me when 😭😭😭😭 me when kitty is real 😭😭 me when she texts me 😭😭 me when she listens to my rants 😭😭😭😭😭 me because kitty 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 OK bye here's benjamin dexterpoint he wants a banana milkshake or he'll turn evil
me when aimee sent this ask ☹️☹️☹️ me when aimee says anything ☹️☹️☹️ me when aimee in general ☹️☹️
omg hi dex 🥹 i’m gonna give him all the banana milkshakes he wants and then give him a kiss right on his scar obviously !!!
he takes sleeping next to you very seriously. not necessarily in a sexual way, but rather in the knowledge that you are there with him, completely unguarded.
for most of his life, people have threaded carefully around him. he's observant, he knows when people have thought the sentences out in their heads three times before saying them.
it was the same when he was a kid after his parents died and he was sent to the orphanage, and it was the same after he killed his coach, the same when the fbi started to investigate him, and the same when he was being held prisioner by guards who shivered at the sight of bullseye.
you never hesitated, though. not when you met him, and not right now.
the window is open, much to dex's dismay. the soft summer night air slips through the window and makes the white curtain sway.
your breath comes out in short and relaxed puffs. dex watches you for hours. he's not much of a sleeper himself, but you are. and you love sleeping on him.
your head is rested over his bare chest, with a few strands of your hair falling over his skin. they tickle him in a way that reminds him that you're real.
it flatters him to a point that makes him feel almost cocky. sleeping on him means letting your guard down. it means you trust him with your life. it means that you won't go anywhere and that, at least for the night, dex has earned himself another day by your side.
hi people!!! its been a little while. I've been having my best time traveling around with my best friend, and I finally caught some time to write little bits. this was written on my phone, so I apologize for any mistakes.
masterlist // taglist forms // previous part // do not copy or translate my work.
pairings: benjamin poindexter x female!reader
tags: husband!dex and wife!reader. set after dex breaks out of jail. reunions. | WC: 1.2k
warnings: mentions of killing. it's dex, so it's his usual mental issues. canon inaccuracies. dex's missing tooth.
synopsis: after months away, your husband shows up at your house at night. unbeknownst to you, dex had broken out of jail and attempted to kill wilson fisk. either way, dex fought his way back to you, and you would be a fool not to welcome him with open arms.
a/n: you guys loved part one and I'm so incredibly grateful about that. I have a third fic in the works for this same pairing that is set when matt rescues dex and takes him to the safehouse in DDBA s2.
“I told you to lock the windows at night.”
Just like that, Dex was standing in your living room. He wore a dark blue suit, and he had pulled the mask off. It had all kinds of weapons attached to it, and you chose not to wonder about its origin yet.
His hair looked a mess, thin blond strands sticking out in all directions. His breath came out in short puffs with clear adrenaline that was still in his system.
He stared at you, and you stared back. Your husband, who was supposed to be in jail for life, was standing right in front of you, complaining about open windows as if breaking out of prison was a minor detail.
Jail was never going to be a permanent place for Dex. He was too erratic to be confined between walls and guards. He had played his part: he had behaved to the most of his ability, and when Matt Murdock had come to visit him, he willingly accepted all the punches, knowing it was part of his path to freedom.
“Well, hello to you, too Dex…” Your voice was unstable. It shook with the joy of having him back and the fear of what he had done to get there.
Dex took two long strides until he was facing you directly. He smirked in that knowing way of his, where the corner of his mouth would turn up and the scar along his cheek move right with it.
You didn’t have to do anything else before he was kissing you. His hands cupped your face, and he yanked you closer. He kissed with everything that had been left pent-up after his time away. He kissed you to make up for those jail visits where all you could do was sit in front of him and talk.
It was consuming and obsessive like he always was when his head got too loud. Your lips on his, your skin on his, were his last desperate attempt at getting his mind back. He pulled you closer and almost forgot that breathing was a thing until you gently pushed him away by the chest.
“I need some air, baby,” you clarified the second you were able to, knowing that if you didn’t, it would send him to an instant spiral.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
He kissed you again, gentler this time. Slowly but surely, the muscle memory came back to him. He remembered that carefulness that you had taught him and that he had tried so hard to learn.
“Dex,” you said when you finally pulled away from the kiss. “I love that you’re here; I really do.”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming.” Dex’s mood deflated, and you had to once again place your hand on his chest to let him know you were there.
“Tell me so we can get this over with. What happened?”
“You’re asking as if you were accusing me of killing someone.”
With all the fondness of your heart, you gave him a deadpan look. You knew your husband very well—murderer side and all.
“I didn’t —or at least not who I was aiming for. Matthew Murdock got in the way.”
You sighed and started tracing figures with your hand over his skin. “If I turn the news on, what will I see?”
Dex sighed and dropped his head to your shoulder. His mouth pressed against the cotton of your shirt, and he shut his eyes tight. After that, he securely wrapped his arms around your waist. “I had to. I still have to,” he murmured against you.
You moved to hold the back of his head, running your fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Nobody knew what truly went on inside Dex’s mind. Most of the times, he didn’t even know himself.
The one thing he was certain of is that he would kill his way to you if he had to. He wanted his mind back and he wanted his wife back.
“Alright, hun, we’ll deal with that in the morning. Are you hungry? Should we cook some dinner?”
Dex breathed in and kissed you right on the shoulder before he pulled away whilst still keeping his hands around you. “Sure.”
Dinner was quick. Dex had always been a very efficient and clean cook. He only chopped precisely the amount of vegetables needed, and he washed everything right after he used it. He asked you if you still made sure to cut vegetables and raw meat on separate boards, and you laughed when you told him yes. Some of Dex’s neat and structured little habits had stuck with you.
You sat down to eat and chatted as if you had just returned from work after a normal day. You told him about Nancy, the new co-worker who had brought cookies from her mother’s shop, and how the toilet had started leaking that same morning.
Dex didn’t tell you much in return, and you chose not to ask, not even when you noticed how he struggled to adjust to eating with a missing tooth. A heavy conversation was in order, but you would leave that for later. In the meantime, you would hide your husband in your apartment for as long as you had to.
When you got ready for bed, Dex sat back and just watched you. He was there, in his boxers and light shirt, admiring the domesticity he had so greatly missed. You brushed your teeth and placed your toothbrush next to his. You took a clean pair of pyjamas from your drawer, which was also next to his.
Everything in the house had remained the same. Never once had it crossed your mind to put away anything that belonged to him. The apartment looked exactly like the apartment of any other married couple would. You had a few framed pictures on the walls, and his headphones and CD player were still resting on his nightstand the way he had placed them the last night he had spent with you.
You laid down in bed and he followed suit. He placed his head on your upper chest, and you pulled the covers over both your frames. It was usually the other way around: he would be the one holding you, but in that moment, being held and being loved was just what he needed.
You turned the lights off, and he closed his eyes. He could feel the way his own head moved as your chest rose and fell with your breathing; he could feel the way your index finger traced a path from his hair to his ear.
And as blissful as the moment was, there was something that still bothered him. The scales were still uneven. He still needed a good deed, something to make up for Foggy’s death. He needed to prove to you that he was a good man. That price could only be paid in blood. Vanessa Fisk’s blood.
Tonight, he would allow himself to have this, though.
my sweet illi !!! i’ve been doing pretty good <3 in my third week of summer vacation and i’m feeling very tuned in.. very at peace. feeling fortunate and mainly just trying to tend to the ones i love in hopes they can feel the same. summer’s getting a little repetitive though.. lowk just
i’m kind of sabotaging myself because i’ve been playing wayy too much ethel cain 💔 but we’re still here and still strong so she’s doing something right !!
When you get this, list your five favorite songs atm and send this ask to at least 10 people in your notifs! (No pressure!)
Hello!!! Thank you for the ask!! Sorry for the delay, sleep has been a fuck as of late.
Currentlyyyyy.... hm.
Centipede Legs by Luluyam
Lake Pontchartrain by Ludo
fuckin....... Jim Bob. by Hardy.
Maphra's cover of Doomed by Bring Me The Horizon
TOUBOU by DUSTCELL
\o/ yayayayayay~ thank you i love these things. Let me open up my notifs... I think I'm gunna ping instead of sending asks due to being kind of insane right now c:
@static-static @ikemenomegas @demonic-silver-and-gold @featheredcrowbabbles @hemostatiquesheep @moonofmercury @junipersheart @forgotten-dustbunny @bagofdrymice @fipsthegreat
masterlist // taglist forms // do not copy or translate my work.
Pairings: Benjamin Poindexter x wife!reader.
Tags: Fluff with some angst. Husband!Dex. | WC: 1.6k words.
Warnings: canon inaccuracies. Violence and mentions of death. Stalking, kind of. Little mentions of blood. Mental health issues. A surprise by the end.
Synopsis: After months in solitary confinement, Dex is finally released to the general population. The reasons for it are unknown. But you've missed your husband too much to question the implications. In other words, visiting your husband in jail.
A/N: This idea has been in my mind for a while, and then Olivia released her amazing album. Safe to say, I have a dozen songs that remind me of Dex now.
Benjamin Poindexter had nothing to say when he was sentenced to jail for the murder of Franklin “Foggy” Nelson. He was guilty, and there was no denying that.
For reasons unknown to you, he had been released to the general population. It made you feel queasy. It could mean nothing good.
You allowed yourself to hope, anyway. You turned a blind eye on all the implications of his transfer. Did the Fisks need him to do their dirty work again? Truth be told, you didn’t want that question answered. You only wanted to see your husband.
They made you sign a billion different forms, asking all sorts of questions. You pushed through because only God knows what can happen when Dex spends a little too long locked away from you.
You dressed nicely; you went through the pictures on your phone of your first dates and tried to recreate all of it. The hair, the exact shade of lipstick, and that same blouse with that same necklace. For once in a couple of months, your husband deserved a pretty sight.
“You have twenty minutes,” the guard outside of the room gruffly stated. Then, he pushed the door open.
Dex sat on a chair with his hands cuffed to the table. They were covered completely, allowing for no movement whatsoever. Everyone knew what your husband was capable of if he had any object at all on his hands. The measure was only understandable, no matter how much it pained you.
He sat almost confidently with his shoulders slumped forward. His hair fell over his face, light and straight as ever.
And just in that moment, as you assessed your husband with your eyes, you noticed it.
Jesus Christ.
His shoulders were broad, making him look much bigger than the last time you had seen him. And his arms — God, his arms — they made the orange shirt look much smaller than it actually was.
You bit your tongue and you laughed as if he were a handsome stranger whom you had just met and not the man who was able to read you like his favourite book.
“I see they finally let you come, hmm?”
“Dex.” You dropped to your own seat, almost in awe.
There was no explaining just how you had managed to fall so in love with a man like him. A cold-blooded sociopathic killer with a mild tendency to stalking. People feared him for having no mercy. An FBI agent turned murderer.
They all had very fair reasons to fear this husband of yours. After all, they didn’t know what he was like when he had a North Star. He played music with an old DVD player that he refused to let go of. Always Billy Joel and The Smiths in the mornings. He made you breakfast before work, and he always made sure that the dishes were clean.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he greeted. Dex was calm—calmer than he had been in a very long time. Having you in his presence again quieted every demon that screamed into his ears. He was with you again, for as long as the guards outside would allow him.
Dex was trying really hard to behave in prison. Listen to the guards, play nice when he gets psychological evaluations, and most importantly, do not kill anyone—a truly tragic existence. But he had to comply if he wanted to keep being allowed to receive you as a visitor.
You reached as far as your body allowed you to. You could not hold his hand, and that broke your heart. Instead, you reached out further, hugging his wrist with your fingers. For a moment there, he softened. His gaze dropped. He stopped analysing all the potential exits and all the potential hazards. Stopped keeping an eye on the guard outside the room in case he decided to try anything with you.
“That looks uncomfortable.” He nodded in your direction, alluding to the position you had to put yourself in to be able to touch him.
“It’s worth it, Dex. I promise.”
He nodded. It better be. It was bad enough to be tied down to the table like a child uncapable of self-control.
“How’s everything?” Dex asked, breaking the silence that had dared build between you.
You slumped back in your seat, and he grieved the loss of contact for a brief moment. “It’s not easy. I miss you most days.” You didn’t tell him all of it.
Not a lot of people knew you were married to Dex. After all, not a lot of time had gone between the moment in which you met him and the day you said yes to his proposal. Even so, you had received nothing short of odd looks after Dex’s sentence. Your husband was in jail for murdering a defenceless lawyer who was just doing his job. Your husband had helped Wilson Fisk corrupt the FBI. Your husband had killed a fellow agent, one with a family waiting for him. Your husband had worn a fake suit to kill dozens of civilians.
How could you ever marry such a monster?
They didn’t know Dex, and that perhaps had always been his greatest doom. Time and again, he had been judged and punished instead of listened to. Dex needed structure to function. The FBI had given him that; you had given him that. When his job was threatened, his whole footing tumbled.
Then, he was placed in solitary confinement. Despite your efforts, nobody had cared. Being alone was the last thing Dex needed. You felt helpless knowing that he had been locked away with all the right conditions for him to destroy himself.
And as much as you tried to hide all of this anguish from him, Benjamin Poindexter knew how to read all of your signs. Words he had a hard time empathising with, but actions he could understand immediately. He knew something was off but couldn’t exactly name it.
“You’re lying,” he spoke plainly.
“I’m not lying. I did miss you.” You bit back in defence. Was he actually doubting how lonely you had felt?
Dex flinched and shook his head. The words hadn’t come off the way he had wanted them to. “I’m not saying that you didn’t miss me. But you’re not telling me everything.”
“That’s not the same as lying.”
“It is to me.”
You wanted to get angry, you really did. But this was hardly the time to argue over what made a lie. In Dex’s world, pointing out how you were hiding things from him was how he showed true concern.
You sighed and covered your face with your hands. “Want the truth, Dex?! It’s terrible. I’m trying, I really am trying, but it’s so hard. I miss you, and everybody thinks I’m crazy for still being married to you.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, the one with the scar; it somehow felt more satisfying on that side. This was not how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to kill Foggy Nelson and get his mind back. He was supposed to come home to you. Instead, they locked him in jail. Away from you.
Your breathing was heavy. A side of you felt almost ashamed to burden him with your troubles—as if there were anything he could do about them.
“What should I do?” He asked, almost as if he were expecting a killing order.
“A hug and kiss would be nice. But we can’t really do anything about that either, can we?” You chuckled sadly as you held back tears, nodding your head towards his restraints.
“Don’t worry about that.” The tone shifted away from that careful empathy he tried his hardest to build for you. It turned calculated and arrogant. “I’ll have that dealt with soon enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”
An eerie sense of calm settled on your chest after that. The remaining twenty minutes of the meeting went by like a breeze. You told Dex about the new tea shop you had been enjoying recently and how nice the new carpet looked in your living room.
You returned to an empty home like you had done so many times before. You cooked dinner for one, showered alone, and went to bed with nobody but Dex’s pillow beside you. You woke up alone the next morning. You cooked breakfast by yourself and even considered cooking your eggs the way he liked to do it.
Another two months went by like that.
One afternoon, you were sitting on the couch. Normally, the TV would be turned on, but that night, you had decided to relieve yourself from the incessant tragedies of New York City. You were trying to sew back one of the buttons of your favourite cardigan. Your knees were close to your chest as you rested the cardigan over your legs.
You threaded the needle through the first hole of the button, then the second, and just when you were about to do the third, you pinched yourself. Fourth time already. You took your injured finger to your mouth and decided it was enough for the night. You could always take the cardigan to a tailor.
You walked towards the kitchen to rinse the small droplet of blood from your fingertip, and just as you were moving, you saw something pass through the window. Your head whipped to the side as your heart took a frightened little jump.
The window that led to the fire escape creaked, and before you knew it, Benjamin Poindexter was standing in your living room. “I told you to lock the windows at night.”
