"babe- y-you’re— ohfuck, uh— distracting me-" one of his hands grabbing the edge of the desk for support and the other awkwardly hanging by your head,
he’d been working on whatever until you’d walked in, snuck under his desk and dropped to ur knees before shoving his sweatpants down without hesitation.
a moan leaving his lips as you continued ur ministrations of bobbing ur head up and down along his cock. his free hand suddenly moving to ur head as his tip hit the back of your throat and you moaned around him, his fingers tangling in ur hair for support. "shit!- oh- did i hurt you? m’sorry— just feels s’good- i’m sorry-"
one of ur hands moved to cup his balls in response as u looked up at him through ur lashes. his face burning a bright red as he quickly fixed his glasses before his hand moved back to the desk. his thighs tensing as a broken whimper escaped his lips and you knew he was close, "babe, pull off m’gonna cum— i can’t hold—" before ur hands moved to his thighs to pull him in closer. "ohmygod—ohmygod-" whining as he spilled down your throat, hips bucking forward as he filled ur mouth with him.
1. during sex, you had a habit of touching him anywhere you could reach. dex made you feel so so good, you needed ways to release energy before you could come.
one way or another your hands would always end him in his hair, long nails raking his scalp as you softly moaned out his name.
he really tried not to, but anytime he felt your hand brushing strands of hair from his forehead, or rake your fingers through his scalp, he would let out a soft whimper while shutting his eyes from pleasure.
2. for the most part, you and dex never faught. he was your puppy, you didn’t like something he would never do it again, you asked him to do something, you wouldn’t have to tell him twice.
but like all couples, some sort of argument would take place. your hands waved around in the air, aggravated sighs from your soft lips as you tried to get your point across.
meanwhile, dex sat and listened. hands folded, head down but eyes tilted up at you. he felt so good when you yelled at him, like he was worth fighting.
somewhere between cursing and pushing his shoulder, a whimper slips from his lips and then only would he calmly apologize and make you feel heard and understood.
3. he woke up from the ungodly sound of your alarm, you begged for 5 more minutes and he headed for the shower.
while reaching for his pain meds, he felt an odd sensation on his back. somewhere between sore and sharp aches.
he reached for his t-shirt and pulled it off.
turning so his back faces the mirror, he tilted his head and low and behold. he let out a pathetic whine.
light pink scratches littered all over his back. all different lengths and positions. the sigh brought a grin to his face. a boost of confidence filtered over him knowing he brought you so much pleasure, snippets of last night flashing in his eyes.
4. dex was very selfless, even with sexual activities. they always benefited you. so when you decided to suck his dick.
the soft pants of “thank you” couldn’t stop from his mouth as he massaged the nape of your neck. his eyes were shut tight, he couldn’t believe how good you felt.
as he felt himself reach his release, he couldn’t sum up the energy to speak. he was lost in how good you made him feel. dex couldn’t stop the desperate, needy whimper that echoed against the shower walls as you swallowed his release.
5. you didn’t like shopping, you dressed pretty simple and often wore the same pieces styled differently.
so when dex visits your apartment for the first time and sneaks in your closet. the whimper that he tried to suppress eventually came out when he slid a drawer open and found bras and panties of different styles and colors.
fuck, he couldn’t wait to see you in all of them, whether in bed or through your bedroom window.
6. some rare nights, dex was usually alone in bed. you were sometimes too busy to come over or just not in the city.
desperate dex would roll over to your side, take in the scent that you left on the pillow and hump the bed imaging it was you.
he would sob and whimper into the pillow just wishing you would show up.
7. oh he loved your tits, he loved everything about you but holy shit.
when he saw your hardened nipples through t-shirts or just naked in bed, his dick would twitch.
or when you bent infront of him to place a plate or a book, fucking whatever. and he saw your cleavage down your shirt. an incoherent whimper would slip his mouth as he would pull you down to his lap.
8. you complimented dex often, like…he was fucking perfect and you wouldn’t let him forget it.
sleepy after fucking or doing whatever together, your mouth would let loose and you would mumble heaps of stuff.
“god your back is..so broad”
“if you wanted, you could probably choke me with your biceps.
“baby, let me kiss your chin”
“i miss your fingers, dex” you once pouted, drunk as fuck.
every time he would be left speechless, often ending up a whimpering mess in your hold as you kissed down his abs or massaged his big hands in your smaller ones.
he couldn’t believe his luck as your soft body leaned over his whispering things you loved about him in his ear.
mark callan and me tugging him by his tie to lead him when hes heading the wrong way or i need to speak w/ him.
coworkers looking at us like wtf but they’re used to it already. and just sighing.
mark showing up with messy hair some days and hickeys and bites on his neck and arms and like every single sign that he got laid just 4 minutes ago. so hes trying his best to look representable in court but also rrrly wants everyone too know hes taken like
just done a quickie with mark and haven to fix ourselves up but accidentally swapped our ties so everyones like🙄🙄🙄🙄
noncon w dex 😵💫😵💫 reader who is just too sweet too innocent she looks like a little deer caught in headlights whenever he does something to her... She shouldn't be this trusting!! hes teaching her a lesson :((!! dex who feels so guilty from how much he loves to see her face after.. Like a little angel who just got her wings clipped out <///3
cant tell if hes doing it while hes bullseye or as readers boyfriend ... either way he manipulates her into thinking its fine and normal even if it feels bad for her :P
cw noncon
im thinking… what if dex is readers bf and she doesnt know that hes bullseye. one night hes out as bullseye and he accidentally walks inside their shared apartment, covered in blood and in his bullseye suit and the reader is so livid. he pretends like hes not himself, taking advantage of her and telling her she shouldnt leave the door unlocked because strangers like him might come in!!
then, once shes all tired and passed out he’ll pretend to leave and change back into her sweet boyfriend, comforting her and rocking her back and forth knowing he took advantage of her and she doesnt have a single clue that it was her own bf who did that to her :(
manipulating poor ben as his therapist 😞 keeping his medication doses so high that he's so loopy and pliant and can't control himself when your boobs look sosososo soft and warm mmmmmmm
he cant control himself and his words, so "mama" slips out while he sucks on your nipple. and you dont even feel him try to fight when your hand slips down his pants to stroke his poor dick.
poor baby's so confused and disoriented. but all he can think of is his mommy and not the fact that this is wrong in so many ways.
-🗡️
this was sooo yummy anon thank u for this !!
he's so loopy that he barely knows where he is, you're petting his hair and telling him "we can't, it's so wrong to do this," to make him feel like the perpetrator, all he can do is hum out a pathetic "sorry, mom, jus' want you" as he nuzzles into your chest. he's so hopeless, he just wanted to get better but he doesn't realize you're the one making him worse :(.
"you like it when i touch you there? huh?" you asked. he just moans in reply because the meds you gave him are just too much but he's convinced himself that you know what's good for him because it's your job to help him.
"jus' so soft, mom pleasepleaseplease," he'd beg for nothing, your hand already stroking up and down on his cock. "feels s' good, fuck" as you stroke his hair, whispering praises to him. he's completely gone at this point as he latches onto your nipple and sucks, hips trying so hard not to hump your hand but hes so needy that his body can't control itself anymore.
WHAT THE FUCK HES SOOOOOOO FUCKING HOT IM ACTUALLY SUPER PISSED AND HORNY OVER IT FUUUUUUUCK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
dex and chubby reader PLEASE🙏🙏 i never see any of those😪 in like an established relationship or sum 🤤
Thankyou for this anon I am actually levitating thinking about it!!! 18+ stuff ahead !!
I think Dex would love that his partner is soft. You are in so many ways emotionally, spiritually, and physically so different from him and yet that’s why it works it so well.
The perfect balance.
He loves touching you, first of all. He can’t keep his hands off no matter the setting. Of course this would be intrinsic to his character when he has found his person anyways, but with you? Omg. He literally can’t help himself.
You’re in the kitchen? He’s behind you, big arms around your waist, hands just below your breasts rested on your tummy. Any insecurity you have is constantly tested, he makes it a point to actively demolish negative thoughts with physical reminders that he’ll never be as attuned and attracted to anyone else but you.
(Like rubbing his dick against your ass while you’re trying to make dinner)
On the couch? Dex has wrapped his thick bicep around one of your plush thighs, uses the top of it as a pillow. His cheek is pressed into your soft skin, breath tickling your knee. And your hands are in his hair, just carding through the strands and he nuzzles himself further and further up your leg until he’s full blown in your lap cradling your waist.
I think Dex would also love kneading your softness when you’re cuddling, it’s comforting to him. Sometimes he’ll just grip at your legs, stomach, arms - which the most gentle and loving touch while he falls asleep. Until the kneading stills and he’s managed to somehow fall into a half unconscious haze.
It just keeps him grounded, reminds him that you’re real and everything he needs and more than he could want and he does wanna be inside your skin but settles for just touching you instead.
Cause you’re all his.
He also picks you up an egregious amount. It’s partially because sometimes it’s easier, like if you’ve had one too many drinks and he’s trying to get you up the steps to your apartment.
He’d much rather hook his arms under your knees, the other on your lower back, and then he’s hoisting you off the floor. You giggle every single time he does this, and secretly that’s also why he enjoys it. Getting to hear you make such a sweet sound? Cause of him?
He also likes to do it impromptu for no other reason than dominance and a display of strength.
Like if you two are playfully arguing, pretending to be upset for the sake of getting to crawl on eachother and have him pin your wrists down - yeah he’ll immediately pull out the big stops, haul you right over his shoulder.
“Dexxxx!!!”
And it’s really just music to his ears because you really think you’d be able to wriggle away from him? To try and display strength when you know your nails against his skin just work him up? So naturally, he delivers a hard smack! right against your ass cheek where it’s perched directly next to his head before tossing you on the bed.
He lovesssss manhandling you!
No, really like it’s bad with him. And part of it is because in the beginning of the relationship, when more visceral insecurities bled through - Dex had a hard time coping.
Because in his head, you’re it for him. Might as well have been carved, ripped, taken directly from his rib because there is literally nothing about you that doesn’t make him weep internally.
So when you were insecure about being naked, about wearing his clothes, having him touch you in certain places, selfishly he felt restricted. He felt genuine dread at the thought of you not letting him touch you in certain areas, of you staring at yourself in his shirt for bedtime and not liking how it fit.
The only way he knew how was to show you.
And he didn’t think of it as forced or theatrical, he felt it necessary. To show you that he can pick you up with two big hands on each ass cheek and fuck into you against the door, to place you directly on top of his cock with his hands in yours the only leverage you could have - and pistoning himself into you - effectively lifting your hips off of him with just the strength of his own.
He also made a point to buy shirts that were a bigger size, and not because his didn’t fit you at all but he could see you didn’t want it to cling to your soft curves quite as much. That part of the comfort was being in an oversized item of his clothing that he’d worn and smelled like him.
The thought made him intensely dizzy. And then he’d get too worked up thinking about how you look in his shirts. How your tits looked stretched under the fabric, your love handles, the pudge just under your navel.
That is his favorite when he’s fucking you in missionary, one big hand pushing down and asking if you can feel him. He also loves to kiss it, mark it along with your inner thighs and your soft jaw.
Yeah babe Dex would have a TIMEEEEE w chubby reader !!!
(I wanna write more about Dex and manhandling waitttt!!)
fbi!ben poindexter has this bad habit of referring to you as his. it comes off weird to outsiders, occasionally, because you obviously aren't an object to be owned; you know, though, he doesn't mean it like that. in his mind, it's an equivalent exchange—he's as much yours as you are his.
my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.
and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.
or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.
after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?
your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?
and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.
and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—
and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.
hi im back. sorry. i hate myself too. this man will be the death of me. 0.6k words
was taking icky pics of body w my macbook camera and all i could think about was dex walking in and catching me. i want him to stuff his fingers inside of me and make me show him all of the pics i took while he abuses my poor pussy :(((
-🗡️
imagine him picking you up and placing you in between his legs, his chest to your back as he stuffs his fingers in your cunt. he slaps your clit every time you shake as you scroll through all the icky photos you took to show him, “who’re you takin’ these for, huh?” he says with a hand around your neck and his mouth to your ear. “better not be for anyones eyes but mine. fuckin’ slut.”
smut and angst / pathetic!dex / DDBA!dex / implied Dexmatt / manipulation / porn with a plot / unhealthy sex / dex is unmedicated / weird and awkward social interactions / implicit sexual consent (do not reproduce, consent is essential) / dub-con from dex / bloodkink / Dex projects Matthew onto reader / pain kink / masturbation / soft dom!reader / sub!dex / reader is into his kink / marking / lot of foreplay / spine scar / caring and gentle!reader / no aftercare / mention of : panic attack, mental institutions, blood, fights, AVTF, psychological struggles
summary: Everything happened too fast, and while you thought you'd found a simple one-night stand, you instead end up in the middle of a storm.
A/N: I really love this one, hope you’ll enjoy it too! Also, the fic's name is based on one of Hozier's song I really like and that matches with Dex.
wc: 4.8k
english isn’t my first language, sorry for the mistakes ♡
Females DNI
The sunlight over New York that day was generous, birds chirping cheerfully from every branch they crossed. Clouds looked like drops of paint spilled across the bright blue sky, as if the celestial painter had accidentally tipped some warm milk onto the atmospheric canvas. You had taken advantage of the clear weather to breathe in the mixed scents of a neighborhood you barely knew. Restaurants, gyms, cafés—and you had also spotted a bank.
And then you saw him at the corner of a street. He walked with the kind of confidence only certain men possessed, the kind that could make a shiver run down your spine. His hands were shoved firmly into the high pockets of a jacket perfectly tailored to his waist. Head held high, he was whistling—the sound having first drawn your attention to him.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a handsome stranger in the street, and maybe the sunlight, suddenly too bright, had filled you with a burst of courage you didn’t think you had. So you followed him, trying to catch up to his long strides in hopes of starting a conversation.
He was heading into a diner, a uselessly lit neon sign displaying the name “Bel Aire Diner.” You didn’t know the place, and from here it honestly didn’t look very appealing, but you stepped inside anyway because he did.
“Thanks,” you said, closing the door he had held open after hearing your footsteps behind him.
Your voice didn’t seem to reach his ears. His gaze looked relaxed yet condensed into a narrow tube—like he was listing a pattern step by step inside his head. He walked up to the counter and lazily pulled out one of the unappealing stools.
Come on, it’s just a man, you encouraged yourself inwardly while taking a breath of fresh air. You didn’t notice the lobsters trying to escape their glass prison, nor the little dog sitting on its owner’s lap. Your attention was fixed entirely on the relaxed silhouette of the man with dusty-gold hair.
“Hi,” the stool creaked faintly against the floor as you pulled it out to sit beside him.
Dex restrained the instinctive twitch in his jaw. He spent a few moments deciphering the color of a cup far too red sitting in front of him, then finally let you see his face—a friendly expression he mastered perfectly. “Hi.”
To him, you were a parasite. A buzzing fly hovering around his freshly polished plan. Under different circumstances, you could’ve been seen as a beetle to crush, or a butterfly with pretty colors. But right now, in this exact moment, you were a fly.
“I’ll take a banana milkshake please,” your voice rang far too loudly beside his already boiling ears.
The ambient scent of caffeine filled your lungs, coating them with another layer of courage—or recklessness. The man beside you stared for two long seconds at the waitress pulling a large clean glass from one of the cupboards. Then his gaze dropped back to you, with a new gleam embedded deep in his pupils that you didn’t understand at the time.
It wasn’t interest. At least, not the kind you imagined. No, it was the same look a cat gave at a mouse’s sweet silhouette. That visceral curiosity of wanting to catch the poor little thing out of sheer boredom—just to entertain itself for a while.
Dex was looking at you, and now you had his attention, because with every word you spoke you became even more of a problem to solve. The kind of problem he solved with one single equation—assuming you pushed him far enough to reach that result.
“If I give you my number, you’ll leave this place?” his voice asked, far too calm, vibrating despite itself with an electrically dangerous smile.
The question caught you off guard, his unreadable expression only deepening your confusion. He looked controlled, but excessively so—unstable. The slight smile lingering on his lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes—everything seemed restrained, contained. But the way you swallowed wasn’t frightened at all. Quite the opposite. It was innovative, new. The human mind fears the unknown, yet in that moment you decided to mute every warning light just long enough to savor the thrill sliding down your spine.
“Yeah I will.”
“Perfect,” a smile carved itself differently onto his features—a smile that had appeared before his thoughts could catch up and restrain it.
And that was how you ended up with the stranger’s number saved in your contacts under the name Tony.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He should’ve understood. He should’ve understood why Dex did all of this. Why didn’t he understand?
His still-booted feet struck the shattered remains of a picture frame broken across the floor. The room was drowned in silent, frozen chaos. Impact marks on the walls, overturned furniture, blood staining the wallpaper. Dex stared at the scene, unable to process the events—unable to handle them.
Daredevil had found him, they had fought, and then Dex had run away. But he had wanted to come back, just to see, just to witness it.
His heart was beating too fast for the situation. The adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, and yet the pounding of his heartbeat slammed violently against his ribcage. It vibrated through his body, rippling against every rib until it settled deep inside his stomach. The taste of blood still flooded his mouth, something he had learned to enjoy—something he may have always enjoyed.
The Task Force brigade would arrive soon, he knew it. The neighbors must have called those idiots, thinking they were being useful.
Dex was useful, yes he was. He needed to be.
So why didn’t Murdock see it? Why hadn’t he noticed? He did things right, he did everything right. Why did Matthew look at him like a dog failing a trick? Dex had learned all the tricks, and he showed them to him, so why wasn’t he proud?
A spiral had begun the moment Daredevil stepped into Dex’s intimacy. A whirlwind growing taller and wider behind him. He could feel its icy current. He could already feel his muscles slipping into hypothermia, his teeth shaking. He wanted to curl inward, hide inside a shell and only emerge once all of this was over—once the storm died down. But he remained frozen in the wind that had numbed his entire body. It always took over. Always.
Anger, disappointment, disgust, then distress. A cycle structuring his thoughts into an obsessive choreography. Obsession, need, craving. Air no longer reached his lungs properly.
Solution—he needed a solution.
The repeated blinking of his eyelids created a cinematic effect around the trembling phone held in his left hand. Blood was rushing to the wrong place, the worst place.
Need to please him, need to please him. Why can’t he accept my sacrifice?
Several streets away, resting on your bedside table, your phone vibrated. A quick, sharp vibration signaling a new message.
Tony
💌—can we meet up?
The overly bright screen made you squint slightly. A stray droplet of water slid down the back of your neck, running along your still-bare spine from your shower. You had to dig through your short-term memory to find a trace of this “Tony.” Then finally, it came back.
—hello?
—so you ditch me and now you change ur mind?
💌—sry
💌—wasn’t in the mood
💌—can we meet? pls
You rolled your eyes, tossing your phone onto the sheets while you went to grab clean clothes. You weren’t difficult in bed, but there still had to be some minimum effort involved. This Tony guy would need to show a little more interest.
💌—I’m sorry for how I treated you
💌—was not good
💌—pls I need to see someone
Your eyes skimmed the notifications while pulling on a t-shirt. Apologizing was already a good start. Most people stopped before that point. But you still wanted to see him struggle a little more, just to know whether he’d really hold out.
—so now I’m just “someone”
—you makes things worse yk
💌—ok ok I’m sorry yes I want to fuck
💌—and you’re the only option
💌—sorry
An amused smile spread across your face. At least it was honest. And actually, for a hookup that was all that really mattered, so why keep denying it?
—’k because I love honesty
—and you’re hot
Your fingers mechanically typed your address, not wanting to make the effort of going out just to fuck in some shabby hotel.
Dex was already on his way. He had left his apartment the second the little reply bubbles appeared in your conversation. He didn’t have time to find someone else, to pay someone. And he needed someone. He needed a substitute. Someone strong, confident, assured. Someone who could place their hands where bloodstains were drying—where an imprint had sunk deep into flesh. You matched, at least a little, and that was enough for him.
He was freezing. His skin felt tight—shivering every time fabric brushed against him. It hurt. God, it hurt.
For a fleeting instant, his mind wandered to the medication he had stopped taking months ago, since the mental institution. The medication would’ve stopped all of this. He knew it.
His pale knuckles tapped weakly against the smooth wood of what he hoped was your door. On the other side, your hand settled against the cold handle, fingers brushing the wood.
The hallway light gently spilled into your apartment when you opened the door. And there stood a man—Tony. Completely ravaged by an ache you didn’t know and yet could smell.
He vibrated with a deafening intensity.
“Hi come—” His lips crashed against yours, and suddenly the ache had a taste.
Salty. Chemical. A bitterness like household cleaner forced down your throat. You swallowed, your back colliding with the nearest solid surface. Somehow, amidst the storm, your hand still managed to shut the front door. The man was suffocating you—not physically. In fact, he hadn’t touched you at all, barely even looked at you. But his lips acted like a conduit siphoning something out of you. Maybe your common sense. Your dignity.
You were starting to run out of air. He wasn’t even moving his lips. His tongue wasn’t searching for yours.
Your fleeting hand pressed against his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt beneath your palm. “Wait—wait, let me breathe.”
Your eyes tried to adjust to the sight before you. He was sweating, but more importantly covered in blood. Now that his mouth no longer monopolized your attention, you could smell the iron clinging to him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing far too much of the earthy color of his irises. He was panting, each exhale striking your face.
He looked like a dog that had lost its owner. A wolf hit by a car—or rather, a deer.
He was waiting for something from you, like you were about to order him back into his basket or reveal treats hidden in your pockets. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something—anything, because holy shit this situation was surreal, abnormal. But the words never found their way to your vocal cords. They all shoved each other deeper into your throat instead.
He looked pathetic like this, and the problem was that you found it incredibly attractive. Just like the blood now staining the corner of your lips. Just like the coldness of his skin.
Actually, the storm—the ache acting like a rope around your neck—was captivating. Being held down this way by an invisible force, restrained by abstract hands, it was thrilling. Nothing new about that. Humans had always craved being held, no matter the method. Still, it remained disorienting and exciting.
“You still want to fuck?” were the first words you forced out of your throat.
Dex nodded vigorously, his eyes never leaving yours for even a fraction of a second. He pierced through you in the filthiest way possible, the most sickening, disgusting way.
“Right then let’s head up to my room.”
He followed you, his footsteps unconsciously mirroring yours, slipping into the prints only his eyes could see. The concept of a bar suddenly felt instinctive to you, an atmospheric pressure capable of crushing the human body through self-destruction alone. Our own weight multiplied until it resulted in death. Our very impact causing an explosion.
Your bedroom door was already open. You stepped in first, with the strange feeling the man behind you wouldn’t have wanted to pass ahead.
A creak, a lock clicking shut, and your back once again struck a surface far too hard for your poor muscles. His lips were on yours again, but this time you took the reins, imposed your own rhythm. A storm couldn’t be controlled, but you could at least try to follow the circular motion of its gusts. You forced your way into his mouth, your tongue slipping in like a serpent entering Eden. He whimpered faintly, the sound swallowed immediately within the chaotic dance your tongues began. Your hand searched for stability, as though despite the excitement you feared your body might be swept away and shredded apart in the air. His sticky hair tangled between your fingers, accidentally knotting together blood and sweat—a lock keeping him trapped in your grasp. His weight crushed harder and harder against yours, pinning you between himself and the wall until breathing became difficult.
You yanked your hand sharply, forcing his head back. Your lips separated noisily, teeth knocking together for an instant. He groaned, his head still firmly held in your grip. The taste of blood coated your entire mouth, making your brain wonder whether you yourself were bleeding.
It was intoxicating.
Dex trembled, his knees struggling to hold his weight upright. It hurt, it hurt so badly. Your touch reminded him of his. He could almost feel fists slamming into his ribs again, horns grazing his shoulder.
Your glassy eyes observed the image the man before you offered. He looked insane like this, completely ruined.
You straightened slightly, releasing your hold on his skull. And to your surprise, he collapsed immediately to the floor, dropping to his knees in front of you.
“You—you good? Tony, you want to stop?”
His glossy eyes met yours, pupils charcoal-black. It took him time to process your voice, as though he first needed to make space inside his head before acknowledging your words. But his head answered before his vocal cords did. He slowly shook it side to side, his gaze jumping between your eyes, searching for a color he wanted to recognize.
His hands settled on your thighs before you even noticed. He gripped tightly, nearly pinching the muscle. His face pressed against your hipbone, and you physically felt a heartbeat miss its route, forgetting to follow its vascular path. He looked like a puppy like this—a puppy with blood coating its jaws, a dead rat laid proudly at your feet.
“Call me Dex, please my name’s Dex,” he whispered breathlessly, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to reach your bare stomach. His lips pressed to your skin, and for the first time in your life you felt like a kiss could also be a bite—a snakebite. “Please call me Dex, please I need you to call me Dex,” his saliva staining your skin in a way that felt permanent.
“Such a freak, you know that?” This time a wide, stupid grin spread across his lips, making you smile despite yourself. “Ok I need you to listen, can you do that for me?”
He nodded, the involuntarily sexy gesture making you swallow hard. Your eyes searched for an easy word to remember. “Red. Red is our safeword, ok?” Your partner’s eyes closed for a moment and you thought you heard a strangled moan. How could you have known that word was the nickname of the man putting Dex in this state? How could you have known his cock was throbbing just from hearing it?
Your fingers tightened around Dex’s chin, forcing his head back up toward you. “I asked you a question. Use your words. Red is our safeword, understood?”
“Understood,” his voice dripped out.
You shifted away from him, constantly burning beneath the intensity of the gaze that refused to release you. “C’mon. On the bed.”
For a moment, you thought about your trans identity, about how you hadn’t really had time to bring it up to him. Then you saw him, ghostlike, crawling toward your bed, desperate and pathetic for an unnamed service. You saw the curve of his back, deciphering the waves of his spine beneath the fabric. And then you saw yourself—not physically but sensorially—shaking in a way similar to him, ache scratching at the inside of your carcass. And suddenly, what was inside your pants became ridiculous compared to the strange molecules filling your four lungs.
Your hand found its way to the nearest part of the man lying on your bed.
His back—his spine.
Your index finger followed by your middle met the damp texture of the shirt he wore. Your eyes slowly traveled across his entire silhouette, admiring the face he tried to hide in the sheets, then the dip of his lower back. An invisible force pushed you to fully touch his spine, your palm settling entirely between his shoulder blades. And as though your touch had burned him, he arched his back. As though your hand carried an energy too heavy, he moaned open-mouthed, a poor scrap of sheet trying to absorb the sweet sound. Your eyes widened more and more at each reaction his body had to yours. It was new, unusual—a concept to explore, to turn over from every angle.
On a second impulse, you moved closer, one knee sinking into the mattress so your still-standing body could lean over his. Dex whimpered like an injured animal, lips shaping muffled words.
Your hand pressed harder against the area that seemed so sensitive to him. A second moan tore from his throat, louder this time.
Your eyes devoured the sight, and you realized you needed more. You needed to touch him, to see his skin, to hear every other sound he could make.
So your second knee joined the first, sinking the mattress deeper beneath the pressure. Your hands sprang into action as though a switch had been flipped—electric current restored to your muscles. Dex helped you pull off his shirt, and you removed yours as well. As though he had always been meant to do this, Dex rolled back onto his stomach, propped up slightly on his elbows. No sweat coated your back; instead, it was replaced by waves of irrational shivers that refused to stop. Seeing your partner’s position, you leaned over him—trying to ignore the visible jolt of anticipation that crossed him—and grabbed one of your pillows. His gaze, still glassy and dependent, never left you. He waited for the slightest request from you, the smallest demand. You motioned for him to place the pillow beneath his torso so his body wouldn’t tire unnecessarily—and of course, he obeyed.
Straightening up, you settled your seated weight on the tops of Dex’s thighs, your legs straddling his. And then you saw it, splitting his back in two.
A scar.
Large. Long.
At first it had gone unnoticed, hidden by the dim lighting. But now it leapt at you, making your lips part and your eyes widen. You understood now why your fingers had felt like fire when they brushed his back, why your hand carried so much energy whenever it neared that area.
Driven by an irrepressible urge, you leaned down. Your hands naturally rested on either side of Dex’s head, surrounding him in the best possible way. And your lips met the scar. The imperfect, discolored, horrific skin of it. You kissed that damaged flesh, not because you wanted to fix it, but simply because you wanted to—because it was terribly mesmerizing and your lips needed to touch it.
“Oh god don’t—” Dex began melting beneath your touch, more and more with every kiss pressed along his spine. “Don’t touch—” Every sentence suffocated before it could fully form. And your hand sliding along his back did nothing to help his diction.
You continued your kisses, accompanied by your wandering hand in the dip of his back. You grabbed his hip, his pelvis instinctively lifting at the contact. A small chuckle left your lips, sending a puff of air across the dampness left behind by your kisses.
The atmosphere around you—smothering your cells—deepened. The pressure weighing down your human body became scorching, clawing the air from your lungs with bare hands. And you knew its source. He was lying beneath you, trembling harder than you had ever seen someone tremble. He produced this macabre mechanism. And he suffered from it, perhaps even more than you did.
Suddenly, those gentle caresses began to ring false. Those kisses were creating acidic marks on his skin despite yourself, acid eating away at something inside him. Your lips had touched it, drawn like an insect to the venom coating the back of a multicolored frog. You wanted more too. More than these futile little caresses.
Your hand left the delicious dip of his back, instead grabbing his shoulder to force him onto his back. His face turned toward you, such a disconcerting picture that it froze you for a second.
That expression of need, of pleading, had never left his eyes.
He wanted more from you.
Always more.
You shifted your weight with the support of one hand against the mattress, your hips once again settling over his thighs. Even through the layers of fabric separating you from his body, you could feel the thickness of his muscles—contracting more with every movement you made.
Your eyes locked onto his, refusing to leave now that they had found them. Your hand blindly found the opening of his pants, undoing it like a seasoned burglar. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling through your peripheral vision. Your second hand joined the first, yanking the garment from his body in one sharp motion. He barely moved, obediently lifting his legs when you silently asked him to.
And then, when your hand tried to return to his hips, a strange texture made you glance down.
He had already come in his pants.
A breath escaped your lungs at the sight. Your eyes snapped back to his face, a face flushed with a mixture of shame and excitement intensified infinitely by the expression painted across your own features.
Your palm never left the bulge desperately trying to gain friction against it. You pressed down—not softly, not gently. He moaned loudly, head falling back despite himself. He trembled beneath you, beneath your grip. His cock was throbbing, creating an even worse mess in his underwear.
You needed to touch him.
Saliva gathered in your mouth, blood rushed between your legs, making you throb too.
So you finally pulled off his boxers, unable to stop yourself from smiling at the true state of them. Then your eyes fell back onto the subject of your thoughts, twitching ridiculously beneath the burn of your stare alone. You wanted to take him in your hand, your mouth, inside you—anywhere. You wanted to taste him, breathe in his scent until it gave you a headache, until you could no longer erase his traces from your memory.
But instead, the pads of your fingers brushed along the flushed skin of his cock.
Your gaze lifted back to Dex’s face now hidden behind one arm. You let him do it, let him think he could hide from you. Small loud sighs echoed through your bedroom, all coming from one single person. You still didn’t let your palm fully touch his cock, only your fingers stroking up and down his length.
His back arched beneath your gaze, his spine cracking occasionally in the sexiest way possible.
Then it was your turn to break. He was too loud, too visual, too intoxicating for you to hold out any longer.
Your hand finally wrapped fully around his dick, making him sob gorgeously and costing you yet another breath. Your heartbeat was just as fast as his, even though no hands touched you the way yours touched him. But he transferred everything onto you, dripping all over you—metaphorically and literally.
You leaned over his body once again, your free hand reclaiming its place beside his head. He barely noticed your movement, his mind too crowded by the motions of your hand lower down. Yet his eyes still found a way back to yours.
He cried.
He was crying.
Clear tears streamed down his cheeks and temples, creating dark stains on the sheets around his head. You wanted to speak to him, but words failed you and you had the feeling he was trapped in the same situation. Muted by tape far too sticky to remove.
So the silence remained exactly as it had settled between you, and strangely enough it was louder than any sentence either of you could have spoken.
However, the symphony playing in the background only grew louder. Wetness, whimpers.
Your gaze tore itself away from his and you heard a faint cry from that single act. Pre-cum leaked from his cock, mixing with the remnants of his earlier orgasm. He was close, he had looked close since the moment he entered your apartment. Your movements sped up, wanting to pull more sounds, more reactions out of him.
“You close?” you asked even though you already knew the answer.
“I am,” his broken voice answered, wavering between high and low tones.
Your own hips made faint unconscious movements against the nearest source of friction they could find, desperately seeking some relief from this infernal suffering. You straightened once again, your body drowning in that intoxicating discomfort.
A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed your arm, making you almost jump from how burning the contact felt. Dex tried pulling you toward him, his orgasm striking him in small blows—punches forcing more blood to spray with every hit.
He looked pathetic like this—trying to obtain a touch that seemed to consume him.
And yet you gave in, because you weren’t any better than him, and because you too wanted to become ashes just to feel the flames calcine your body for a second. You pulled him against you, his own weight collapsing onto you without restraint. Your bodies toppled farther into the bed, ankles and shins tangled in the sticky sheets.
He threw himself at your lips. He devoured them. Not from want, nor from genuine desire—but because he needed it. He needed to feel something, even if it was disgust toward himself or sensory overstimulation. He needed to burn, to be scorched to the bone, because whatever gnawed at him never hesitated to reach such deep parts of his being.
Maybe if he burned alive, this ache would burn too—no matter if it killed him, no matter if it dragged you down with him.
His saliva stained yours like gasoline. His teeth clicked against yours like a lighter. You were drowning in a bath of combustible liquid that, if it didn’t burn you, would dissolve your insides with acid.
His bare skin rubbed against yours, his cock leaking over your body, repeatedly slapping against the sensitive skin of your stomach. He was breathless, and so were you. Your frantic breaths mingled over and over inside formless kisses.
Your hand found its way to his neck, then his hair. The blood had dried in his blond strands, cracking when your fingers tangled through them, your second hand joining the first. You held him in your hands, his skull resting in your sweaty palms—while he held you in his fangs. His hands planted on either side of your head painfully gripped the sheets, his knuckles white as snow.
Again, you were suffocating, and he was suffocating with you. The air he exhaled into your mouth stole the oxygen from your lungs. He bit your lips hard enough to make them bleed. And in loud, broken moans, he tried to collect the scarlet liquid like an elixir—like a solution.
Then all at once he exploded over you. His head collapsed against your chest while he cried through his orgasm. Muffled cries, sobs you couldn’t characterize. White streaks coated your stomach, mixing with sweat and older traces of blood.
His arms began trembling, his tears endlessly falling into the reddish puddle sliding along your collarbones. He stained you in every possible way. With his sorrow, his problems, his pain and his pleasure. He poured himself all over you, without you being able to stop him—without you even wanting to.
Later that night, when Morpheus finally released you from his sedative embrace, the bed felt strangely empty, the sheets cold. Your eyelids opened and somehow you weren’t surprised to discover you were now alone in the bed.
Dex was gone, and his number had mysteriously vanished from your contacts.
He left you with ruined sheets, and gasoline flowing through your veins.
marvel masterlist
images : Pinterest
dividers : @uzmacchiato , @/cafekitsune and @/poiindexters
Puppy who’s too high to understand why his owner is touching his puppy parts like this, it’s not an inspection time…owner praising puppy telling him he’s doing so good as he pushes his fingers in and out of puppy’s cunt
Puppy whines and yips and bucks his hips, tongue hanging out his mouth as he pants
That’s it puppy, so good like this! Such a good boy, you just needed a little help being good huh? Yeah that’s okay, you’re still a little thing. Go ahead puppy, cum on your owners fingers good boy!!
