oddie’s archives

side blog to save posts and to boost you beautiful brilliant amazing minds. and i hate having to scroll thru my liked page

[odesofreblogs]

reblog tag list :

ben poindexter - ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ death row husband

daeron targaryen - ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ daeron the dreamer

anakin skywalker - ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ani

matt murdock - ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ devil in my bed—oh i mean of hells kitchen

ser dunk the tall - ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ‘merica runs on dunk

will be updated as i go thru my liked posts and read more. i don’t feel like going all the way to my drafts to remember/ add a tag

@isntitoddie my main

[dontyouworrydaddy]

Think about reader getting bullseye symbol tattooed on her lower belly when dex been gone (maybe finishing his job or sum who gaf) and when he comes but and found out

Love your work btw

A Tattoo?

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader

warning: tattoos, fluff, dex feeling a little overwhelmed:((

A/N: FIRST OF ALL: THANK YOUUU!!! I hope you enjoy this<333333

Dex had only been gone for six days.

Six.

Which honestly shouldn’t have felt that long, but somehow every single time he disappeared for work, the apartment felt colder without him in it. Too quiet. Too empty. You hated how quickly you got used to him being around all the time. His footsteps at weird hours of the night, the sound of him opening the fridge every twenty minutes like food magically appeared when he checked again, his constant habit of touching you whenever you walked past him.

So while he was gone, you made a slightly impulsive decision.

Very very impulsive.

The tattoo artist had asked three separate times if you were absolutely sure. You absofuckinglutely were.

Because the second you imagined Dex seeing it, you already knew it would destroy him emotionally.

The tattoo itself wasn’t huge. Just small enough to sit neatly on your lower stomach, right beneath your belly button. A clean black bullseye symbol.

So unmistakably him.

The thought alone made you grin like an idiot the entire drive home afterward.

You didn’t tell him about it over the phone. Mostly because you wanted to see his face when he found it himself.

And Dex noticing things? That was something that happens.

The second he finally got home six days later, he looked exhausted.

His duffel bag barely hit the apartment floor before his attention locked completely onto you standing in the kitchen.

Every single time he came back from a mission, he stared at you like he genuinely needed visual confirmation that you were still there. You barely had time to smile before Dex crossed the apartment in seconds and grabbed your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him.

“Hi.” you laughed softly. He buried his face against your neck immediately, inhaling deeply like he was grounding himself.

“fucking missed you so much.” he muttered against your skin. Your chest softened instantly.

“I missed you too.” Dex pulled back just enough to kiss you hard, intense in that way only Dex could manage, like he spent the entire week thinking about this exact moment. His hands slid up your back immediately while you melted against him with a soft laugh.

“You smell different.” he murmured suddenly between kisses.

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes narrowed slightly while studying you. “Different lotion.”

Of course he noticed that immediately. His brain is definitely interesting.

“You’ve been gone too long.” you teased.

“Six days.” he corrects you. But he would be lying if he said that these six days felt like seven years.

“Exactly.” Dex looked deeply offended by that statement before kissing you again anyway.

The rest of the evening passed quietly after that.

You ordered food, listened to Dex complain about work without actually giving details and spent most of the night practically attached to each other on the couch because apparently six days apart made Dex clingier than usual. Not that you minded.

Actually, you loved it.

Especially the way he kept touching you like he needed constant reassurance you were real.

By the time you ended up in the bedroom later that night, Dex looked significantly more relaxed than when he arrived home.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed while he stood between your knees, hands resting automatically on your thighs while he kissed you slowly.

God, you missed him.

His fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt carefully before pulling back slightly to look at you.

“You okay?”

“Mhm.” You smiled innocently. He narrowed his eyes immediately.

“You’re acting weird.”

“No I’m not.”

“You definitely are.” You bit back a grin. Dex noticed the expression instantly.

“…Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.” You laughed softly while his hands slid higher against your waist. Then finally, Dex lifted your shirt.

The room went silent. His eyes locked immediately onto the fresh tattoo sitting on your lower stomach.

The tiny black bullseye.

For one long second, Dex genuinely didn’t move. You watched the exact moment realization hit him. Then slowly, his entire expression changed.

“Oh my god.” he whispered. You felt suddenly nervous despite planning this entire thing specifically for him.

“Do you like it?” Dex looked up at you like you’d just asked the dumbest question imaginable.

“Like it?” His hands tightened slightly against your waist before his eyes immediately dropped back to the tattoo again.

The look on his face nearly melted you on the spot. Because Dex looked completely awestruck. Pure emotions written all over his face.

His fingertips brushed lightly over the skin near the tattoo, careful not to touch it too harshly while it healed.

“You did this for me?” The quiet disbelief in his voice made your chest ache softly.

“Well,” you teased gently, “it’s not exactly a mystery who inspired it.” Dex stared at it for another long second before suddenly laughing quietly under his breath. Completely overwhelmed. You’d never seen him look this soft before.

“There’s something wrong with you.” he murmured.

You grinned. “You love it.”

“I’m obsessed with it.” The honesty came instantly.

Dex dropped to his knees in front of you before you could even respond, his hands sliding carefully against your hips while he kept staring at the tattoo like he physically couldn’t look away. The intensity of his focus made heat crawl up your neck immediately.

“Baby…” you say quietly.

“You put my symbol on your body.” The rough emotion in his voice caught you off guard a little. His thumb brushed gently over your hip while his eyes stayed glued to the bullseye.

“Permanent.” he muttered quietly, almost to himself. Your heartbeat sped up instantly.

Dex looked completely gone mentally now. Like the realization affected him way deeper than you expected.

“You know this is insane, right?” you teased softly. His eyes flicked up to yours immediately.

“You’re insane.” Then before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed directly beneath the tattoo softly. Your breath caught. Dex closed his eyes briefly afterward like the action physically overwhelmed him.

Then he did it again. Another soft kiss.

Another.

And another.

Your stomach flipped harder every single time.

“Dex,” you laughed breathlessly. “it’s literally just a tattoo.”

“No,” he said immediately, eyes lifting back to yours. “It’s mine.” The possessiveness in his voice should not have affected you as much as it did.

But god. The way he looked at you right now…

Dex rested his forehead lightly against your stomach afterward, arms wrapping around your waist while he sat between your knees on the floor.

You slid your fingers into his hair automatically. He looked weirdly emotional still.

“You have any fucking idea what this did to me?” he murmured.

“I had a feeling you’d react dramatically.”

“That’s not dramatic.”

“You practically stopped breathing.”

“I DID stop breathing.” You laughed softly while he tilted his head back just enough to look at you again.His expression softened instantly under your touch.

“You’re unbelievable.” he whispered. The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten.

Dex kissed the tattoo again carefully before pressing one final lingering kiss against your stomach. Then he looked up at you with the softest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“Nobody’s ever done something like this for me before.” The quiet vulnerability in his voice nearly broke your heart.

You cupped his face gently. “Good. Because you deserve it.”

Dex stared at you silently for a second after that.

Then suddenly he stood back up, grabbed your face carefully and kissed you so deeply it stole the air from your lungs completely. And the entire time, one of his hands stayed resting protectively against the tattoo like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

[odesofreblogs]

AAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

[benpoinseye]

If you call dex cute, he reacts like you just insulted his entire bloodline

[odesofreblogs]

OMFG!!!! this picture!!!! i wanna lick his cheekbones and bite em while calling him cute and pretty and my adorable marksmen🥰

ahhhh he’d hate me🤪

[benpoinseye]

You once jokingly called him your “attack dog” and he looked mildly offended for three days.

Then someone bothered you in public and he appeared beside you instantly, so honestly the title stayed.

[odesofreblogs]

this would be too much power for me i fear but i love it😭 i send my actual pitbull after my family members at the slightest inconvenience.

and you know he’s only offended cause you called him that but never let him actually attack anyone… unless you do then he’d just be annoyed at you stating the obvious and/or calling him a dog. he’s your man, not a dog

[odesofreblogs]

oooh dont mind silly me just rolling a joint and pondering the thought of dex waking up from a wet dream and not wanting to wake his north star up so he tries jerking off, which leads to no where but more frustrated and leaking pre cum like crazy. then he tries humping the bed which always seems to do the trick whenever he’s on his stomach sucking your clit like he’s attempting to unclog a pen and that only succeeded in dirtying the sheets :(

nearly dropped my joint at the sudden thought of dex slipping his hard wet cock between your thighs, biting on his fingers to keep his noises from waking you. but you’ve been awake since before him when his hips first started shaking the bed while grinding into your ass

maaaaayyyybbbeee i’ll write this later but if someone else wants it👀………

update : posted on my main !!

[clawxmoon]

ex-boyfriend!dex who you broke up with years ago because he was so emotionally unstable, it ruined you mentally. you loved him for a long time but love often times can't save a dying relationship.

ex-boyfriend!dex who knows exactly why you left. that’s the worst part. there was no betrayal, no misunderstanding, no dramatic mistake he could point to. he simply exhausted you - little by little.

ex-boyfriend!dex who sees you flinch when he raises his voice during an argument and immediately goes silent. because he remembers all the nights you sat beside him trying to calm him down while he was falling apart. and now you’re looking at him like you’re terrified of him.

ex-boyfriend!dex who never really learns how to exist in a world where he doesn’t know where you are. he doesn’t approach you. doesn’t call. doesn’t text. but somehow he’s always nearby. close enough that you start turning around randomly in crowded streets because the feeling of being watched never goes away.

ex-boyfriend!dex who tells himself he’s just making sure you’re safe. that he’s protecting you. that he’s keeping an eye on things. but every excuse sounds weaker each year because deep down he knows the truth has very little to do with your safety and everything to do with his inability to let you go.

ex-boyfriend!dex who accidentally lets himself be seen one day. just for a second. your eyes meet across a parking lot and his stomach drops because instead of surprise, you look tired. like you already knew he was there.

ex-boyfriend!dex who notices the fear in your eyes whenever he gets too close and absolutely hates himself for it. because he never wanted you to be afraid of him. he wanted to be the one person you could trust.

ex-boyfriend!dex who refuses to believe your story ends with him. because if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that he doesn’t get to decide what you do with your life anymore. but he still hopes you’ll give him one last chance to prove he’s not the same man you left.

ex-boyfriend!dex who looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once. because loving you was the best thing that ever happened to him. and losing you was the worst.

[odesofreblogs]

that last line hit my heart good 😮‍💨 hoe you ate with this

[currentbrainrot]

fbi!dex was such an ASSHOLE. and what's funny is how he thought he was too smart to fall for fisk's shit and then proceeded to fall the fastest anyone has ever fallen

that is what makes his pathetic moments so sexy

[odesofreblogs]

PLEASE!! finally someone said it!! this man is too easy its hilarious.

[dolcesaints]

Ur so real like I really wanna read some cannon Dex fics just to see what would happen between him and his girl (even though I already kinda know how he’d be in a relationship). I love psychoanalyzing Dex because would he go far enough to “accidentally” kill his ‘north star’ from a burst of emotion he had? Idk but I think he’s such an interesting character to think about. Like is he even capable of having some form of healthy love for someone? Also I’m new as hell I’ve only binge watched the born again series and I’ve only researched a small amount of his lore lol

i would glady write that into a full fic (i just need to find the time to write it but trust i have some wips of dex.) he’s such an interesting character that every decision he makes is really just up for interpretation. but in my opinion, i don’t think he would go as far as to accidentally killing his north star though i wouldn’t be so surprised if he would. i think he’d realize especially when you’re begging for him to release u (in this case, i’m thinking of him choking his north star but not in a kinky way u freaks) he would come to his senses most likely and apologize while crying into ur chest, staining ur clothes with his tears. god i love writing pathetic men.

+ he would be avoidant with u the next day while also simultaneously trying to make it up in his own awkward way.

like leaving u flowers without any notes whatsoever but you just know that it’s him or organizing ur kitchen that doesn’t need organizing just because he wants to for you

i wrote this with fbi dex in mind, i can’t really imagine born again dex with a north star tbh.

[spicyrose]

ADDING TO THE DAERON SUB AGENDA putting daeron in a chastity/cock cage (maybe even while he cucks for of dunk and reader or just because he's so bratty) until he's sweating, shaking, and writhing while he watches you wear the key on a chain atop your chest sorry if this is 2 freaky

NO THIS IS EXACTLY THE RIGHT LEVEL OF FREAKY

modern daeron x reader x dunk

daeron who's either gotten a little too mouthy or too pathetic with it, so you make him wear the cage and sit in the cuck chair (he is exactly where he wants to be!). and you start making out with dunk on the bed and daeron's just watching the two of you kiss and touch and dry hump each other (well as dry as humping dunk can be when that man gets soaked in his own pre-cum fast). then dunk's going down on you and daeron is WHINING because he could eat you out! his cock's locked up but his mouth is free and so eager to be used! and he's already sliding off the chair and crawling towards you when you tell him to be a good boy and sit back down and wait his turn. you're sat on the edge of the bed with your legs over dunk's shoulders, playing with dunk's hair, the entire time switching between looking at dunk and daeron.

dunk makes you cum on his mouth a few times, so you reward him by riding him. big man gets so pussy drunk. it's a struggle for you not to go dumb on his cock but you are determined to stay in control. whole time the key to daeron's cage is nestled on a chain between your bouncing tits and daeron cannot stop staring at it. dunk reaches up to touch it and you lightly slap his hand away, oh daeron would be moaning at the thought of you owning and being protective of him.

you and dunk cum and daeron is just shaking and sweating. his hand running on his abdomen and thighs like he's trying to please himself, but every time his fingers make contact with the metal cage, he whimpers and whines.

you go over and sit in daeron's lap. he's instantly sucking on one of your tits and grabbing your hips and trying to sit you on his cock even though there's physically no way. you shush him and he starts crying. finally, you free him, and he immediately lines his cock up with your entrance and pulls you down onto him. moans like a slut both from the relief of your heat, but also because he can feel you stretched out from dunk's cock and messy with dunk's cum. you ride him and he's babbling the whole time, which let's be real, is about thirty seconds before he's cumming. but even after he cums he's clinging to you and hiding his face in your tits and refusing to let you off his cock, not until you sweet talk him and tell him you're pleased with and proud of him.

[marvelimaginesyesplease]

I think Dex would eat you out well past over stimulation, and not even just because he’s being controlling etc etc. No, I think it’d be because he’s so lost in it. I think he’d be straight up whimpering into your pussy, hips flexing while he grinds into the bed, all pathetic and needy and just about ready to cum in his pants because he’s so drunk on the taste of you.

I think you could be crying out above him, over stimulated and near tears, hands in his hair, calling out his name and trying to squirm away and he’d had his arms hooked under your legs, meaty palms pressing down on your hips, brows furrowed while he’s groaning with each lick of your clit. Fuck he loves this, and he loves you, and he needs more.

And when he eventually comes up for air, pupils dilated, lids half closed, and you realize he has cum in pants, chin painted in your release, you’ll only soften.

“Oh baby,” You’d coo, and he’d just let his face fall against your thigh, looking dazed and utterly fucked out. You’d urge him up your torso, kiss him all sweet and messy, the taste of your cum still bitter on his tongue while you urge his sensitive cock into your soaking pussy and oh-

Dex is whining into your neck, grip tight on you while he ruts into you.

He’d eat you out every day if you let him.

[aquaticmercy]

Like Real People Do

Summary : Dex finds a getaway bag under your side of the bed and assumes the worst.

Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, abandonment issues, obsessive attachment, codependency, established relationship, obsessive devotion, implied suicidal ideation, protective!reader, clingy!Dex, anxious attachment, happy ending. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 3.3k

Requested By : Anon

Notes : First Dex fic with a taglist! Please let me know if you would like to be added, but remember, the taglist only applies to fics over 2k words! My 1000-something word short stories won't have the taglist on them. This fic title is inspired by a Hozier song of the same title. Enjoy!

Dex accidentally found your getaway bag hidden under your side of the bed on a random Tuesday.

He wasn’t snooping. He was looking for the knife he knew had slipped under there this morning when you clumsily knocked it out of the dresser in your hurry to go to work. He was reaching blindly beneath the bedframe with one hand, already annoyed because it was out of place, because he hated when things were out of place, because every missing thing became a hook in his brain until he found it and put it back where it belonged.

And then his fingers brushed canvas.

Huh. What’s that?

Because Dex didn’t believe in minding his business if his business was you, he dragged out the duffel bag from under the bed.

The second he unzipped it, he was frozen in horror.

There was cash inside, and not a cute little emergency envelope. Not “oh, I have some spare money in case someone hacks into my bank account.” It was some serious running money in bundled notes, probably half your life savings if he remembered correctly. It was enough to disappear for a while if you needed to. 

And because Dex’s brain was not a calm place, because Dex’s brain was basically a locked room full of alarms and broken glass and every person who had ever left him whispering see? see? see?, he did not think: oh, that’s a lot of cash. I'm gonna ask her later what it’s for.

He thought: She has an exit plan. She’s going to leave me.

He tried to shake the thought off his head, because it could be anything, right? 

Nope, didn’t work. 

Of course. Of course. Of course she was going to leave. Look at you. Look at what you are. Did you really think she would stay?

Fuck. 

He stood up and left the duffel bag there. He didn’t tear it apart. In fact, it stayed mostly intact, sitting open on the floor like a confession. He was careful with it, because some awful part of him needed the evidence preserved. Needed to look at it and hate himself.

But he destroyed the room though.

He didn’t do it violently, but instead he did it frantically. Drawers were yanked open. Your nightstand emptied. His hands were under the mattress before flipping it, shoved them into the insides pillowcases, behind books, between folded clothes. He was looking for more proof. Looking for the backup bag, a hidden note, a passport he knew had to exist, something to confirm that he wasn’t going insane and you were actually going to leave him. 

But the more he searched, the worse it got.

Every drawer he opened made another mess. Every shirt he threw aside landed in a place clothes shouldn’t be. The lamp was crooked. The blanket was hung by the door. The floor was covered. His breathing got too loud. The room started closing in around him, cluttered and wrong and bad, bad, bad!

And then that became his next spiral.

Great.

Fucking great, he thought as he looked around. 

Now the outside matched the inside of his head.

A ruined room for a ruined man. A mess for a mess.

Dex stood in the middle of it, shaking, staring at all of it like he had done it from outside his own body. 

This!!!! This is why she’s going to leave you!!!!!

He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eye, breathing through his teeth, but it was too late. The mess was everywhere. The thought of you leaving was everywhere. He couldn’t put it back from wherever the hell it came from. He couldn’t make the bed right. He couldn’t get the image of you walking out of his life with that stupid fucking bag to stop replaying behind his eyes.

By the time you came home, he was a shell of himself.

Your keys were still in your hand when you stepped in and stopped cold.

The room was destroyed, but not smashed walls and broken glass and violence for the sake of violence. It was searched, gutted, turned inside out. 

And in the middle of it was Dex, on the floor, his back against the bed.

The duffel was halfway open near his knee, untouched compared to the rest of the room… and he had a gun. 

He had a gun in his hand, pointed at himself, on the underside of his head.

And he hated that too. He hated the neediness. He hated that even now, even like this, some starving part of him hoped you would come home and stop him. Which was pathetic. Which was manipulative. Which was exactly the kind of thing someone should leave him for.

Your blood went cold.

“Dex,” you said, trying to sound harmless; it almost sounded like a coo.

His eyes snapped to you, and it was red and wet with tears. 

It was difficult to imagine him as Bullseye like this, because Dex had always been frightening to most people who knew. You had seen him after bad nights, after adrenaline. 

But you had never seen this before.  That was different.

Dex didn’t wreck rooms. Dex didn’t leave chaos behind him like some sloppy, careless animal. Even at his worst, he was controlled. So seeing your bedroom torn apart was not just frightening.

It just meant something was very, very wrong.

“You’re home,” he said, and his voice sounded scraped raw, like he had been arguing with invisible people for hours.

You didn’t move too fast even though you wanted to. Your heart was throwing itself against your ribs so hard it hurt. But you looked at him, at the arguably most dangerous man in New York sitting in the wreckage of your bedroom with a weapon turned inward, and all you could think was:

Sweetheart

Your sweetheart of a murderous boyfriend, terrified out of his mind.

“I’m home,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to the duffel, then back to you, and whatever fragile little thread had been holding him together snapped. “You were going to leave.”

The words came out so broken they barely sounded like an accusation.

Your gaze dropped to the bag and saw the cash peeking out.

Oh.

Oh, Benjamin.

“Dex—”

“You were going to leave me,” he said again, louder this time, but it cracked halfway through. “You had money. You had a bag. You had—” He sucked in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You had a life under there.”

You took one slow step forward. He flinched.

“You weren’t supposed to find it like this,” you said softly.

His face fell. “So it’s true.”

“No.”

“You just said—”

“No, baby.” Your voice shook, but you kept it gentle. “No. Not like that.”

He gave this horrible little laugh.

“Don’t. Please don’t.” His hand tightened around the gun, not threatening you, but himself. “You can’t make it sound sweet. Please don’t stand there and make it sound sweet when you’re planning to run.”

“I wasn’t planning to run from you.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes.”

His eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” you said again, stepping closer, careful, so fucking careful. “I had a plan. But not that one.”

He shook his head hard, like your words had reached a convinced resistance in his brain.

You looked around the room again, really looked this time, and understood.

He hadn’t destroyed it because he was angry. He had looked for evidence until the room became evidence of him.

It was a ruin made wrong by his own hands. An excuse to hate himself because the alternative was hating you. And Dex could never stomach that. 

Dex followed your gaze and his face collapsed into shame.

“I fucked it up,” he said, barely audible. “I fucked everything up. It’s everywhere. It’s all wrong. I can’t—” His breathing hitched. “I can’t fix it. I made it worse. I always make it worse.”

“Oh, Dex.”

“Don’t,” he snapped, then immediately looked wrecked by his own voice. “You were going to leave me.”

The gun shook.

“I wasn’t.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes,” you said, frustrated now because he didn’t leave you space to get your point across. “I had a plan. So for once in your life, sweetheart, please listen to me!”

And that shut him up.

Horrible choice of words? Maybe. But you needed him to listen.

You lowered yourself slowly to the floor, not too close yet, keeping your hands visible.

“Dex,” you said. “Have you even looked in the bag?”

“I did.”

“No,” you whispered. “Really.”

He didn’t move.

So you reached for the duffel yourself and pulled out the first burner phone.

“One,” you said. Then the second. “Two.”

What? 

You pulled out your fake passport. “Mine.” Then… a second one. “Yours.”

Dex’s face changed in stages.

Confusion first. Then disbelief.

Then a feeling of devastation made him want to crawl across the floor and cover you with his whole body.

You kept going, because he needed facts. He needed as much proof as you can give.

“Two sets of clothes. Two toothbrushes. Cash for both of us. Medical kit.” Your voice went small, almost sheepish. “I… fuck, Dex, forgot to tell you. You know how I am when I get distracted.”

He blinked. He knew— he knew more than more people what you were like when one too many things were in your mind. Sometimes the details just slipped, and he would never use it against you.

“I made it a week ago when you were out,” you explained. “I made it because one day you might come home and say you have to run. And I know myself, Dex. I wouldn't ask questions while you bleed on the carpet. I’m grabbing the bag and going wherever you need to go.”

He stared at the ID that you opened. It had his face on it.

You looked up at him from the floor, surrounded by all the proof he had misunderstood.

“I wasn’t planning to run from you, Dex.” You reassured. “I was planning to run with you.”

Dex stared at you. And his whole body just… gave up, like whatever rage had been keeping him upright finally dissolved and left nothing underneath but panic and shame and love so whole it made him sick.

The gun dipped, his wrist going slack like all the strength had drained out of him at once.

You put your open palm gently on his lap. “Let me have it, baby.”

Dex stared at your hand. You were asking for his gun as if it wasn’t a weapon turned inward, as if it wasn’t the shape every horrible thought currently chewing through his skull made real.

His fingers tightened once, and not because he wanted to keep it. It was because letting go meant trusting you with the part of him that was still trying to punish himself.

You kept your voice soft.

“Please, baby,” you whispered. “I’m going to put it on the table. That’s all.”

His eyes flicked to yours then, wet and ruined.“ You shouldn’t come closer.”

“I know.”

“I’m not—” His lips trembled. “I’m not right.”

“I know.”

Fuck. 

You weren’t arguing. You weren’t denying that this behaviour wasn’t normal. You knew he was dangerous. And still, your hand stayed open.

“Give it to me, Dex.”

His breath hitched.

The room was still a mess around you. Dex’s eyes kept catching on it, dragging over every displaced object like each one was proof of his failure to be a good boyfriend. 

You saw the thought move through him and softened your voice even more.

“Don’t look at the room right now,” you murmured. “Look at me.”

He tried. Eventually, his gaze dragged back to you like it physically hurt.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good. That’s good.”

Dex made a sound so small it almost disappeared in his throat.

You put your hand closer, not snatching, not treating him like a threat, even though your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

“Let me put it down,” you said. “Then we can sit. Okay?”

He stared at you for another breath. Then, finally, his fingers loosened.

You took the gun from his hand with the gentlest touch you had ever used on anything in your life. You turned and placed it on the table behind you.

It was far enough away now

Then you came straight back to him.

The second your hands were empty again, Dex collapsed forward like the weapon had been the last thing holding his body upright.

You caught his face in both hands. “Oh, baby.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I know.”

“I thought so little of you.”

His voice barely sounded like his own anymore. It was scraped thin and torn open. 

“Baby,” you whispered. “Breathe.”

“But I did.” His hands caught you frantically, gripping your waist, your hips, the fabric of your shirt like if he let go, you would disappear right there in front of him. “I did. I saw it and I thought… I thought you were like everyone else. I thought you were going to get tired of me. I thought you finally realised.”

Your throat tightened. “Realised what?”

His eyes “What’s wrong with me.”

Oh, fuck.

You took his face in your hands, like you could hold the thought inside him still enough to kill it. “Nothing is wrong with you that makes me want to leave.”

Dex flinched. 

His eyes squeezed shut, and the first real sob shook out of him, helpless and so human it made your heart ache. Because Dex could handle cruelty. Dex could handle being hated. Dex could handle people looking at him like he was a monster.

But this, he never knew how to handle. 

“I love you,” he said, breathless now, panicked by his own need. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” you whispered, and it came out a little mean because you were crying too now. Because how dare he? How dare he look at you like leaving him was something you could physically do? “Please don’t say things like that.”

You kissed his forehead first.

“I’d never leave you.”

Then his temple.

“Never.”

His cheek, still wet with tears.

“Never, Dex.”

You gave more fluttery kisses to the bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. His other cheek, peppering small kisses one after another, until his breathing caught and his face tipped helplessly into your hands. Even now, even wrecked and ashamed and shaking, some part of him still wanted more.

He needed more.

So when you kissed the damp track beneath his eye, he grabbed you.

His hands caught your waist and dragged you closer, desperate and clumsy with it, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was too broken. Dex kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside you. Like your mouth was the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the horrible void his mind had made for him. His breath stuttered against your lips, his hands gripping your shirt, your side, your hip, anything he could touch.

And you let him.

You kissed him back with both hands in his hair, holding him there while he made that ruined little sound into your mouth. 

His hand tightened at your waist.

“Ow, Dex,” you breathed, but it came out with a tiny chuckle against his mouth. Of course this man was having one of the worst breakdowns of his life and still holding you like a claw machine. 

He froze for half a second, lips still parted against yours.

“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, voice rough.

But he did not pull away. He just loosened his grip, palm spreading wide and careful over the spot instead, like he could smooth the hurt away.

“Too hard?” he asked.

“A little.”

His forehead dropped against yours. He breathed out shakily, almost laughing, still crying.

“There,” you murmured, kissing him again. “Gentler.”

He tried. Fuck, he tried so hard it almost broke your heart. His palm opened against your side, broad and shaking, still possessive and needy, still Dex, but careful now.

Then he folded into you.

He put his face against your chest like he was trying to disappear there. As if he pressed close enough, he wouldn’t have to see the room behind you. Wouldn’t have to see the drawers, the clothes, the crooked bed, the evidence of everything he had done while his head was eating itself alive.

Fuck.

This man could kill half the city if you asked him sweetly enough. He could put a fork through a random person on the street if you only pointed. He could turn anything into a weapon. 

But with you, he was on the floor, hiding his face in your chest because he couldn’t look at the mess he made.

Because you were so, so special to him, that the idea of losing you had gutted him thoroughly.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered into your shirt.

You stroked his hair. “Baby.”

“I’ll fix it.” His voice caught. “I’ll put it back. I’ll clean it. I’ll do it right. I’ll fix it.”

“I know you will.” You kissed the top of his head. “But not tonight.”

He went tense immediately, panic sparking under your hands.

“I can. I can do it.”

You shook your head gently before he could spiral again.

“Listen to me. We’re going to get a hotel tonight, yeah?”

Dex blinked at you, breath hitching like the idea of stepping out of the ruined room had not occurred to him.

“And tomorrow,” you continued, keeping your hands on his face, “I’ll get a cleaner in here.”

His eyes flicked past you to the room, panic flashing. “No—”

“Baby,” you said softly. “Listen. I’ll get a cleaner in here tomorrow. They’ll do the big stuff.”

His throat worked.

“And then,” you said, kissing his cheek again, “after they’re gone, you can make a second pass at everything.”

Dex went still.

You saw the compromise land in his brain.

“You can put things back how you like them,” you whispered. “You can check the drawers. You can fix the bed. You can make it feel right again. But tonight, we have to leave the room alone.”

That… was a good idea.

“Okay,” Dex said finally.

It came out muffled against your chest, hoarse and exhausted. He nodded once, like he was trying to make his body accept it too.

You stroked his hair back from his damp forehead.

“There he is,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered shut.

His arms tightened around your waist, but only for half a second before he remembered himself and loosened his grip. He looked up at you, eyes red, cheeks wet, mouth swollen from kissing you. Still wrecked. Still ashamed. But quieter now. Softer around the panic.

“You’ll be with me in the hotel?” he asked.

You cupped his cheek. “Of course.”

His breath left him shakily. “Okay.”

You kissed his forehead one more time. “Come on.”

You helped him stand, reaching out. The room was still messy around you, but he didn’t look at it this time. He kept his eyes on you at the door, his hand hovered near yours.

“Is this okay?” he asked, poking at your fingers while the duffel bag sat on his shoulder. Tonight was gonna barely make a dent on your stash, so there’s no reason to worry about anything, really.

You smiled and opened your hand. “Of course.”

He slid his fingers through yours carefully, like he was afraid of holding too tight again. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.

Then he followed you out without looking back.

— end.

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid (Let me know if I missed anyone)

[odesofreblogs]

omfg this was literally phenomenal

may no rock or tiny annoying object get stuck in your shoe for as long as you live

[dexgirlfriend]

physical touch comes to benjamin poindexter as easy and as natural as breathing. whether it's a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or a pinky hooked 'round yours mid conversation. fingers intertwined with yours as you walk outside, of course, is normal for him. and at home, when he's navigating around you, even though he has ample space, his hand falls to the small of your back as he moves you gently to get around. there's a lazy arm slung over your shoulder, a finger drawing distracted patterns across your skin, his head heavy on your chest at night when he's asleep. and that's just the things he's not really aware he's doing.

sometimes, when he's in a particularly good mood, he'll kiss your lips until you're dizzy and laughing and breathless, then move onto the rest of your face while you catch up on oxygen and your surroundings.

"doin' too much, poindexter," you'll laugh, and he'll lean back in to lick a broad stripe up your cheek, because he's nothing if not unconventional, and if you even try to wipe it away, he'll just lick your hand too. or maybe you're not giving him enough attention, maybe you're busy working—most times, you don't even notice him, because of his training. not until he's sinking his teeth into your limb of his choice anyway. on luckier occasions when your camera's off in a meeting, you stifle your surprise until you're able to mute yourself and complain; on important calls, though, he's sitting on the floor by your legs, and you don't even feel his hand wrapping around your ankle, or his breath ghosting over your skin before pain shoots up your leg. on more than one occasion, you've been asked if everything's alright, and when you glare down at him later, all he does is grin back up at you. the worst part is you can't even stay mad at him when he's so beautiful and you're so in love.

the biting also continues… elsewhere, like he's determined to mark you as his territory. even if he's careful to make sure that all of them—okay, most of them—are hidden, he revels in the thought that your knowledge of them will remind you of him, regardless of where you are. oh, and the dull ache of the bruises left in his wake that are totally by accident because he definitely doesn't know his own strength is nice to think about too—even though you both know better than that.

and then there are the bad days. he'll walk in, silent, and you don't say anything, either. you know him too well for that—if he doesn't want to speak, he won't, and if you keep asking you'll just make it worse. so you wait, and he pulls you onto his lap and buries his face in your neck, and your hands are in his hair, and he just stays like that until he feels better—your weight on top of him is more comforting than he'd ever admit. rarer events are when you lose track of time, pass out without realising, and wake up hours into the night, a cramped tangle of limbs. but your shared warmth is more comfort in one sitting than he's felt in his life before you, so who is he to complain?

he wakes up before you almost every morning, but even then, you're conscious enough most of the time to feel his fingers trace over your face, like he's trying to memorise you, like he hasn't a million times over already. and when you pad into the kitchen, still half-asleep, he lets you drape yourself all over him and catch a few more minutes while he cooks breakfast.

you've changed his routine; he's always hated change, but he'll be lying if he says he's not grateful for it this time.

you nudge him with a toe, he lifts you up effortlessly into his arms and doesn't put you down, your feet are in his lap as you watch a movie while he traces those same idle patterns across them—you ask him, "what's that supposed to be?"

he pauses, smiles in the way he does when he knows something you don't.

"i'm sure you'll figure it out," he says unhelpfully. and it's simple—too simple, maybe, 'cause you feel stupid when you figure it out. i mean, you should've known what it was, because obviously—

it's a bullseye.

hi guess who. 0.7k words i think i died and went to hell except hell is being obsessed with this man. i actually hated him so much the first time i watched daredevil (~6 years ago) lol guess this is karma. pls reblog to support ur authors !!

[babybellabale]

“dex needs like a really weirdo fucked up girlfriend” (ben poindexter x reader)

whatever wilson said ;) (ill post a part two with more unhinged ones, these are quite vanilla)

warnings?: shes crazy, he loves it.

1. you are a lovely girlfriend, cleaning up when dex wasn’t home, cooking simple meals for when you want to have a night in, fixing up his suit when the fabric tears.

while you do such lovely, domestic acts for dex, you also become giddy when he stumbles into the apartment bleeding from his side. stitching him close with precision and love. your tongue bitten between your teeth.

he was yours in these moments, slouched against the couch, panting in your ear, saliva lightly dripping down the corner of his mouth- mouth slightly agape as he watched you mend you up.

2. on late nights when dex was gone for hours on hours, and it felt wrong to be in bed alone. you would grab your book, blanket and any clothing dex had worn before leaving and snuggle on the couch. sitting on the couch meant you had direct view of the front door.

you memorized the sound of his footsteps, so when he was outside the apartment you would unlock the door before he could knock.

the first couple of times dex found it amusing and a little creepy. now he finds it comforting and greets you with a kiss and nibble on your bottom lip every fucking time.

3. the first time you meet matt murdock, its under quiet violent circumstances.

matt realizes something is deeply wrong with you almost immediately. he hears your heartbeat slightly change while dex talks about violence and instantly understands, you like this.

your big, bad, misunderstood boyfriend is just creating boundaries, trying to better himself for you!

and it turns you on so so bad.

4. one night you went to sleep quite early, dex smiles with glee finding his missing knife tucked inside your nightstand beside lip gloss and receipts like it belongs there. he leaves it, just to see what you’d with it.

should’ve taken in because dex opens his eyes to you straddling him, nose almost touching his with the very same knife digging into his neck.

your eyes are glassy and red, lips wobbling as you whisper out, “who is karen?”

“karen?” dex repeats, like he’s annoyed the name is even in your mouth.

“she can’t even choose between murdock and castle and you’re worried about me talking to her?”

a short, humorless exhale.

“there is no one for me in this world, except you”

then, quieter he whispers against your lips while softly taking the knife from your shaking hands “so stop acting like there’s anyone else here.”

5. dex was maybe a block away from the apartment when he felt you behind him, he stopped and smiled. “sweetheart…i know your there.”

you emerged from the shadows pouting, “you only kissed me two times.”

you heard dex’s muffled laugh through his mask as he sauntered over to you, sliding his hands over your ass. he leaned down to kiss you and you deepened it wrapping your legs around him.

“you left this” you whispered handing him one of his main knifes. dex smiled as he rubbed his thumb across the engraved blade ‘taken’.

he looked up to see you walk away back home, “thanks for the kiss.”

dex being dex, made sure you got in and locked the door before walking back down the street.

6. he found a box of his belongings, not belonging but what else do you call it? his broken tooth from a fight, a bullet case you personally removed from his body months back. polaroids of him sleeping, and one with him taking off his suit mid way. you kept clipping of his vigilante name from newspapers.

you were scared when dex approached you with the box in his hands, “you kept these things?” he asked lowly.

shamefully, you nodded. and in return he smiled and slammed his lips onto yours.

“no one has cared for me like this ever.”

7. you liked documenting stuff on your phone, photos and videos of scenery, food, little ducklings in the park.

detailed videos of his scars and wounds across his body as he slept, a video of him putting on his suit, mask and weapons in their respective places. selfies of the both of you in dim lighting, as he softly licked into your mouth.

at night, you would record the marks he would leave all over you after fucking while he was in the shower. a keep sake for when they would fade away. your favorite was photos of him candid at home, shaving his beard with a towel wrapped around his waist hanging dangerously low on his hips.

——————————————————————————

the things i would do to play dex’s weirdo fucked up gf

[odesofreblogs]

i would wear— i mean my dex’s weirdo fucked up gf character would wear that tooth as a necklace after he finds out

[mcrdvcks]

this scene broke my writer's block - clingy matt????? yes please???? like, hello i want to squish his cheeks and kiss him all over and ride his abs—i mean... look at this cutie pie. also wrote this instead of doing my academic writing homework. totally worth it

warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gn!reader, clingy!matt, matt is kinda a dork, pet name (sweetheart), matt murdock (yes, he's a warning), fluff, cuddling, 1.3k words

The light in the room looks like it’s trying to be gentle, falling through the blinds in thin bands that drift across the floor as the day moves. Someone left a half-finished cup of coffee on the dresser, and the whole place smells faintly like it. You’re stretched out on the bed with one leg tangled through Matt’s, his arm heavy over your middle like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep a hand on you.

You shift, careful at first, but he notices anyway. His head lifts a little from the pillow, hair messy, shirt still on because neither of you bothered to change, and his hand tightens at your waist like a reflex. “Where’re you going?” he asks, soft but already a little offended by the idea.

“Two feet away,” you say, trying not to laugh as you wriggle free. “I’m putting something on.”

His hand slides off you like he’s resisting the urge to grab you back by the hem of your shirt. You hear the small sound he makes, somewhere between a sigh and a complaint. “Oh, come on,” he says, and there’s no bite to it. It’s whiny in that way that makes your chest go warm. “You were right there.”

“I’ll be right back,” you promise, already crossing the room.

“You’re lying,” he says, like you’ve done this to him a hundred times and he’s never recovered from it once.

You glance over your shoulder. “I am not.”

“You are,” he insists, voice low, the corners of it tipped toward a pout. “You’re going to forget about me. I’ll die.”

“Dramatic,” you call, stopping by the little record player like it’s a ritual. “You’ll be fine, Matthew.”

At the sound of his name, he settles back onto the pillow with a theatrical huff, but you can tell he’s listening in the way his breathing changes, in the way the room feels like it has a line drawn straight from you to him. You flip through the sleeves until you find the one you want, slide the vinyl out, set it down, and lower the needle with a careful hand.

The first crackle pops through the speakers, and then the music blooms into the space, warm and a little scratchy, like it’s been waiting all day for someone to remember it exists. You turn back toward the bed and catch him looking in your direction, head angled like he’s tracking you even without his eyes. His mouth is pressed into a line that’s trying not to be pleased, but it’s failing.

“See?” you say, walking back. “Now it’s nice.”

“It was nice before,” he replies immediately, like that’s the entire point. His hand lifts, palm up, inviting. “Come here.”

You climb back onto the mattress, but instead of settling down where you were, you scoot across the sheets and sit up, facing him. His hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s soothing himself as much as you.

“You’re clingy today,” you say.

“I’m not clingy,” he says, offended on principle. Then he adds, quieter, like it slips out before he can stop it, “I just like you.”

Your smile turns into something softer. “That’s suspiciously close to being clingy.”

He shifts up on one elbow, leaning closer. “Sweetheart,” he says, and the word is gentle, not a performance. “I had you in my arms and then you left. You can’t do that.”

“I left to put music on,” you remind him.

“You could’ve done it from bed,” he argues, and you open your mouth to ask how exactly you’re supposed to reach across the room with your mind, but he’s already moving, pushing himself upright like he can’t take being separated by even the small distance of a few feet.

He swings his legs off the bed and stands, pausing for a second as if he’s listening to the record, counting the rhythm. Then he turns toward you, holding his hands out with a faint tilt of his head.

“You’re inviting me to dance?” you ask.

“I’m insisting,” he says, and even that sounds tender. “Come on.”

You slide off the bed and step into him, and his hands land on you immediately, one at your waist, the other finding your hand with sure confidence. He draws you closer until your bodies line up, chest to chest, and you can feel how warm he is through the fabric.

“You’re not even pretending you don’t want me close,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh that vibrates against you. “Why would I pretend?”

The music carries on, slow enough that you don’t have to think about it, and Matt sways with you like it’s instinct. His hand at your waist shifts up and down, mapping you like he’s memorizing you again, and the other hand keeps yours anchored between you both. Every time you try to lean back even a fraction, he follows, pulling you in like the world is a little less sharp when you’re pressed against him. His mouth brushes your temple. “Better,” he says, almost to himself.

You tilt your head, trying to meet his face even though you know he doesn’t need it. “Better than what?”

“Better than you being over there,” he answers, like it should be obvious. His fingers squeeze your waist. “Better than you getting up.”

“You’re going to survive me putting on records,” you say, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

He draws back just enough to find your mouth, kissing you slow, not hungry so much as determined. His hands hold you like he’s making an argument with his touch, like he’s proving a point: stay, stay, stay.

When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t move far. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing evenly. “Can we go back?” he asks.

You blink, a little dazed, and it takes you a second to understand what he means. “To bed?”

“Yes,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world. “Please.”

“We’re literally standing right next to it,” you point out, but you’re already smiling.

“That’s not the same,” he replies, and then he shifts his grip in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand slides under your thighs, the other anchors around your back, and before you can protest, he lifts you easily.

You make a surprised noise, your hands flying to his shoulders as your legs automatically hook around his waist. His arms hold you like you weigh nothing, like you belong there.

Matt grins, and it’s all boyish satisfaction. “There,” he says. “Now you can’t go anywhere.”

“I could still get down,” you tell him, but you don’t sound convincing, and you both know it.

He takes two steps, turning you both toward the bed. Your bodies sway with the movement, and the record keeps playing like it’s cheering him on. He kisses the corner of your mouth on the way, quick and smug. “You won’t,” he says simply.

He backs you onto the mattress, lowering you carefully so you land on the sheets with a soft bounce, and he follows you down immediately. His weight settles over you in a way that’s warm, not crushing, his arms bracketing you like he’s building a shelter out of his own body.

Your legs are still around his waist, and he nudges closer until there’s no space left at all. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, like he’s satisfied now that he’s gotten what he wanted.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips. “Happy?” you whisper.

His hand slides up your side and rests over your ribs, fingers splayed like he’s counting your heartbeat for fun. “Mm,” he hums, and he sounds calmer already. Then, softer, like he’s letting himself have it, he adds, “yeah. Much.”

The record keeps spinning in the background, crackling between songs, and Matt tucks his face against your neck as if the entire world can wait as long as you’re right here.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo

matt murdock: @tezooks @steviebbboi @crowleythesexydemon @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu

[dexgirlfriend]

[3+1]: three times bullseye wakes you up in the middle of the night, and one time you're waiting for him

pairing: benjamin "dex" poindexter x fem reader

word count: 2.6k

content&warnings: breaking and entering, threats of violence, swearing, blood/wounds, making out, partial nudity, highly suggestive, dex spinal scar :p, benjamin poindexter. lmk if i missed anything! proofread & may be crossposted onto ao3. like and reblog to support your authors ♡ thank you for reading! dividers by @.honeyluvsw

the first time, of course, is scary—you wake to a masked man in your apartment, in the middle of the night, pointing a gun at you.

"scream, you're dead. got it?" bullseye switches the safety off.

you nod, whisper out a yes. your lungs have stopped working at maximum capacity.

"give me your phone," he says plainly; oh god, you think, he's taking it so you can't call for help while he kills you. wait, do you throw it? or—

"slide it over. on the ground. don't try to move, i can shoot without looking." he sounds less patient this time, though there wasn't much of that in his voice in the first place. gun still aimed at you, he picks it up, examines it.

"okay," he says, putting it in one of his multiple pockets. "you got a first aid kit?"

you nod, speechless, shaking, and that's when you see the way the fabric darkens around his left side. "holy shit—"

he ignores you. "where is it?"

"in the bathroom," you respond, but your mind is moving a mile a minute. "oh my god, you're bleeding, i can't have a dead guy in my apartment!"

"your cat's orange," he deadpans. "your bedsheets are blue."

"what?"

"oh, i thought we were stating the obvious." you're going to throttle this man; now is not the time for jokes.

you swallow, clear your throat, hope your voice doesn't shake as you go into autopilot. "listen, um, bullseye, you should sit down. i'll get the kit, okay?"

he stares at you suspiciously, gun still raised as he sinks to the ground. "okay. but you try something—"

"and you'll kill me, i get it. but seriously, something's wrong with you, so let me help, please."

he glares at you; his gloved fingers graze over the bloody patch lightly. "i know there's something wrong with me."

"oh, god." you're just realising what you said a moment ago. "that is so not what i meant!"

"i know." his voice is an agonised rasp as he repeats himself, and also really attractive. now who said that?

you rush into the bathroom to get the rectangular box, hands fumbling as you open it in front of him. the gun's still almost in your face. nervous, you tell him to take the top half of his suit off, and he obliges, but even with the most careful of movements, his breathing quickens painfully. now he's only in his mask, cargo pants and boots, head tipped back against the wall. blood leaks out of the wound just below his ribs, but it seems shallow enough that it can be sutured shut.

you rip open a packet of sterilised gauze; on second thought you put on a pair of gloves before you take one out. he sucks in a breath through his teeth when you press it against the wound, tensing up.

"i—you need to hold it like that," you whisper, and his right hand comes up to cover yours. for a moment, it's strangely intimate, his gloved one absolutely dwarfing yours as he adjusts his hold on it with a groan, before he gives you the okay to let go. incredibly selfishly, you notice just how firm his body is, even now.

he's holding the gun in his other hand, and you jump at the click when he switches the safety back on and quietly puts it down on the ground beside him—it's enough to show that he's trusting you for now, but you're still not completely safe.

when his blood overflows the first piece of gauze, you hand him a second one and he nods in thanks.

but now you actually have to clean and stitch it up, and you're no professional.

you decide to start from the outside, dabbing at the dried blood gingerly; he remains stoic. by the time you get to the actual wound, however, his breaths come in shallow and fast, fists clenched. and when the needle finally breaks skin, you think you actually feel the way his heart rate speeds up. you're repeating i'm sorrys under your breath, hating that you're hurting him, even if he is a homicidal maniac with scarily accurate aim.

"it's fine," he murmurs when you're done, tone unlike anything he used before. "it—i should go."

you stand up from where you'd been kneeling between his legs—which, in hindsight, sounds a lot more sexual than it had been—and dust off your pyjama pants, looking down at the large pile of bloody cotton and gauze.

"uh, yeah, you should…"

you watch as he examines his gear before putting it back on, then holsters the gun across his chest again. he's so built, you think lazily as he stands up in front of you.

he's saying something—

"huh?" you respond, only to realise he's holding out your phone to you. it's mortifying. "oh."

you take it from his hand as he walks back to your open window, then turns back.

"thank you," he says; if it'd been anyone else you'd have thought his voice was gentle. "and lock your window."

oh.

you really don't expect bullseye to come back again, not until he's already in your room, weeks later, swearing and apologising under his breath.

maybe you'd neglected closing the window—just to have something to think about before sleeping at night, okay? it's not a big deal.

this time, he's not as vigilant with the gun, although he's not as roughed up as last time, so you think he might be able to fight you if you try to do something. not that you were planning to, of course. and either you're extremely delusional, or there's definitely tension simmering underneath your interactions, the way your fingers brush against his gloved ones, or the look in his eyes when you catch him staring for a moment too long.

you only realise he didn't take your phone this time when it buzzes from your nightstand moments after you finish washing your hands of his blood. he looks at you enquiringly and you lean over to check; it's your ex-boyfriend. he's probably drunk, you tell him, and he says fuck that, like he's more important, and even though you've only met him twice and you've seen him more on the news than with your own two eyes, you think he might be right.

you offer him water, turning away respectfully when he pulls up the mask. he helps clean up after himself, so meticulous, you think.

"this won't happen again," he says when he's leaving. he's standing right in front of you, and for a moment you're stupid enough to think something will happen. he raises one hand cautiously to brush some hair out of your face; the smallest contact of his glove on your skin is enough to make you feel like a live wire. "and lock the damn window."

"you know i can't," you reply, entirely aware of how stupid how sound right now, and you think he smiles.

"okay, then."

the third time is when you finally get to see his face. you wake at the sound of his boots landing on the floor, and you're awake enough to register who he is, but not enough to realise that he'd already pulled his mask off.

it takes you a second.

he's pretty, for lack of a better word. his hair is messy, dark golden brown, and there's a healed scar dragging across his cheek (you could find home in there). he's not "perfect" in any way, but you think you've never seen something more beautiful. there's crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, something you hadn't noticed before, the slightest shadow of stubble on his jaw. you have to physically tear your eyes away from him.

"what?" he asks, when he realises you're staring. you shake your head, embarrassed, before looking over him for any injuries.

"i'm not bleeding," he inputs helpfully. "just need to hide out for a bit."

"oh?" you say, sitting up.

"task force's being a bitch."

"so the usual." you get out of bed, stretching lightly. "so, um, you want some, um, tea or something?"

you're awkward, this is new.

his lips twitch up at your discomfort; his smile is sharp, the kind to make butterflies erupt in your stomach. "sure."

it's oddly domestic, having a vigilante at your kitchen table like this. there's a pile of belongings on one side, a gun and gloves (his), phone and hand cream (yours). he's as quiet as you'd imagined; neither of you speak much until your phone lights up. you both look at it simultaneously, and you sigh. "it's him again."

"he do this often?"

"fairly."

another text. then another, then—

he reaches over and switches it off, placing it facedown. "why don't you just block him?"

"it's… weird," you say. "i know we're not together anymore, but it's kind of nice to have someone to turn to or think about. occasionally."

"so you're broken up, but not really."

"kind of?" to tell the truth, you haven't thought of him at all since bullseye's world collided with yours.

"you deserve better," he comments.

you lean forward, interested. "like who?"

maybe it's the lack of sleep making you so adventurous today.

he leans back, holding eye contact. the word stays between you, unspoken, heavy. after a moment, he changes his mind. "someone… nicer."

you know you'll regret it as soon as you say it. "you're nice enough."

"you don't even know my name."

"you know you can just tell me, right?"

there's a pause. you tell him your name, and he there's a self-satisfied half-smirk on his face. "i know."

you don't question it, and it's kind of nice that he cared enough to find out.

you can call him dex, he tells you. it's not his actual name—you'd asked—but it's what everyone calls him. or used to.

"okay, dex." you like how it rolls off your tongue. (and he does too.)

then, when he's leaving, he looks at you like this meeting, like you had been a moment of weakness. "this was a mistake."

"no," you respond vehemently; it's the first time you've really gone against him since the two of you met. the fire in your eyes intrigues him.

"no?" he tilts his head to one side, amused. his mask is still in his hands.

"i'm a grown ass woman," you argue. "i know what a mistake is and what isn't."

"is that so?"

you stride up to him, pulling him down to your level by the front of his shirt. "yes, dex, it is."

his hands automatically come up to cup your face, mask forgotten—he's not wearing gloves, you realise. are they still on your table? was he planning to leave them behind?—and his thumb smoothes across your cheekbone, gentle. you cannot imagine these to be the hands of a killer, though you've seen the carnage he's left in his wake firsthand. "you're going to regret this."

"don't care—"

he kisses you. it's fast; you don't see it coming until it's already happening—not that you mind, of course. your hands fly the back of his head, the nape of his neck. he closes the window with one hand (your body screams at the loss of contact) before it comes back to you again, thumbing at your jaw, then lower, finding your pulse point. you whine into his mouth; he grins into yours as he walks you backwards towards your bed. you let go of him long enough to sit down, taking the opportunity to finally catch a breath. he sinks down between your legs; this time, he's yanking you down to kiss him again, hand on your thigh like puzzle pieces fitting together.

"don't you dare regret this," he pants, leaning back on his haunches. you laugh, breathless; you know you won't.

you scream when dex pulls his mask off. the lower half of his face is covered in blood, the origin appearing to be his nose. he winces at the noise. "don't panic, it was just one good hit. nothing's broken."

you're clambering out of bed, already headed for the bathroom. "i still need to clean you up!"

"it can wait."

you pause at the sound of his voice. it's different—deeper, more intense than usual somehow. you can tell he's not in the mood to be bossed around.

"what?"

"c'mere," he says. not exactly an order—but you do as you're told. "you mind the blood?"

you shake your head, no. if anything, he looks good, in his natural habitat—covered in the bloodshed he spends most of his time in. when he kisses you, you're already reaching back to unclip his holster; there's blood in (and smeared around) your mouth when he pulls back to unlace his boots, shedding the rest of his gear in quick succession until he's only in his boxers.

you're lying on the bed under him now, breathing hard. he places one hand over your heart, feeling the elevated pulse. "excited?"

you roll your eyes, propping yourself up on your elbows so he can kiss you again. when his knee slides between your legs, you let out a choked noise, and he takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, greedy. your hands pull at his hair in the way you know he loves, and he's letting out little whimpers almost subconsciously. he grinds down once, twice; he's the excited one, you think.

"how come you still get to keep everything on?" he demands, whiny. you like when he gets like this, all hooded eyes and swollen lips and everything that haunts him forgotten because he's so focused on you.

"just a sec, baby." you're about to pull your cami top off when one of his big hands reaches past yours and rips it down the front. you sit up, outraged. "dex, that was my favourite!"

you cut yourself off with a gasp when his teeth sink into your neck; he licks over the spot before moving lower, and his words are slurred, running into each other when he speaks. "mm, i'll buy y'one, no, ten more, m'kay? lemme have this—"

he doesn't even bother to finish his sentence before sucking a bruise into the space right under your collarbone; from the way he's holding you, you know there'll be marks from his fingers all around your hips and thighs. not that you mind, of course, not when he'll see them later and be almost possessive of them and of you.

he watches like a hawk, you beneath him, glassy-eyed and panting, voice hoarse. no one else gets to have you like this, no one but him. you're his, and his only, and in return—

"dex, you're mine," you breathe, fingers dragging oh-so-slowly down the scar on his spine. he shudders; a broken sound spills from his lips as he nods into your shoulder, blunt nails digging into your flesh.

it takes a second for him to regain composure before he looks up. there's a foreign glint in his eye—he's never seen you be this possessive of him, and he's not sure how to feel about it. proud? turned on? or maybe both. "that's right, baby, 'n you gotta take care of what's yours, right?"

his lips curve up into a self-satisfied smirk.

author says: i want him so bad hahaha i meannnn 👀 lmk what you think! requests are also open !!! thank you for the love on the other fic, i didn't expect this at all :3 !!

[ssvbse]

Scars Across Your Body

Matt Murdock x F!Reader | 1.7k

Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.

"What happened here?"

Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.

"What?"

You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.

"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"

A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.

"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."

You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.

"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."

"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.

The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.

And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"

He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.

"What?"

A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.

"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"

Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.

"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"

"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"

"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"

It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.

Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.

"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."

"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.

"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."

He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.

"You've got a lot over here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch your back more often."

"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.

"What happened here?"

"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."

"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."

"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."

Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.

"Do any of them still hurt?"

He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.

"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."

"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.

Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."

No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.

Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.

"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."

The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.

It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.

One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.

"What's this one from?"

Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.

"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.

"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.

"Won't that be a fun story to tell!"

[babybellabale]

snippets (ben poindexter x reader)

snippets of your and dex’s relationship.

1. he loves neck kisses, loves when you get tired and helpless after fucking. the only energy you can summon up is used to scatter wet open mouthed kisses down his strong neck- as a show of gratitude for how well he pleased you.

feeling the dull pinch of his stubble on your soft lips is addicting as you inch closer and closer to his jaw followed by his face.

dex just sits there pliant, head resting against the headboard as you rest your body on his. he stares down at you through half-lidded eyes, saying your name in soft whispers that further sink you onto dex.

2. dex was needy af, especially at night after dinner. you were just washing the plates and utensils used to make dinner when you felt a pair of large hands snake around your waist, very often than not dex would also rest his chin on your shoulder as he watched you clean up for a bit before taking over.

just as long as you kept him company with your random conversations. you talk, he listens.

3. the first time you shared a kiss with dex, you were nervous to say the least. after months of pining of him, he was now in your vicinity looking at your lips as if they were candy.

“can i kiss you?” he asked gently, his eyes flickering between your lips and dilated eyes.

you nodded and dex slowly lowered himself to your level. he was tall and didn’t want you to crane your neck to reach him, dex wanted him to kiss you.

he inched closer and closer, definitely making you wait for it. dex tilted his head and parted his lips softly molding his lips on yours.

the both of you let out a shaky breath of relief before kissing for the next 20 minutes.

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ill post something real soon!!!!!