren.”

—

An hour later, the city had rolled further into early morning than night.

You stood from the bench after you laid your heart bare, rolling your shoulders once like you were checking in with your body before moving again. You were sick of being a walking sob story, however good it felt just to talk. You needed to move.

Dex stood a second after you did. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

It came out a little stiff. Not forced, but unfamiliar.

You glanced at him, a smile pulling at your lips. “Oh?” you teased lightly. “Is that what we’re doing now?”

He frowned slightly. “What?”

“You know,” you shrugged, stepping past him, hands sliding into your pockets as you started down the sidewalk, “chivalry. Social norms. Walking a girl home.”

“I’m making sure you get back safely.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Dex, I jump off rooftops for fun.”

“And you could still get hurt.” he replied evenly, falling into step beside you.

You didn’t argue. 

The walk wasn’t long, but it stretched in that comfortable silence you’d both gotten used to. You walked shoulder to shoulder, naturally in sync. 

By the time you reached your building, you slowed to a stop just outside the entrance. You turned to face him, head tilting slightly. “You wanna come upstairs?” 

Dex didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

“Wow,” you said, pushing the door open. “No internal conflict? No hesitation? I’m almost offended.”

“I trust you,” he said simply, following you inside.

Upstairs, your place was dark when you stepped in. You flicked the light on, yellow lights warming the otherwise dim apartment.

Dex’s eyes moved immediately, taking everything in.

It wasn’t what he expected.

It was… neat and intentional. Not sterile like his, but not cluttered either. There were actual decorations, like a plant by the window and books stacked alphabetically on your desk. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” you said, kicking your shoes off and placing your keys onto the counter.

“I’m not,” he replied.

“You are,” you shot back, glancing at him. “You thought I lived in a cave or something.”

“I thought it would be less… personal.”

You hummed, walking further in. “Yeah, well. I tried the whole ‘normal life’ thing, remember?”

His eyes lingered a second longer, until it shifted to the second door, which was left slightly ajar.

You noticed.

“Ah,” you said, already moving toward it. “That one’s less aesthetically pleasing.”

You pushed the door open fully.

The spare bedroom, the shape of a square, was stripped down to nothing but function. All there was in there was a foam mat covering most of the floor, worn in places. A duffel bag was placed in the corner. There were a few taped-up sections of the wall where impact marks had clearly been… frequent.

You stepped inside first, gesturing lazily. “This,” you said, “is where I train.”

Dex stepped inside, his eyes measuring distance, angles, exits, impact points.

He was interested.

He walked further in, like he was mapping it out in real time. “You spend a lot of time in here,” he said.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “Keeps me sharp.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. Then he turned to you. “Train me.”

“Are you serious?” you asked, pushing off the frame.

“Yeah.” He didn’t waver. “I know for a hand-to-hand combat specialist, you’re not particularly strong.”

“Ouch,” you said immediately, a hand pressing dramatically to your chest.

“What I mean is,” Dex continued, stepping closer. “I’ve seen you fight. You go against people twice your size. You’re not relying on brute strength, but you’re agile.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“I want to know how you do it,” he finished. “Teach me.”

Huh. You weren’t expecting this. 

“Careful what you wish for,” you murmured, reaching up to shrug off your jacket. It slid from your shoulders, landing on the floor as you stepped onto the mat, rolling your wrists once like you were waking your body up again.

“C’mon, Dex,” you said, a hint of a challenge threading through your voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

—

Dex learned fast. That was the first thing you noticed.

The second was that he was not really trying to hurt you.

And that pissed you off.

His momentum slowed just slightly before impact. Then, he held back a counter that could’ve floored you but didn’t follow through. His grip was way too controlled.

You circled him lightly on the mat, breath steady despite the growing ache in your ribs.

“Again,” you said.

He moved.

You slipped under his strike, pivoted, redirected your palm and caught his wrist, your weight shifting just enough for him to hit the mat hard.

You stepped back, barely winded.

Dex stared up at the ceiling for a second before sitting up.

You could see it in his posture: restraint. 

You narrowed your eyes.

“Godammit, Dex,” you tsked, pacing a circle around him. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘gentleman’ thing tonight, huh?”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you interrupted, stopping in front of him. “You’re pulling your punches.”

“I’m adjusting,” he corrected, standing again.

“For what?” you challenged, tilting your head. “My feelings?”

His teeth tightened, his chin pointing to your bruised side. “For your condition.”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “My condition can handle you.”

A familiar flicker shot through his eyes. 

“Or is it not that?” you added, voice lowering. “You worried you might actually hurt me, or…” You stepped in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your nose “…that you might not want to?”

Dex’s gaze locked onto yours, a darker want threading through it now.

“I’m not holding back,” he insisted.

“Liar.”

You moved before he could respond. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He came at you faster, harder, and for a second, it almost looked like he meant it.

Good, you thought. The last thing you wanted was to be infantilised by the only man you might still have respect for. 

You ducked, redirected, used his momentum, your body turning with his.

That was when he realised that calling you agile was the understatement of the century. 

You weren’t overpowering him. You were using him. Every ounce of force he gave you became yours.

You twisted, hooked his leg, and sent him crashing down again.

This time, you followed him down.

Your knee pinned his arm before he could recover, your other leg sliding over his hips as you stabilized your position.

And suddenly, you were straddling his crotch.

Dex didn’t even try to move.

His chest rose under yours. His hands hovered blankly for a split second like he didn’t know where to put them… before settling against the mat.

Your hands pressed lightly against his shoulders, holding him there. You could feel the tension coiled on his muscles, beneath your palms.

And oh…

Oh.

You felt it.

Your lips parted slightly.

His pants were definitely more tight than they had been before, evident by how much it was actually pressing into your core.

“Wow…” you sighed, amused.

You shifted your hips, grinding into him ever so slightly, just enough to make the point undeniable.

His breath hitched, and his face, from his nose to his ears were getting red. You leaned down just slightly, close enough that your chest hovered over his.

“Fuck, Dex,” you whispered, teasing through it. “Does this get you off?”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted frantically. 

He was embarrassed. How adorable. 

When his hands finally moved, he grabbed your waist. It was firm, but not rough.

“Get off,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it.

You didn’t so much as flinch.

Instead, you smiled. “Make me.”

After a while, he moved.

Finally.

Dex didn’t shove you off gently this time. He fought, and you were pleased, even if lacking a hint of resistance. He did pivot, a torque of his shoulder, his grip locking at your wrist as he forced space between you.

You let him for half a second. Just long enough for him to think he’d reset the balance.

Then you twisted with him.

Your weight dropped, your hips shifting as you used his own pull to roll back in, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to react. The mat hit your knee, breath loud in both your ears now.

“Come on,” you taunted. “That all you got?”

That got something out of him.

The next movement was cleaner. He caught you off-guard, turned you, and in one controlled motion drove you into the wall.

His hand snaked around your upper chest, up to the throat line. He had caught you in a headlock, precise and controlled. His body pressed in, flush behind yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space he didn’t give you.

There was no room to turn properly. No easy escape angle. There was just his forearm locked under your, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You let out a quiet laugh, breath slightly uneven.

“Took you long enough,” you said.

Dex didn’t loosen his grip. He leaned in and whispered closely, lips touching the shell of your ear. “Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

But you also liked winning.

So, without warning, you sank your teeth into his bicep, hard enough to draw blood, to taste the tang of iron on your delicate tongue. 

Dex, and you swore you weren't expecting this, moaned. It was throaty and low and utterly angelic to your ears. 

It wasn’t long until he released you, more because he was surprised by his own bodily reaction than pain. 

You stumbled forward out of the hold, spinning on your heel to face him again, licking your lips like nothing had happened.

Oh. That was interesting. 

You looked at his arm again, watching the thin bead of blood you drew still sliding slowly down his skin.

“You okay?” you asked. It came off as gentler than you meant it to be, but there was still a hint of mischief between your eyes. 

Dex didn’t answer immediately.

He was staring at you like his internal system had just stopped compiling. Like the world had introduced a variable he hadn’t accounted for and now everything else was lagging behind trying to catch up. It was like his brain had stalled somewhere between what just happened and why did I like that so much.

You lifted his arm slightly. “C’mere,” you pawed at his wrist, bringing the scar closer to your lips. 

The bite was tiny, and there was only a little chance that it would leave a mark long-term. You would feel sorry if only he wasn’t so turned on.  

And then you did something so absurdly gentle in contrast to everything you were. You leaned in… and kitten-licked the blood from his skin.

“F-fuck,” he said in a gasp, looking down your tongue to your eyes. 

Oh, your eyes were locked on to his. He could barely keep it together.

The way you did it was teasing. Infuriatingly intimate in a way that didn’t match the violence still lingering in your skin. It’s as if you enjoyed drinking in his blood.

As you lapped up the scar at the source, he went very still.

Then his breath caught, his hardware short-circuiting.

A low, husky sound slipped out again before he could stop it.

Not pain, or anger. But pleasure. 

He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to regain command of himself and failing in real time.

“W-what the hell are you doing?” he managed.

You wiped your thumb slowly over his wrist like nothing about this was unusual. Like you weren’t currently reprogramming his entire sense of restraint.

“M’ showing you how sorry I am,” you said mildly. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

He couldn’t look away and how beautiful you looked, how innocently you were acting through all this. You were a freak, he decided. If that was what it took, he would go band for band. 

“That’s not what this looks like.”

You hummed, almost amused. “No?”

Dex didn’t answer.

He couldn’t, because he was still watching your mouth like it had become the only relevant object in the room.

Then you tilted your head slightly.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, dead serious. “And I’ll stop.”

Dex didn’t move for a second.

Not because he didn’t want to, but rather because he was trying very, very hard not to.

His eyes stayed on your mouth, on the faint trace of blood still there, and finally gave up pretending that you were anything short of an infuriatingly all-consuming obsession. 

When his restrained snapped, it didn’t snap clean.

It frayed. Then tore.

His hand came up fast and grabbed your chin, firm enough to stop your whatever teasing remark you were going to say mid-breath. It was fucking rough, and you could feel it in your cheeks. 

He didn’t hear you complaining, though. 

“Dex—”

That was all you got out before he kissed you, hard. This time, nothing could possibly interrupt you.

There was no easing in. It was clear that this was the result of pent up emotions he’d been holding back for months finally finding somewhere to go.

His other hand hit the wall beside your head as he pressed you back into it, trapping you. But it was not like you wanted to be anywhere else. 

You met him halfway.

Your hands found the collar of his shirt immediately,  fingers curling in like you were pulling him closer just to make a point out of it. 

His breath broke against your mouth for half a second, like even he couldn’t keep pace with how quickly this had escalated.

And then he kissed you again, like he was testing if you were real or just another thing his mind had invented under pressure.

You reminded him that you were tangible every time.

Running your tongue through his, gasping into his mouth. 

He had been dreaming about this for months. He had fantasised up multiple scenarios in his head, how it would lead to this and how he would do it. Not once did he think he would finally get a taste of your lips and have it taste like himself.

His grip shifted, one hand still braced against the wall, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was supposed to be space between you at all.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to breathe.

His forehead hovered close to yours, his voice rough around the edges in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled through your lashes. A faint trace of red still lingered at the edge of your teeth as you bit his lower lip. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“F-fuck, baby,” he cursed through gritted teeth, lips finding you jawline, you neck, nipping and biting until he settled at your collarbone, where you made the most noise.

His fingers caught the edge of your top, hesitating for half a second, until you helped him undress yourself and him all the same. Clothes were just simply in the way, in his line of fire.

His hands were everywhere he could justify them being, at your waist, your back, your face, running down your breast all the way down between your legs. He was learning you in real time and refusing to stop long enough to overthink it.

And you weren’t any better.

Your hand trained the lines of his body, from his neck to his torso, but ended up trailing down his back. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him shirtless, or the first time you saw the scar. It was the first time you felt it, though, all rough edges and raised skin. 

The first time you noticed it, you knew it was too precise to be anything but surgical, too severe to be anything but catastrophic. He had told you about it on his own free will; told you how his T8 and T9 vertebrae were shattered by Wilson Fisk, and how what put him back together wasn’t exactly medicine so much as an experiment. 

He said it like it didn’t matter.

You knew better. Bodies don’t forget that kind of thing, even when they’re forced to heal. And right now, baring his soul to you, he let you trace it with the pad of your fingers ever so gently.

Dex broke from your mouth just long enough to breathe, but even that didn’t create distance.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You blinked up at him. “Like what?”

His grip tightened slightly at your waist. “Like you planned this.”

You smiled.

“Did you?” He demanded. He didn’t wanna stop it, he just needed to know.

“C’mon,” you laughed, tipping your head back. “A girl invited you up to her place. You thought we were gonna bake cookies or somethin’?”

That got a reaction out of him, almost like a laugh, but it died halfway into another kiss before it could become anything stable.

This was going to be fun. 

—

Dex woke up in your bed the next morning.

He was lying on his stomach across, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other loosely curled like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered finishing it.

He noticed the soreness of his back in soft waves. There were scratches there, shallow and scattered. Dex exhaled slowly through his nose.

Right.

That had happened.

Then he felt you.

You were sitting next to him, cross-legged on the bed, close enough that your knee brushed his side when you shifted, casual enough that it didn’t feel like distance even existed as an option.

Dex turned his head and stopped when he realised you didn’t have any clothes on either. And everything he did to you last night was on full display. The sunlight streaming through the windows even shone on you like you were a piece of art in a museum. 

Beautiful, he thought.

Gentle evidence of love bites bloomed across your skin, marks he remembered leaving. It was… very intimate in hindsight.

You were looking down at him already, like you’d been watching him wake up for a while.

“Morning, sunshine,” you greeted.

Dex made an unassuming sound and pushed himself up on his forearms.

He looked at you for half a second before reaching for you.

He kissed you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find you beside him and decide, without question, that this was what mornings were now.

You kissed him back, your hand sliding into his hair with an ease that felt like trust.

When he pulled back, it was only a little.

“Morning,” he said, raspy. 

“Ah.” You smiled faintly. “He speaks.”

Dex let out a breath again, more awake now, more aware of every point of contact between you and him.

He shifted fully upright this time, sitting back against the bed.

You just reached down to your bedside table drawer and showed him a small tub of aloe vera. You traced the scars on his back your nails left last night as if they were maps of constellations. 

You had nothing to be sorry about. He asked for it when he was chasing his high in you, feral and affectionate all the same as you were gasping for air and saying his name like a prayer.

He had said he wanted his spinal scar to have company. He wanted the marks to feel good for a change.

Eventually, though, his eyes drifted down to his arm. 

Last night, it started with one bite mark. This morning, he counted five. Three on his bicep, two on his forearm.

Again, he was the one who wanted it. 

You had been trapped between the mattress and his body, putting you in a similar headlock from behind as he pulled the most lewd noises out of your pretty little mouth. “Gonna bite your way out now, pretty girl?” He whispered then, while you drew another bead of blood. “Huh? You know you like it. You know I— hmph fuck! Take it. Take it, take it…” 

And the rest were mostly incoherent mumbles and muffled sinful mewls from both of you. 

If your neighbours didn’t hate you before for all the thudding, they would now for all the fucking.

Still, the small tub of aloe was a curious thing.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me you feel bad now.”

You shrugged. “I just want a clean slate for next time.”

Dex’s heart skipped half a beat.

“Next time?” he repeated, like he was wondering whether the phrase was hallucinated.

You leaned forward slightly, tugging him by the shoulder so he turned his back toward you.

“Yeah,” you said simply. “Turn.”

Dex didn’t argue as you scooted closer behind him, dipping your fingers in the herbal ointment. His hands rested loosely on his thighs the whole time, not resisting as the coolness hit his skin. You laid it on the scratch marks first, then on his surgical scar. Not to erase it. Just to make it hurt a little less. To acknowledge that it was part of him, even if it didn’t define him. 

When you were done, you gently guided him to face you again. “I knew you were kinky.”

Dex couldn’t help but laugh. 

“But I have a feeling,” you set the tub down, “that I was just barely scratching the surface.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dex said honestly. “I’ve never done that before.”

You chuckled, biting your lower lip. “You are adorable, Poindexter.”

You let your hand come up, tracing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. Your thumb traced the scar there.

He swallowed, but not out of discomfort. 

Slowly, you leaned in.

The first kiss you pressed to the scar was featherlight, but you didn’t stop there.

Then you pressed another kiss, just beside it this time. It was warm, like he was worth being careful with.

His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet, insistent thought that convinced him, I don’t deserve this.

But he wanted it anyway.

Your lips brushed his cheek again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time, and his eyes shut briefly, like taking affection in was easier if he didn’t have to see it happening.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

“I think it suits you,” you murmured.

He didn’t trust himself to answer that.

Your attention drifted down, fingers slipping from his face to his arm. You picked up his wrist gently, turning it just enough to see the marks you’d left behind.

This time, when you dipped your fingers into the aloe, your touch was careful. He watched you smooth it over the faint crescents of your bite.

Then, his eyes shifted to you, your bare skin, and the marks he’d left behind.

His brow furrowed slightly before he could stop it. “You’re okay, right?”

He asked it without thinking. It caught him off-guard. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of this kind of sympathy.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes.

“More than okay,” you told him. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to confirm it.

He lifted his hand.

His fingers brushed your skin, starting at your collarbone, tracing one of the marks he’d left. His touch was lighter than it had ever been, like he was afraid of pressing too hard, of leaving something worse behind.

You didn’t flinch, so he kept going.

Down to your shoulder, pausing at the bullet wound he’d stitched himself. His thumb hovered there for a second before grazing over it.

He thought about that night, about how much blood you lost and how utterly lifeless you looked in his arms. He thought he was going to lose you, and he was terrified. 

You didn’t see this, of course. You had the privilege of being out cold.

You didn’t see him break down, panicking for almost twelve hours straight, feeling like he wanted to claw his eyes out because he thought he was going to lose you. You didn’t see how nauseous he got when your heart beat skipped, or how shaky his hand had been when he stitched you up. You didn’t see him broken, tears streaming down as he folded his own body onto the kitchen floor, when he didn’t know if you would ever wake up again. 

So, if you wanted to, he would let you pretend this was just fun. You could pretend there were no strings attached. That last night, you two were just fucking like animals without the certainty of labels. 

But it will never be just sex to him. 

So when moved his hands on to the bruises on your body, to the cuts that the task force left for you, the only thing he could feel was blood-curdling rage.

But when he glanced at your face, he was down to earth again. Just like that.

His hand settled at your waist after that, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your hip. 

Your fingers found his again, idly tracing the lines of his hand.

“Don’t die on me.” He whispered, as if he was almost scared to say it, as if reliving the memory again and again, with no end in sight. It might be an abrupt thing to say in the moment. It might feel out of place. But right now, after being so close to you, he just needed to know. “Please.”

You didn’t answer right away. When you did, it was barely more than a whisper. “I won’t.”

Your thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.

“You don’t either,” you insisted, looking into his eyes. Then you added, “I mean it.”

His fingers shifted under yours, turning just enough to lace with your hand properly this time.

It was almost impossible to reconcile this version of him— the lovesick man in front of you who would melt like putty in your arms —with the one stamped wanted, armed and dangerous. And yet… you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your forehead against his. As your breaths fell into sync, he wasn’t even sure where you ended and he began. 

After all, who knew the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be the only person who truly understood him?

What felt even worse was that you were considering taking Dex’s life. He wouldn’t know, and maybe, just maybe, you would find some sense of solace. An end to your survivor’s guilt, and bringing justice to your late friend. You fiddled with your fingers as tears stung your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you slouch into the shitty fold-out chair and bring your hands up to cover your face, as if that would shield you from the dangerous thoughts you were trying to conceal. 

“What am I thinking?” You mumble. 

A quiet groan shakes you out of your stupor, your eyes darting to the man in front of you. His shirt was off when Matt decided to patch his wounds. You could see his shallow breathing, his arms slightly twitching, the handcuffs restraining his movements. He was starting to wake, causing you to slowly reach for the handgun beside you. You hold it up, a strong grip that was quickly shaking as Dex’s eyes opened. He sighs, “You’re not Karen.”

“No,” you stand, “I’m not.” 

He blinked away the haze of unconsciousness and sat up to the best of his ability; a small wince from his lips doesn’t go unnoticed. “You were there; I remember you.” You walk slowly, carefully, towards him. “When I killed Foggy–,” you shove the barrel into his forehead, a little too hard. You didn’t care; you needed him to stop talking.

“Shut up,” you mumble, venom laced in your tone. You let the tip of the barrel familiarize itself with his skin. “You say his name again, and that’ll be the last thing you ever say. Got it?”

He pushes his head further into your gun, “Got it.” And for whatever sick reason, he smiles. His split lip opens, blood running into his gums. He leans closer into your gun, and with a small tremor in your hands, he huffs a laugh, “You’re cracking. You’re not gonna shoot me.”

“Are you sure about that?” The click and release of the safety echoes throughout the room. 

Like the psychopath he is, he leans into you more. Enough for your arm to bend, bringing him closer to you. You take a deep breath and try to regain your composure, “Stop.” Of course, he doesn’t. You sit on the bed and grab a fistful of his hair behind his head, “Fuck you.”

A groan erupts from deep within his chest as you pull on his hair, making your breath shudder. What the fuck? You stand quickly and readjust your grip on your gun, shaking off the feeling of arousal you felt from deep in your bones. Your quick movements make his eyes go wide, licking his teeth before he smirks again. “Looks like you’re not as innocent as you think you are in all of this.”

The unlatching of the door acted as your saving grace. Matt walks in with a haste in his step, quickly towards you. You put the gun back on the table and sigh, “Thank God.” You look towards Dex again; he lies back down, his eyes not leaving your figure, that same cursed smile painted on his lips. 

You both knew nothing good could come out of this, yet only Dex knew he was willing to see how far he could push it. 

Dex had allowed himself to be guided, barely hearing the teasing. His eyes kept finding their way back to you as he was pulled into the seat directly across from you where the long table had suddenly felt too narrow.

“What finally dragged you out, man?” someone else had joked.

Dex didn’t answer. His gaze strayed towards you again and was extremely disappointed when you were now talking to another female agent.

Dex had been stalking watching you for weeks now.

He knew you went to the gym at 5:00 a.m. Monday to Thursday. He knew you took the long route home so you could stop in the alley behind your building and leave food for the stray cats that lived under the dumpster. He had watched you crouch down in the dark, talking softly to them like they were old friends. If not cats, you gave the local homeless food. 

It was ridiculous how much those tiny details lived rent-free in his head.

Dex swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the glass someone had placed in front of him. 

He was so fucked.

It wasn’t just about needing a new moral compass. This was physical. Visceral. He had wanted to get you alone. He had wanted to hear more of your voice without the noise of the others around you. He had needed to know everything—what made you laugh, what made you angry, what you looked like when you let your guard down completely.

Why? He didn’t know. He just knew it’s an itch that won’t stop.

Someone at the table had turned to you with a grin, “So, you really don’t get drunk? Like ever?”

You shook your head, smiling a little. “Nope. The alcohol burns off too fast.”

The guy groaned dramatically. “Aw, that sucks.”

Dex saw his opening.

“So what does that mean for you at these things?” he had asked, the question directed at you. “You just… watch the rest of us make fools of ourselves?”

“Pretty much,” you replied, lips curving. “It’s entertaining.”

“Good to know,” he smirked, eyes firmly stuck on yours. “I’ll try not to give you too much material tonight.”

You tilted your head slightly, assessing him intently.

“You don’t look the type to get drunk, Agent Poindexter,” you said, carrying a teasing edge to it. “You seem like someone who keeps everything… very controlled.”

Dex was about to hit back when a tipsy younger agent had leaned across the table with a sloppy grin.

“How about an arm wrestle? Come on, super soldier vs regular guy. I wanna see if I have a chance.”

You had laughed, a bright and easy one as your attention had shifted away from him completely while you rolled up your sleeve, still smiling.

Dex’s fingers had tightened around his glass until the knuckles went white. He wanted to ask you a hundred questions. He wanted to know what you were thinking when you looked at him like that.

Instead he had to watch as you let the agent win the first round, pretending to struggle before pinning his arm with a grin. How the agent had adjusted his grip on your hand like he was trying to make it last.

Oh he didn’t like that.

He wanted to break the guy’s wrist.

He could already picture it; the way the idiot’s face would twist in shock and pain. How satisfying it would be to reach across the table, grab that hand that was now touching yours.

The fantasy had played out so vividly in his head that he didn’t even hear the coworker next to him trying to talk to him.

“—right Poindexter? Hey—You good, man?”

Dex blinked, forcing his eyes away from you. He set the glass down a little too hard.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just gonna step out a bit—air’s too thick in here.”

He pushed back from the table before anyone could say anything else and headed for the back door, the cool night air had hit him like a slap the moment he stepped into the alley. He wiped his face with his hand, controlling his breath, trying to shove the violent images out of his head.

He didn’t know how long he stood there—maybe ten minutes or even twenty—when the back door creaked open again.

You had stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind you. The alley light caught the side of your face as you looked at him, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Getting too rowdy for you in there, Agent Poindexter?”

Dex straightened up too fast, heart kicking hard against his ribs. His mouth went dry and he didn’t know what to say. He never knew what to say when alone with you.

“I—uh, needed a minute,” he managed, voice coming out rougher than he wanted. His eyes kept drifting to the way the small smile still lingering on your lips. “You… winning arm wrestles now?”

You leaned against the wall a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, looking far too comfortable in the dark with him.

“I heard he was going through something, I had to give him a win. He looked like he needed it.” You shrugged, and tilted your head again, “You okay? You looked like you were somewhere else back there.”

Dex swallowed. He wanted to tell you the truth; how he wishes he could be thoughtful like that. That he’d been watching you for weeks. That he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Instead he had shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets so you wouldn’t see them flex.

“I’m fine.”

You nodded slowly, the small smile fading dimmer. When he didn’t say anything else, you glanced toward the door and pointed at it with your thumb.

“That’s good—um…I guess I’ll go back inside…”

You turned to leave.

Dex’s chest had tightened. Before he could stop himself, he took a hesitant step forward. 

“Hey, wait—”

You paused, looking back at him over your shoulder.

He rubbed his jaw, suddenly feeling exposed under the dim alley light. The words had felt clumsy and wrong in his mouth, but they had found their way out anyway.

“I—I attended because of you.”

Dex felt his ears burn. He had never said anything like that out loud before. He didn’t even know how to follow it up. He just stood there, heart pounding, staring at you like you held every answer he’d ever needed.

He forced himself to keep looking at you, even though every instinct screamed at him to look away, to retreat back into the safety of silence and control.

“I heard you were coming,” he added, quieter and a little bit embarrassed. “Sooo I came.”

You blinked, then a bright grin had lit up your whole face making him lose his breath. You actually had tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, looking almost shy for a second.

“You came because of me?” you asked, as if you couldn’t quite believe it.

Dex’s throat felt tight. He nodded once, awkward and stiff, “...Yeah.”

You bit your lip, still smiling, eyes sparkling in the low light, “Why?”

Dex blinked, caught off guard. 

“W-why?” He let out a nervous little huff, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I thought saying it would be pretty obvious…?”

You shook your head slowly, that playful grin still tugging at your lips.

“Yeah, I know but…” you trailed off, stepping just a little closer. “I just want to hear it come from you.”

Dex’s brain had short-circuited even more. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat crawl up his face.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging. “I just… wanted to see you. Outside of work. I can’t stop thinking about you and I—fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing. I just knew if you were here, I had to be here too.”

Your eyes had an admiring sparkle in them now while you laughed softly.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” you murmured.

Dex froze. His ears went even brighter red. 

You smiled wider, a little shy now too, and glanced down at the ground for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“I’m glad you came.” you said softly.

It was just the two of you, standing close enough that he could smell your perfume and the faint trace of the shampoo you used, hearts beating too fast for people who were supposed to be professionals.

Dex swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I am too.”

You bit your lip, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You held it out to him, screen already unlocked.

“Here,” you said, “Put your number in.”

Dex stared at the phone before his fingers brushed yours when he took it, and the contact had sent a small jolt up his arm. He typed his number in carefully, thumbs moving slower than usual, afraid of messing it up or giving you the wrong number. When he handed it back, your fingers touched again.

You saved it and sent him a message before looking up at him with a small, almost nervous smile.

“Now you can stop showing up to things just because you heard I’d be there,” you teased gently. “You can just… text me.”

He nodded once, ears still burning.

“So… if I text you,” he said, almost hesitant, “you’ll answer?”

You smiled, soft and warm under the alley light. “Yeah, Dex. I’ll answer.”

He nodded once, then again, like he was committing it to memory. “Good. That’s… good.”

He hadn’t texted you since that night. 

—

Now on a different week, Dex had sat at the far end of the conference table, spine straight, fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the polished wood. It was another inter-agency briefing and every time the door had opened his eyes snapped toward it like a damn magnet.

Because you were supposed to be there, and apart from orbiting you from afar the whole week, he hadn’t really seen you face to face.

He had typed and deleted seventeen different texts. Seventeen. All a different variations of “how’s your day been?” So he had sent nothing.

He was pathetic.

The had door swung open.

The Assistant Director stepped in first, barking something about staying on schedule, but Dex’s eyes locked on you instantly. You had been right behind the AD, balancing a heavy tray loaded with drinks alongside another junior agent who looked like he was about to drop his. Your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows, a tiny focused crease between your brows as you concentrated on not spilling anything. 

You looked… great. Professional and effortless and was completely unaware of how hard Dex was staring.

The AD started making his way around the table, pointing you toward the far side while he took the near side. Regular-sized coffees were set down in front of each person; black, no frills, the usual office sludge. Quiet thank-yous and polite nods followed in your wake.

Dex’s fingers drummed once against his thigh under the table. He had tried to look anywhere else but failed miserably.

Then you reached him.

Without a word you had leaned in and set something much larger in front of him. The cup was huge—extra-large, condensation already beading on the sides, a thick straw poking out and a swirl of whipped cream on top. The sweet, unmistakable scent of banana had hit him like a truck.

You straightened up, speaking in a volume that only he heard.

“The rookie dropped one cup of coffee but you can have my milkshake,” you murmured, the corner of your mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile. “It's banana. Hope that’s okay.”

Dex stared at the cup. Everyone else had boring little coffees and he had a goddamn giant banana milkshake. Heat crawled up the back of his neck until his ears burned because now the other agents gave him looks and side-eyes.

You had lingered for half a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking to his face, checking his reaction, then gave him the tiniest nod before moving on to the next agent like it was nothing.

Dex’s hand closed around the cup. He lifted it slowly, and took a cautious sip. Sweet banana flavor had flooded his tongue.

He glanced up.

You were on the other side of the room now, setting down another coffee, but your eyes flicked back to him for just a heartbeat. When they met him across the table you pressed your lips together maybe to fight a grin and looked away fast.

Dex felt the corner of his own mouth twitch. He took another slow sip, letting the sweetness sit on his tongue while the meeting started around him.

You’d singled him out in front of everyone, in the most ridiculous, thoughtful way possible, and now he was sitting here with a massive banana milkshake.

Dex hadn’t heard a single word of what the meeting was about. His leg bounced under the table the whole time, eyes drifting to you every few seconds, physically incapable of looking anywhere else. 

You were taking notes, sometimes nodding, the picture of professional focus—except for the one time you caught him staring and your pen faltered writing for half a second. That tiny slip made his stomach lurch harder than any bullet he’d ever dodged.

His phone burned inside his pocket and his hands finally fished for it, sliding the phone out under the table, thumbs moving before he could overthink it.

Fuck it.

Dex: Are you trying to kill me? You just gave me a diabetes bomb. Dex: It’s waaaay too sweet. who even drinks this shit?

He had set the phone face-down on his thigh and forced his eyes back to the projector like he gave a shit. Ten seconds later it buzzed. He didn’t even try to play it cool—he flipped it over immediately.

You: I just figured you needed something sweet to match that sparkling personality… You: and don’t lie 👀 You: caught you sipping like it was the best thing you’ve ever tasted lol

Dex bit the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face. He typed back one-handed, still pretending to take notes with the other.

Dex: It’s disgusting Dex: Sparkling personality? most people just say i’m an asshole.

You: most people are right. You: that’s why you drank it half way now…so either you secretly love banana milkshakes or you’re trying to impress me. which is it?

Dex: I'm just saying if you’re gonna play favorites, at least warn a guy so I don’t look like a simp in front of twenty agents.

You: too late. you already looked like a shrimp. who attended a work dinner because of me again? 🤔 You: simp**

Dex stared at the screen, before wiping his face along with the smile that was fighting for its way out.

Dex: Shrimp?  Dex: So now I'm a shrimp? That's a new low. tiny, pink, and easy to peel. You really know how to flatter a guy

You: shut up it was supposed to be simp you know what i meant asshole🖕🏻

Dex looked up from his phone, unable to resist. There you were… casually scratching your eyebrow with your middle finger aimed straight at him like a sniper.

Dex: Wow real mature…the eyebrow itch? Really?

You: oh please, it’s a classic for a reason. worked on you didn’t it, shrimp? You: next time i’ll just flip you off in hd so you don’t miss it, poindexter 😘

From there it snowballed. 

He had gotten comfortable and eventually Dex had started asking you things he’d never asked anyone. Small normal things at first, trying to gauge who you’ll react to it. Then came the deeper ones. What you did when your thoughts got too loud. How you stayed grounded after everything you’d been through. Whether you ever felt like you didn’t belong anywhere.

You answered every single one and each reply felt like a lifeline. Dex would read your messages over and over, thumb tracing the screen, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. For the first time in years his rituals had felt less necessary. You were becoming his compass without even realizing it. 

He was high on it. Addicted to the way you made his world feel easier.

But then you were gone on missions…

Long ones that took you out of the city for weeks at a time with no contact, no advice, no validation. Dex spiraled quietly. He’d checked his phone obsessively. He’d drove past your building more times than he’d admit. The negative voices came back louder than ever. The rituals grew stricter. 

He told himself it was fine. You’d come back. You always came back.

But when you had finally returned, he spotted you in the hallway outside the briefing rooms.

You looked tired and distant. You bumped into him lightly as you passed, barely glancing up.

“Hey,” you said, half-hearted, already moving on.

Dex’s panic sensors lit up like a siren. His stomach dropped. Had he done something wrong? Had he texted too much? Had he come on too strong? Was the constant need for validation pushing you away? Those thoughts clawed at him.

He followed you immideately without thinking, footsteps quick down the corridor. When you turned a corner he pulled out his phone and called you, heart hammering.

You had answered on the third ring, voice tired but surprised, “What is it, Dex?”

He swallowed hard, stopping in the middle of the hallway, free hand curled and trembling at his side.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, the words rushing out nervously, “You… you seemed off just now. If I messed up or made you uncomfortable, tell me. I’ll fix it—just please… I don’t want to—I can't stop talking to you.”

Silence.

A few seconds pass, you rounded the corner again, phone still pressed to your ear. For a second you just looked at him from the far end of the hallway, eyes soft but a little exasperated. You shook your head slowly, like he was missing the most obvious thing in mankind.

Then you hung up.

You slipped the phone into your pocket and started walking toward him with purpose. Dex’s heart pounded harder with every step you took. He just stood there, frozen, waiting for whatever blow was coming.

You stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo again. You tilted your head, looking up at him with that same half-amused, half-tired expression.

“Do you really have no idea,” you asked slowly, “or are you just playing dumb?”

Dex’s mouth opened, then closed. He had no idea what to say. His brain had gone completely blank the moment you invaded his space.

“So you just like talking to me? That's it?” You let out a small, soft laugh and shook your head again, “Dex… do you even see me as a woman or just a friend when you need advice?”

The hallway felt like it tilted.

Dex couldn’t speak.

His ears roared and his hands felt clammy at his sides. He had wanted to say yes—yes, of course he saw you as a woman, as the only woman—but the words stuck somewhere deep in his throat, choking him.

You waited and the silence stretched. Then your eyes widened, realization dawning.

“Oh my god—” You let out a breathless little chuckle, the sound surprised and self-deprecating. “Oh my god. You don’t. It's the age thing isn’t it?”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut for a second and laughing again, softer this time, because you couldn’t believe your own stupidity.

“Oh my god, I am so stupid—forget I asked.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm, and turned away before he could say anything. You quickly rounded the corner toward the elevator bank, boots clicking fast on the tile like you needed to put distance between you and whatever just happened.

Dex had stood there frozen for a few seconds, heart slamming against his ribs before he came back to his senses and followed, his suit jacket flapping against his hurried strides. 

He couldn’t let you walk away like that.

You had already reached the elevator, jabbing the call button aggressively, still shaking your head at yourself.

The doors slid open. You stepped inside.

Dex stopped the doors with his shoulder and slipped through at the last second, the doors closing behind him with a soft ding.

The elevator lurched downward.

For one suspended heartbeat, it was just the two of you in that tiny metal box, eyes locked, the air so thick it felt like he could taste it. His chest rose and fell hard. Yours did too.

He crossed the space in one stride, big hands cupping both sides of your face, and his lips crashed into yours like he’d been deprived of intimacy for years. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs, tongue sliding in to taste you like he’d been dreaming about it every single night. 

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, groaning roughly in his throat, pressing you back against the cool metal wall with his whole body. His hips pinned you there, one thick thigh shoving between your legs until the seam of your pants dragged right where you needed it most. The handrail dug into your lower back but you barely felt it. You only felt him, solid and burning underneath your palms.

One hand dropped to your waist, gripping harder, pulling you even closer while the other slid into your hair, tugging just right so your head tilted while he kissed you deeper, slower for a second, savoring, then needier again.

Your knees actually buckled. He caught you, thigh pressing up firmer between your legs, the friction making your breath hitch into a soft, needy moan that went straight to his head. His free hand skimmed down your side, over your hip, then back up under the hem of your shirt just enough for his fingertips to brush bare skin, scorching hot.

All those months of sneaky glances, late-night texts, him overthinking every little thing… it had poured out of him. Every roll of his hips, every desperate lick into your mouth, every shaky exhale said the same thing: I’ve wanted you. I’ve wanted you so fucking bad.

You clutched at his jacket collar, yanking him impossibly closer, nipping at his lip, sucking on his tongue, grinding down against his thigh because you couldn’t stop yourself. He tasted like coffee and mint, and the little broken sounds he kept making were going to ruin you—

The elevator dinged again.

The doors hadn’t opened yet, but Dex could already hear the low chatter of people waiting in the hall. Dex tore his mouth away with a sharp, ragged inhale, lips glossy and swollen, eyes dark and glazed. You looked just as wrecked; eyes wide and dazed. For a split second you just stared at each other, chests heaving, the air still crackling between you.

Then the doors slid open.

Dex stepped back just enough to look decent, jaw tight, but he didn’t go far. He didn’t even bother wiping off your kiss, he wanted to keep the taste of you on his lips as long as possible.

His hand dropped to your side, hidden between your bodies, and his pinky hooked firmly around yours. You both faced forward, pretending to watch the floor numbers while agents and staff piled in, laughing about the bar.

No one noticed the way his thumb brushed slow circles over the back of your hand. No one saw how his lips were still wet from yours. And no one could possibly know that your legs were still shaking and your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it between your thighs.

But he knew.

—

Dex had warned you that he hadn’t been in a relationship for a long time. He had been honest about the way it ended—badly, he said, without offering any further details, his eyes distant as though the memory still lived somewhere just beneath his skin. You had known, even then, that there were pieces of him shadowed in ways you couldn’t yet see.

You sensed the fractures, the internal storms he carried, yet they stood in such sharp contradiction to the man who showed up for you every single day. He was charming in the gentlest sense, attentive without ever making it feel performative, the kind of boyfriend who remembered how you took your coffee and the exact way you liked the pillow tucked beneath your head at night. Almost too good to be true.

You could have looked him up. The files were there, waiting in some classified corner of the system if you truly wanted to peel back the layers. But you hadn’t. You wanted it to come from him, in his own time, when he was ready to trust you with the parts of himself he kept locked away.

Still, the questions lingered between you—those careful, hypothetical ones he would slip into conversations like tests he didn’t quite know how to phrase. He would ask them softly, almost offhand, and then watch your face with an intensity that made your heart ache. Whatever answer you gave, he seemed to burn it into memory, as though he were memorizing the exact shape of your mercy.

The night he took you to the rooftop of the old field office to teach you how to throw a proper curveball was the night everything shifted.

You threw the ball again. It went wide and terrible, but Dex only laughed softly and retrieved it. When he returned, he didn’t step back into position right away. He stood close, turning the baseball slowly in his hands, eyes on the worn seams as though they held some secret.

You turned to face him fully then, the city lights catching the sharp lines of his face and softening them. You had watched him in that moment in time for a long moment, heart aching with the quiet certainty that this was the real Dex—The one you were falling for so deeply it frightened you.

“Dex,” you had said softly, “you keep asking me these hypothetical questions… about what I would do if someone needed a moral compass to function. About what if they weren’t wired the same way other people are.” Your voice had barely carried above the wind. “Are those question about you?”

Dex looked at you for what felt like forever, the city lights catching in his eyes, and for the first time you saw the depth of the fear he kept so carefully hidden—the fear that if he told you the truth, you would finally see the cracks and walk away.

“Yeah,” he had said. “It’s about me.”

You searched his face, the subtle vulnerability there pulling at every part of you that had already chosen him.

“I feel quite lost,” you had admitted. “Lost in how to be what you need when I don’t fully understand what’s broken inside you.”

Dex had looked down at the baseball still turning slowly between his fingers before meeting your eyes again. In a quiet, plain voice he admitted that Dr. Mercer had once told him he needed a North Star. Without it, the noise in his head became too loud, the impulses too strong. And for the past few months, you had been that person for him. 

“I’ve become quite attached to you… like—like a—”

“—a barnacle?” you had finished for him, the word slipping out softly.

Dex had been caught off guard. He let out a short, awkward laugh. He nodded once, wiping a hand across his jaw before his gaze returned to yours.

“Yeah… like a barnacle of some kind,” he said quietly.

He glanced away for a moment, toward the dark edge of the rooftop, and muttered under his breath, half to himself, “Christ, I really am just latching on and hoping you don’t scrape me off.”

Your soft laughter rang gently in his ears, warm and tender against the quiet night wind. You stepped closer, reaching up to brush your fingers lightly along his jaw where he had just wiped his hand.

“Don’t worry,” you had replied, reassuringly. “I won’t ever scrape you off.”

But then the missions started pulling you away again. They grew longer and longer, stretching into weeks that sometimes bled into months with no real explanation. The agency framed each assignment as urgent, non-negotiable, the kind only you could handle, and you had never been given much of a choice in the matter. You simply and hesitantly packed your bags, kissed Dex goodbye, and went where they sent you, telling yourself it was the price of the life you had chosen.

Every time you returned, Dex felt a little further away. The man who had stood behind you on that rooftop, became harder to reach, as though each absence had carved away another piece of the fragile trust you had built together.

Especially after the assassination attempt on Wilson Fisk and Dex got himself in a whole lot of mess.

You had been gone nearly three months on a mission; had been halfway across the world, following orders you couldn’t refuse. To him, it began to feel like you were choosing the work over him, that you abandoned him. Choosing duty over the one person who had come to rely on you as his North Star.

What he didn’t know or rather, what even you didn’t fully understand—was that the timing of those long deployments was never truly random. The assignments that kept pulling you away for weeks and months at a time had been arranged with careful precision, removing you from the equation again and again while you remained unaware of the invisible hand guiding it all.

× × × ×

When Dex had sat in that mandated FBI psychology session and was asked about support systems, you had listened through the tiny device you had planted in his jacket, heart pounding, waiting for your name to fall from his lips. It didn’t.

And it hurt.

It hurt in a way that went deeper than any bruise or broken bone ever could, a sharp, twisting pain that lodged itself right behind your ribs and refused to leave. 

You had known you might hear something that would cut you. You had known it the moment you slipped the bug into place, fingers trembling with the weight of what you were doing. But you had done it anyway, because some part of you still believed you were that person for him.

Instead you learned he had already begun turning his attention elsewhere.

The realization burned through you like acid, slow and searing, eating away at the fragile belief you had held onto so tightly.

Your ego bled.

You had been his anchor for months. You had given him every piece of yourself you could spare, had stood beside him through it all, only to discover you were no longer enough.

You crushed the listening device in your fist, the small plastic and wiring cracking under the pressure of your strength until it was nothing but twisted metal and shattered circuits. The sharp edges bit into your palm, drawing a thin line of blood, but you barely felt it. You only stared at the ruined thing, chest tight, breath shallow.

You wanted to see how this would turn out for him.

You wanted to watch every single consequence unfold, no matter how ugly.

—

One night, when Dex finally came home to his place, you were already there.

You’d let yourself in with the spare key he’d given you. You were standing in his kitchen “cooking” when really just stirring a pot of nothing while your mind raced. 

Earlier, while waiting for him, you had opened the wrong closet looking for a shirt. Tucked deep behind a stack of his old tactical gear, folded with almost obsessive care, you had found the Daredevil suit. The billy clubs resting beside it. The sight had stopped you cold, fingers hovering over the material as a sickening wave of realization washed through you.

Just how much was he keeping from you?

The second you heard the front door open, you turned, forcing your voice to sound casual.

“Where have you been?” you asked even when you knew the answer already.

Dex paused in the doorway, keys still in his hand, coat half-off. For a split second his face went completely blank, like he’d genuinely forgotten what night it was, what time it was, what lie he was supposed to tell.

You waited for him to lie to your face.

“I got pizza on the way home,” he said, lifting the box like it was proof.

You stared at the box for a second, then back at him.

“Pizza?” You tilted your head, keeping your voice light but pointed. “Okay… is that all?”

Dex’s shoulders tensed. His jaw flexed once, clearly he was trying to hold something back. He set the box down on the counter a little harder than necessary.

“Yeah, that’s all,” he said, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “Why? You think I’m lying or something?”

You didn’t raise your voice, “I didn’t call you a liar, Dex.”

He let out a short, frustrated breath, rubbing the back of his neck, “Then why are you asking if ‘that is all’?” he shot back, eyes narrowing. “What, you don’t believe me now?”

You set the spoon down slowly, turning to face him fully.

“Why are you so defensive?” you asked, calm and even. “I could’ve meant ‘is that all?’ as in no drinks, no dessert? Why’re you jumping straight there?”

Dex stared at you, the silence stretching between you like a live wire. His fingers flexed at his sides, the defensive mask cracking just enough for you to see the panic underneath.

You held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable before you released a bitter chuckle, shaking your head like you were almost amused by how ridiculous this all was.

“You know what? Never mind.” You turned and chucked the empty pot in the sink like a sad little prop. “I’m gonna go. I already lost my appetite waiting for you anyway.”

You gave him one last small, sweet smile and picked up your bag from the counter.

“Enjoy the pizza, Dex.”

Dex’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

You didn’t wait for him to find them.

—

You left your phone on silent and buried it under a pillow so you wouldn’t have to see his name light up the screen over and over again like he had any right to demand your attention right now.

You sat on the floor of your apartment that night, back against the couch, headphones in, listening to music that matched what you felt inside.

If he likes his new North Star so much, he can shove her down his throat.

The thought was vicious and satisfying for half a second. Then your inner voice in your head started whispering all at once, louder and louder, overlapping until they drowned out everything else.

You’re really going to let that redheaded nothing replace you?

You’re just going to let her have him? After you bled for him? After you chose him?

You’re the one who taught him how to need someone… and now he’s using it on her.

After everything you’ve done for him? After you held him together when no one else could?

The voices overlapped, faster and meaner, until they were screaming inside your skull. Your hands shook as you gripped the phone tighter, nails digging into the case.

Then, all at once, everything went quiet.

The noise in your head died down to a single, cold whisper that cut through the chaos like a blade.

Kill her.

You blinked slowly, staring at the wall across from you.

—

Doctor Voss leaned back in her chair, “Hang on... have you ever thought about what might be good for him might not be good for you?”

You stared at her, the words landing like a bad joke. She really didn't get it.

“No,” you said slowly, forcing your voice even, “I don't think you understood. Let me repeat myself agai—”

Voss lifted a hand, gentle but firm. “I do understand. You're telling me your boyfriend is stalking his ex-coworker. How exactly do you know that?”

A sharp little laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You crossed your arms, nails digging into your own sleeves. “The way he acts around me. The micro-shifts. I notice everything.”

Voss's eyes narrowed, kind but too perceptive. “You're only telling me half the truth.”

The smirk on your face felt brittle. “Fine. I followed him—or stalked him, whatever you want to call it. He's my boyfriend. I have the right to know what the hell is taking up all his attention.”

“Jealousy is poison to a relationship,” Voss said carefully. “You've told me you know his past. You know him better than most—”

“I want him to stop.” Your jaw tightened so hard you felt the muscle twitch under your eye. Your gaze dropped to the sad little succulent on her coffee table, pathetic and fake in its pot. Safe to look at. Safer than looking at her.

“You're angry,” Voss said softly. “And you've been bottling it up for a while now, haven't you? On top of your work stressors, going on operations.”

You lifted your eyes and pinned her with the same flat, deadly stare you used to give targets back in your Smashers days. The serum hummed under your veins, sharpening every micro-twitch in her face: the slight flare of her nostrils, the way her fingers tightened around her pen. She was scared of you. 

You looked away.

Having sat there pretending to be stable was necessary. Otherwise you’d show Dex the version of you that you’d kept chained down so perfectly: The one that was tired of waiting for him to come back to his senses. You’d show him exactly how lethal you could be. But you weren’t ready for that reveal yet.

Voss exhaled slowly, choosing her words like she was walking through broken glass. “There are other men out there, you know. Men who wouldn’t need this much… managing.”

The sentence hung in the air.

In your head you heard your own voice laughing.

Other men?

You didn’t want other men.

You wanted him.

You smiled at Voss, small and polite, the kind of smile that hid teeth, “Yeah,” you said softly. “I know there are other men.”

Doctor Voss leaned forward a little, her expression shifting from gentle concern to more serious. She set her notepad aside like she didn’t need the buffer anymore.

“Is it okay if I speak to you as if you’re my friend?,” she said carefully, and waited for you to nod, “I have to be honest here. The stalking and the way you’re monitoring his every move—it’s not healthy for either of you, and it’s clearly messing with your head. You’re spiraling. You’re losing sleep. You’re starting to sound like you’re trying to control him instead of being with him.”

She paused, letting the words settle.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t turn you into this version of yourself—someone who doesn’t make you feel like you have to stalk or bug or fix him just to feel secure. Maybe it’s time to consider breaking up with Dex. Give yourself some space. Some peace.”

What if this version is your true self?

You let out a soft, almost amused breath, tilting your head like you were actually considering it.

“I’ll think about it,” you said sweetly, the lie sliding off your tongue like honey.

Voss nodded, but the worry in her eyes didn’t fade, “I hope you do. Because right now… this isn’t love. This dynamic… it’s consuming you. And from what you’ve told me, it’s not sustainable.”

You glanced at the clock on the wall, the hands moving with indifferent precision. “I have somewhere to be,” you said, rising smoothly from the chair. “I’ll book another session… maybe next week?”

You didn’t wait for her reply. You stood and left the office without looking back.

You never made that other session.

—

You waited against a parked car and when you saw her turn the corner from her jog, you took the steps up making sure you looked harried and worried, phone in your hand like you’d been trying to call someone.

When she slowed and took the steps up towards you, you locked eyes with her.

“Excuse me, do you live here?” you asked politely. “I’m so sorry to bother you—I’m Mrs. Delgado’s granddaughter on the fourth floor? She’s not answering the buzzer or her phone and I’m getting really worried. Could you let me in? I just need to check on her.”

You’d done your homework. You knew exactly who lived on her floor and which apartment you could claim.

Julie’s face softened immediately, possibly remembering the old woman mentioning having a grandchildren in passing conversation. 

“Of course, honey. Come on up.”

She let you in. You rode the elevator together, making small talk about how busy life gets and how important it is to check on family. When you reached her floor, Julie even gave you a gentle smile and said, “You should visit your Nana more often. She misses you a lot.”

You smiled back, sweet as sugar. “Yeah. I will.”

Julie turned toward her door… and paused. It was already cracked open. She frowned. 

“That’s weird. Did the landlord let someone in?” She pushed the door wider and stepped inside. “Hello?”

You were right behind her, hand already sliding toward the gun tucked at your waist, timing perfect, heart racing with cold purpose. But before you could even cross the threshold, Julie dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

A single muffled shot and her body crumpled to the floor.

You spun fast, pressing your back flat against the wall outside the door, gun half-drawn, breath caught in your throat.

Someone had beaten you to it.

—

You had sat in your car back at your apartment, hands on the steering wheel. Eyes fixed on nothing through the windshield.

Then it hit so suddenly.

A hearty laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep within your chest. Your shoulders started shaking. The laugh grew louder and wild, until you were doubled over the steering wheel, laughing so hard tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

You laughed for a full minute straight, head tipped back against the seat, the sound partly relieved that you didn’t have to kill an innocent person.

She was gone.

Just like that.

The relief was so intense it made you feel almost giddy. You could’ve kissed a stranger right then. You could’ve tap danced in the middle of the fucking street.

You didn’t have to do it. You didn’t have to cross that line. Someone else had pulled the trigger and handed you the cleanest gift you could’ve asked for.

The laugh finally tapered off into shaky breaths. You wiped the tears from your eyes with the heel of your hand, still grinning like a maniac in the dark car.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

Your phone lit up on the passenger seat, vibrating against the leather.

Work.

You stared at the screen for half a second, then answered, still riding the high.

“Sergeant.”

The voice on the other end was clipped and urgent. “Report to base within twelve hours for a Classified extraction op. Coordinates and briefing packets are already on your secure line. Wheels up at oh-four-hundred tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes, the manic smile slowly fading from your lips as reality settled back in.

“What? You can't send me to another—No.” you said, the word falling heavy and final.

There was a brief, stunned pause on the line.

“This is non-negotiable,” the officer replied, tone sharpening. “You’ve been specifically requested for this one.”

You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening around the phone until the plastic creaked.

“No,” you repeated, quieter this time but no less resolute. “I can’t. You’re going to have to find someone else.”

—

You turned the key in the lock and stepped into your apartment, the hallway light spilling across the floor behind you. The lights were already on inside. You knew who it was before you even saw him.

Dex was sitting on your couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he was trying not to grip something and break it. The second you closed the door, his head snapped up. His face was dark, his jaw was locked, his eyes shadowed. He’d clearly been waiting for hours.

A certain someone probably didn’t answer his text.

You set your bag down by the door and tilted your head, keeping your voice soft on him. “What are you doing in my apartment?”

Dex just stared at you, the tension rolling off him. “You’ve been ignoring my texts and my calls.”

You blinked, as if the words actually surprised you, “I was busy…” then let out a small, tired sigh as you shrugged off your jacket.

“Are you?”

“I thought you needed space,” you shrugged, hanging the jacket on the hook with careful movements. “You’ve been so distant with me lately.”

Dex’s jaw flexed. He pushed up from the couch, taking a step toward you, eyes searching your face like he was trying to find the lie.

“I’ve been distant?” he repeated, the frustration bleeding through. “You disappear for days, you don’t answer me, leaving me alone—and I’m the one who’s distant?”

You met his gaze steadily, keeping your expression open and concerned, even as your pulse hammered in your ears.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice still soft. “I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just… thought you needed some time.”

You stepped closer, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see the panic flickering behind the anger in his eyes.

You slid your arms around his waist, slow and easy until your hands settled against his lower back, fingers splaying gently over the fabric of his shirt as you pressed yourself against him.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, tilting your head up to look at him. Your voice was all concern, “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Dex’s body went rigid under your touch. For a second he let you hold him, then his hands closed around your wrists and he gently but firmly took your arms off him, stepping back half a pace.

You took a silent inhale through your nose, chaining down the sudden spike of rage that flared hot behind your ribs. Your smile didn’t even flicker.

“I’m really stressed,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “...about everything.”

You nodded slowly, keeping your voice gentle and understanding.

“I can see that,” you said, tilting your head like you were really seeing him. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Dex looked you in the eyes then, searching, like he was turning the question over in his head, weighing every possible answer. You could see the thoughts flickering behind them: the stress, the paranoia, the chaos he was trying so hard to keep locked down. His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“Do you want to take it out on me?” you’d asked.

You wanted him to say yes. You wanted him to use you, to lose every bit of that rigid control on you and only you.

And he didn’t disappoint. (click here for the detailed smut)

× × × ×

Present

You dragged the densely packed baseball bat lazily behind you as you walked down the long hallway, the heavy metal scraping softly against the polished hardwood with every step. The sound was almost soothing while you hummed ‘Agora Hills’ under your breath.

You passed a side table and casually tipped over an ugly crystal vase with the tip of the bat. It shattered beautifully on the floor, pieces scattering like diamonds. 

You didn’t even pause and just stepped over it.

You strutted into the massive open living room like you owned the place, plopped down on the expensive cushion sectional couch, and swung your boots up onto the coffee table with a thud. The bat rested across your lap, heavy and comforting. You leaned back, arms spread along the back of the couch, and let out a content little sigh before removing your earbuds.

“It must be nice…”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Tammy Hattley appeared in the wide archway, gun raised in a steady two-handed grip, wearing silk pajamas and a look of pure shock.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

You glanced over, lifted your hand, and wiggled your fingers with a lazy smile.

“Hello, Tammy,” you said sweetly, imitating Dex’s tone. “Sorry for the unexpected visit. You can put the gun down.”

Tammy’s eyes narrowed, but she slowly lowered the weapon, though she kept it in her hand, “What are you doing here? This is a home invasion Sergeant!”

You stood up slowly, stretching like a cat waking from a nap, the bat dangling casually from your right hand. Tammy’s gun came back up immediately.

You turned toward her fully, still smiling that maniacal little smile.

“Just wanted to see how your life was going,” you said conversationally, gesturing around at the opulent room. “Glad you’re doing well. Big house. Nice pajamas. Aren’t you going to ask me how I’m doing? It’s kind of rude.”

Tammy’s jaw tightened.

“Get off my property,” she said coldly. “Now.”

“I will, don’t worry,” you reassured lightly. “Put the gun down, geeze.”

You raised both hands in a lazy surrender, the heavy bat still gripped casually in your right one like it weighed nothing.

“You had an intruder sent by Bullseye to kill you,” you continued, tone conversational. “I stopped them.”

You pointed with your left hand toward the shattered vase on the floor.

Tammy’s eyes flicked down to the broken glass for half a second which was a stupid, instinctive mistake.

The bat whistled through the air in a controlled arc and connected with the side of her leg. You held back a lot but the impact still made a solid, meaty thud that dropped her to one knee with a sharp gasp of pain. The gun clattered to the floor.

You kicked the gun away with the side of your boot, sending it skidding across the floor. Your eyes flicked down to Tammy’s leg and you made a genuine “eugh” face, nose wrinkling.

“Gross.”

You looked back at her, tilting your head.

“You’re Poindexter’s old boss, right?”

You reached out with the tip of the bat and gently pushed her forehead, forcing her to look up at you. Your smile widened, sweet and unhinged.

“You wasted a lot of my efforts on my good guy, you bitch.”

Tammy stared at you, pain and fury twisting her features. “Why are you doing this?” she hissed through gritted teeth.

You blinked, tilting your head like the question genuinely surprised you. “Oh, uh—I guess…we’re just riding on our enemies now—mind if I play a song? I love listening to music while I work. Also a big fan of Deadpool.”

You pulled out your phone, scrolling casually while she watched you like you’d lost your mind. The first notes of Bad Romance started playing. You winced.

“Oops. Wrong song.”

You skipped it to Careless Whisper you bobbed your head to the rhythm, smiling wider as the sax kicked in.

“I’ll give you a heads up,” you said cheerfully, twirling the bat a few times. “Run away or hide from us. You have until the end of the song.”

Tammy’s eyes widened in pure panic. She scrambled backward on her hands and good knee, dragging her injured leg, gasping through the pain as she tried to crawl away from you. The silk pajamas slipped against the polished floor, making her movements clumsy and desperate.

You just leaned back against the back of the couch, bat resting across your lap, singing along like you were watching a mildly entertaining show.

“Oh you’re never gonna dance again Tammy, you got guilty feet.”

Tammy made it halfway across the living room, breathing hard, eyes darting toward the hallway like she might actually have a chance.

Then she froze.

Dex stepped out from the shadowed archway behind her, twirling a small dagger in his hands. The blade caught the low light, flashing as he played with it like it was a toy.

Tammy’s head snapped up. She saw him and let out a choked sound, trying to crawl faster past him toward the stairs.

Dex didn’t move to stop her.

He just let her drag herself right by his boots, eyes flicking down to watch her struggle for a second before he looked back at you with a small, amused smirk.

“She’s not joking,” he said almost bored, still flipping the dagger in lazy circles. “You should probably crawl faster.”

You watched her disappear to hide somewhere, the saxophone wailing through your phone speakers. A dreamy little hum left your lips as you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad and a pen. Still swaying gently side to side like a maniac to the rhythm of the song, you flipped it open to a page filled with several names written in neat, careful handwriting.

With a slow, satisfied smile you drew a thick, deliberate line straight through the name.

Tammy Hattley.

You tilted your head, admiring your handiwork as you kept swaying, humming softly along with the music.

Dex watched you for a long moment, shaking his head with a smirk playing on his lips. He twirled the dagger once more before sliding it into his belt, eyes never leaving you.

“Out of every goddamn song in the world you could’ve picked while we’re in the middle of this, you go with that?” 

“Why? You feeling old hearing a song from your era?” you clapped back, voice sweet and mocking as you glanced at him over the pad.

Dex let out a scoff at how quick you retorted.

“My era?” he repeated lazily. “I was born the year that song was released, smartass.”

“Hmm… hence why it’s a song from your…?” You waited, eyes sparkling with mischief, clearly baiting him to finish the sentence.

Dex just stared at you with a completely unimpressed look, one eyebrow raised, saying nothing.

You grinned wider.

“…era!! Wow,” you finished for him dramatically, dragging out the word with fake surprise.

Dex’s unimpressed stare didn’t waver for a second. He let out another short, dry scoff and crossed his arms and tilted his head, eyes narrowing at you like you’d personally offended him.

“Radiohead is more my era or Nirvana or Savage Garden. That’s the shit that actually hit when I was old enough to remember it… ”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, bright and genuine. You slipped the notepad back into your jacket and crossed the room to him. You stopped right in front of him, looking up at his face with that same playful glint in your eyes.

“You’re cute when you get defensive about your music,” you murmured, voice warm with teasing affection. “I’m just messing with you.”

You rose onto your tiptoes, one hand resting lightly on his chest, and pressed a quick, soft peck to his lips.

“I’m going to go find Tammy,” you whispered against his mouth. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Feel free to join the child’s game if you want, but it’s literally no fun with your insane aim.”

Then you turned away, humming again as you headed down the hallway after her, bat still swinging with the tricks Dex taught you. 

“Hey Tammy!” you called out cheerfully, voice echoing through the house. “Your ass better be hiding!”

tags: @notsochillnerd @tallaennatargaryen @spectralexiletrace @yyiikes @n1n1c

@vesseltodd8z @avengersinitiative2012 @mewmew222 @starlitflora @sgreer123

@weclassygirl @misplacedorphan @lazyreadergirl @avidreader73 @lostfallenangelsblog

@diegoshako @veralovesanimeplusmanga @snowwythegloww @that1weirdweebgirl @madeup-of-moonlight

@tvdumarvelhpsimp @iraaiitz @canupourme14theroad @vvitchesh3x @rayvensblog @im-not-very-good-at-nothing

The meeting room was already half-full when you walked in. Valentina sat at the head of the table like she owned it, eyes scanning the room like she was picking out her next pawn (probably you). Fisk and her having unclear relations only made her more dangerous because she played the long game, always three steps ahead.

You took your seat near the end, trying not to yawn. You haven't slept in more than forty hours now. The serum kept you functional, but it didn’t stop the heavy drag behind your eyes or the way your body begged to slump.

Valentina started talking (something about new threats) and you forced yourself to look attentive, nodding at the right moments while your mind kept drifting back to Dex.

The agent next to you gave you a weird look and leaned in slightly, voice hushed. “What happened to your head?”

Your hand flew up instinctively, fingers brushing the dried cut along your temple. Shit. You’d completely forgotten about it in the chaos of getting here. You forced a sheepish little laugh, quiet enough not to draw Valentina’s attention, and leaned closer to him.

“Slipped in the shower,” you whispered, rolling your eyes like it was the most embarrassing thing to admit. “Tripped over my own damn foot like an idiot. You know how it is when you’re half-asleep.”

The agent chuckled softly and nodded, buying it without question. “Been there. Looks nasty though. You good?”

“Yeah, all good,” you murmured, giving him a small smile before turning your attention back to the front of the room like nothing was wrong. 

Valentina’s gaze landed on you.

“My favorite Reject,” she said smoothly, smile widening. “The CIA would love to have someone with your… particular skill set on board. Think about it.”

Every eye in the room suddenly shifted to you. A few barely-hidden sneers from people who still remembered your history. You felt the collective judgment like a physical thing crawling over your skin.

“No,” you said evenly. “I’m good….respectfully.”

A few people shifted uncomfortably. Valentina’s smile didn’t falter and widened, you know she wasn’t going to give up until she had her way.

Valentina let out a soft, amused hum, like she’d expected nothing less.

“Pity,” she murmured. “But the offer stands. Always.”

You gave her a small, polite nod and turned your attention back to the briefing like the entire exchange hadn’t happened. You had bigger problems to handle, like the unhinged man currently waiting for you at home.

—

When the meeting finally dragged to a close, you stood up a little too fast, you didn’t want Valentina catching up and pulling you aside again. You were halfway out the door when a hand landed gently on your arm.

“Got a minute?” Deputy Director Mason asked quietly.

You forced a polite smile even as your stomach twisted. “Of course, sir.”

He pulled you aside into the quieter hallway, away from the dispersing agents. His expression was cautious, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that made your chest tighten.

“Those two AVTF agents we sent for your welfare check,” he said quietly. “Turns out they did report in before they went dark. Their last logged location was at your address.”

Your pulse spiked. 

“How—” You caught yourself mid-word, blinking like you were genuinely confused. Then you tilted your head, eyes widening just enough to look innocent and concerned. “Wait… that’s a good thing, right? If they reported in…”

Mason studied you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then he leaned in closer, voice dropping to an interrogative tone, “What time did you get home that night?”

Inside, something cold and venomous uncoiled in your chest. You tilted your head slowly, letting just the right amount of hurt flicker across your face.

“Are you interrogating me, sir?” you asked softly, voice laced with disbelief. “You don’t trust me?”

You let the silence stretch when he couldn’t answer, eyes wide and wounded, the perfect picture of a loyal soldier who’d just been slapped in the face by someone she respected.

Mason sighed heavily and rubbed his stubbled jaw, glancing around the empty hallway like he didn’t want anyone to overhear. His blue eyes softened just a fraction when they landed back on you.

“You need to be straight with me here. Given your history with Poindexter… the agency can’t afford to have someone on the inside protecting wanted criminals. If there’s anything you’re not telling me about, now’s the time. Because if I find out later that you’re covering for him—”

“Wow,” you whispered, sounding genuinely hurt. You took a small step back, wrapping your arms around yourself like you were trying to hold yourself together.

“I thought you knew me better than that,” you continued, voice trembling just enough. “I thought… after all the times I’ve had your back, after everything we’ve been through… you’d at least give me the benefit of the doubt. But I guess not.”

You looked away, biting your lip like you were fighting back tears, then met his eyes again.

“If you really think I’m covering for Poindexter, then go ahead and investigate me. Suspend me. Do whatever you have to do.”

Mason’s jaw tightened. The softness in his eyes deepened, guilt flickering across his face. He opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance to respond.

You just gave him one last wounded look and turned away, shoulders slumped like a woman who’d just had her loyalty thrown back in her face.

Let him stew in that. You smirked.

You pushed through the doors and stepped out into the bright 6 a.m. sun, squinting as it hit your tired eyes. The city was already awake, cars honking, people rushing by with their coffees. Your motorcycle waited on the other side of the street like a beautiful black promise of getting the hell out of here.

You were halfway down the steps when you heard Matt’s voice call out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You picked up your pace down the stairs muttering, “Oh hell no, man.”

“Hey—wait, just a second—”

You kept walking, boots hitting the pavement with purpose, pretending you suddenly had the hearing of a normal person. 

Matt fell into step beside you like a stubborn mosquito that refused to be swatted, “We need to talk.”

“No.”

“Okay…can we talk, please?”

You stopped dead at the curb, turning to stare at him incredulously as the pedestrian light blinked red.

“...What the fuck?” you blurted, actually laughing in exhausted disbelief. “‘Please’? You really thought that was gonna work?”

Matt had the audacity to look mildly hopeful.

The light turned green.

You started crossing the street again. “Still no.”

Matt sighed like you were the difficult one, “It’s important.” 

You reached your motorcycle, stopped, and started patting your pockets for your keys, muttering curses under your breath when you couldn’t find them immediately.

“Matt, I haven’t slept in probably two days now…” you said, still rummaging, “I love that you ‘care’, truly, but right now the only thing I want to do is shoot myself in the face so I can finally get some sleep. If you don’t get out of my way in the next three seconds, I’m going to cry on you. And then maybe stab you with my keys. In that order.”

Matt opened his mouth, looking grim. “Fisk is looking for his shooter—”

You snorted so hard it scratched at the throat, then leaned in close to him like you were sharing the world’s worst secret.

“That was me…” you whispered, deadpan.

Matt didn’t even blink.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, sounding both exhausted and exasperated. “That’s why I want to talk to you!”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a tired, slightly manic laugh as you finally found your keys.

“Ugh. Fine.” you groaned, “Where do you want to talk?

Matt gave you a small, relieved smile, “There’s a diner right there. My treat.”

—

You slid into the booth across from Matt, yawning so wide your jaw cracked. He sat there in his glasses, looking perfectly put-together like he hadn’t spent the night dealing with you.

You slumped back against the vinyl seat and waved a tired hand at him, “Start talking, Matt. Clock’s ticking.”

Matt’s blind eyes stayed fixed forward, but you could feel him reading every shift in your breathing, every tiny movement. He waited until the waitress dropped off two coffees and left before speaking.

“You’re on Fisk’s list,” he said quietly. “Not just as a random shooter. He found out that you’re Poindexter’s girlfriend—”

“Ex-girlfriend.” You snorted into your coffee, the sound tired and bitter. 

“You’re not together?” Matt’s head tilted slightly, surprise flickering across his face. 

You took a long sip, then shrugged, “It’s… complicated.”

Matt exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he was suddenly very tired too, “Complicated is still going to get you killed. If he thinks you’re connected to him, he’ll come after you to hurt him. An eye for an eye. For Vanessa.”

You stared into your coffee for a second, the steam curling up like smoke signals you didn’t want to read.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered flippantly, “join the club. Add Fisk to the list.” You paused, then grinned sleepily, trying to redirect. “How’s his hand, by the way? Please tell me I blew up his middle finger.”

You softly suppress a laugh bubbling up.

“I don’t know—” Matt jerked his head back, eyebrows shooting up behind his glasses. “...Why?”

You let out a loud, delirious cackle—the kind of unhinged laugh that only comes after two days without sleep. Your head fell back and you slapped the table once, hard enough that the silverware jumped.

“...What’s so funny?”

“Because then—because then he can’t flip anyone off when he’s mad!” you wheezed, still laughing. “Imagine it—big bad Wilson Fisk tryna tell someone to go fuck themselves and there’s just… nothing there. Just a sad little stump. He’d look so stupid.”

You cackled again, snorting accidentally, shoulders shaking, the exhaustion making everything ten times funnier than it was. 

“If he does math with his fingers he’s going to have a hard time—”

Matt just sat there, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile and losing. He looked away covering his mouth, a quiet laughter escaping despite his obvious effort not to encourage you.

“You really are sleep-deprived,” he said, almost fondly, “How are you even gonna drive that bike home?”

“I’ll be fine…” your laugh faded, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “This is nothing.”

Matt shook his head as you calmed down, the corner of his mouth stayed curving up.

“Look, I want you to know, I’ve got your back.” he said, leaning forward a little, voice dropping into that familiar, protective register. “If you need help, you call me. Day or night. In times like this...we need to stick together.”

You gave him a tired little nod, appreciating it even through the fog of exhaustion. He paused, then sighed like he’d been holding it in for the last ten minutes.

“But Poindexter…” Matt continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Come on…you can do better than him—you know he’s not going to change. He is wired wrong on a level most people can’t even comprehend. He needs someone stable—and you…”

He let the words hang there like he hated saying them. You rolled your eyes lightly and muttered ‘oh here we go.’

“You’re not that person. You know he cannot reciprocate love normally, it’s all about survival no matter how much you love him—I lost Foggy, Father Lantom and Ray because of him—I don’t want you added on that list.”

“No…he was manipulated, there’s a difference.” you gritted out to prove your point.

You stared at him, the exhaustion making everything feel sharper and blurrier at the same time. For a second you wanted to snap at him more, to tell him he didn’t know shit about you or Dex or what you could handle.

But the worst part was… some small, tired voice in the back of your head was whispering for you to listen.

You looked down at your coffee, jaw tight.

“But, message received,” you said quietly, voice flat.

Matt reached across the table in an attempt to comfort, but you pulled your hand back before he could touch it.

“I should go,” you muttered, standing up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

You didn’t wait for him to reply. You just grabbed your jacket and headed for the door, the weight of his words sitting heavy in your chest like a boulder.

× × × × 

You didn’t even make it to the bed when you arrived.

You barely made it past the threshold.

The door clicked shut behind you and the next second you just… collapsed. Face-down onto the couch with a heavy groan, jacket still half-on, boots still on, one arm dangling off the edge. The cushions smelled faintly like Dex and your own shampoo. 

It should’ve felt gross without freshening up. Instead it felt like sinking into the only safe place left in the world. For a few minutes you just lay there, cheek smashed into the cushion, eyes closed, letting the silence of the apartment settle over you. The cut on your temple throbbed dully. 

You were out cold in seconds.

Dex crossed the room slowly and crouched down in front of the couch like he had before—right in your line of sight so you couldn’t ignore him.

“Rough night Soldier?”

You didn’t even lift your head. Just made a tired little noise of acknowledgment, too drained to form actual words.

Dex reached out and brushed a strand of hair off your face. His thumb lingered on your cheek for a second, then slid up to trace the dried blood along your temple.

“You should’ve cleaned this… it might get infected,” he murmured.

You hummed lazily. 

Dex stayed and you felt him rubbing your back stiffly—the way he did when he was trying to be empathetic. Your breathing evened out as you slipped deeper under, body finally giving in on the couch with Dex’s hand still resting protectively on your back.

At some point, dimly, you became aware of hands at your jacket, the muted clink of your boots hitting the floor. Dex was saying something under his breath, low and irritated but the words blurred together before you could make them out.

—

You woke up after two hours. That was all it took and the serum’s done its job for you to feel refreshed and clearer-headed.

You blinked at the ceiling, realizing you were no longer on the couch. You were in your bed, tucked under the covers. Your work clothes were gone, replaced with one of your soft, oversized shirts. The faint taste of toothpaste lingered in your mouth.

Someone had moved you, cleaned you up and changed you.

You sat up, wiping a small streak of drool from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and glanced at the clock. 9:30 a.m.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet silent on the hardwood and padded through the apartment looking for him. 

Living room: empty, the hole in the drywall already patched and sanded smooth like it had never existed. Kitchen: spotless. Bathroom: dark.

No sign of him.

You were back in the bedroom when his voice drifted in from its balcony.

“Looking for me?” he called out lightly.

You turned.

Dex was leaning against the railing, shirtless in the morning light, fresh bandage still in place. A mug of coffee steamed in his hand. He took a slow sip, eyes dragging over you like he was trying to figure out which version of you had woken up—the exhausted one, the angry one, or the one that still wanted to pin him to a wall.

You crossed the room in quick strides, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him inside.

“Are you crazy?” you hissed, sliding the balcony door shut behind him with a sharp snap. You yanked the curtains closed too, plunging the room back into soft morning dimness. “Anyone could see you out there. The whole city is looking for you, and you’re just… just sunbathing like a cat?”

Dex let you manhandle him, but the second the curtains were drawn his eyes narrowed and he noticed the way your eyes darted toward the windows like you expected someone to be watching.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, voice deceptively calm as he set his coffee down.

You sighed, letting the curtain slip from your fingers. You turned to face him fully, arms crossing tight over your chest.

“Yes,” you addmited. “There is a problem.”

Dex took one step closer, then another, crowding you just enough that you had to look up at him.

“Tell me.” he murmured, reaching out to brush his knuckles along your arm. You wet your bottom lip, the nervous habit betraying you.

“The Deputy Director is onto me.” you said quietly. “Apparently those agents you killed reported their last location.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You want me to deal with him?” His voice was soft. His hand slid from your arm to your waist, pulling you in until your bodies were flush. “I can make it look like an accident. Heart attack in his sleep. Car crash on the way home. Your choice, Ace.”

You shook your head, pressing a hand to his chest to keep some distance even as he held you close.

“No,” you said firmly. “I need to know if he’s connected to Fisk first… before deciding anything, he's a good mentor okay?”

Dex’s brow furrowed slightly, head tilting like you’d just spoken in another language. Then he let out a short, disbelieving huff of laughter.

“What’s the difference?” he asked, eyes narrowing with genuine confusion. “Whether he’s on Fisk’s payroll or not doesn’t change the fact that he’s a threat to your…image now.”

His grip on your waist tightened, possessive and warm, thumb still tracing those lazy circles like he was trying to soothe you into seeing reason.

“If he’s sniffing around you, he needs to go. Simple as that.”

You reached up and cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to keep looking at you. 

“There are other ways to solve a problem,” you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes. “If you want to prove yourself to me, you’re not going to kill him yet, okay?”

You slid your hand up his chest, resting it right over his heart, feeling it beat hard and fast under your palm.

“Only if he’s working with Fisk then do it, if not?” You gave him a small, sweet smile. “Then you’re not going to touch him. Can you do that? For me?”

Dex stared at you, visibly warring with the part of him that wanted to rip Mason’s throat out right then and there. Finally he exhaled through his nose and gave one sharp nod.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I can do that.”

You smiled wide, looping your arms over his broad shoulders and pulling yourself flush against him. Your fingers traced lazy patterns at the nape of his neck, nails lightly scraping his skin, feeling the shiver that ran through him as you tilted your head and looked up through your lashes.

“Really?” you purred, dropping into that low, seductive register. “Can you? Because I’m having some trust issues here, Benjamin…”

You pressed your body closer, letting your clothed breasts brush against his chest as you rose onto your toes, lips hovering just below his.

“You said you’ll listen… you say you’ll be good for me…” Your fingers tightened slightly in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. “But you didn’t. So forgive me if I need a little… reassurance.”

“I will…”

Dex leaned in instantly, chasing your lips like a man starved, eyes half-lidded and hazy. You leaned back at the last second, keeping that teasing inch of space between you.

“Are you sure?” you asked, sugary sweet and dripping with mock innocence.

“Yeah…” he murmured, still trying to close the distance. Looking drunk on you already.

Your nose scrunched up in that adorable, dangerous way as your smile turned sharper.

“Should we do a little exercise on that?” you whispered, still hovering so close he could almost taste you. 

Dex let out a breathless chuckle, that half-grin tugging at his mouth like he was already enjoying whatever game you were playing.

“What exerci—”

Before he could finish, you shoved him hard in the chest with both hands.

Dex fell back onto the bed with a surprised grunt, eyes flashing with dark delight. He propped himself up on his elbows and started scooting up the mattress, backing toward the headboard as you stalked after him on all fours.

You straddled him, knees planted on either side of his hips, hovering just above him without giving him the satisfaction of your weight. You reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the handcuffs from the drawer, and dangled them in front of his face, letting the metal catch the light.

“Oh, hell no,” he growled, the playful tone vanishing. He bucked hard, using his core to throw you off, and used the momentum to flip you both. Years of tactical training made him fast and precise even while injured.

You landed on your back with a surprised squeal. Suddenly Dex was on top, pinning your wrists above your head with one strong hand.

You laughed flirtatiously, letting him think he had the upper hand for a moment. You were stronger, but right now you were enjoying the heat of the struggle, the way his muscles flexed and strained against yours.

You grinned up at him, eyes sparkling with challenge. Dex smirked, thinking he had you—until you twisted your wrists free with effortless strength, hooked a leg around his waist, and flipped him right back over.

Now you were on top again, straddling his chest. Dex growled and bucked hard, trying to throw you off. You rode the movement, grinning down at him as you caught his wrists and slammed them above his head.

“Fuck—” he snarled while the staples pulled, half-laughing and frustrated, still writhing underneath you. “Get off me—”

You leaned down and whispered against his mouth, “Make me.”

He surged up again, using every bit of skill and leverage he had, nearly flipping you before you pinned him harder, thighs squeezing his torso like a vice. The wrestle turned messy and heated; hands grabbing, bodies sliding, breath mingling in sharp pants.

You were holding back. A lot. Especially now that you’d recharged and Dex knew it. That only made him fight dirtier, more desperate, more turned on.

“Stay down,” you hissed. Finally you got both his wrists pinned above his head again, leaning your full weight on him, panting softly as you looked down at his flushed, furious, beautiful face.

Dex bucked hard again. “You’re not cuffing me, you little shit—”

“Too late,” you whispered triumphantly, lips brushing his ear as you clicked one cuff around his wrist anyway.

Dex let out a frustrated groan that quickly turned into a deep, breathless laugh. He kept struggling just enough to make it fun while you secured the other wrist to the headboard.

“Fucking super soldier,” he muttered, chest heaving, looking up at you ferally. “You’re cheating.”

You hovered back, smiling down at your handiwork: him cuffed, flushed, and glaring at you with so much want it was almost funny.

“Cheating?” you echoed sweetly. “No. This is just me reminding you what it’s like when you test me.”

Dex’s eyes locked on the cuffs. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, before grinning. You shook your head with an incredulous little laugh.

“God, you’re so hot,” you murmured fondly. “Too bad you’ve been such a dirty dog… you leave me no choice but to treat you like one.”

He sucked in a harsh breath at your words, letting out a gravelly little laugh. A savage, thrilled smirk lit up his face.

Holding his stare, you dragged the baggy shirt up and off, tossing it aside. Nothing but those black panties left. Your breasts bounced free, nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air and the heat in his eyes.

His gaze devoured your bare chest, breath ragged, cock thickening hard against his sweatpants, the outline pulsing visibly. You still hovered right above him, giving him zero weight, letting him soak up the sight.

“Now tell me,” you said, dragging one finger slowly down his chest, “how exactly do you think you’re going to atone for giving me hell?” You stopped just shy of his waistband. “Choose your words carefully.”

His hips snapped up uselessly off the bed, searching for friction that wasn’t coming. His breath came out shaky as he stared up at you, gears visibly turning.

“In charge…” he rasped, giving the cuffs a deliberate little shake, the metal rattling against the headboard. “You want to be in charge.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved your lips. You nodded, still hovering above him, breasts on full display just out of his reach.

“That’s right,” you whispered, voice dripping with approval. “I can be in charge too. Just… like… this.”

You dropped down and rolled your hips once, teasingly grinding against his thigh, then lifted away again before he could enjoy it. Dex’s expression darkened instantly. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with irritation and that familiar need for dominance.

“Aw, baby,” you cooed, dragging your nails lightly down his chest again. “Look at you getting all mad suddenly. Is this hard for you? Not being the one in charge?”

Dex’s nostrils flared. He let out a dark, dangerous chuckle that vibrated through his chest. He yanked hard at the cuffs, metal biting into his wrists as he stared up at you with looks that could cut.

“When these cuffs come off,” he growled viciously, “I’m going to wrap my hand around that pretty throat while I ruin every hole you’ve got and make you scream so loud the neighbors think I’m killing you slo—”

Slap.

Your palm connected with his cheek just enough to sting and shut him up. Dex’s head snapped to the side. For a second the room went dead silent except for his ragged breathing.

God, that felt good.

You’d wanted to do that for so long—ever since you found out he’d been looking at Julie like she could give him something you couldn’t. You flexed your fingers, admiring the faint red mark blooming on his cheek, and let out a soft, almost dreamy sigh.

“Mmm. I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” you admitted, pleased. “Feels even better than I imagined.”

Dex’s eyes flashed with anger again. His chest heaved as he slowly turned his head back to look at you smiling innocently.

“You’re failing this exercise real bad, Benjamin,” you murmured, patting his reddened cheek gently. “Talking like that? Threatening me while you’re cuffed to my bed?” You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Maybe I should just leave you here like this. Hard and unsatisfied again. Maybe you need more time to reflect.”

You started to lift off him, making a show of it.

Dex’s eyes flashed with panic, backpedalling immediately; the words tumbling out strained and growling through clenched teeth.

“Okay—okay! I get it!” he growled, still breathing hard. “I swear, I will not do anything stupid. Just—fuck—just don’t leave. I want you.”

You smiled and glided your palms from his abs up to his chest, feeling every tight muscle twitch under your touch.

“You want me?” you asked softly.

Dex looked completely riled up, eyes wild and glassy with frustration and lust.

“Every inch of my body wants to kill you right now,” he rasped, hips jerking up helplessly, “but I crave you more.”

Your nostrils flared. A slow, wicked smirk curved your lips.

To Dex, that smirk was everything.

You adjusted yourself, then sank down, settling your full weight on his painfully hard bulge. The thick length pressed right against your clothed pussy, and his eyes nearly rolled back at the sudden pressure and heat.

“Fine…” you purred, then gritted out firmly, “Then beg.”

“Fuck—” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow, the cuffs rattling loudly.

“You want this?” you asked, rolling your hips slowly on top of him.

His jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. Begging didn’t come naturally to him anymore. But right now, with you grinding on his cock and looking down at him like you owned every inch, the word wanted to claw its way out.

“Fuck—Yes!” he forced out, angry at how much he needed it. “Give it to me.”

“That’s not begging. Try. Again.” You grabbed the pillow from under his head and slammed it over his face. “You want this?” you reiterated, grinding down harder, rolling your hips with purpose.

“Yes—P…Please.” Dex forced through the fabric, voice muffled and strained. Even though he couldn’t breathe properly, his hips kept bucking up into you, chasing every roll of your body like a man possessed. You could feel him throbbing, leaking, the front of his sweatpants growing wetter with every grind as he drifted deeper into that beautiful, delirious madness.

You kept riding his hard-on like that until his muffled sounds turned ragged and his struggles against the cuffs grew sloppy.

Only then did you yank the pillow away.

Dex gasped sharply for air, chest expanding hard—only for you to immediately replace the pillow with your mouth. You slammed into a dirty, possessive kiss, swallowing his desperate moans while he attacked back like he was drowning and you were oxygen. His tongue slid hot and frantic against yours, greedy as hell.

You pulled back just enough to hover your lips over his, so close he wanted to inch closer.

“Are you going to be a good boy for me now, Benjamin?” you whispered, sweetly and cruelly.

“Yes,” he rasped, Adam’s apple bobbing hard as he swallowed. “I’ll be your good boy.”

You inched back slowly, dragging your hands down his chest as you went, feeling every hard ridge of muscle twitch and shiver. You leaned down and kissed a hot, open-mouthed trail along his collarbone, then lower, sucking a mark right over his heart before moving down his abs. Dex’s breath hitched with every press of your lips, cuffs rattling as he strained to touch you.

You settled on your knees between his spread thighs and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers. With one sharp tug you ripped them down his thighs, freeing his cock.

It sprang up heavy and flushed, thick and veined, bouncing once against his stomach with a lewd slap before settling, leaking at the tip.

You sat back on your heels just admiring it. Admiring the way it throbbed under your gaze while you bit your lip; the vein running along the underside, the way it curved slightly. 

He chuckled deeply.

“You gonna ride it?” he rasped, hips twitching up like he couldn’t help himself. That cocky, teasing smirk tugged at his lips even while he was cuffed. “Or are you scared?”

“Scared?” you echoed sweetly, dragging one fingernail lightly up the underside of his dick,“...I’m just deciding how long I want to make you keep suffering.”

His smirk faltered as you kept teasing him with feather-light touches, watching his cock jump and leak.

You kinda loved seeing him so desperate for you. The great Bullseye, reduced to a panting, cuffed mess because of you.

You leaned up on your knees, pushing your tits out as your hand dipped between your thighs. You slipped your fingers under the black panties and started rubbing slow circles over your clit, letting out a soft, breathy hum.

“This is what you want so badly?” you asked, voice husky.

“Fuck yes, give it—I mean please,” Dex begged, eyes glued to your hand, practically salivating. His mouth was open, tongue darting out like he could taste you from there.

You spread your legs wider, giving him a perfect view as you rubbed yourself, letting soft little moan slip out while biting your bottom lip just to torture him more. 

Dex’s reaction was immediate—he growled, deep and frustrated, yanking hard at the cuffs until the headboard creaked.

“Grrr—fuck!” he snarled, muscles straining, cock twitching angrily in the air. “Let me touch you. Take these fucking things off right now. I need to—”

“Still barking orders,” you sang.

He caught himself, breathing hard through his nose, trying to calm down. His voice dropped into something more rough and pleading.

“I already said I’ll do what you ask of me,” he almost whimpered, eyes locked on your fingers as they circled your clit. “Please… I want to fuck you so badly. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want, fuck—I swear.”

You responded with a laugh and hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties. You peeled them down, sliding the soaked fabric down your thighs while keeping your legs spread for him. The way Dex’s eyes followed every movement. You could see the pure anguish in his face as your glistening pussy was finally revealed, right in front of his aching cock, close enough to touch but so far out of reach.

You sat back on your ass, legs still spread, letting him stare. Then you dragged two fingers through your slick folds, coating them thoroughly, before sinking your middle and ring finger deep into your tight heat with a solid moan.

Dex’s whole body jerked. An angry groan came from him as he watched you finger-fuck yourself, right there in front of him.

“Ugh—You sadistic little bitch,” he growled, wrecked by lust and rage. 

You pulled your fingers out with a wet sound, lifted them to your mouth, and sucked them clean, eyes locked on his the entire time. You moaned softly around your own fingers, tasting yourself while he watched, helpless.

Dex’s head fell back against the pillow with a loud groan, cuffs rattling violently.

“Jesus Christ—” he rasped, “I can’t—I need to be inside you. Please, baby…”

Dex looked like he was about to lose his mind.

You reached down and wrapped your hand around his throbbing shaft, giving it one slow, firm stroke from base to tip. Dex’s hips jerk like he’d been electrocuted, and gasped, “Oh my god—” ripping out of him as his eyes squeezed shut.

You kept stroking him lazily, thumb circling the leaking head on every upstroke, spreading his precum while you watched his face contort with pleasure and frustration.

“If you fuck up again,” you said in a military tone of voice, still pumping him with slow, torturous strokes, “I won’t just leave you like this. I’ll keep you cuffed here for days. I’ll edge you until you’re crying and begging and losing your fucking mind—then I’ll ride your face until I come, while you get nothing. And then I’ll walk away and let you stay hard and useless until I decide you’ve earned it. Are we clear?”

Dex’s breath hitched, another wrecked moan spilling from his lips as you twisted your wrist just right. “Yes—fuck, yes, I understand,” he gasped, hips chasing your hand desperately. “I won’t fuck up. I swear. I’ll be so good for you, baby. Please—”

“Good.”

You lifted your hips, hovering right over the swollen head. Dex’s eyes were locked between your legs, breath shallow, every muscle in his body strung tight.

Then you sank down.

The first inch of your tight, wet heat enveloped him and Dex’s head slammed back against the pillow and a moan tore out of him he’d never heard himself make before.

“Oh…” you moaned too, sinking deeper and deeper down his shaft, taking every thick inch until your ass met his hips. “You’re so… thick.”

Dex’s cock throbbed hard inside you, not just from how fucking perfect you felt, but from the words themselves. His hips jerked up on instinct, driving him even deeper.

“You can handle it,” he managed with a wicked, cocky grin, even while completely at your mercy.

Your eyes narrowed. You grabbed the pillow from under his head and slammed it over his face again.

Dex spluttered, sucking in what little air he could through the fabric, the thrill of oxygen deprivation mixing with the mind-melting heat of your cunt clenching around him was electric. 

You finally tore the pillow away. Dex gasped wildly for air, nostrils flaring as he sucked in oxygen, his eyes were wild, cheeks flushed.

“Don’t get cocky now,” you warned.

“How could I not,” he rasped, voice hoarse, “when this greedy fucking pussy is dripping and clenching like it missed me?”

Heat flooded your cheeks. He saw it immediately.

“Wait,” Dex said slowly, realizing something.

“What?”

“You missed me didn’t you?” he teased, voice wrecked but so fucking smug. He whimpered when you slid your slick folds over his sensitive tip again. “It’s okay to admit it. It’s only natural to get all flustered when you’re riding someone as handsome as me.”

Your eyes widened in shock, cheeks burning hotter. “Why you—”

You shoved the pillow back into his face, hard enough that he truly couldn’t breathe this time. Dex’s cock throbbed violently inside you, the lack of oxygen making him twitch and pulse like crazy and you took away the pillow again.

“Baby,” he groaned, breathless and grinning, “I’m not judging you—what else do I have to offer but my looks, my charm… and this dick that’s currently splitting you open so good?”

“You have more than that…”

You rolled your eyes, a fond, exasperated little huff escaping you even as you sank back down. You took him slowly at first, then faster, rolling your hips deeper and deeper with every thrust. The stretch was heavenly, almost too much, filling you perfectly.

“F-fuck, just like that,” Dex groaned beautifully as you started moving.

You rolled your hips in languid circles, one hand sliding between your thighs to rub tight and fast over your clit while the other squeezed and played with your tits, pinching your nipple hard. Soft, breathy moans spilled from your lips as pleasure built.

“Hmm… You like watching me touch myself, don’t you?” you taunted.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Dex bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. His wrists strained violently against the cuffs again. “God, that’s so fucking hot—let me touch you, please—”

“No, you can just enjoy the show while it lasts,” you chuckled breathlessly.

You began bouncing properly now, head falling back in bliss while your fingers flew over your clit. Dex’s eyes were glued to you, drinking in every bounce and the way your body swallowed his cock over and over. The room filled with the rattle of the cuffs mixed with the slick sounds of you fucking yourself on him and his desperate, little grunts.

He could feel you getting closer—your walls fluttering and clenching tighter around his thick shaft, squeezing him like a vice.

He tensed his hips hard beneath you, while jerking up to meet your rhythm. He wanted nothing more than to grab your hips with both hands, press you down firmer, and fuck you through it—pounding up into you deep and relentless while you fell apart on him. But the cuffs dug into his wrists, keeping his arms pinned and useless above his head. All he could do was strain and thrust up as best he could, growling in frustration and raw need.

Your orgasm crashed into you hard. Your thighs shook violently, muscles pulsing and squeezing around him as you came with a keening moan, grinding down deep and riding every wave. Your whole body quaked on top of him, fingers still rubbing your clit through the aftershocks.

Dex’s eyes rolled back, a wrecked groan ripping from his throat as his own release slammed into him. He came hard deep inside with thick ropes of cum shooting out in heavy spurts that his whole body jerked and trembled violently beneath you. He kept thrusting up through it, chasing every last squeeze of your fluttering walls like he was addicted.

Dex swallowed hard, chest still heaving. Then a breathless chuckle escaped him, dark and full of promise. He poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes gleaming wickedly even while cuffed and spent.

“I’ll have my revenge,” he muttered roughly and dripping with filthy intent. “Just you wait.”

You chuckled as you slowly lifted yourself off him, still trembling a little from the intensity of it. Dex hissed softly through his teeth at the sudden loss of warmth.

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers over his wrists before undoing the first cuff. Then the second. The moment the metal clicked free, his arms dropped with relief. You rubbed lightly over the red marks left behind, and a small smile tugged at your mouth.

“I’ll look forward to it,” you murmured.

Dex’s expression sharpened instantly at that.

“Oh you should.” he surged upright and caught you around the waist, pulling you straight into his lap with a suddenness that made you laugh softly in surprise. His mouth crashed against yours immediately; hot, needy and impatient.

There was nothing restrained about him now that he could touch you.

One hand slid up your sides, fingertips dragging over sensitive skin before spreading splayed across your back. The other cupped your breast possessively, squeezing firmly enough to pull a muffled sound from your throat. Dex swallowed it with another kiss, groaning deeply against your mouth while his hands kept roaming like he couldn’t decide where he wanted you most.

His fingers traced your spine, then your waist again, clutching you closer against him.

“You feel so soft,” he muttered between kisses, “Christ—”

You felt him shift underneath you, already trying to pull you tighter against his hips despite the healing wound in his side. His thumb brushed over your nipple while he kissed you deeper, breathing hard through his nose.

Immediately you pulled back enough to grab his wrist.

“Dex.”

He kissed along your jaw instead, stubborn and distracted, hand sliding back up your ribs. 

“Mm?”

You caught his face this time, making him actually look at you, his lips swollen from kissing.

“We can’t overexert you,” you said, softer now. “You got shot, remember?”

Dex exhaled hard through his nose, visibly annoyed by the reminder. Even now his thumbs kept stroking against your skin absentmindedly, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.

“I’m fine.” he muttered, “It barely hurts now.”

“You are absolutely not fine.”

His eyes narrowed a little, but there was heat there more than irritation. He leaned his forehead against yours with a frustrated groan.

“…You’re really ruining my plans here,” he muttered again.

A laugh slipped out of you, “You’ll survive.”

He leaned in to steal one more slow kiss, “Yeah,” he murmured against your lips. “But I’m gonna complain about it.”

× × × × 

Dex is completely knocked out beside you lips parted, dead to the world after draining himself.

“Big talker,” you whisper with a soft laugh, “but look at you now.”

He lay on his back now, one arm flung out toward you, head turned slightly in your direction like even in sleep he was reaching for you.

Because you didn’t get your way that time—He flipped you onto your back ignoring your advice. 

“Fuck your authority right now,” he’d growled and had you on your back in seconds, that big cock slamming back inside before you could even refuse him again. He fucked you stupid; pissed and obsessed at the same time, growling shit like “—just to be clear this isn’t my revenge, i’m just not satisfied yet,” while he had you pinned and screaming into the pillow as he bit and sucked marks all over your breasts, your neck, your inner thighs, your stomach, even the soft skin right above your clit. 

He made you come thrice, shaking and squirting around him; he’d flipped you, folded you, fucked you from behind while yanking your hair, then flipped you right back and pounded you missionary so he could watch your face while he filled you up with load after load. 

By the end you were absolutely peppered in dark bite marks and possessive purple kiss marks from your collarbones all the way down to your thighs.

You’re pretty sure your neighbors know his name by now.

You lay beside him, propped on one elbow, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your fingers moved on their own, tracing the thin, faded scar that ran along his right cheek. The skin there was smooth under your fingertip, softer than you expected. His face was completely relaxed; no more tension in the jaw, no calculating sharpness in his brow. 

He just looked… peaceful.

He looked… normal.

For a moment it almost hurt how normal he looked. Like any man sleeping beside the woman he loved. Like someone who could be gentle. Like someone who could—

You know he’s not going to change, right?

Your throat tightened.

He needs someone stable. You’re not that person.

Your heart clenched so hard it felt like it was cracking open. You pulled your hand away from his face like you’d been burned. The absence of his warmth on your fingertips made the room feel colder.

No one else was coming. No team. No friends. No family waiting in the wings to pull you back from the edge. Matt might call, might check in, but you both knew it was a professional concern dressed up as friendship. 

Dex was your air even though that air is extremely polluted. 

You knew he wasn’t stable. You knew this was dangerous. You knew loving him meant walking a tightrope over a pit you might never climb out of. But you also knew what it felt like to be alone in a city full of people. And you weren’t ready to feel that again.

You stared at his sleeping face for a while, the quiet rise and fall of his breathing the only sound in the room.

When was the last time things felt normal with him?

The memory came uninvited. It was early on, back when he was still FBI, before Fisk. You’d been on the rooftop of the old field office after a long case, the city lights glittering below. Dex had found an old baseball in one of the storage rooms and decided, for reasons only he understood, that you needed to learn how to throw a proper curveball.

He’d stood behind you, chest to your back, one hand guiding your arm, the other on your hip. His voice had been low and patient in your ear.

“Relax your wrist. Like this. See? Not too much force. Just let it roll off your fingers when you throw.”

You’d thrown it “terribly”. 

He’d laughed, actually laughed, that rare sound that made your chest feel too full. Then he’d picked the ball up, thrown it himself with perfect form, and looked back at you with this almost shy little smile, like he was proud of himself for knowing something so ordinary.

He wasn’t Bullseye. He was just Benjamin. Teaching his girl how to throw a baseball on a random rooftop because he wanted to feel normal with her.

You’d had all of him then.

Then most.

Then some.

Now… none.

You were holding on to whatever was left with bloody fingers, telling yourself you could still fix him. That everyone could be redeemed if someone just loved them hard enough. That you could be the one who made the difference.

You didn’t know if you believed it. It was delusional but it was all you had left.

× × × ×

You pushed the cart down the produce aisle, eyes scanning the apples. Dex had insisted on coming. You’d argued for twenty minutes that he is a wanted man but he’d given you that look. The one that said if he stayed cooped up in your apartment any longer he was actually going to lose what little was left of his mind.

So here you were. Playing house in a grocery store.

You’d dressed him up like a downtown fuckboy trying too hard to be incognito: bomber leather jacket over a hoodie, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses on even though it was now overcast outside. “Keep your head down,” you’d hissed before you left the car. He’d just smirked and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

But is he doing it? No.

You picked up a couple of apples, inspecting them, when you heard the rustle of plastic behind you. Dex had wandered off and returned, dropping an entire bunch of bananas into the cart with a satisfied little hum.

Then he disappeared again.

You sighed, already regretting every life choice that led you here, and moved on to the dairy section.

You reached to grab a carton of milk, when a loud crash echoed from a couple aisles over—followed by startled gasps and the sound of things scattering across the floor.

Your stomach dropped.

You abandoned the fridge and rushed toward the noise, heart hammering. When you rounded the corner, a small crowd had gathered around a display of knocked-over canned goods and scattered boxes. Employees were already hurrying over with brooms.

Before you could spiral, Dex popped up right behind you, casually popping a grape into his mouth.

“Tsk tsk,” he muttered around the fruit, looking at the mess with fake disapproval. “So clumsy.”

You stared at him sighing in relief. He stared back, the picture of innocence behind those stupid sunglasses, chewing his grapes like he hadn’t just caused a minor grocery store disaster.

“Why the hell did you do that?” you snapped under your breath, eyes darting around to make sure no one was paying too much attention. “We’re trying not to get recognized.”

Dex just popped another grape into his mouth, chewing slowly with that shit-eating little smirk hidden behind the sunglasses.

“They had a bad stacking job,” he said innocently, shrugging. “It wasn’t me, it was gravity.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling through your teeth.

“Should’ve just left you at home.” you muttered, already steering the cart toward the checkout trying to outrun the chaos he left behind.

Dex fell into step beside you, still eating his grapes like they were complimentary samples.

“Relax,” he murmured, amused. “No one’s looking at me now. They’re all looking at the mess. It’s called a perfect distraction.”

You shot him a glare but kept moving.

Checkout was mercifully quick. You paid in cash, ignoring the way the cashier kept glancing at Dex’s sunglasses-and-cap combo like she was trying hard to place him. The second the bags were in the cart, you practically dragged him out the automatic doors.

You were halfway to the car when the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. A black SUV sat idling two rows over, windows tinted way too dark for broad daylight. It definitely wasn’t there when you went in.

“Ten o’clock,” you muttered, barely moving your lips.

Dex didn’t even glance that way. He just shifted the grocery bags in his arms and answered under his breath, “Ah, fans.”

His voice was light and playful, but you felt the shift in him—like a switch flipping from lazy boyfriend to predator.

You kept walking like nothing was wrong. “Pretend you don’t see them.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he shot back, the smirk clear in his voice. “Or we could go say hi…I’m feeling good and real friendly today.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs, right over his still-healing wound. He hissed but didn’t miss a step.

The second you were both inside the car, your heart slammed against your ribs. Dex tossed the bags in the back and dropped into the passenger seat as you peeled out of the lot.

You checked the rearview. The SUV pulled out right behind you.

“Great,” you muttered, deliberately turning the opposite direction of home.

Dex leaned back, eyes on the side mirror, that lazy grin still in place. “Stalker alert.”

“Just keep watching them,” you snapped, weaving through traffic. Go by The Chemical Brothers pulsed low through the speakers, the beat syncing with your pulse.

Dex glanced at the mirror again. 

“They’re still with us, three cars back,” he said. “You could maybe go faster than your grandma drives? Just a thought.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel and pressed the gas a little harder.

“I’m trying not to cause a damn accident!” you hissed, swerving around a crawling truck. The SUV accelerated behind you, closing the gap fast.

Dex chuckled, low and dark. “Relax, baby. I think you're doing great. For a civilian.”

The first gunshot cracked through the air. You ducked instinctively as the rear window spiderwebbed. “Civilian my ass—Shit!” 

Dex was already twisting in his seat. “You got a gun in here or are we doing this with the eggs and frozen peas?”

“Glove box—under the seat—somewhere!” you shouted, swerving around a car. “And stop moving, I can’t see!”

“Left! Hard left!” he barked, yanking the pistol out. 

“I’m going left, you asshole!”

Dex hit the sunroof button, shoved it open, and hauled himself up with that terrifying grace he had even when half-injured. Wind whipped at his hair and jacket as he opened fire—three precise shots that dropped the driver like a puppet with cut strings.

The SUV behind you swerved wildly and smashed into a fire hydrant, but two more appeared in its place, closing fast.

“Dex, get back in here before you lose your head!”

“I’m a little busy, honey!” he yelled over the wind, squeezing off another round. “Why don’t you try driving like you stole the car?”

You jerked the wheel hard to avoid a turning van, bullets pinging off the trunk. Dex nearly tumbled out and cursed loud enough to be heard over the engine.

“Will you stop swerving like a goddamn—”

“Stop bitching and kill them!” you screamed. “You’re Bullseye, aren’t you?!”

He dropped back down for half a second, breathing hard, then grinned like a maniac. “Not if you keep driving like that!”

Before you could bite back, he reached over, unbuckled your seatbelt, and yanked you toward him. In the middle of the chaos you slammed the brakes just enough for him to scramble over you into the driver’s seat. As you slid across his lap, he leaned down and sank his teeth into your ass—hard.

You yelped. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

He just laughed, wild and bright, hands already locking onto the wheel.

You snatched your neck gaiter from the center console and yanked it up over your face while Dex floored it. The car shot forward like a rocket—cutting lanes, running reds, taking turns so sharp the tires screamed, even hopping the sidewalk for half a block.

You popped up through the sunroof, gun in hand, wind tearing at your hair. Two SUVs were still on your tail, closing fast.

You fired—three shots, then four more. One tire exploded. Another windshield shattered. The lead SUV fishtailed violently and slammed into a parked car.

Two more kept coming.

One pulled up beside you. You ducked inside as bullets shredded the passenger window. Dex swerved violently, nearly kissing a bus, then straightened with another unhinged laugh.

Suddenly he cranked the wheel hard left, whipping a violent, completely illegal U-turn. The world blurred. The two SUVs tried to follow and ended up splitting—one on your left, one on your right—boxing you in.

You popped back up through the sunroof with a gun in each hand, arms stretched wide like a gunslinger. Wind whipped your hair as you locked onto both drivers at once.

Bang. Bang.

Both slumped instantly.

You dropped back into the seat, breathing hard, eyes wide, neck gaiter still in place.

Dex glanced over at you, eyes bright with adrenaline and pride. “Holy shit.”

“Get us out of here,” you panted, “Before more show up—like the authorities.” You shoved a fresh mag into the pistol trying not to smile. 

× × × ×

The car was a wreck.

Bullet holes riddled the trunk and doors like metallic acne. One back window was completely gone. You sat on the hood under a deserted bridge, the river murmuring below, while Dex paced in front of you like a caged animal. Your arm burned from a fresh graze, and the cut on your temple had reopened, blood trickling down the side of your face again.

You’d been arguing for fifteen straight minutes, because of Matt Murdock.

“I don’t need to tell you everything!” you snapped, voice echoing under the concrete.

“He warned you about Fisk and you waited until we were in a fucking shootout to mention it?”

“Jesus Christ—”

“The blind knight in shining fucking armor swooping in to warn you about Fisk. How convenient,” Dex snarled, now standing firm. “How long has he been ‘checking on you’ huh? How many little private talks have you two been having behind my back?”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh that bordered on hysterical.

“Ohhh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” you shouted, shoving off the hood to stand toe-to-toe with him. Blood smeared across your cheek as you jabbed a finger at his chest. “Why don’t we bring Julie back to the table, huh?! Hey Julie! I heard you had a nice dinner with my ex-boyfriend! Real cozy, right? Did she make you feel all nice and mentally stable while I was too much for you?”

His jaw locked tight, but you didn’t stop—the words poured out, venomous and exhausted.

“And now you’re mad that Murdock—who’s never once tried to fuck me—warned me about the man who wants an eye for an eye? Fuck you, Dex. Matt saved your life.”

“Enough.”

He rolled his shoulders once, then slowly cracked his neck to the left… then to the right.

“I am fucking sick of hearing her name.” 

He stood up straighter, towering over you. The heat was gone. What remained was ice-cold, emptiness. His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair off your bloody temple with terrifying tenderness.

“You want to keep bringing her up? Fine. But every time you do, remember this.” His voice dropped to a whisper, lips brushing your ear. “I never felt bad about how she ended up dead.”

Dex tilted his head, studying your face like you were an interesting insect. “But you… you keep dragging her corpse out every time you want to hurt me…I wonder what would happen if I stopped being so patient with you.”

Your eyes burned as you searched his—looking for the man who once taught you baseball on a rooftop, for any trace of the Dex who used to laugh with you. All you found was that cold, empty calculation. The monster who could kill without remorse.

Without breaking eye contact, you reached behind you, pulled your gun from your waistband, checked the chamber with a sharp click, and pressed it into his palm. 

“I also want to know, why not beat Fisk to it?” you whispered, voice hushed even as your eyes glistened at the rim. You stepped forward until the barrel kissed your forehead. 

Dex’s fingers tightened around the grip. His breathing stayed even, too even. For one terrifying second the world narrowed to the cold metal and the empty look in his eyes. Part of you—the exhausted, heartbroken part—almost wanted him to do it. To end the cycle.

Dex’s breathing grew shallow. His jaw clenched so tight the muscle stood out like a wire. The gun trembled once in his hand.

Then—bang.

He fired. The shot cracked inches from your temple, the muzzle flash burning white across your vision as the bullet screamed past and punched into the concrete pillar behind you.

You flinched, ears ringing.

Dex stared at you, eyes wide and wild like he’d surprised even himself. Then the control snapped. He made an aggressive, guttural sound and hurled the gun sideways into the river with vicious force. 

It hit the water with a distant splash.

He stood there breathing hard through his teeth, hands opening and closing at his sides like he didn’t trust them anymore. His shoulders were still rolled forward, ready to snap again. 

When he finally looked at you, there it was—that strikingly forlorn look in his eyes. As if you’d just ripped his heart out and shown it to him. It makes you want to run over to him and kiss him. But the violence still flickering behind the pain kept you rooted.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice cracking like it physically hurt him. “I can’t fucking do it.”

He looked smaller suddenly, the towering menace folding in on itself.

“I can’t fucking do it,” he says, snorting before shaking his head. “Even when you want me to.”

You couldn’t say anything and kept looking straight ahead except his eyes, tears finally slipping down your cheeks.

He stepped in close again, crowding you back against the wrecked car until it dug on the back of your legs. One hand slammed flat on the hood, caging you in.

“I won’t set you free,” His eyes were glassy as he laughed unhingedly, “You don’t get to provoke me and then check out on me—” his grin vanished, “—without you…I am nothing. I’ve been so alone my whole life—everything taken away from me… and I’m not going back to that.”

You couldn’t look at him anymore.

The tears kept falling, hot and silent, as Dex’s confession hung in the air. His words should have terrified you. Instead they settled heavy in your chest, cracking something deep that had been holding on by a thread for months.

This wasn’t his fault. 

(Play Down With The Sickness. Trust me)

He was trying his best to be good, he’d asked you for structure—but you can’t put him back in the shark tank. You’d seen the man on that rooftop, sharing his favorite hobby with you. That man was still in there somewhere, buried under all the shit Fisk and the FBI piled on top of him. They broke him. They used and crucified the person you loved.

You gave Dex every good piece of yourself and they burned all of it to ash. And you realized, with a sickening clarity, that they would do the exact same thing to you. No matter how loyal you were. No matter how many times you bled for them. They would chew you up and spit you out the second you stopped being useful.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The cut on your temple throbbed in time with your heartbeat. 

Then something inside you simply… clicked off. 

The air under the bridge seemed to drop ten degrees. Even the river sounded quieter, as if it knew better than to interrupt.

You wiped the last tear streaks from your face with the back of your hand like it was an inconvenience and when you lifted your gaze to Dex again, your face was blank, but your eyes… your eyes promised graves. The blood on your temple and cheek suddenly looked like war paint instead of wounds. 

He took half a step back without meaning to.

You just stared through him. In your place stood someone who had decided the world owed Dex a blood debt—and she was going to collect with interest.

In your mind you saw it all unfolding like a beautiful, brutal movie: Fisk’s skull caving in under repeated blows until the light left his eyes, his empire burning around his broken body. You saw every corrupt FBI handler dragged into dark rooms, bones snapping one by one as they begged for mercy that would never come. You saw them realizing too late that the monster they created had a sharper, colder blade standing right behind him.

You tilted your head slowly, the motion almost birdlike, and a small, serene smile curved your lips.

You stepped forward, closing the distance he’d tried to create, and reached up with the most gentle, affectionate pat. Your palm was still warm from the tears you’d wiped away.

“Let’s go home, Dex.”

Your voice was soft. Sweet, even. But the calm in it was the terrifying kind—the stillness after a guillotine blade falls.

tags: @notsochillnerd @tallaennatargaryen @spectralexiletrace @yyiikes @n1n1c

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He paced the narrow hallway, fists clenching and unclenching. Back when he was still FBI, before Fisk turned the whole world into a blood-soaked game, he’d done it right. Coffee exactly how you liked it. Memorized your shifts so he could “bump into” you. Took you to the range and let you win half the time because that’s what normal boyfriends did. He’d studied other couples, copied their touches, their smiles, their easy little lies. He’d given you stability. Security.

And you still wanted harder.

He stopped at the kitchen counter, eyes narrowing at the neat row of knives. His breathing was too fast, too loud. He could still hear the way your voice dropped softly when you told him he was incapable of love. Right before you dangled yourself like bait and then ripped it away.

His hand snapped out. One of the knives left the counter in a blur and buried itself hilt-deep in the drywall with a satisfying thud.

“Fuck you,” he snarled into the empty room, chest heaving.

You’d let him bleed devotion all over your floor and then tried to send him away like some stray you could forget about.

He closed his eyes and forced the old breathing pattern. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Dr. Mercer’s voice floated up from somewhere deep—those sessions he’d burned the tapes for, back when he still pretended he could be fixed.

How would you define love, Dex?

Love was taking every single piece of someone until nothing was left for anyone else. He’d never given her the real answer.

That’s what he’d tried to give you. And you threw it back in his face because of Julie. Because he’d needed a stabilizer for a little while, and somehow that made him incapable in your eyes.

His eyes snapped open.

He wanted to punish you for that. The old Dex wanted to kick your door down right now and make you understand exactly who you belonged to. But that would just scare you off. Push you deeper into that perfect Sergeant armor you loved so much.

A slow, cold smile spread across his face as the new plan clicked into place.

Fine.

He was going to love you so hard you’d never get free again.

Dex pulled the knife from the wall with one calm tug, wiped the plaster dust off the blade, and set it back exactly where it belonged. Then he sat down at the table, fingers steepled, already turning the pieces over in his mind.

You were going to learn what harder really felt like…but first he needed to balance some scales.

× × × ×

The Department of Damage Control never slept. Even at this ungodly hour the bullpen ran like a machine that couldn’t afford to stop. You sat at your desk near the back, one leg crossed neatly over the other, your coffee steaming beside you like a prop. The wall-mounted TV played the same blurry New York chaos on loop for the fifteenth time.

“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered by the printer. “You hear that guy used a fucking oyster claw as a weapon?”

Another agent snorted. “Bullseye’s a goddamn animal.”

“Guy’s completely off the rails.”

Your eyes flicked to your phone. The tiny blinking dot on the tracker app was moving. Slowly at first… then picking up speed, heading somewhere it definitely shouldn’t be.

What the fuck are you doing, Dex?

You’d told him to lay low. You’d given him clear instructions. And here he was, already drifting off course like a dog that couldn’t stay on the porch.

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder.

You jolted hard enough that coffee nearly spilled. For one razor-sharp second your brain supplied Dex’s face—his hand, his grip, his presence—before reality snapped back in.

“Whoa, easy,” Deputy Director Mason said, lifting his hand immediately. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You forced a tight, professional smile, heart still hammering. “You’re fine, sir.”

He studied you a beat too long. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” His voice dropped. “The two AVTF agents sent for your welfare check the other night. Did they ever make contact?”

Your stomach plummeted, but your face stayed perfectly composed—the same mask you’d worn standing over Julie’s apartment, feeling that cold rush of relief that someone else had handled the mess.

You could lie a dozen different ways.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said smoothly, tilting your head with just the right touch of puzzled worry. “I came home really late… crashed hard after shift. Didn’t hear a knock.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “So they didn’t?”

You shook your head, widening your eyes just enough. “Is everything okay?”

He hesitated. Bullpen chatter swelled behind him: “You think Bullseye got them too?” and you felt it like a gift.

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice to that soft, intimate register you knew worked on men who wanted to feel useful. “God, I hope they’re alright. I would’ve told you if they’d come by. You know that.”

The lie tasted sweet.

Because the truth—that Dex had killed them—didn’t serve your image. It didn’t serve the careful life you’d rebuilt. And if protecting that meant feeding Mason exactly what he needed to hear, you’d keep feeding him until he choked on it.

Mason’s gaze flicked to your phone, lingering on the cracked screen. You kept your expression open and concerned.

He exhaled. “We’ll keep looking. If you hear anything—”

“Of course,” you said softly, reaching up to briefly touch his arm. “Anything at all. Just let me know how I can help.”

He nodded and walked off. The second his back was turned, your polite smile dropped.

You picked up your phone again. The blinking dot was still hauling ass across the map, moving way too fast. 

Where the fuck are you going?

The TV caught your attention next.

“…and in tonight’s local news, Wilson Fisk is hosting an exclusive charity boxing match at the old arena. Sources say it’s part of his ongoing community outreach, but with recent tensions—”

Your head snapped toward the screen. The camera panned across the venue, flashing Fisk ringside like a king on his throne.

You pressed your lips together. Of course.

The tracker kept moving. Straight toward the arena.

Don’t do this, Dex. Not tonight.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. Part of you wanted to grab your coat and go right now—drag him back by the scruff of his neck before he could blow everything up. But another part of you whispered that chasing him would only make it worse. He’d see it as proof you cared. Proof you were still his. And once Dex got even a taste of that, he never let go.

For a long second you debated, thumb twitching between calling him and throwing the phone across the room. Then you set it face-down on the desk, exhaled slowly, and reached for your coffee like nothing was wrong.

× × × ×

The arena was a screaming, flashing hellhole, and Dex moved through it like he was born for exactly this kind of noise.

He’d come here to settle the scales. One clean good deed. Fisk had to die since the Devil clearly didn’t have the balls to finish it and maybe if Dex put the bastard down, the static in his head would finally shut the fuck up.

He was on the floor, cutting through panicked spectators and flying chairs, hurling anything sharp he could grab. Broken champagne flute. Metal railing spike. A goddamn serving knife. Each one found its mark with surgical cruelty—throats, shoulders, knees, eyes—clearing a path straight toward the ring.

Every throw landed perfect. Every wet impact scratched that deep itch behind his eyes.

Fisk loomed near the ring like a goddamn king, security swarming him, Vanessa tucked close in white like she wasn’t married to the rot at the center of everything.

Two AVTF agents rounded the corner ahead, rifles up. Dex pivoted, arm already cocked back with a jagged shard of glass pinched between his fingers—

POP. POP.

Both agents’ heads snapped sideways before they dropped.

Dex froze mid-throw. That wasn’t his shot.

His eyes sliced through the smoke and strobing lights until they locked on a figure half-hidden by the east exit ramp.

Black cap low. Black neck gaiter hiding the lower half of her face. Leather jacket. Silenced pistol still raised.

He knew that stance. Knew the exact angle of those shoulders. The way she steadied her breath right before the shot. The little tilt of her head afterward, scanning for the next threat.

A slow, manic grin spread across Dex’s face beneath his mask.

Another agent charged his blindside. You dropped him with two suppressed shots before Dex even finished turning. Blood sprayed across concrete.

Jesus Christ.

Heat crawled down his spine, thick and vicious. You looked so fucking beautiful like this; mask on, no polished Damage Control bullshit, no pretending. Just cold, precise death moving through the chaos. 

His blood rushed south so fast it almost distracted him from the knife flying at his head. He snatched it out of the air and whipped it back. The blade buried to the hilt in the attacker’s throat.

His eyes found you again instantly. You lowered the pistol after another clean kill, and your gaze locked with his across the arena. Even from this distance he could see the fury burning in your eyes.

You were pissed he’d ignored your orders. Pissed he’d come here at all.

And you were still helping him anyway.

Dex felt invincible—until he spotted the heavy commemorative glass ornament on the ground beside the ring. Sharp edges. Perfect weight.

He kicked it up, everything slowing around him.

He could already see it: Fisk’s skull splitting open, blood painting the ring, the noise in his head finally going quiet.

Balance.

Dex hurled it with everything he had. It cut through the air like a missile.

At the last second Fisk’s hand jerked his belt up, deflecting it. The ornament shattered against Vanessa’s head just as a bullet punched into Dex’s side.

He stumbled back into the chairs, hot blood soaking his shirt. Security surged. Somewhere across the arena he heard you shout his name.

Fisk was already raising his own gun, eyes promising slow death. Your silenced shot caught Fisk’s hand, jerking the barrel sideways. The bullet meant for Dex shattered glass somewhere behind him.

Then Daredevil (who finally caught up) slammed into him like a freight train, hauling him toward the nearest window. They exploded through it in a storm of shattering glass and cold night air.

You cursed viciously under your breath, blood trickling down the side of your face from a cut you hadn’t even felt. No time to deal with it. You melted back into the shadows, slipping through the panicked crowd, dodging AVTF and Fisk’s men as you sprinted for the exit you’d scouted earlier.

Your motorcycle waited two blocks away. You ran flat out, leather jacket flapping, cap low, gaiter still hiding the lower half of your face.

By the time you reached the rooftop across from the arena’s service exit, heart hammering and temple stinging, the street below was swarming with sirens and flashing lights. You scanned rooftops, alleys, the broken window they’d crashed through.

Nothing.

Dex and Daredevil were gone. Vanished into the night like they’d never been there.

You stood on the rooftop with the cold wind whipping at your jacket, blood cooling sticky on your cheek. The tracker on your phone flickered once… then went dark.

“FUCK!”

The shout ripped out of you, echoing across the empty roof. You cocked your arm back, ready to smash the phone into the concrete, but stopped at the last second, fingers tight around it. You still needed the damn thing.

Instead you spun and slammed your boot into the metal exhaust vent beside you with everything you had. The steel caved with a deafening clang, leaving a jagged crater like something had exploded.

You stood there panting, chest heaving, hands shaking with adrenaline and fury.

He’d promised he’d lay low. He’d looked you in the eye and said he’d listen. But the second your back was turned he’d gone charging into Fisk’s arena like a goddamn missile, forcing you to burn your own cover just to keep him breathing.

And now Daredevil had him.

That sick, twisting worry clawed its way up your throat. The one man in this city more relentless than Dex. What if Daredevil decided the only way to end Bullseye was to finish what Fisk couldn’t?

You dragged a bloody hand down your face, smearing red across your skin, and stared at the blank tracker screen like it might magically light up again.

“You stupid, reckless bastard,” you whispered, voice cracking. “When I find you… I swear to God…”

× × × × 

Dex woke up standing in the middle of the old FBI bullpen, feet rooted to the linoleum like a ghost watching his own life on replay.

Across the room, the memory unfolded.

Past-Dex sat at his desk, sharpening a pencil with the same four precise spins he always used. The elevator doors opened. You stepped out beside one of the Assistant Directors, nodding politely as he spoke.

His head turned without thinking and spun one-eighty on his chair just so he could keep looking. You must have felt it, because your eyes flicked over and locked with his for a beat longer than necessary before you looked away.

He watched his past self straighten a little taller in his chair.

As soon as you disappeared around the corner with the deputy, Dex turned to the nearest agent leaning against a desk.

“Nadeem,” he called out quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the hallway you’d vanished down.“Who the hell was that?”

Nadeem followed his line of sight and immediately smirked. “Oh, her?” He gave a low whistle. “That’s the government’s latest headache.”

Past-Dex finally looked over at him.

“She’s one of the new generation super soldiers,” Nadeem explained. “In-between agencies right now. DoDC, FBI, counterterrorism. Everybody wants a piece of her.”

Dex listened silently and Nadeem continued, “She used to run with the Flag Smashers.”

Dex’s past self raised an eyebrow. “The ones who hit the GRC Headquarters?”

“Yeah.” Nadeem nodded. “From what I heard, she walked away after the whole thing collapsed and took a deal with the Government rehab program. Now they parade her around as one of the success stories.” He shrugged. “Guess they figured it’s easier to point her at monsters than lock her in a box somewhere.”

Dex looked back toward the hallway again. You’d laughed softly at something the AD said.

It echoed strangely in his chest.

Nadeem noticed the staring immediately and barked out a laugh, “Holy—” He pointed at him. “No way.”

Dex frowned slightly. “What?”

“You’re interested.”

“I only asked a question, how is that being interested?”

“Yeah, and you never ask questions about people.” Nadeem grinned wider. “You thinking about asking her out, Poindexter?”

Past-Dex immediately looked away again, jaw tightening slightly.

“No.” 

Nadeem’s grin turned knowing instantly, “Oh, you absolutely are.”

“I don’t date. Especially not coworkers. And definitely not someone her age.”

“She’s not technically a coworker,” Nadeem said, still smirking.

The dream shifted again, pulling him deeper.

Now he stood at the back of the elevator like a silent shadow, watching the memory play out in crisp detail.

Past-Dex stood rigid in his dark suit, hands clasped behind his back, trying to hold himself together. You were right beside him. Alone.

He remembered this ride perfectly.

Three weeks of stolen glances in hallways. Three weeks of catching fragments of your voice through closed doors. Three weeks of staying up until 3 a.m. in his dark apartment, reading every classified file he could access on the Flag Smashers—old NGO records, photos of you smiling while helping kids in refugee camps, the way the Blip had shattered everything and pushed you toward them. How you’d become their medic and logistics backbone. How you’d survived Zemo’s bombing.

Dex kept reading long after he should’ve stopped and Dex latched onto every word because you weren’t a monster in those pages—you were good, just a misled young adult, just broken by the same world that broke him. And if anyone could understand the rot under his skin…it had to be you.

The elevator dinged softly as it passed another floor.

In the memory, Dex glanced sideways again, unable to stop like his eyes were magnetised. Your head turned at the exact same moment, and your eyes met.

He looked forward immediately.

Too late.

A small, amused smile tugged at your mouth.

“Well,” you started lightly and teasing in the quiet space, “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to keep stealing glances at someone without at least saying hello.”

Past-Dex’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t staring.”

You snorted softly. “No but what's crazy is, I counted at least five stolen glances.”

His eyes flicked toward you again before he could stop it.

Six.

You caught that one too and let out a soft laugh that did something strange to his chest.

“You did it again,” you said, clearly enjoying yourself.

Past-Dex straightened like his own body had betrayed him. “You always notice everything?”

“You don’t survive with enhanced senses if you’re not paying attention,” you replied, leaning lightly against the wall. “Especially not when someone’s staring like they’re trying to memorize me.”

He nodded once, then added, “Like the Flag Smashers?”

The words slipped out before he could pull them back. Most people shut down. You didn’t. You studied him, curious instead of defensive.

“You did your research.”

“I profile people.”

“That sounds creepier when you say it out loud,” you teased, but there was no real bite in it.

A tiny, reluctant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. You noticed that too, of course.

“You know,” you said more quietly, “people always focus on the violence. Nobody ever asks why we got desperate enough to burn everything down.”

The elevator lights caught your face as you spoke, and Dex remembered thinking how tired you looked under all that strength—like someone who’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“We weren’t trying to conquer the world—okay maybe Karli tried but…” you trailed off, trying to choose the right words in front of him. “Most of us were just trying to stop people from being abandoned.”

Dex stared at you openly now. He understood that feeling better than he’d ever admit out loud. The bone-deep fear of being discarded. 

The elevator slowed to your floor.

You stepped out, then paused halfway into the hallway and looked back at him over your shoulder.

“You gonna keep staring at me tomorrow too, Agent Poindexter?”

Past-Dex felt his throat tighten because you knew his name. “…Probably.”

Your grin widened, warm and a little wicked. “Good. Wouldn’t want to break tradition.”

The doors slid shut between you, and the memory began to fade at the edges, bleeding back into darkness.

× × × ×

Twelve hours later.

Dex’s eyes snapped open to the sound of Karen Page’s voice cutting through the haze.

“Get up.”

He forced himself upright with a low grunt, the sharp sting in his left side flaring hot and vicious where the staples pulled tight. Handcuffs bit into his wrists. The room was dim, concrete, somewhere underground. Pain radiated with every breath, but he pushed through it, sitting up on the edge of the cot like the hurt didn’t matter.

Karen sat a few feet away, watching him with that cold, unreadable stare she’d perfected.

“Staples hurt?” she asked.

Dex let out a low, rasping chuckle that sent another spike of pain through his ribs. 

“Good,” Karen said flatly, like she was glad.

He looked up at her, eyes glassy with exhaustion, “You gonna shoot me, Page?”

“Probably,” she answered without hesitation.

Dex’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Go ahead. Vanessa opened a window and I went through it. Your friend Foggy paid the price. Foggy for my freedom… me for Foggy. It’s just an equation.”

Karen’s expression didn’t change. She smiled to herself, small and decisive because she’d finally made peace with something ugly. She raised the gun, steady and sure, and pressed the barrel to his forehead. The hammer clicked back with a cold, metallic sound.

“Thank you.” Dex’s forehead pressed harder into the barrel, eyes half-lidded like he was already tasting the end. Karen’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Before she could finish it, one arm snakes around her throat from behind in a brutal headlock, your bicep flexing hard against her windpipe as you yank her backward. Your other hand clamps over hers on the gun, shoving the barrel upward just in time.

Karen’s eyes go wide. She pulls the trigger anyway.

BANG!

The shot cracks through the concrete room like thunder, bullet slamming into the ceiling and raining down dust and chips. Dex flinches but doesn’t look away, that glassy stare locked on you now.

You don’t give Karen a second to recover. With a grunt you spin and hurl her across the room like she weighs nothing (because to you, she doesn’t). She hits the far wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her, sliding down in a heap, gun still clutched in her hand.

You stalk over, boots echoing, and grab a fistful of her blonde hair, yanking her head back so she’s forced to look up at you. 

“Damn, Karen. You’ve got some balls.” you chuckled.

She’s gasping, eyes blazing with fury and shock, but you just smirk and pry the gun from her fingers with zero effort. 

You start walking back toward Dex, popping the magazine out with a smooth flick of your thumb, then racking the slide to eject the chambered round. Bullets spill across the floor one by one as you move, clinking like tiny bells while you toss the empty gun nonchalantly to the side.

Dex watches you the whole time, that rasping chuckle starting up again even through the pain. “Didn’t know I had a guardian angel tonight.”

You stop right in front of him and give him that pissed-off fake smile as you lowered onto the cot where Karen had been sitting, knees straddling his lap as you settled in close, the heat of your body pressing against his.

You draw your own gun, press the cold barrel right under his chin, and tilt his head back with it, hard.

“You stupid, reckless, cocky son of a bitch,” you growl quietly, eyes locked on his. “I told you to stay the fuck down. But nooo, you just had to get yourself stapled back together like a discount Frankenstein.”

You dig the gun in a little harder, eyes locked on his glassy ones, that fake smile never wavering. “Next time…I’ll just make sure the bullet hits somewhere way more interesting.”

Dex’s breath catches, pupils blown wide. That rasping chuckle turns into a low, turned-on groan as he twitches and hardens beneath you like your threats are the best foreplay he’s ever had.

But then your super-soldier senses ping—soft shift of boots on concrete, the faint click of a slide being racked. Karen’s already back on her feet, moving faster than you expected, and she’s got a backup piece aimed right at the center of your skull.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Karen snaps, voice shaking with rage but steady on the trigger. “He killed Foggy! You know that. Foggy and Matt got you your second chance. And now you’re protecting this piece of shit!?”

You slowly glance over your shoulder at her, gun still firm under Dex’s jaw, your body still straddling him like you own every inch.

“I know,” you say, voice low and even. “I’m sorry for your loss, Karen. Foggy didn’t deserve that—but Poindexter is mine. So lower that peashooter before I have to take it from you again… and this time I won’t be nice about it.”

Karen’s eyes are blazing, finger twitching on the trigger, torn between grief and the raw shock of seeing you like this—someone she thought she knew, now riding the man who caused so much grief.

“If you pull that trigger, you’d better not miss… because I won’t.” you taunted.

Two batons come flying out of nowhere and crack hard across Karen’s wrist. The backup piece clatters to the floor as she yelps, grip completely busted for the second time today.

Matt steps into the dim room, no mask, heaving like he ran here. His blank eyes somehow still manage to look concerned as hell.

“I can’t let you do that, Karen,” he says, voice low and final, already moving between you and her.

Karen crashes out; voice cracking, tears mixing with pure rage as she screams at him, gesturing wildly at Dex, at you, at the whole bloody mess. Matt’s trying to calm her, trying to pull her back, but she’s not having it. Their argument fills the concrete space like a storm, words flying so fast you can barely track them.

You and Dex just… look at each other and he gives you the tiniest clueless shrug.

The argument reaches its peak. Karen rips herself away from Matt with one last broken shout, storms past the both of you without another glance, and slams the door so hard the hinges rattle.

You swing your leg off Dex and stand up slowly, gun loose in your hand. The adrenaline’s still buzzing through your veins as you turn to face Matt Murdock head-on. He’s standing there in the dim light, sightless eyes somehow still tracking every shift in the room.

“I did not expect this…” you mutter, shaking your head, a stunned little laugh slipping out. “All this time…you’re daredevil?”

“I know. This is not the reunion I was expecting either.” He exhales as he takes a small step closer, head tilted like he’s listening to your heartbeat, your breathing, everything. “I don’t know how you crossed paths with Poindexter…but this is not who you are. You know you’re better than this—better than what he pulls out of you. Don't throw away what you built for someone like him.” 

Your eyes burned suddenly, and you hated that Matt could read you. Dex lets out a low chuckle from behind you, but you don’t turn around yet. Matt’s words hit harder than you want to admit, hanging heavy in the dusty air.

“If you know me so well… then who am I, Matt? The final girl? The survivor?” A bitter laugh escapes you. “Yeah, I survived Zemo’s attack on the transport to the Raft. I watched the rest of my—my…friends get burned to hell while I crawled out of the wreckage with nothing but scars and a target on my back. And for what? So the government can parade me around as their shiny little success story? Meanwhile I’m walking on eggshells every damn day, waiting for the next time they decide to finish the job because they can never really trust an ex-terrorist can they? So tell me, counselor… if that’s who I am, then maybe Dex is exactly what I deserve.”

Matt’s face softens, that blind gaze somehow full of the kind of gentle worry only he can pull off. “You’re more than the worst thing that happened to you, and you don’t have to settle for—”

“Nope—save it, Matt.” Your voice cracks but you force steel into it. “Poindexter is coming with me. Right now.”

Matt stares at you for a second, mouth pressed into a tight line like he’s biting back a whole sermon. Then he just sighs and lifts his hands in surrender.

“Okay…” Matt glanced toward Dex’s direction, who was watching the whole thing with that maniacal smile plastered on his face. “But I need five minutes with him. Alone. I have something he wants. After that… I’ll release him. You have my word.”

You stared at him for a long, heavy beat, jaw tight, the cold calculation still burning behind your eyes. Finally you gave one sharp nod, stepping back but not lowering your guard.

“Fine.”

Matt nodded once, already turning toward Dex as you moved to wait outside the room. Matt’s five minutes felt like forever, but eventually the door opened and Dex stepped out wearing a black shirt, uncuffed and now moving under his own power. His side was freshly bandaged, face pale but eyes bright with that dangerous, satisfied sparkle.

Whatever Murdock had said to him, it looked like he’d finally gotten it.

The early evening air hit cold when you reached your motorcycle parked in the alley shadows. You yanked the spare helmet from the saddlebag and shoved it hard into Dex’s chest. He caught it with a grunt, the impact pulling at his staples. A familiar dark smirk tugging at his mouth even through the pain.

“Can I drive?”

You don’t even dignify it with an answer and just swing your leg over the seat and fire up the engine with a deep, pissed-off roar.

Dex chuckled low, the sound wet from the blood in his lungs and put the helmet on. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” He climbed on behind you anyway, arms sliding around your waist a little too possessively, and pressed his chest against your back.

You rev the throttle harder than you need to, tires screaming as you peel out of the alley and tear into the empty streets. The wind whips cold against your face while you head back toward your apartment—whether he deserves it or not.

You can feel every shallow breath he takes against you, every tiny flinch when the road bumps pull at his wounds. Half of you wants to slam the brakes and dump his reckless ass on the curb for all the chaos he dragged you through. But the other half… knows he’s yours to deal with. Yours to break. Yours to keep.

× × × ×

You barely get the door locked before Dex is on you from behind, his hand sliding around your waist like he just can’t help himself.

You spin fast, trapping his injured arm and twisting it hard while your other hand slams into his throat. You drive him straight back into the wall with a solid thud. The impact knocks a rough grunt out of him, but instead of fighting, Dex lets out this low, wrecked chuckle that you feel vibrating against your palm.

Your grip tightened on his throat immediately.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” you hiss, eyes burning into his.

Dex’s head knocks against the wall as you shove him harder against it. His breathing is ragged, fresh blood already soaking through the bandages, pain flashing across his face with every inhale. But he’s still smiling like this is heaven.

“You told me to lay low,” he rasps, voice strained under your grip.

“And what did you do?”

“I improvised.” His eyes glittered up at you with that same dangerous, obsessive brightness from the arena.

You squeeze harder, cutting off more of his air. Another pleased, broken sound slips out of him.

“You ignored every single warning I gave you,” you snarled, voice shaking with pure fury. “You got half the city gunning for you, nearly got yourself killed, and dragged me into your shitshow. All because you can’t sit still for one goddamn night.”

Dex swallowed carefully beneath your palm, never breaking eye contact.

“You really gonna stand there and act like I forced you into any of this?” he whispered, each word chosen so precisely. “Sweetheart… I never asked you to come find me. You did all of that on your own, you were able to track me. You put a bullet in Fisk’s hand and nearly crushed Karen on the wall—You did all that because losing me made you crazy.”

He leaned into your grip, letting the pressure on his throat turn the words intimate and almost loving.

“And now you’re angry at me for it?” His voice dropped lower, warm and coaxing, “I’m the one who’s supposed to be the monster here… but look at you. Holding my life in your hands, covered in blood you spilled for me, and still pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.”

Dex’s eyes softened just enough to look wounded and vulnerable, like he was the one being hurt by your accusations.

“I only ever gave you the chance to be exactly who you are,” he murmured. “The rest… that was all you. And I loved every second of it.”

That does it.

You shove him off the wall with a violent push, letting go of his throat like it burned you. Dex stumbles, coughing once, then rubs his neck slowly, fingers tracing the marks you left like he’s proud of them.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, voice hoarse. His eyes rake down your body and back up, dark and hungry. “I can’t be around you when you get like this. That strength… fucks me up every time.”

You turn away from him with a sharp scoff. “Shut your mouth, Dex.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound following you as you storm toward the bathroom. You rip open the cabinet, grab the first aid kit and a towel, and slam them on the counter.

“Clean yourself up,” you snap, cold and flat. “I’m not dealing with your horny death-wish bullshit tonight.”

Dex just chuckles again, low and satisfied, already peeling off his shirt as he follows you into the bathroom like he owns the damn place. His eyes never leave you.

× × × ×

You barely hear the bathroom door click before Dex steps out, hair damp and messy, water still dripping down his neck. He’s got one hand hovering near the ugly line of staples along his side, wincing every time his fingers accidentally brush the raw skin.

You’re parked on the couch, remote clenched in your fist, staring at the grainy news footage. That’s you on the screen. The chyron at the bottom read: Authorities seek mysterious masked vigilante believed to be working with Daredevil and Bullseye.

“…possibly a new player or accomplice in last night’s chaos. Law enforcement is asking anyone with information—”

Dex plucks the remote from your hand, clicks the TV off, and drops it on the coffee table with a loud clack.

Your eyes follow him as he stands there in front of you—broad shoulders, droplets sliding down his chest, that fresh bandage already starting to peek red at the edges. You stood up without a word, pointing at the spot on the couch where you’d been sitting.

“Sit.”

Dex didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the cushion with a tight grunt, one hand still hovering near his injury, trying not to touch it this time.

You grab the fresh supplies from the side table, drag the coffee table closer, and perch on the edge like it’s your personal stool. Then you start cleaning around the staples, jaw locked, shoulders tight.

Dex watches you the whole time, hazel eyes soft and burning. He can see the storm you’re barely holding back.

You press the fresh gauze down a little harder than necessary. Dex jerks hard, a muffled “Motherfucker—” slipping through his teeth. 

You don’t apologize.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the tiny, satisfied smirk from breaking free. Good. After he put you through nearly twenty-four hours of no rest, he can take a little sting.

He catches the twitch at the corner of your mouth anyway. “You think this is funny?” he rasps, voice still rough.

“Hold still,” you answer sweetly, pressing the tape down extra slow just to hear that gravelly grunt again.

Dex exhaled through his nose, watching you fuss about taping it neatly. After a moment he spoke again, serious this time. “You shouldn’t watch the news. Not if it’s going to put that look on your face.”

You didn’t answer. Instead you busied yourself gathering the bloody gauze, the discarded wrappers, bundling everything into a tight little ball. If you didn’t throw this out immediately, Dex would start twitching and get all icky about it. You weren’t in the mood to manage one of his episodes on top of everything else.

You stood, turning your back to him as you headed for the trash can in the kitchen, shoulders still tight. The movement gave you a second to breathe, to push down the knot of panic and anger still lodged in your chest.

Dex’s eyes followed you the whole way, tracking every movement, “I mean it,” he added quietly. “Turn it off and leave it off.” 

You stayed silent and rinsed your hands at the sink instead, letting the water run longer than needed while you tried to push the grainy image of yourself out of your mind. 

When the sink was finally off, you walked back over and pushed the coffee table back into its exact original position with a little more force than necessary, the legs scraping against the floor.

Before you can straighten up, Dex’s hand shoots out and catches your wrist. He tugs you down fast, swapping your places so you’re on the couch and he’s crouched between your knees, looking up at you.

“Look at me.”

You don’t right away, so he cups your chin and turns your face to his, thumb stroking along your jaw like he’s memorizing you.

“I’d burn this whole world down before I let it touch you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying, all-consuming fire. “You know that, right? You’re mine to protect.”

“Actions speak louder than words, Benjamin.” you remind him, “You’re not off the hook about your stalking.”

Dex’s jaw tightens for a split second, that familiar flicker of anger flashing behind his eyes. He fights it hard and swallows it down, forcing his expression to stay soft even though his fingers press just a fraction harder against your jaw.

“Can we… not talk about her right now?” The words come out almost gentle, but there’s that tight strain underneath, “I’ll get there,” he promises, nudging the tip of your nose with his, breathing you in. “Don’t worry.”

He’s so close now. You can feel his breath mixing with yours. His gaze drops to your lips, lingers, then drags back up.

“I told you already… you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in my fucking head.” he whispered, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “The only person who sees exactly what I am, you know that, don’t you? So stop pretending you need all that control. It's sweeter when you hand it over to me.”

He tilted his head just slightly, a crooked, knowing smile ghosting across his lips. He hovered there, lips barely a breath away, waiting for the sharp retort he knew was coming. When it didn’t—when you stayed silent and trembling under his hands, a satisfied smile widened.

He kisses you slowly at first, almost mocking how gentle he can be. But the second your lips part, it turns hungry. Dex groans low in his throat, fist twisting tight in your hair as he yanks your head back roughly with open-mouth led kisses and licks into your mouth like he’s trying to climb inside you.

He pushes you down onto the couch, settling heavy between your legs, grinding against you even though his staples have to be on fire. Pain was nothing compared to this.

You shove at his chest. “Your staples—” 

He doesn’t even let you finish by chasing your mouth and bites your bottom lip, voice rough and amused against you.

“I don’t give a fuck about the staples.” He rolls his hips again, letting you feel exactly how hard and heavy he is. “You choking me out earlier? Slamming me into the wall? That’s what gets me going. So stop fighting it and let me fuck the anger out of you already.” 

Every nerve in his body lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree the moment you were under him again. The pain in his side was irrelevant. All that mattered was the way you tasted, the way you felt, and the way you made the static in his head go quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you since I saw you in that arena,” he growled against your mouth, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. “All masked up and killing for me.”

His fist tightens in your hair and yanks your head back, exposing your throat. The sharp sting pulls a little gasp out of you, and Dex’s cock twitches hard against your thigh at the sound.

“Fuck, I love that noise,” he growled against your throat, the sound vibrating through your bones. His hot tongue dragged up the exposed column of your neck in one long lick, tasting every inch of his property. A deep, hungry hum rolled out of his chest as he savored you.

He slammed his mouth back onto yours, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip until the delicate skin splits. Copper bloomed across your tongue, metallic and sweet. A low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest as he licked it up slowly, then sucked on the fresh bite, easing the sting. Before you could catch your breath he was kissing you again, drunk on the taste.

For a second you lose yourself too; hips rolling up to meet his, fingers digging into his shoulders as heat swallows everything else.

Then the next second there was a soft knock knock knock at the door. 

Dex ripped his mouth off yours with a vicious snarl, head snapping toward the door like he could set it on fire with his eyes. His chest was heaving, lips swollen and shiny with your blood, hair a total mess from your fingers.

“I’m gonna to skin whoever that is and wear their face as a mask.” he growled, low and murderous.

He hovers over you another second, breathing hard, seriously debating just ignoring the knock and burying himself inside you anyway. The pure sexual frustration on his face is almost funny.

Another polite knock comes. You let out a tiny, breathless laugh while Dex huffs this unhinged little chuckle that sounds halfway feral.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he mutters against your lips, giving your hair one last possessive yank.

He presses one more bruising kiss to your mouth, then pushes off the couch with a sharp wince. Topless, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how hard he still is, he stalks to the door like he’s heading to a kill.

Dex ripped the door open with way too much force, and a cute college girl in oversized hoodie and bunny slippers stood there, holding a half-empty bag of chips. Her eyes went wide as saucers when she took in the sight of a very tall, very shirtless, very aroused Dex glaring down at her.

“Uh… hi? I-I heard a loud thud earlier and swearing and I just wanted to make sure everything’s—”

Dex forced the fakest smile which looked more like he was baring his teeth.

“Yeah. She’s fine,” he says, voice completely flat. “Everything’s great. Thanks.”

He shuts the door in her face with a firm click before she can even blink.

When he turns back around, expecting to find you right where he left you, you’re already off the couch with your phone pressed to your ear.

“Yeah… no, I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes,” you say, all business as you head toward the bedroom to change. You glance back at him and mute the call. “Work emergency. Gotta go in.”

Dex’s face goes through about five stages of disbelief in two seconds flat.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he rasps, “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

You were already peeling off your shirt, tossing it toward the hamper while balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Just jerk off or something,” you called out casually. “I’ll be back when I can.”

He stares at you, jaw tight, looking genuinely betrayed for a second. You grab a fresh top, throw on your jacket, and give his chest a quick, almost condescending pat as you pass.

“Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone.”

Then you’re out the door.

Dex stands there in the middle of the living room for a long beat, jaw ticking, cock still throbbing painfully against his sweats.

“Work emergency,” he mutters to the empty apartment, voice dripping with acid. “Sure.”

Bullshit.

This was punishment. It had to be.

His eyes flicked across the room and landed on the small, jagged hole in the drywall where your butter knife had buried itself a few nights prior. A tiny imperfection staring back at him like a scream in an otherwise quiet room.

His fingers twitched.

The itch started low in his spine and crawled up his neck. He knew exactly how many times he’d have to run his thumb along the edge to smooth it. How many precise little pushes it would take to make the hole disappear. He could fix it right now. Grab some spackle from under the sink, sand it down perfectly, paint over it so no one would ever know it was there.

Speaking of punishments…

He dragged a hand down his face, then stalked back to the bedroom. He grabbed his phone and two burner apps and a voice modulator later, he was just another pissed-off New York nobody.

He hit the dial on the Department of Damage Control public tip line he’d memorized months ago and a tired-sounding woman picked up on the second ring. “DoDC tip line, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi,” Dex said, thickening his accent just enough to sound like a Queens local who’d had three beers too many. “Look, I live in the building over on 48th and 9th—you know, the nice one with the new lobby? Look…I pay my taxes, I mind my own business, but what the hell is going on with all the tactical vans and agents showing up at all hours lately? Two of ’em came banging on my neighbor’s door the other night, middle of the damn night, woke up half the floor. Scared the hell outta my girlfriend. She thought it was a raid or some shit.”

He let the complaint roll out easy, sounding genuinely irritated.

The agent who sounded tired suddenly sounded more sharp. “Sir, can you give me the apartment number or the resident’s name? We can look into—”

“Nah, nah, I-I don’t wanna get involved like that,” Dex cut in, smirking at the ceiling. “I’m just a concerned citizen—you guys sending armed babysitters to her place now or what? ‘Cause if she’s dangerous enough to need that kind of protection, maybe this building ain’t safe.”

He could hear typing on the other end. Good. “I’ll pass this up the chain, sir. Can I get your name and—”

“John. Just John,” Dex lied smoothly, voice still in that nasal civilian tone. “Look, I’m not trying to cause drama. I just want to know if my building’s safe. That’s all. Thanks.”

He hung up before they could ask anything else, tossed the burner onto the bedside table, and let the slow, satisfied grin stretch across his face.

“Round two, baby,” he muttered to himself, “You’re gonna be so fucking busy putting out fires… you won’t have time for anything except come running back to me.”

Dex looked down at the very obvious tent in his sweatpants, then towards the bedroom door, where the hole in the living room is out of sight.

He let out a long, suffering groan. 

“Fuck it, it’s just you and me, hand.” he muttered. Right now he needed to handle this before he lost his goddamn mind. He could deal with the hole on the wall after.

tags: @notsochillnerd @tallaennatargaryen @spectralexiletrace @yyiikes @n1n1c

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@weclassygirl @misplacedorphan @lazyreadergirl @avidreader73 @lostfallenangelsblog

The kid sputtered, nearly dropping his iPad as he fumbled to check the system. You sighed and shook your head, arms crossed tight over your chest, judging the rookie with a weak stomach. After a few frantic taps he looked up, swallowing hard.

“There… there was a recent breakout, ma’am. Poindexter’s listed as one of the escaped.”

A bitter chuckle slipped out before you. Of course. Dex was out there again, painting the city red with him and his madness you used to keep in check. The same man who once looked at you like you were the only fixed point in his spinning world… Now leaving calling cards in blood because they couldn’t keep him leashed.

“Call it in,” you told the junior agent, already turning toward the back exit where Dex had probably slipped through after his carnage. “Tell them Bullseye’s active. And tell them to stay the hell out of his way until we figure out what game he’s playing.”

—

Hours later, the gym had been your first stop after the diner, it always helped you decompress. Another sandbag was destroyed under your fists, the chain groaning like it might snap any second. You kept replacing them the way other people replaced filters. Rebuilding your life after the Flag Smashers had felt like the highest point you’d ever reach… until Dex walked into your world.

He made you feel secure. Desired. The kind of all-consuming passion that made you believe you could be his anchor. That you were his North Star. You thought you could fix him the way you’d fixed yourself.

Until you found out he was stalking a woman named Julie.

That soft, breakable moral compass who made him feel in control. The jealousy had eaten you alive. It whispered in your ear until you listened…until you decided to eliminate her from the equation yourself. You’d even gone to her apartment ready to do it… only to find Fisk’s men had already beaten you there. The relief and rage that hit you at the same time still made your stomach twist.

Now she’s six foot deep underground and Dex was free again, with no moral compass to leech off of, and somehow still not crawling back to you.

You slammed your fist into the bag one last time, sweat dripping down your spine, then grabbed your stuff and headed home.

—

The open-concept living and kitchen were swallowed in shadows as you stepped inside. You closed the door behind you with a soft click, senses on high alert. You swore you could smell the faint scent of his cologne.

You didn’t turn the lights on right away. Instead, you casually rounded the kitchen island, opened the cutlery drawer, and pulled out a butter knife like you were about to make a late-night snack, twirling it around your fingers.

You spun abruptly at an impressive speed and hurled it hard toward the dark corner by the bookshelf where the shadows were just a fraction too dense. The knife sang through the air and buried itself in the drywall with a solid thunk—right where Dex had been half a second earlier. He dodged it of course.

You finally flicked on the lights. 

There he stood in his full dark blue tactical gear, mask pulled off and hanging from his belt, looking bigger than the storm you used to chase. Dex reached over, yanked the butter knife out of the wall with a casual flick, and examined the butterknife. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth.

“You missed, didn’t I teach you better than that, Ace?”

The old pet name hit like a blade between the ribs. You chuckled low, the sound rough and still bitter in your throat. Your eyes tracked every micro-movement as he twirled the knife once in his hand, the same way you’d done moments ago. You crossed your arms over your chest, letting your gaze drag slowly from his boots all the way up to that sharp, haunted face you used to trace with your fingertips.

“Don’t call me that,” you said flatly, the words edged with every grudge you’d been carrying like live ammunition.

Dex’s smirk didn’t even falter. He took one lazy step closer, still spinning the knife like it was nothing more than a toy. “Oh come on, Ace. Is that how you greet your boyfriend?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh through your grin. “Boyfriend?” The syllable dripped with venom as you uncrossed your arms, shoulders rolling back like you were getting ready for a real fight. “Huh. That label got eviscerated the moment you started chasing after some girl named Julie, then got involved with Fisk which got her killed,” You swallowed a laugh like you found that situation hilarious, “So get the hell out of my apartment, Dex.”

The air between you crackled. You could feel the rage emanating off his skin, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed around that stupid butter knife like he was debating whether to throw it back at you or pull you in by the throat.

Then his eyes shifted darker—the abandonment issues clawing their way to the surface like they always did when he felt the ground slipping.

Dex closed the distance in two sharp strides, invading your space until your back hit the kitchen island. He towered over you, so close that you could feel the heat rolling off him, so close to smell faint smell of iron mixed with that familiar cologne that still made your stupid heart stutter. One hand slammed down on the counter beside you, caging you in, while the other still gripped the butter knife like a threat he hadn’t decided on yet.

“You tryna abandon me now?” he asked, dead serious. His eyes bored into yours, wild and searching. He was terrifying like this. Beautifully broken. And some sick part of you still loved how much power you had over him.

You tilted your head slowly, meeting his wild gaze without flinching.

“You abandoned me first, Dex. You got yourself into this mess.” you murmured sweetly, letting the words brush against his skin; as if it was a reminder that he has been missing in your life for quite a while now and you’d been waiting months to say it this softly, this close.

“What?” he said in disbelief. He leaned in even closer, voice dropping into that low, intense register that used to make you weak. “I would never abandon you. It was never romantic with her. She was just… a role-model. That’s all. I love you. You know that… because I always told you I do.”

His breathing was ragged, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to call him a liar but it only made you laugh bitterly.

“You don’t love me Benjamin…” you trailed off, “...you’re incapable of loving anyone. You don’t love. You possess. You need. You control. And the second someone doesn’t fit perfectly into your ritual, into your perfect little North Star fantasy, you throw them away and find a softer replacement. So no, you don’t love me. That’s just another way for you to stay in control.”

Dex’s face twisted like you’d just slapped him before his face went completely blank with the same eerie, dead-eyed stare. He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that sounded more like a cough, stepping back just enough to look at you properly, head tilting like he was studying a target that had suddenly grown teeth.

“Incapable?” He repeated through his teeth, “You think I don’t love you? After everything I let you see? After I let you get close enough to know me?”

He slammed the butter knife down on the counter hard enough to make it bounce, then closed the distance again in one aggressive stride, crowding you right back against the island. His hand came up but didn’t grab your throat, he let it hover right there like he wanted to, fingers twitching with the need for control.

“You think I don’t know what love is? I chose you,” he hissed, voice cracking just slightly on the last word. “I gave you parts of me I’ve never given anyone. And you stood there and watched me try to be good—then you throw that in my face?”

His fingers finally gripped your jaw with frightening gentleness at first—then tightened it suddenly making your instincts scream: threat. He forced you to keep looking at him, forehead nearly touching, breath hot and ragged.

“Julie was a fucking stabilizer—someone I can mimic to keep the noise down in my head so I could stay focused… on you. But you—” His thumb dug into your cheek as he stared you down, “You’re supposed to be mine, remember? My anchor. My North Star. I love you. Don’t you get that?”

The grip on your jaw trembled for a split second—abandonment and fear bleeding through before his anger slammed back in. He gave your face a little shake, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make his point.

“So, say it again,” he whispered, daring you. “Tell me I’m incapable. See what happens.”

His confession should’ve disgusted you, but instead you’re happily drowning in his eyes, leaving the selfish void in your chest feeling satisfied. This was the Dex you knew—the one who only felt real when he was clinging to you like you were the last fixed point in his universe.

Your lips curved into a slow, cunning little smile. You lifted your hand and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, reminding him exactly who had the strength to break free if you wanted to.

“If you want to keep me, Dex,” you murmured, tone soft and sweet and lethal, “then you’re going to have to love me harder than that.”

You let the words sink in, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist where his pulse was racing. Your eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up, daring him right back.

“Think you can handle that? Or are you still going to chase after the next pretty little compass that makes you feel in control?”

You tilted your head just enough for your lips to ghost against his, close enough to torture him. “Because if you can’t… then get the hell out of my apartment. And this time, don’t come back.”

Dex’s brows furrowed tightly, like you’d just handed him the world’s most unwanted homework. His grip on your jaw tightened even more, mouth opening like he was about to argue, snap back, or maybe just crush his lips to yours and shut you up the only way he knew how—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Your gazes snap to the door at the same time. He stepped back, releasing your jaw but not before dragging his thumb across your bottom lip one last time.

“Unwanted visitors,” he sang with a smirk.

“Hide. Now.”

He gave you one last lingering look before strutting toward a hallway away from the door’s view.

You smoothed your expression, rolled your shoulders, and walked to the door. When you opened it, two AVTF agents stood there in full tactical gear, looking official and exhausted.

“Sergeant First Class,” the taller one greeted with a respectful nod. “Sorry to bother you this late.”

You stepped aside and let them in, closing the door behind them with a soft click. “What brings you guys here?”

“Command sent us for a welfare check after you left the diner scene. They’re worried Poindexter might come after you next, given your… history. We—”

Before you could even turn around to face them properly, two muffled thumps hit the floor. You froze for a beat, then slowly looked down. Both agents lay crumpled on your hardwood, necks at unnatural angles, blood already pooling under them.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” you muttered, voice laced with irritation as you looked up at the shadows where Dex had reappeared, wiping his hands like he’d just finished a minor chore.

Now you have to clean up this mess.

Dex did an unbothered shrug, that signature smirk creeping back while his eyes flicked down to the bodies, then back to you with zero remorse.

“They deserved it,” he said flatly, rolling one shoulder and stretching one arm, “Cock-blocking me in my own damn moment. Right when you were finally talking sense about what you need from me…and they work for Fisk so…”

“Unbelievable…” You crouched down anyway, checking pulses you already knew weren’t there, “Great. Now I have two dead AVTF agents in my living room. Help me clean this up before someone else decides to drop by.”

You stood up, already kicking off your shoes so you wouldn’t track blood everywhere and calculating how many trash bags and how much bleach you’d need at this hour. Dex’s smirk deepened. He strutted toward you with that cocky, predatory grace, closing the distance until he was right in your space again, looking far too pleased with himself for a man standing over fresh corpses.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Let your man handle this for you.” He leaned in, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “But if I do a great fucking job… I expect a reward.”

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossing tight over your chest even as heat licked up your spine. “What reward?”

Dex hummed low in his throat, considering it like he was savoring the idea. He moved to the kitchen island, bent at the hips, and started pulling out supplies (trash bags, gloves, bleach) lining them up perfectly which used to drive you crazy.

“Structure,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “You. Me. The way it used to be.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you watched him work. “You want to get back in the field?”

He straightened slightly, shooting you a look over his shoulder with a fond, crooked smile that didn’t reach the storm in his eyes. “Yeah… something like that.”

You shook your head, stepping closer despite yourself, careful not to step in the blood.

“What you need to do is lay low, Dex,” you said sternly, “Not jump straight back into the fire. Fisk is still out there pulling strings, the AVTF is breathing down everyone’s neck, and you just left two of their agents dead in my living room. You’re not exactly flying under the radar right now.”

He turned then, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed to mirror you. That smirk turned a smidge softer, like your concern actually meant something to him.

“Laying low doesn’t exactly work when I’ve got you telling me to love harder,” he said, voice dropping. “So what’s it gonna be, Ace? You gonna give me that structure… or keep pretending you don’t want me here?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Okay, baby.” 

You exhaled shakily, hands planted on your hips now so you wouldn’t lose your shit and throw something at him.

“Are you even listening to me?” you snapped, as you gestured at the mess on your floor. “Two dead agents in my apartment. My career is on the line if this gets traced back here, and then I can’t give you that structure you’re asking for.”

Dex’s smirk deepened, slow and knowing, like he could see straight through every layer of control you were desperately trying to keep intact. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with that unnerving focus.

You cared so fucking much about your image. The rebuilt life. The clean record. The Sergeant First Class who clawed her way out of the Flag Smashers mess and turned herself into someone respectable. Someone who could look in the mirror and pretend the serum running through her veins hadn’t turned her into another kind of monster.

And now here he was, dripping violence all over your carefully polished floor, threatening to drag your pristine little facade down with him. You hated how easily he could unravel it. How one night with him could undo years of pretending you were better.

“I am listening,” he said soothingly, the way he got when he wanted to calm you down so you’d let him stay. “But you’re standing there worrying about your career like it’s the most important thing in the room.” His eyes dragged over you appreciative and hungry. “We both know it’s not.”

He stepped back, breaking the contact, and reached for the gloves on the counter. The snap of latex against his skin was loud in the quiet apartment. 

“I will make sure this doesn’t get traced back to you,” he said, opening his arms in a mock-presenting gesture toward the bodies. “I clean this up. I’ll lay low. I'll let you steer for a while…” the timbre of his voice dropped an octave, sounding intimate. “That’s what you want, right? Me listening to you. Me needing you. I’ll be your good little soldier… for now.”

A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth as he looked you up and down with a wink, “Now sit back and be pretty.”

his breathing does falter though, when you tell him "this is gonna sting" moments before pouring antiseptic over his open wounds

instead of flinching at the sharp sting, the only visible reaction from him is a slight tic above his mouth, an almost pleased but still quiet “mmph” sound emanating from his tight lipped smile

dex is in a state of elation as you stitch him up, his stomach progressively pooling up with heat at your proximity, his infatuation for you nearly bursts out from the constraints of his chest as he stares, and on top of it all you continue to rub or pierce at his tender and bruised flesh like you don’t even know what its doing to him

you being the one to inflict pain on him (even if its on accident) never fails to make dex’s mind reel with adrenaline and well… devastating want

the moment your teeth finally rips the thread you were using to stitch his last wound up dex sits up so alarmingly fast, his mouth aiming and landing directly on yours, his filthy hands reaching to lift and sit you between his crassly, almost disrespectfully wide opened legs

he kisses like he's starved for it, grunting against your lips when you squeal at the metallic taste of blood clinging to his mouth, his lips still gnashed open because of the hard blows that were inflicted on his damn pretty face

"dex, your wounds-" you mumble in between wet, messy kisses, feeling kinda angry at him for being so adamant on undoing your hard work "they're gonna split open again if you keep moving like that"

good, dex thinks

i want them too, he laughs outwardly at the continuing thoughts inside his head, the airy and mocking sound exhaled straight into your mouth

he thinks he could keep bleeding if it means he gets to watch you patch him up all over again, maybe he'll slice open new wounds just so it takes you longer to finish, to make the rawness and pain on his skin all the more worse for himself, the thought makes his cock twitch inside his pants

"dex im serious-" you say, but theres a shaky, heated quality to you voice, like the mere taste of him, his mind bending intensity and the feeling of his blood stained chest against your bare palms is easing you slowly into forgetting and dismissing his ‘delicate’ predicament

"i know you are” he says simply, separating from your mouth so he can lift a teasing brow at you, but right away his hands are moving your hips to place you on top of him, aching to feel your heat sitting right over the rough black fabric of his clothed (now painfully hardened) groin, guiding you to wrap your thighs completely around him

when you start to keenly whine in response to the rough, hardened friction dex smiles against your mouth, his teeth clanking into yours, he loves that you’re the one who’s always on the losing side when it comes to this part, that you always fall victim to his dizzying and aggressive pace

he still relishes on you putting up a fight though, he loves the push and pull before you inevitably give in to him like he always does with you

you grab the hair at the back of his head in frustration and pull, making his neck crane backwards until he can no longer access your lips, you do it so abruptly and forcefully its evident that you failed to consider the soreness and tenderness of his muscles

so of course dex hisses at the pain, his mouth still wet with your saliva and his blood, he spits out an aggresive “uungh, f- uck!”

“oh shit! baby- i- im so sorry i didn’t think it would-” you’re quick to mumble out the worried apologies, searching his face frantically, looking for any sign that could indicate you hurt him far beyond what he could tolerate, what he can stand

the truth is, so so far from that actually