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Matt Murdock felt the air shift the moment he slipped into the heavily guarded building where he knew they were hiding his nemesis, Wilson Fisk. He had been fantasizing about killing him—an unmistakable sign that something was very wrong with him. Daredevil didn’t kill. Matt Murdock had even less reason to. But the hatred burned in his chest like a live coal, and drowning it in blood seemed like the only way out.
The lobby was a labyrinth of polished marble, filled with the echoes of low conversations and the constant buzz of the agents’ radios. Matt had overheard one of them say that Fisk was upstairs, hidden behind layers of security. He needed to reach him. He had removed his dark glasses, hidden his cane, and walked with the confidence of a man who used his senses to see—so skillfully that no one noticed his blindness unless they knew him well or looked directly into his eyes. He tilted his head toward sources of sound, his lips forming the shadow of a polite smile when someone passed nearby. The crimson of a woman who crossed to his left, the ticking of an expensive watch on an executive’s wrist, the smell of hot metal from a coffee machine on some upper floor—everything formed a living map in his mind. He felt almost safe.
He walked purposefully toward the elevator when a cold, professional voice with a military edge that brooked no argument stopped him.
“Do you have your room key, sir?”
“Yes,” Matt replied, reaching a rehearsed hand to his chest as if searching. Feeling around.
“I need to see it, sir,” the voice insisted, now more threatening.
Benjamin Poindexter observed him with surgical attention. First, the bruised face: hematomas on the cheekbones, a thin cut on the lower lip, the look of someone who had slept little and fought a lot. His posture was tense but strangely fluid. Dex made a face as Matt pretended to search for the nonexistent key in his pockets.
Despite his disheveled appearance, Dex recognized the attractive masculinity of the man and felt a pang of annoyance when he noticed he wasn’t looking him in the eyes. He wasn’t avoiding eye contact; he simply seemed to orient his face toward him, slightly off, as if listening to something behind his shoulder. When Dex moved a few centimeters to test it, the stranger’s eyes didn’t follow; they remained fixed, inert, with a slight, desynchronized blink that made his skin crawl. Most people avoided his gaze out of fear. This man acted as if Poindexter were too imposing, too radiant to be looked at directly. The idea ignited something dark and hot in Dex’s chest. A kind of superiority and self-worship.
“Sir,” Dex demanded, drawing out the word.
Matt cursed internally and sighed, giving in.
“I think I left it in my car.”
Dex raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t let you through.”
Matt smiled with resignation.
“I’ll go get it and come back.”
He turned and walked away. Poindexter stood rooted to the spot, following him with his eyes until he disappeared through the glass doors. There was something about the way that man moved: precise, predatory, completely at odds with the bruises he carried.
Of course, Matt never came back.
That same night, in his apartment, Dex began an investigation. He didn’t know why he didn’t just file the information away like he did with every other stranger. Normally he forgot people. But something about that man —the firm jaw, the full mouth, the feeling that he was laughing at him without doing so— kept him from letting it go. Professional curiosity, he told himself. The attractive appearance had nothing to do with it.
After a few calls, he discovered Matthew Murdock. Blind since childhood due to a chemical accident. Defense attorney. The same one who had appeared in the news years earlier when Fisk first fell. The one who, along with his partners, had helped dismantle part of the empire.
Interesting, he thought. A blind man. A supposedly “weak” man. He didn’t seem that way to him.
Because there was something hypnotic about the way he moved. Fluid. Precise. Far too confident for someone who supposedly couldn’t see. His obsession deepened. He’s hiding something. Someone that precise, that controlled… couldn’t just be a blind lawyer.
The following days were a slow, delicious descent.
Dex began stalking Matt. He followed him at a distance. Silent, trained, invisible. He watched how Matt walked through Hell’s Kitchen: the cane moved rhythmically, but his steps were too sure. He turned before running into scaffolding. He stopped to “rest” on corners where there was no apparent noise, but Dex learned to listen carefully and discovered that Matt was eavesdropping on conversations blocks away. Poindexter took mental notes, cataloging every anomaly. He’s not just a blind lawyer. There’s something more here.
The obsession grew like a tumor: it wasn’t just physical desire —though that was fierce, and more than one night he had jerked off thinking about Murdock’s mouth on his body—, it was the need to possess the secret. To be the only one who understood Matt as no one else could. In his twisted mind, Matt was a broken reflection of himself: someone who pretended weakness while hiding controlled violence.
Matt, for his part, knew someone was following him. At first they were measured footsteps, almost military, too perfect to belong to an ordinary passerby. Then, an unusually steady heartbeat even when Matt sped up or stopped abruptly. He caught a lingering smell of metal and old gunpowder in the air after the presence left. Neighbors complained about a tall guy who bumped into them on the street and never apologized. Matt couldn’t identify his stalker’s voice or face, but he recognized his nature: military training, sniper’s patience, a fixation he didn’t like at all.
One night, under torrential rain, Matt stopped on a dark corner and spoke into the void: “I know you’re there. If you want something, say it.”
Silence was the only answer. Matt heard a heart that, for the first time, began to race. Then the footsteps retreated with deliberate slowness. Dex smiled in the shadows, blood hot in his temples.
Soon, Matthew. Very soon.
Then Fisk entered Dex's mind like a sweet precise poison. He assigned Poindexter the mission of being Daredevil. To kill in his name. To make people hate the masked man.
And with that mask that fit him like a second skin, the unleashed violence became ecstasy. Dexter felt free; he could finally embrace his violence and do something with it.
But it was when Poindexter was ordered to take care of a witness at the New York Bulletin that the long-awaited confrontation between the fake Daredevil and the real one occurred.
The smell of ink and paper filled everything. Fists and batons flew between desks, impossible acrobatics over tables that creaked under their feet. Matt dodged projectiles whistling through the air, his baton spinning like an extension of his rage. Dex responded with surgical precision, each blow calculated to destabilize the vigilante. Blood and sweat soaked their suits. In a close-quarters struggle, when Matt pinned him against a pillar, Dex inhaled his scent. He recognized it.
The smell of his skin —because at some point he had broken into his apartment to investigate—, the shape of his mouth… The masked man was none other than Matthew Murdock. The blind lawyer. The man he had been following. The object of his obsession.
Something exploded inside him. His body filled with a new, wilder adrenaline that forced Matt to flee limping from that brutal encounter.
In the silence afterward, Dex tore off the helmet and laughed softly. Matthew was no longer just the mysterious man from the lobby. He was also the vigilante. The man who carried the same darkness he did, but tried to control it with pathetic morality.
And Dex wanted to break that.
He wanted to possess him: the hero, the blind lawyer, the monster underneath.
The Church of Saint Ignatius was the breaking point. Fisk had ordered him to assassinate Karen Page. And Matt, wounded inside and out, had to abandon the idea of ending Fisk to save his friend. That surrender tasted like defeat, bile, and failure. As he headed to the church, the weight of his own darkness crushed him. Not killing was his limit, but that night he had almost crossed it. And now he had to protect, not attack.
Letting go of vengeance like dropping a knife at the edge of an abyss.
What followed was a brutal fight in that sacred place. Matt, exhausted and bleeding, fought to draw the imposter wearing his suit away from the innocents. They moved through hallways and staircases, knocking over pews, shattering stained glass. The windows exploded in a rain of colors that Matt couldn’t see but could hear: a beautiful and terrible tinkling. The smell of incense mixed with the copper of blood.
They reached the underground tunnels, far from everything and everyone. Just the two of them. Matt panted with fractured ribs and blood in his mouth.
Dex cornered him against the damp stone wall, forearm against his chest, one of his knives pressed to his throat.
“I know who you are,” Dex whispered, removing the Daredevil mask. His blue eyes shone with madness and hunger. “Matthew Murdock. The real Daredevil. The man I’ve been following for weeks. The one who pretends to be weak while hiding this.”
Matt pushed hard, trying to shove him off.
“Get away from me. From everyone. This ends here.”
Dex didn’t move. He smiled that crooked, dangerous smile, and his chest vibrated against Matt’s as he spoke.
“You’re just like me. You know it. You control the violence, but you enjoy it. Since I discovered your secret identity, I’ve watched you do it; every night you’ve gone out, every bone you’ve broken.”
Matt turned his face away, clenching his jaw. Guilt already hit him like a whip. No. He wasn’t a killer. But the echo of his own homicidal fantasies reverberated in his head, and Dex’s closeness, his voice, his scent… everything was a distorting mirror he didn’t want to look into.
“You know?” Dex murmured, sliding the blade aside to free Matt’s throat, sheathing the edge and replacing it with his fingers, barely a brush. “I can see myself in you.”
“I’m not a killer,” Matt growled, his voice breaking.
“No,” Dex brought his face closer until their breaths mingled. Their hips brushed, but there was no force, only a proximity that burned. “Literally, I can see myself in you. Inside you, to be more specific.”
Matt felt his stomach tighten at the statement. He felt Dex’s heart beating against his chest. Chaotic. Possessive. His breathing quickened.
“Let me go,” Matt said, because it was the most correct, the most sensible thing. To pull away and not let himself be overwhelmed by the scent and closeness of the burly man who had made him a sexual insinuation and planted an image in his brain. To go against the desires of the most irrational part of himself, to silence the part of his mind that wanted whatever the man was offering and ignored that just minutes ago they had been fighting brutally.
They stayed like that for a moment. Two broken reflections in the gloom, waiting to see who would break first. Dex moved the hand holding Matt’s throat up to his chin, no longer feeling his racing pulse under his palm, caressing his skin, waiting patiently.
And then the kiss was pure rage. Matt broke free of his grip and grabbed him by the nape with an iron hand; Dex clung to his body and returned the kiss, devouring his mouth. The one he had fantasized about so much.
Matt bit his lower lip until it bled. Dex bit back; their blood mixed with their saliva. An involuntary moan escaped Matt when Dex’s tongue invaded, demanding, possessing his mouth.
“Fuck…” Matt gasped when Dex pulled back for a second.
Guilt hit him like a whip. He’s a killer. Fisk’s puppet. What am I doing? But a darker, deeper voice whispered: Shut up and enjoy it. Stop thinking.
His body clung tightly to that mysterious, treacherous man after weeks of tension and isolation.
Dex lowered his hand and pressed against Matt’s obvious erection. Matt moaned, tightening his grip on Dex’s shoulders and drawing a deep groan from the man.
“I’ve been watching you for weeks, Matt. I know how you act when you think no one’s watching. I know how you hide your strength. Stop pretending with me.”
Matt pushed him again, now in control. He pressed Dex against the stone wall with a strength he didn’t expect to still have. His fingers slipped through the tears in the broken suit and yanked hard, ripping it further —just enough to run over the other man’s torso—, feeling the scars, the tense muscles beneath the sweaty skin.
Dex let out a broken gasp, his hands gripping Matt’s hips. He moved lower to his ass and massaged the juicy flesh over his pants.
“You talk too much,” Matt growled, bringing his face close to Dex’s, their breaths colliding against each other’s lips, his voice hoarse, barely a thread of rage and desire. “You’ve been following me for weeks without saying a word. Don’t start now.”
Dex smiled mockingly against his mouth but didn’t reply. Matt felt him smile and clenched his jaw. His fingers traveled up Dex’s chest until they circled his throat—no real pressure, just a warning that he was setting the pace now.
“If this is going to happen,” Matt continued, leaning in until their lips brushed, “it’ll be on my terms. No masks. No games. Just you and me and this stupid, terrible decision.”
He brought their lips together again in another raw, savage kiss.
The guilt kept clawing at him inside, but for once Matt chose not to listen. He had spent too long being the hero. Tonight, in this tunnel, he was just a broken man kissing another.
He left his mouth and dropped to his knees before Dex. The stone floor was cold and rough against his knees, but Matt didn’t hesitate. With skilled fingers he opened the torn suit, freeing Dex’s hard, heavy erection. The smell of sweat, blood, and desire hit him hard. Matt ran his tongue along the length, slowly at first, savoring the hot, taut skin. Dex groaned, one hand braced against the wall, the other sinking into Matt’s brown hair.
“Fuck, Murdock…” Dex murmured, his voice broken by surprise and pleasure.
Matt took him deeper, lips tight around him, tongue working with almost sinful precision. He moved up and down, sucking, swallowing around the head, one hand stroking what didn’t fit in his mouth. The wet sounds echoed in the tunnel. Dex panted, his hips barely moving, holding back from fucking his mouth just yet.
Matt tilted his face upward, defiant, as if claiming control even while on his knees.
Dex didn’t allow it for long.
He removed the black cloth covering the upper half of Matt’s face, revealing those blind, beautiful, intense eyes. Framed by the blood covering his features and highlighting their greenish hue.
He grabbed his head with both hands, fingers tangling in the sweaty hair, and pushed deeper.
“Swallow it all,” Dex growled, voice dark and possessive, holding Matt’s head in place as he thrust gently into his mouth. “That’s it… just like that. I’ve been imagining this mouth around me for weeks.”
Matt gagged slightly, tears at the corners of his eyes, saliva dripping from the edge of his mouth, but he didn’t pull away. He sucked harder, his throat contracting around him. Dex cursed; the pleasure rose quickly. When he came, it was with a low, long groan, holding Matt’s head steady as he emptied down his throat.
“Swallow,” Dex repeated, hoarse.
Matt obeyed, swallowing every drop, breathing hard when Dex finally released him.
Dex pulled him up roughly and kissed him violently, tasting his own flavor on Matt’s tongue. The kiss was dirty, deep, full of teeth and possession.
Then he spun him violently against the wall. With a few savage tugs, he yanked Matt’s pants down to his knees. His rough hands spread his ass cheeks.
“Do it slowly,” Matt’s voice trembled when two wet fingers —Dex had urgently spat on them— pressed against his entrance without mercy. Dex moved them with military precision, curling them, opening him, brushing that spot that made Matt gasp and push back despite himself. Guilt burned him, but the pleasure was stronger.
Dex aligned his erection with the throbbing hole.
“So slutty,” he whispered in his ear, biting his lobe as he pushed in. “It looks like it’s inviting me to put something inside.”
And he did, with one deep, painful thrust. Matt cried out, his nails digging into the wall and the back of Dex’s neck as he held him. His body tensed in rejection. Dex growled: “Looks like it was too much, counselor.”
“Fucking animal, you were supposed to go slow,” Matt whimpered.
Dex stayed still, letting Matt adjust to his length. He kissed and bit his nape, his neck; his free hand stroked Matt’s erection, making his head fall back against Dex’s shoulder. His other hand played with his left nipple.
Moments later, Matt shifted.
“Move,” he ordered. And Dex obeyed gladly, starting with short, brutal thrusts, fucking him against the wall as if he wanted to mark him forever.
His forehead fell against the hand braced on the wall.
“Fuck… you’re still so tight…” Dex panted. His hand left Matt’s chest and tangled in his brown hair, yanking his head back. “I’ve been imagining this since that hallway.”
Matt tried to respond, but could only gasp; tears of pain, pleasure, and shame ran down his face. Every thrust hit that spot inside him that undid him. His body spoke for him.
Dex changed the angle, fucking him deeper, slower. Matt’s hands moved back, grabbing Dex’s hips. Holding on tight.
“Faster.”
Dex laughed, ignoring the request, keeping a slow rhythm that drove Matt insane. Matt pushed back, making Dex lose his balance and fall. One hand gripped Matt’s hip to keep from slipping out and breaking his dick; the other braced as best it could to avoid slamming fully into the floor. The landing still sent a shock of electricity up both their spines for completely different reasons: Matt screamed; Dex groaned, biting his lip. At least the integrity of his dick was intact, but he wasn’t sure about Matt—thanks to the movement, he had impaled himself deeper; that’s why he had screamed.
Without waiting, still seated as he was, Matt began to ride him. The sight of his glorious ass swallowing his length made Dex drool. He left both hands on Matt’s hips but didn’t impose his rhythm; he let him seek his own relief. He had to grant him that.
Matt’s moans became open, loud, guttural, echoing off the damp tunnel walls. He came first with a choked cry that broke in his throat; his entire body convulsed violently as his inner walls clenched around Dex like a fist. Guilt flooded him like ice water even in the midst of blinding pleasure: Sinner. This is what you are now. But then Dex gave him no rest. He dug his fingers into Matt’s hips with brutal force, leaving deep bruises, and continued thrusting savagely, chasing his own release. Each hard, deep stroke made Matt gasp, until Dex’s hot cum filled him inside, burning him, marking him. Matt’s guilty thoughts vanished temporarily, drowned by the feeling of being full, claimed, possessed.
But Dex didn’t soften inside him. His erection remained hard, throbbing, buried to the hilt. Matt’s heart skipped a beat when he realized.
“I’m not done with you yet,” Dex growled against his ear, voice hoarse and obsessive.
Without pulling out even an inch, Dex used his superior strength to flip their bodies. Matt ended up on his back on the cold, rough stone floor, with Dex on top, still deeply connected. The position changed everything; Matt’s legs opened wider by inertia, and Dex settled between them, pressing his chest to Matt’s, their hips fitting perfectly.
Matt didn’t push him away. His mind screamed: Hypocrite. You think you’re a saint and now you let this monster possess you.
His hands rose to Dex’s shoulders, gripping tightly. And Dex, without waiting for an invitation, kissed him. Matt stopped worrying about the negative thoughts as soon as Dex’s tongue began its dance with his.
Matt clung to his body as if it were his only anchor while his ankles crossed low on his back, pulling him deeper. There was no escape. Only skin against skin, sweat, blood, and ragged breathing.
Dex began to move. Slow but brutal thrusts, pulling almost all the way out only to slam back in to the hilt with a sharp snap of his hips. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping skin was indecent. Dex kissed him violently, biting lips, tongue invading, swallowing every gasp as their bodies rubbed together. Dex’s chest crushed Matt’s, nipples brushing, sweat mixing. One of Dex’s hands held Matt’s jaw, forcing him to keep his face toward him even though he couldn’t see.
“Feel that,” Dex whispered against his mouth, thrusting deep and rolling his hips. “How deep I am inside you. All the way in.”
Matt let out a broken moan, his nails digging into Dex’s back, leaving bloody furrows. The vulnerability of the position hit him: open, exposed, with that man staring at him while fucking him as if he wanted to break him and stay inside forever. The guilt faded, drowned by raw pleasure. Matt stopped thinking. He let his body speak.
His hips began to rise to meet every thrust. His ankles tightened harder around Dex’s lower back, demanding more. Dex laughed darkly against his neck and sped up, fucking him with animal force; the sound of his balls slapping against Matt’s skin filled the tunnel.
“That’s how I like it…” Dex growled. “Take everything I give you.”
Matt came for the second time; between them, his hot semen splashed their stomachs, his body arching violently, pulling the muscular torso closer. The contractions squeezed Dex’s cock, making him curse and follow, filling him again while biting his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.
Matt breathed hard, his hands roaming Dex’s back with less rage and more hunger. Guilt was now only a distant echo. He had decided to surrender to the moment. To the pleasure. To that lust that made him feel alive in a dangerous, addictive way. Even though he didn’t know the identity of the man fucking him.
“Again…” Matt murmured, voice hoarse, almost an order.
Dex lifted his head, surprised and pleased. He smiled with that possessive madness and kissed him with raw passion, deeper, less rage and more need. The tunnel filled with moans, skin slapping skin, dirty whispers, and broken names. Matt no longer thought of anything but the pleasure: how Dex filled him, how their bodies fit, how the heat rose again.
When Matt came for the third time, it was with a long, open moan, his body trembling beneath Dex, squeezing him tight. Dex followed shortly after, emptying deep inside him while kissing him as if he were drowning in him.
Finally Dex pulled out; his cum leaked between Matt’s ass cheeks. But he still didn’t want to stop.
Dex lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Matt instinctively wrapped his legs around his waist, his back hitting the wall, Dex’s strong hands gripping his thighs, holding him in the air as he aligned his erection and thrust upward in one deep stroke. Matt let out a hoarse moan, his head falling back against the wall. The angle was brutal. Deep. And Dex’s strength overpowered him; he fucked him as if he wanted to split him in two, each thrust lifting him several inches before letting him drop back onto his cock.
“Fuck… yes,” Dex panted, teeth clenched, staring at him even though Matt couldn’t see.
Matt moaned openly, without control. Each hard stroke drew sounds from him he didn’t even know he could make. Despite the previous rounds, this felt more brutal. More pleasurable. He hated how good it felt. He hated how Dex’s body fit with his as if made to destroy him and complete him at the same time. Every time Dex thrust up, Matt felt he lost another piece of his soul… but in that moment he couldn’t care less.
His hands clung to Dex’s shoulders, nails digging into the flesh. His legs squeezed tighter around his waist, helping him go deeper.
But Matt needed more control.
With a growl, he pushed Dex’s chest and used the strength of his legs and abs to take charge. Dex let out a surprised gasp as Matt began to impale himself on him, slamming down hard, fucking himself on his thick, hot cock. Using him. Claiming him.
“Like that…” Matt hissed, voice broken, sweat running down his temples. “Let me use you.”
Dex let out a dark, almost delirious laugh and held him tighter, helping him rise and fall while Matt set the pace. Their mouths met in a dirty kiss, full of teeth and saliva. Matt’s moans grew louder, more desperate, bouncing off the walls.
They came almost at the same time.
Matt first, with a choked cry that broke in his throat; his semen splashed between their stomachs again. His insides contracted violently around Dex, milking him. Dex followed with a guttural growl, burying himself to the hilt as he emptied inside him in hot, deep pulses. They trembled together, pressed close, breaths mingling.
Dex barely waited for them to stop shaking. With Matt still impaled on him, he lowered him carefully to the cold concrete floor. He turned him without pulling out and pressed against his back, embracing him with fierce possession. A strong arm wrapped around his waist; the other slid under his neck. His nose buried in Matt’s sweaty nape, inhaling his scent like a drug.
Matt breathed hard, still trembling with aftershocks. One of his hands rose to grip the arm around him tightly, holding on as if it were the only real thing in the storm inside his head.
The silence stretched, broken only by their breathing.
Then Dex spoke, his voice low, hoarse, almost reverent against his skin: “Benjamin Poindexter.”
Matt tensed. “What?”
“That’s my name,” Dex continued, tightening the embrace, kissing the curve of his nape slowly. “The man you’ve been letting fuck you. The one who’s been following you for weeks. The one who killed people wearing your suit. The one who works for Fisk.”
Matt squeezed his eyes shut. He felt something break inside his chest. Guilt and rage returned, mixing with the lingering heat of pleasure.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” Matt whispered, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even loosen the hand gripping Dex’s arm.
“I know,” Dex replied with a smile Matt could feel against his skin. “And you’re still here. Letting me hold you.”
Matt let out a bitter, broken laugh.
“I’m so fucked up.”
Dex turned him just enough to kiss his jaw, then the corner of his lips.
“We both are, Murdock. But now you know. No more masks between us.”
Matt didn’t respond. He simply tightened his fingers around Dex’s arm and closed his eyes, letting the heat of that possessive body envelop him a little longer.
For now, that was all he could allow himself.