Chapter Text
He's supposed to have come to find God. His light, his hand taking his to guide him.
Not you.
Dex was in church, again. Tears wetting his cheeks, fists clenched. Sister Maggie couldn't look him in the eye, her lips turned upside down in disgust like every time she sees him.
“I need to see Father Lantom” he said, his voice small and shaky. He had never been able to sneak to the Sister's good side.
“He's not here” the nun answered him reluctantly. Every time she saw Dex, she couldn't help but remember the dead birds on the Altar she used to find the first few weeks they took in the then blond little boy.
“I can wait.”
“Just go home, Benjamin,” Sister Maggie ordered him. “It's late and you should get going.”
Dex swallowed hard. He wanted to ask if he could stay with her, if it would do him any good to pray at the foot of his own bed back in his apartment despite the lack of religious paraphernalia. He wanted to ask if she hated him for being himself or for not being Matthew Murdock, the lawyer who used to lends his services for free to the church congregation he rarely visits. Why could Sister Maggie look so proudly at a stranger instead of patting Dex's shoulder every Christmas he volunteered to prepare food for the most in need?
"I know how to take care of myself, Sister. Going home a little late doesn't have me worried” he assured, motioning to take a seat on one of the pews.
“Benjamin...” the nun placed her hand in front of his chest, inches away so as not to touch him directly. "Father Lantom will surely be tired when he returns. You can come another day."
This is how a possession begins.
Dex returned to his apartment with his tail between his legs and feeling defeated.
He served, he has served all his life. The Church, in the Army. On his knees, forehead to the ground. Dex has given his whole life for God to fix him and bathe him in His warmth.
This is how a possession begins, when no one else is listening. No one besides you.
You've been here for a rather long time. Opening faucets just slightly to create leaks, chipping the closet door so it won't close properly, and generating static in Dex's headphones every time he wants to listen to his tapes. You don't even need to weaken his body, insomnia has already done the work for you.
You were never interested in messing with his dreams. There are enough things tormenting him on his own without you meddling. Dex has always been the perfect host.
But you'd never waste an opportunity like this.
He ritualistically strips himself of every material thing he owns, naked as he was brought into this world. As soon as his knees touch the floor, the temperature in the room drops and all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Dex is no longer alone: he can feel it in his marrow, in his fingertips; in his soul.
Every plea, every supplication, every prayer, has only fed you. You have no feet, no hands, no face, and yet you touch him as no one has ever touched him. His skin is crawling, a layer of himself is torn away by you. He has been opened by and for you. Every doubt, every night terror, he has simply created the perfect environment for you to cultivate yourself in the petri dish that is his home.
“God...” he begins. Pathetic and desperate. “God if you're here, if you can hear me, I need you.”
Clipped, a classic. Nothing about him comes naturally. It's always something studied, recreated and acted out.
“You don't need that much” you reply as you've wanted. "I'm right here. And I want you. I want you so much."
And oh, that fear of his is beyond delicious. His instinct is to rise as if the wood burns him, but you keep him anchored, his toes cramping.
“God?” he asks, choking. So foolish.
"Not quite. Just better. Do you mind?"
He falls silent, eyes glazed over and every angle of his face showing a different facade among the shadows.
“No. Not at all.”
And now that he's answered you he won't be able to stop listening to your voice. You don't need a contract, not really. Seriousness you leave to him, it's not your forte.
“Are you sure?” you ask, just for fun. And because you like to hear how desperate he really is. “I think you know what I am.”
Dex tries to see you, with every fiber of his being he tries. But you slip around every corner to the beat of his head every time he turns.
“You say you want me” he croaks, chest heaving. “Just like that?”
"I've never seen anything so beautiful. You're divine. Let me come closer. I already love you, can't you tell?"
He doesn't hesitate. He can't. Dex has been waiting his whole life for someone to answer his mayday signal. A lifetime, what a waste of time. You would have shown up sooner if he had spilled even more blood. He has deprived himself of a true lover.
“Please”, he pleads.
And then there you are, gently taking him by the face. A mouth so bitter it makes him retch; a taste he can never get rid of. When he dies, his teeth will be the first to rot.
You are not saving him, he is saving you. He will give you a body, a home. He will take care of you. You will be his purpose now.
He kisses you back as if he already knows.
