[riddled-with-fear]

Update...

Not the update I was planning on making.

As most of you know, I took a step away from Tumblr in early May Due to my own physical and mental health. I had said I wasn't stepping away forever.

That has changed.

As you can see, I have deleted my works off of here, and AO3 as well. While I had fun with writing, I have chosen not to continue or keep my works up. 90% of them I had written during the worst mental health state I had ever been in, and re-reading them and reading the notifications about them brought me right back to those feelings. Plus, my inboxes were getting to be overwhelming, and I hated leaving the messages unanswered. I struggle with physical disabilities, and it was taking a lot of energy (physically and mentally) to answer and even write, hell, I had a hard time brainstorming even...

I appreciate all the support over the last year and a half, and want to thank everyone for all the kind words regarding my works. You might find whatever was reblogged lingering around Tumblr, but if it wasn't reblogged it is gone.

I don't plan on returning to writing anytime soon.

Thank you for your understanding <3

To my AMAZING moots, those of you that want to remain in contact DM me and I'll give you my external socials.

Alexa, play Helena by My Chemical Romance.

[the-ghost-bird]

I think he's just neat <3 deeply enamored with everything that's wrong with him

[twentytomidnight]

Dex always comes and finds you when he's banged up, or smeared in blood, or with a bruise mulberry and darkening still flowering on the temple of his forehead. Eyes always dark yet near-luminiscent with the alacrity that they search you out.

Ignoring your shock, your articulated fussing of concern, only demanding one thing: "Fix me up, sweetheart."

Ignorant to all other stimuli save the way that your hands flutter around the perimeter of his face, assessing damage, swabbing scrapes—stitching cuts. Letting that strong jaw of his set and grind in its housing, relaxing into the palliative care of your hands.

"You can't do this to yourself, Dex," You opine aloud, worrying as you discard another cotton swab blushing dark crimson to the trash. Only then do his eyes flutter open, returning the intensity of a stare that reserves a sacred heat for you.

"It's not my blood, sweetheart." He informs you of a truth that you knew, yet didn't wish to acknowledge. Taking opportunity of your shock to allow one of his rough, working man's hands to drape up the length of your wrist. Taking advantage of your sympathy to incline his head low, staring up at you through the fan of his lashes.

"Didn't know you cared like that." He returns staunchly, with a ghost of a taunt that he restrains. Yet makes clear with the crook of his smile that spreads in stark fashion on his face.

"Not like I want you dying." You return, and this is the most stark confession you can levy his way. So still the smile grows, but it turns cruel, self-deprecatory here.

"'S okay. I know it's the only way you can stand to touch me." He relinquishes the hold his hand has maintained over you, allowing you to realize how much you miss its absence. Surrenders himself back to your fine ministrations.

"I'll coax you for more eventually." He closes his eyes, allowing you to return back to the task at hand—and allow the truth of his statement to sink in.

a/n: have a killer headache and writing for dex seems to be the only way to relieve it; hope you enjoy this shorter-form blurb I made :)

[riddled-with-fear]

[twentytomidnight]

thinking about showboat Gal Gardner, who always has to show off for you because she wants you to like it and she knows you're too shy to do anything about it.

who goes, "go on, honey, you can touch 'em," when she flexes her arms in your direction after a workout. Who grins toothily and carnivorously as you touch the still-drying sinew of her bicep, warm and hot and alive—and all yours for the taking, if you're brave enough to do anything about it.

showboat Gal Gardner, who helps you with moving stuff into your new room at JLI headquarters because, "It looks like you need someone with some real firepower to help you out, huh?" And ignores your protests of Oh Gal, it's fine—especially when she sees how quiet you become when she wrests the packages from your hands and starts to move.

who smirks as she flexes and levies heavy furniture and boxes shoulder-over-shoulder in magnificently muscular manner, who catches the ways that your eyes are drinking her in—and how quickly, how shamefacedly your eyes dart away when she snags your eyes with her own.

showboat Gal Gardner, who is always looking for a reason to scoop you up in her arms if you're downed in a mission, or if you "Look tired, honey, why dontcha let ol' Gal take the weight off your shoulders?" Just because she knows it takes your breath away when she scoops you up—and because she can see the way your heart beats faster in the column of your throat, how the heat roils off of you in waves.

who chuffs through her teeth with blatant, gloating confidence as she asserts, "Think'a how nice it'd be if I could do this all the time—be a piece'a cake for someone strong like me, huh?" And watch as you hem and haw and chuckle your way through a satisfied non-answer. Because of course you'd like it—but you'll never admit it.

showboat Gal Gardner, who puts up a cocky, self-assured, brave front, but when you finally muster up the courage to confess your feelings, she's the one who's flushing and falling over her words.

who swallows thickly as you smile sweetly up at her and find her scorching hand in yours as you say, "So does this mean I finally get that kiss now, Gal?" As you pull her down for one—and your blustering, showboating girlfriend lets you lead her down for it.

dividers made by me :)

[twentytomidnight]

thinking a lot about possessive guy gardner, who's always got to have a hand or an eye on you somehow, even in situations when they're most inappropriate.

possessive guy gardner, who has to make sure that you're sitting on the spread of his thighs during debriefing meetings—even though you protest "Guy—everyone's looking—"—and in reward for your struggles, you're squeezed firmly around the ample flesh of your hip as a warning.

Next time, he won't be so nice—or so cognizant of your embarrassment, even though you're already roiling in the heat of your embarrassment as you try to avoid everyone's sheepish chuckles and averted stares.

possessive guy gardner, who always makes sure that his arm is draped around your shoulder, or that your arm is crooked into his—never with his over yours.

He's always gotta be the one maintaining that stalwart grip upon you, the one that says Eyes Forward Buddy, This One's Fuckin' Taken—and a scowl on his face the second that anyone sets their eyes slantways for even an instant in your direction. Makes sure to clap a hand to that slinks low over your waist just so he can luxuriate in the affronted squeak of complaint that you make.

possessive guy gardner, who will always ensure that he's got his arms wrapped around you whenever he can—if you're sharing the couch, expect all of his muscular, heavy limbs to be sprawled over you.

hot, sticky, sweltering evening in summer—you've installed the Guy Gardner Weighted Blanket to better suffocate you with as he presses the tack of his sweaty muscles over you in order to sleep better. He'll never let you squirm out of the implacable, iron grip that he's got you trapped under—or in.

possessive guy gardner, who never lets you leave without as many kisses as he extort out of you, practically holding you hostage in the clasp of his hands unless you give him a kiss.

Then another—then another—then, "Hey, I'm gonna miss you—you wouldn't wanna make me sad when you're gone, huh?—"—And uses it it to squeeze a couple dozen more and a very sappy reminder of your love to him. Who smirks like the indolent dog he is when he gets his way, and knows that he'll get it again the next time over.

possessive guy gardner, who knows when he has a good thing like you, so out of his league, so far beyond anything that he could have ever hoped for—and knows that he'll never let you go.

who may come on too strong in far too many instances, but does it because he loves with his heart on his sleeve and always wants you to know about it.

possessive guy gardner who was the first to grumpily, sheepishly, nervously confess the depths of his affection to you, and allowed you to admire the plume of deep-seated emotion in his eyes when you confessed it back.

Who is always the last to say "I love you" on the phone, the last to release your hand as you head for the door—and is waiting faithfully by the door when you come back, ready to sweep you back into his arms, where you belong.

divider made by my wonderful partner :)

[riddled-with-fear]

now THIS is pod racing!

[twentytomidnight]

knock-down gun show

Gal Gardner/Reader, 2.2K

a/n: a request for beloved mutual @riddled-with-fear that I saved for the 700 Follower Event!

cw: Gal punches out someone, unwanted advances from stranger, flirting, kissing, f!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

Gal defends your honor in a bar the only way she knows how. Gal Gardner/Reader

It's the iridescence of the neon lights that flicker over the two of you, that bathe you and she in such ethereal glow. You think that she looks stunning, though this is a thought that you think would require great circumstances—even beyond the numbing, pacifying affect of alcohol—to ply from your lips.

In her starched button-down with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone in cavalier manner, she looks breathtaking. She looks mouthwatering—she looks: so close, yet so far.

All you can think to say to her as you watch her hold the door open for you at accessible angle to enter the smoky, boozy bar is this: "Oh Gal, it was really nice of you to come with me to go drinking."

You keep your tone casual and affected, even though your heart is pulsing with rapidity in the housing of your neck. As you glance backwards at her, your herald to the rear as the two of you nose your way through a crowd that is getting tipsier by the second.

She sniffs, ruddy-cheeked from the outdoors and casting evaluative glance around the confines of the bar for accessible seating. She's quite casual in her response.

"Didn't wantcha to go drinking by yourself." And as you both nudge your way to two seats that are available at the end of the bar counter, she presses the knuckles of her balled fist against your shoulder to keep you away from two drunkards swinging close. The intimate touch, friendly but could be so much more—makes your breath hitch and catch. But you recover admirably.

"Oh, it's nice—"—You think of the solitude that nighttime drinking can offer, trying to re-orient yourself—"—I like decompressing after a long day."

She doesn't seat herself until you do, on one of the worn-down bar cushions that sinks with the weight of you hefting onto it. Only then does she spread her long, muscular legs barely restrained by her jeans onto the cushion, looking to catch the bartender's eyes. Her eyes slink back onto you slow, like she's savoring the sight of you dolled up for a Friday night.

"Yeah, but I don't think it's a good idea for a cute lil' thing— —"—And oh, how this affects the homeostasis of your body, how it upends the composure you're struggling to keep maintained—"—Like you to go and wander off."

She boxes the view of you from all else when she angles her elbow on the table, props her face into the curve of her palm. Directs the next half of her statement at you. As though you would be audience to anything else, even in the hubbub of the bar.

"Someone oughta keep an eye on you." She says, and there's something coarse in the curl of her lip, as she smiles and watches you. As though it's treat and privilege rather than job, like other people might view it to be.

You feel something move your mouth out of instinct into a smile. You steeple your fingers together so you can tuck your chin into the plateau. "So are you my chaperone?"

She chuckles, a hiss of air through her teeth that are pearly-white, even in the neon lighting of the sign hanging behind you both. "Wouldn't call it that."

You search for alternative wording, playing this game of banter that the two of you are segueing into. "What would you call it, then? Babysitter?"

You tilt your head in what you hope is appealing display—although the two of you are friends. Although you don't think that she's amenable to the half-disguised flirting you're levying at her.

But her eyes are still dead-set on you, bright and blue and unclouded by the haze of alcohol. What she speaks is with utmost sincerity.

"Don't know any babysitter that goes drinkin' with you." She returns carefully—for her. This is something that is laden with other intention that you've yet to—or are too scared to—parse.

"Well," You blink in innocent, coy manner, "Will my handler go and buy a drink for me?

At this, she barks a laugh that summons a flare of pride down your ribs, up your spine—at the fact that you've coaxed this accomplishment out of her. She angles her head back up to the ceiling before her eyes zero back in on you, her hand reaching out to squeeze good-naturedly at your forearm.

At least, that's what you tell yourself, because the momentary touch has stifled any coherency of thought to you.

"Only cause you're so cute, honey." She's already easing her way out of the seat, urging you to keep a leg over her stool. "Be right back."

She looks admirable from the front, but how gorgeous her hips are as they turn when she departs from the back—how impressive her shoulders are in swathing spread as she encourages her way through the crowd.

And how you are loathe to admit that the longing you feel as you watch her go is far more than something platonic. As you feel a yearning that ekes far beyond that of wishing for a friend to return back from the homestead.

You cycle your gaze back down the countertop, looking at your translucent reflection in the woodgrain, trying to grant yourself a moment of reflection on less turbulent pastures. But this a hope that is dashed away quickly as you hear the sharp chord of a person clearing their throat.

You look up, confused at how quickly Gal has returned—perhaps the ring has abetted her—but find yourself looking into the eyes of a man. A stranger.

He's got a smile on his face that speaks to his intentions before he utters any word your direction.

"Hey, cutie." He inches his way onto the seat. He takes it, before you can make amendatory statement of the seat meant to be occupied by someone else. "Glad I got you alone."

"Hi." You don't mean to, but you can feel yourself shrinking into yourself as you watch these unwanted eyes sweeping over you, making assessment. "Can I help you?"

He's slick, he's casual—but it's not the sleek bearings of the person you want to regale you with such attentions. Still, ignorant or deliberately so of your bearings, he continues, edging his elbows onto the table.

"Just looking for conversation." He shows you his teeth in predacious display. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Oh—uh—my—"—Your mind races, Gal isn't your girlfriend—even if you'd wish for her to be, so you fumble through your statement—"—I already—"

There's a laugh from he—and it's unkind at your state of disarray. "You're even cuter tongue-tied."

Something self-defensive flares up within you as you try to batten down the hatches, casting an eye out for Gal's return. That thatch of red hair is nowhere to be seen in the throng, and it summons something woried to the churning depths of your stomach.

"I'm not tongue-tied—"—You begin, but you don't get the chance to finish your statement. And neither does he.

You don't know when she got here, when she saw your peril. All you know is that she interrupts you, interrupts whatever smooth operation he was planning to execute in phase two.

All you see is the way that she stands behind him, close enough that all he can do is turn around to watch Gal towering over him. Her hands are in languid repose in her pockets, but her jaw is set. You know that look in her eyes as she regards him, takes in the height difference, the adjustment for weight.

Her voice is low and dangerous. "Why're you in my seat?"

Your unwanted suitor realizes that he's being addressed, and tries to act clever. "This your seat?"

"Sure is." She dares forward, the advancing adversary. "You gonna let me sit with my friend?"

He makes what you assume he supposes is disarming laugh, and gestures between the two of you. Apparently, he's hoping to make clear through hand signal just exactly what is happening between you both. Gal remains stolid.

"Your friend's just fine." He says, and then makes a shooing motion that makes a thick brow cock up Gal's head. "Mind if I talk to 'em?"

Gal leans in, close enough that if he wants to throw a punch, he'll be at a disadvantage of angle. Her next response is gritted through her clenched teeth.

"Sure fuckin' do." She returns—to his credit, the smile doesn't slip from his face. He remains unmoving. "You good at pickin' up hints?"

"Are you?" The man asks, and you go completely still, the only thing moving your eyes as you look at him, look to Gal.

Gal decides one last display of peace. "Get outta my fuckin' seat right now and leave her alone, asshole."

"Yeah?" He squares his shoulders—famous last words. "What're you gonna do about it?"

You don't think he even realizes that he's been hit—you barely comprehend it yourself. The punch comes so quick and fast that you feel like you register the sound in aftershock, after the actual visual display of her fist sapping across his jaw.

Either way—its effect is instantaneous. He tumbles with urgent immediacy to the ground in a heap of limbs. The ripples of influence it has on the crowd are also urgently swift, as heads turn to watch your wannabe Lothario crumple. Various people buck up, retreat—take in the sight with laughing shock or wariness that cuts through the booze.

And Gal, your knight in shining armor, stands over him with a breath that huffs through her in a cutting, broken note. You're quick to move, looking at the bartenders from the other end of the locale that are moving to check out what's happening. They don't look pleased.

You leap from your seat, taking care not to step on the comatose man as you make your way to Gal, sinking your fingers into the sleeves of her shirt. Only now does she seem to come back to herself, moving to clutch a hand around you. Concern draws clear over her face—something furious, something worried—something protective makes itself clear at the foreground.

"Oh my god—"—You shout through the crescendoing noise—"—Gal, we gotta go!"

Gal lets you lead her out through the crowd that spreads likes parting waves, to the door. The air is like a palliative balm washing over the two of you as you scramble around the corner—past the inquisitive eyes of passerby, or anyone that might commit your appearances to memory.

The two of you hustle down the street in the cool night air, arms seized around each other—though you're not aware of this until you pause your journey. Not until you catch your breath. Not until you look back up into those eyes that you realize haven't ceased watching you since the beginning of the night.

"Gal—I'm so sorry—"—You begin, parsing through the first comprehensible words that you can verbalize—"—Are you okay?"

You're turning her hands over to check on the affair of her knuckles, something that she lets you do. Her palms are calloused and care-worn, but they're a familiar shape to you; her hands are unmarred from the fracas.

"Are you?" Gal asks—only at this, do you look up to her in bewilderment.

"Huh? What do you mean?" You begin, watching the fire that is sweltering in the arc of her stare. "I—"

"He had his eyes on you—"—Gal clenches her hands around you, the heat nascent in her voice—"—He was trying to make moves on you."

Her eyes dart to the shape of your hands dwarfed in her own, then back up to you. "I just couldn't let him—"

"I know—"—You speak immediately to mollify her, to let her know that you don't blame her—"—You were so brave."

Something softens, something grows sweet in her eyes, though the wariness doesn't retreat. Though her defenses still remain propped up before you.

"Stupid, but brave." You say—Gal huffs laughter in short escape from her lips.

"I don't like the idea of someone putting their eyes—or their hands—on you." She says. Her voice lacks some of the anger, but the intention, the proprietary note in her voice, doesn't recede.

"Well—"—You feel the shape of her own against you—"I don't want anyone to put their hands on me."

And this is when you feel the bravery that it took these circumstances to summon forth, to finally make itself manifest.

"Except you." You say, without stuttering. Without hesitation. Without anything but the want that you have for her—making clear purpose.

So that way, when she pulls you to her, her rough palms cupping about your face in possessive kiss—she knows that you want this. That you've wanted nothing more than this, as you gasp into her mouth and clutch every handful of her that you can. As her teeth work around your bottom lip and she moans against you.

It's a long, breathy, needful while until the two of you pull away from each other, locked in each other's arms. The anger has long since disappeared, replaced by a prideful joy.

"So am I still your handler?" Gal asks you with a note of humor that befits her so well.

"No—I like girlfriend more." You tease—"—That is, if you do, too."

Based on how she pulls you back for another kiss, it's clear that she does.

dividers provided by my wonderful friend @itsgivingardener

taglist for fics: @wackular @sweetmourninglamb111 @thescrawler @luvmailing @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @just-peachy-babe @buggjunction @skeeets @colonelfish @riddled-with-fear @weirwxxds @drivingfastflash @bozosprout @ferretcrossing @redbeanbnnuy @cotton-eee @eatfeet69 @annwinolallenthawne @were-wright-on-time @pizzapartyplayhouse

[twentytomidnight]

SUPPLY AND DEMAND

no anon we die like (wo)men

Jesus Christ. Oh my god. Holy fuck. god DAMN

fucking hit the juckport everyone say thank you pizza Jesus CHRIST

[twentytomidnight]

just another bar hookup

Gal Gardner/Reader, 2.1K

a/n: a request for beloved mutual @pizzapartyplayhouse that I saved for the 700 Followers Event, hope you all enjoy :]

cw: smut/cunnilingus/fingering/18+ only, hookup, f!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

You and Gal decide it’s about time to address all those unspoken feelings. Where better than a bar bathroom after a few drinks? (18+)

The dappled light of the bar brings a kaleidoscope of color onto Gal's face that portrays her in hues you've never thought possible before. 

As you watch her over the rim of your shot glass, letting the spirits singe the inside of your throat, looking at the glassy-eyed manner that her grin has taken angled cant to, you think she looks rugged, beautiful, tipsy. 

Her collar is askew and her tongue is darting through the gaps of those perfectly white teeth made radiant blue and red under the spinning lights that add to the off-kilter ambience of the bar that is awash with people making bad decisions. 

except as you regard her, and take in the way her collarbone is illuminated with a sheen of sweat, the way her eyes are drinking you in—the manner in which her hand is nosing around the ridge of your knuckles—you think that she's one bad decision that you could never make. Only bad if you don't make it, in fact. 

"Whatcha smilin' like that for?" She grins cheekily, a ruddy hue smattered over the spread of her face—you want to press your own against hers and see if you can absorb any of the heat that she radiates off. See if she's warmer under the clothing that is begging to be torn off. 

"Jus’ thinkin' if you taste like tequila," you answer back casually, thinking of the shot that she downed moments before—what her tongue will feel like in your mouth. Against your neck. On your thighs. 

All she does is let her grin grow in excitement. "Wanna find out?" 

You do—but not until your wall hits the back of the bathroom stall—thank god for large, single-room bathrooms in dive bars where everyone is already ambling off to better hole-in-the-walls. No one looked the two of you over as she was already sneaking her hands under the waistband of your jeans, her mouth nipping greedily at your neck. 

Already, she's got you pinned in manner that demonstrates that she wants to have her way with you—her tongue is making slow, rasping ascent up your neck, sucking messily on your pulse.

You gasp, fingers stuttering over the button of her jeans, the junction of her legs grinding on your leg that is wedged between hers. You can feel the nascent want that she smothers you with, as her fingers sink into your stomach, clench tightly. 

"Gal—"—You moan, and she chuckles, a humming vibration that sends a wave of need cresting over you. Rewards you with another slow grind against your leg as you finally work down the zipper of her pants. "I—"

"What, baby?" She groans into the shell of your ear—her hands are shucking their way up your shirt, slinking under your bra. "Got somethin' you wanna say?" 

"I—wanna taste you." You beg—and are rewarded with the melt of her lips onto yours. She does taste like tequila, acrid and sharp and her tongue scrapes flat against yours so you can savor the taste. Her hands are already rucking your pants down your hips, greedy for more—and this reminds you of your misssion. 

"No—not like that—"—You plead—a cross, confused look passes her face. 

"Whatcha mean, baby?" Her hands pause at your entrance, where she's already palming you through your underwear, admiring how wet your panties already are. "Dontcha want this?"

Her palm slow, paws wantonly—you need to make it clear. 

"Course I do," you explain through the haze of tipsiness, "But—I wanna taste you." 

The way you say it, the way you maintain her gaze, lets comprehension crest slow like the dawn over her baffled expression. The momentary hurt—the bemusement—lets a wicked grin return instead. 

"Oh, that so, baby?" She asks. There's something wicked that's blossoming in her eyes, in the way that you find her mouth again for another kiss. A snarl builds in her throat—but then it turns to a muffled gasp of surprise as you slide your fingers under the hem of her jeans—and pull her forward against you. 

She pulls away for a brief second so that she can look down at your hands, which, while mildly incapacitated by the drink, are still stalwart enough to find the waistband of her boxers in thep inch of one fingers as the others unloop the button holding them up. You begin to glide the zipper down the teeth, frowning in mild exertion as the pull refuses to go any faster for you. 

"You want me that fuckin' bad, huh?" She teases, and there's a messy grab of her hands as she rucks them around your sholuders, pulls you in for another kiss wherever she can get access—the apple of your cheek, the edge of your jawline, the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

But still you're determined—admiring the prickle of goosebumps as you manage to work down her green boyshort boxers—something hissing through your teeth in satisfaction. 

You finally look up to her, see the longing in her eyes—another emotion that you can't quite discern is making its way through as she watches you through her lashes, under the set of that brow. 

"I've wanted this so long," You return back, your voice set with need—this makes a corner of her mouth pull up in a rugged smirk—you pull the boxers further down, feel the fine hair over her pussy under the pads of your fingers. She makes a little punched-out gasp that has you remember your mission at hand, and this is when you start to make your way down to your knees. 

You're barely cognizant of the unyielding set of the tile, the damp tackiness to the floor beneath you, the thrum of the bass through the bathroom door. All that matters is the fact that you're on your knees before Gal, working her boxers down her legs. 

"Oh, fuck," she says, the want bleeding through her voice as she looks down at you—as she puts a proprietary hand on the crown of your head, watching you. You look at the fine red hair, running a gentle hand over her entrance—she jumps ever-so-slightly at your touch—your eyes dart up to look at her. 

"You want me to do this?" You ask, catching a glimpse, a momentary flash of surprise in her eyes as you ask your way to the promised land. She chuckles. 

"Course I do," She says, though there's a twitch in her thigh as you run your thumb up her pussy, already growing wet and slick as you sink your finger in. Testing the waters—and you find yourself rewarded with a breathy gasp—a touch too undone already, especially considering that you've barely just begun. 

You feel like looking up to set a teasing smirk might ruin your prospects—so you decide to dare forward, using your other hand that's been resting on her calf for balance to drape up her thigh.

You ease her legs apart, letting her give you more access, a hum of appreciation as you take in the sight of her pussy more spread open, more accessible to you. Gal is oddly quiet, as though there's something worried, something tense that she can't articulate, for fear of bespoiling something that neither of you can verbalize. 

You decide to do something about Gal's reticence—and press your tongue against her pussy, letting the flat of it find the bud of her clit. She makes a choked sound that she barely smothers in her throat as you taste her on your soft palate, burying your nose against her, smelling the heat of her arousal.

Her noise is her approval—so you search out for more with the flat of your tongue, drawing her clit into the wet heat of your mouth. 

This results in a moan that falls freely from her lips, the twisting of her hands in your hair—her hips buck into your instinctively, searching out for more of the pleasure that you can give.

You can't help but chuckle into her, the vibration sending another open-mouthed shudder from her as you work to find a pace. But this won't do—you need to hear more of those lovely noises that you'll never hear from her otherwise. That you hope to hear from her more often in the future. 

It's a feat of multi-tasking, to keep your tongue lapping at her clit, the sound lewd and obscene in coupling with the "Oh—Oh fuck—oh my god—"—that are falling in disjointed chorus from her—and as your hand rises from the fine down of her thigh to tease at her entrance.

She's already so wet, it's little difficulty to slide your fingers into her pussy—you're rewarded with a groan and a "Oh my fucking god" that sounds so very unlike Gal. 

It's not gruff or with that air of bravado maschismo that she usually bears—it's broken, the syllables stunted—a ragged plea for you to continue. You were never one to do things be halves, and so you oblige, letting your fingers make a cruel, slick rhythm that works in tandem with the lave of your tongue as you work to make her come further undone. 

You spare one momentary glance that sends a bolt of arousal straight to your core—to see the way that her head is directly angled up to the ceiling, her face a tormented pleasure, the muscles in her jaw and neck working as her arm clenches—her fingers pull into your hair as you run your tongue up her clit in a slow, excruciating lick.

She bucks into you, though you work with the movement, and let your fingers curl inside of her, her walls swallowing up the deft motions that you make into her. 

Her mouth falls open in a perfect o, her eyes wrench closed, her brow twists up in perfect torture—she's perfection. Bathed in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, she looks every bit the rapturous angel that you dreamed of making her, left to the ministrations of your mouth and fingers. 

You keep the pressure of your tongue as you rasp your it against the pearl of her clit, as you keep the taste of her commemorated to your mouth, as your fingers continue to pump in and out of her, summoning wet, obscene noises to fill the room.

The walls itself reverberate the symphony of her pleasure that seems to grow in crescendo, the sounds of your hard work. The noises that she's making, the words that she's uttering under her breath—you want to keep them coming. You want to make her sound like this forever. 

Her hips stuttering against your mouth are becoming more disjointed, the breath that she heaves more heavy than before—her moans raising to nascent cresting. You can tell that she's going to come soon, from the way that her legs are trembling under you—and so quickly too—she must have wanted this. 

She says your name once, a plaintive wail, as you can already taste her orgasm on your tongue, the way that her pussy is fluttering around your fingers. She comes—and she comes hard. 

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—"—Her hands are clutching desperately onto you, your only buoy in these waves that are capsizing over her—you continue to work your tongue against her, though your slow the pace of your fingers to allow her time to recuperate.

She sucks in deep, orienting breaths, practically folded over you as the pleasure washes through the meter of her body, as you savor her on your tongue. 

She falls against the wall with an expulsion of air, still weary—a fine sheen of sweat is layered on her face, dribbling down her neck. You pull away, and she makes a groan at the obscenity of your face, her slick on your mouth, your jaw. 

"Fuck—"—She huffs—"—That was—"

"You want me to do it again?" You ask her with a degree of eagerness that doesn't escape her. She pushes the heel of her palm against her forehead in shock—and excitement. 

"Dontcha—"—She gulps for air again—"—Dontcha want me to do something to you?" 

You're already nearing the finish line once more—she shivers against your breath as you exhale in satisfaction against her, your eyes finding the darkening of hers. 

"This is all I want," you swear before her, "Is to be in between your legs as long as you want." 

She chuckles, an element of her returning back to herself. "Alright. Knock yourself out." 

And you do. 

Dividers provided by my wonderful friend @itsgivingardener

Taglist: @wackular @sweetmourninglamb111 @redbeanbnnuy @cotton-eee @eatfeet69 @were-wright-on-time @thescrawler @luvmailing @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @just-peachy-babe @buggjunction @skeeets @colonelfish @riddled-with-fear @weirwxxds @drivingfastflash @bozosprout @ferretcrossing

[nyhti]

To all my mutuals posting porn of my faves: you have served me well. I will spare you once my evil reign begins.

[realofficialwizard]

My dad told me that he and his friend used to mess with truckers as kids by getting on their radios and talking to them. He said his handle over the trucker radios was Nightcrawler because that was his favorite X-Men character. The man is in his mid forties now and still uses the name Nightcrawler online everywhere and themes his profiles after him. If the username Nightcrawler is taken then he finds some variation of it. The man loves him some Nightcrawler. I hope I end up being that devoted to The Character.

[soul-stiice]

Fluffy Nightcrawler ily sm

[mothhball]

got too excited while playing trials with the pookie @riddled-with-fear and got told off by a nurse who oversees my all-nighter 🙄😔

[riddled-with-fear]

The American rubbed off(RUBBED OFF!?🤨) on you. I’m so sorry😔

@mothhball

[twentytomidnight]

aim straight, buckaroo

Matt Murdock/Reader/Bullseye, 6.6K

a/n: second fic for the 700 Followers Event! I love writing fucked up love triangles so this was a delight :]

cw: sexual acts/18+ ONLY, noncon/dubcon, involuntary voyeurism, groping of reader to climax (ambiguous gentalia), use of cupcake/sweetheart/honey, description of fight, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

You're in the know of everything that happens in New York's underbelly, which means that Matt Murdock seeks you out in the day—and Bullseye seeks you out in the night. What you don't expect is for both of these worlds to collide with fearful symmetry. Matt Murdock/Reader/Bullseye (18+)

Anyone who knows where to find good intel knows that your office is a must. The term 'office' is certainly a stretch by any nature of the definition, but it's important to categorize holes in the walls, much as is yours.

After all, your hole in the walls is one of many important nexus that rotate through the galaxy that New York City operates under. It is one of those hidden libraries of Alexandria that is mobile. That is, in the sense that what is important is not the housing of the archive—but the person that hosts it.

Namely—you. You, who sits behind your desk with a laptop that is mere window dressing to the main accoutrement of the shabby bottom floor studio that you pay with the landlord who knows to look the other way. After all—he owes you a favor. You've helped him out, as you have most everyone who walks through your door in some way, shape or form.

Such as the figure that walks through the door with a good-natured smile as he guides the blunt-end of his cane through the threshold, making way into your space. Not that you needed his presence to notify you of him—he treads lightly, but never light enough in the creaky hallway that precedes your corner office.

(Two windows on different corners, two exits—better that way.)

He's certainly the most well-dressed of your clients, well-to-do enough that he can blend in enough with the rabble that intersect and crowd the streets surrounding your building. And he's one of the better-looking, too—though this does nothing to relax the adrenaline that he summons through the humdrum of your regular routine.

This is why, even though he's unable to see you when you rise from the well-kept office chair you sit behind your desk—you find your footing all the same and go to meet him.

"Good morning, Mr. Murdock." You say, making way to the door so that you can close it firmly behind you both. It takes a little give to settle into the jamb given the old age of the accoutrements, but it settles in all the same. You twist the lock with an inwards rotation of the wrist—and then you can get to brass tacks.

Your first client of the day smiles and places his hands on his cane as he awaits for you to bequeath him with your full attention.

"Good morning." He greets, and his voice is steady and sure as the two feet that he stands upon—sometimes, you theorize that the cane is just pretty window dressing for the man that bears it.

But this seems rude to voice aloud, so you keep it an inside thought. You cross once more back to the desk that your laptop rests upon—one of your more expensive paperweights. Anything of worth is stored in the mental hard drive.

"Got anything for me?" He asks; the typical prologue to any conversation between the two of you. That smile remains evergreen on his face as he looks in your general direction.

You find your hands crossing over the seam of your slacks that meet the junction of your legs. You take repose on the edge of your desk as you try to ignore the rigidity that is lacing through the sinew of your body at the inquiry.

"Depends on what the asking price is that you're offering." You supply readily to him. After all, he's not one of your usual clientele, who scatter into the darkness of the streets when you're done with them. He returns to his gilded towers—and all the powers that be that come with them.

You're aptly reminded of this when he replies with casual wit, "The best I can give you is the knowledge that you did a civic duty and you're upholding the inner workings of society."

You humph against the full of your lips—wondering if this is something characteristic that all lawyers choose to operate by. Unsettling beneath the skin to coax out something of meat.

"Something a little more material, Mr. Murdock." You assert in perfunctory reply to him. His smile grows at the fact that you aren't willing to provide without tête-à-tête. "I can't let the city know I have a bleeding heart for free."

And you're not for free—and Mr. Murdock should know that best of all. If you provide information sterling in its worth, then he must provide something of equal value.

And this is why you lock the door when he comes. And this is why he arrives during the day, inclining his head at ready angle as he raises a thumb to scratch the underside of his nose.

"Then it would behoove you to know that Mr. Carpathia of such-and-such is going to a parole hearing—"—You catch a glimpse of Mr. Murdock's eyes behind those opaque red lenses and feel a sense of the uncanny—"—And he is not going to get out."

You mull over this kernel of information that at least twenty different people in the Irish Mafia will pay through the nose to know a week in advance—and think of the ripple effect that it will have thousandfold upon all the inner workings of the city that never sleeps.

You don't have much time afforded to stow it away before Mr. Murdock allows the lapse in moral judgement. He straightens to full height again, which is impressive acreage over you even from where he has taken sporting stance at.

"At least, that's what the ear kept low to the ground is telling me." Matt says, and his smile takes on crooked quality. Another street rat that doesn't have the privilege of stable office for their services. "Is that of something that's of interest to people?"

"It certainly is. I'll be sure to pass that along to the necessary parties." You're already mentally recounting the different avenues that you will have to pass along this information through corridors and alleyways and word-of-mouth as your fingers amble across the acreage of the desk you lean on. They don't pause until they reach the Manila envelope that sits at the corner and fold it under the crook of your bent arm.

"And here is—"—You cross over to Mr. Murdock, who is already holding out a free hand that doesn't wield his cane like noble sword to his cause—"—Something that might be of interest to you."

He makes a close-lipped laugh that is low in invocation as he looks at the envelope impressed with braille—one of your finer touches. Quality is manifested in manners you ensure for all clients, no matter how high their rung their ladder goes.

"Oh, and how well-blessed I am to have someone like you in my retainer." Mr. Murdock informs you as he smiles from parcel to passee. You find an eyebrow involuntarily cocking up, though he lacks faculties to notice it.

"To be a retainer would mean that I was employed under you, Mr. Murdock." You correct his wording, ever-true to the spirit of the freelancer. You don't note how your conversational partner valiantly resists a facial reaction at your choice of words. You're already turning back to lean on the desk that is your retreat of kingly reclination.

"Which," You cross your arms back upon your chest, battening your hatches down, "I am not."

"Yes, because that would be breaching all types of moral and ethical standards—"—Matt shifts from one foot to another as he philosophizes—"—That sharing information about the criminal underbelly of New York would otherwise undercut."

"Exactly. You understand." You offer dryly as you always do when Mr. Murdock waxes poetic.

"Then is colleagues better?" One of the corners of his mouth turns up in genial interest. You shake your head though he will not notice.

"Too familiar still by half, Mr. Murdock." You tut, trying your best to delay the dangerous avenue that this conversation is approaching.

"Then how about partners in crime?" He inquires—still yet to find departure from your humble accommodations.

"Just as long as it stays the collegial type of partner, Mr. Murdock." You correct, offering ample clarification for the handsome lawyer that stands before you. "You're too squeaky clean for me."

"Ah, shame." Mr. Murdock inclines his head to the hardwood in over-exaggerated disappointment. "Here I was hoping I'd be able to take you to candlelit dinner."

You don't resist the laugh that tumbles from your lips at his jape. "Maybe you should go for stand-up if lawyering doesn't work out for you."

He smiles, though you don't know if he's pleased at your amusement. He's quite interesting, this Mr. Murdock. "I'll be sure to let you know."

There's only one other client that you find yourself needing to lock the door for. This is not due to your desire to ever be in closed-quarters with him, but due to necessity. The knowledge that Mr. Murdock the Lawyer seeks out your services would be a blow to your business, but one that you'd recover from.

If people knew that Bullseye sought you out on regular basis, you'd lose all your customers overnight. And the problem with him in contrast to Mr. Murdock is clear. While Mr. Murdock always provides auditory precipitation of his visits—Bullseye never does.

You're only given notification of his appearances when the door closes shut; never loudly, but audible enough to garner your attention. You look up to see Bullseye filling up the doorframe on the other side of the door, watching you with a smile similar to predator finding prey directly in their sights.

This time, he seems to be in quite excellent spirits, as his fingers turn the lock of the doorknob shut—shutting you both in, together. He allows you to admire the visual capability of his physical might, all lethal sinew, from where you sit behind your desk—the only obstacle between he and you.

"Evening, cupcake." He says, and the darkness from your outside windows settle upon him with nefarious Stygian quality. He takes one step towards you that, were it anyone else, would be benign. With him, it is carnivorous.

"Evening, Bullseye." you greet. A client is a client, no matter what else they may do when they depart your office. "What can I do for you?"

He's at the edge of your desk within few rapacious steps. His eyes have yet to ever part from the distinguishment of your form. He's smiling—a bad sign.

"Isn't it what can I do you for?" He asks—harangued by the particularities of semantics. Also a bad sign.

"Not with you." You return back with neutral quality. He doesn't appear dissuaded by the professional veneer. He leans a rather trim hip on the desk's shoulder to allow you to purview every muscle the profile of his body can sport.

"Breaks my heart when you say that." He returns back with glib candidness. "What's a guy gotta do to get a chance?"

For some reason, you find the late hour eroding your sense of propriety—the echoes of your conversation with Mr. Murdock return back to you in odd parallel.

You ask him with wry delivery, "Are you a fan of candlelit dinners and moonlit walks on the beach?"

The joke is not lost on him—he chuckles, an unkind noise. His eyes are still absolutely fixated upon you. "For the right person, I might be."

Danger, Will Robinson. Tread ever-so-lightly. You cock your head at him—as if in effort to emulate human behavior, he mirrors you, almost a mockery of the act.

"Isn't there something you're supposed to be here for?" You inquire, narrowing your eyes to clarified quality. Anything to ensure that Bullseye leaves posthaste.

"Can't I be here for two things at once?" His voice is silken as he knuckles his broad fist onto the surface of your desk. There is a flex in the tendon of his arm and you watch the column of unadulterated strength that rests so casually.

"I only want you to be here for one thing." You say, skirting in the limited harbor of Bullseye's patience. "Which would be—?"

At this, you tilt your head at him, prompting him to provide the question that appears to be on his lips. He's still smiling as he asks you with pert enthusiasm, "Where's Vincenzo?"

"What're you going to give me?" You ask calmly—not with the same pressing need that you required for Mr. Murdock. You and Bullseye come from the same social shoal—this means that you speak the same language.

"Some sugar for sugar—"—He can't resist the jibe as he produces a thick envelope in familiar rectangular shape to your awaiting hands. You ignore the way that his calloused finger feels as it brushes against your hands, allowing you time to check the contents and confirm proper number. It is, as always, abundant.

"You have any other gentleman callers?" Bullseye asks as you are mid-count—your eyes dart up to him in mild bemusement. This is a question that he should already know the answer to.

"Why?" You ask in monotone deadpan. "You worried I'm stepping out on you?"

"No—"—He makes over-exaggerated sniff. Part of you wonders if it's just for show or, if like the apex predator he is, he can actually make olfactory distinction—"—Just smells like Italian leather and Catholic guilt in here."

Accusingly, his eyes alight back down to yours and his smile seems to widen. He's awaiting your answer, and Bullseye is not one to be kept waiting. You manage to keep even-keeled as you so always do—though your thoughts are in recollection back to the lawyer that you attended to in the shelter of the day.

"That would be me reconsidering my life of crime." You return with enough sarcasm to sell it.

"Heaven forbid." He returns, putting disgusted, affronted hand to the span of his chest. "I like you too much in the shadows with me."

From the way that you are given spectacular display of his teeth, you know that he's telling the truth. You're unsure if you're happy about this or not.

"Hear anything on the street lately about Bullseye?" Mr. Murdock asks you later in the week on a crisp, colder Thursday. You find yourself caught in unexpected crosshairs as you look up to the lawyer—though he lacks sight, it seems as though he's able to perceive you with unnatural quality.

Though this is untrue. Mr. Murdock hasn't seen an iota on the color spectrum since he was 12 years old—you know that because you read it with your own two eyes.

This is why you regulate your breathing, why you engage in the particulars of keeping absolutely still as though you are looking down the barrel of the person that he speaks of—and not the person that he absolutely isn't. Mr. Murdock, it seems, is barking up trees that he shouldn't.

Your voice is of absolute restraint, of careful, genteel mannerism. You interlock your hands underneath your chin and lean onto them. Your voice is of reticent articulation as you speak.

"Who hasn't heard anything about Bullseye?" You ask, and then tilt your head downwards, staring up at that chiseled jaw through the fan of your eyelashes. "Why do you want to know?"

Mr. Murdock is supremely calm as he shrugs, a slow, deliberate movement restrained by the fine down-layered jacket that he's come wearing to visit.

"I'm looking for his whereabouts as of late." Mr. Murdock replies with gentility in his voice. As though he is aware of the dangerous waters that is wading into—when you know he knows anything but.

He leans forward. He's not daring into the territory of your desk, but circumventing closer than ever before.

"And considering that you know where everyone who's anyone is—"—Those opaque crimson lenses flash with the reflection of the muggy day outside—"—I figured you would know best."

You offer a chirruping laugh that tumbles out of your lips, assessing the lawyer in new light. Not necessarily better light—but stupider one, for certain.

"Looking to hire him out, Mr. Murdock?" You ask, and try to keep the amused quality out of your voice, so as not to scare off your customer of the hour.

"Matt." He corrects—you pause in cautious meter.

"Excuse me?" You ask, interrupting the brief silence that elapses tight between you both.

"We've worked together so long—"—It's almost cavalier for Mr. Murdock how he tries to forego this carefully set boundary—"—I assumed that we would enjoy using our given names."

How very Catholic of him to assume so. How very indecent and scandalous of him to try and dare forward over this.

"That assumes I keep you around for your good looks," you return, informing him of a truth that he's certain to be somewhat aware of—"—Instead of our quid pro quo relationship."

"Shame—"—Your rejection does little to abash his prospects—"—I had hoped it could be both."

How very interesting, that he's not solo in the running. You wonder what Bullseye would think were he witness to this vaudeville of sorts—you do your best to chase these thoughts from the foreground of your mind.

It's also time to provide your client with response, lest he assume that your silence is purview for something wholly more inviting. You clear your throat—something better to provide as prelude to your response.

"I prefer currency to monogamy, Mr. Murdock." You inform him. You duck your head out of courtesy for the mild awkwardness of the situation. "I'll be your person in the chair for now."

Lines redrawn, lines reset—all in a day's work. Mr. Murdock isn't used to failure, though, it seems—all this does is provide ammunition for his next line of attack.

"As well as Bullseye's person, too?" He's curious, but there's a touch of playfulness that interwoven into the means that he asks. He's asking—but he's testing you at once. A two-fold attack.

"I have many clients, Mr. Murdock. If Bullseye happens to be one of them—"—For the particulars of plausible deniability, you make sure to emphasize 'happens' with prominence—"—I can't risk client confidentiality."

Mr. Murdock is so very barrister-like in approach as he advances. "So he is one of yours."

"If he was—"—You stare down the smoking revolver that has yet to fire another warning shot into the air—"—He'd be one of hundreds."

You provide nothing more. The defense cannot progress with lack of evidence, or prior assumption. You know that there's nothing that he'd be able to leap upon with steadfast capability.

"Now is there anything else I can help you with?" You ask, making it clear that this boulevard of conversation is concluded.

"In case you consider otherwise—"—Mr. Murdock, it appears, is one to take multiple defeats with good cheer that otherwise may not behoove him—"—Take this."

It's a fluid, expert motion providing an embossed business card you've seen in the hands of many different charity cases, clutched in the grip of someone on their hard luck. Though, it is a sight to see it in between forefinger and thumb of the originator as he holds it out to you.

Best not to keep a blind man waiting—you reach out to take the business card of Murdock and Nelson. You only offer it cursory glance before you glance back up to Mr. Murdock with dubious quality.

"I know my way to your law firm, Mr. Murdock." You inform him. How could you not know an address that the many martyrs of New York City have crawled to in their vaunted desperation?

"Yes—just in case you forget." Mr. Murdock says, his statement veiled in everything that he means to say, yet doesn't. "Or you'd like to pay me a visit."

The smile that he gives you is almost knightly, chivalrous. The champion at tourney seeking who best to bestow his token of affection upon.

"Subtle, Mr. Murdock." You state, unsure of what to think of these continuous developments. Perhaps a search for another soul to impart redemption upon.

"Something a good lawyer always prides themselves on." He returns, never one to be failing in the matter of humor.

"And what does Matt Murdock pride himself on?" You ask. Were he less honorable, you're certain he would provide you with a bevy of inappropriate answers—again, your mind harkens back to your client of the night.

Matt's smile is enigmatic in angle as he looks to you. "His ability to be an excellent conversationalist."

You can't help but laugh as he gives you a smile paired with nod of his head, and makes his departure to the door.

"You're a hot commodity, Bullseye." You assert to him as you stand on the other side of the desk, perched as you lean back upon the ledge of your window. You never find yourself sitting in Bullseye's company if you can help it—for some reason, it feels more to your beneficence if you sit in one of the sole means of escape.

"Oh? By who?" Bullseye asks. He's running the edge of his nails over the fringe of a wicked blade—when his eyes find you, you swallow involuntary shiver that seems to be summoned by instinct. His eyes are so very bright even in the dearth of light in the office at this late hour.

"Anyone I know?" He asks, adjusting his posture from where he sits on the your desk's edge. You don't swallow, show hesitation at this next part that you must progress to. It would permit him too of much the upper hand.

"You brush shoulders with Murdock the lawyer?" You ask, already expecting the tick that his jaw sets, the way that his eyes narrow in disharmonious squint upon you. Less desirable is the way that he straightens up from the table and begins to make treacherous roundabout the desk towards you.

"Not unless I like scrubbing the sleaze off me." He says, making his disgust with aforementioned character quite clear. "Why? He giving you trouble?"

There's a momentary flash of emotion that will otherwise remain indiscernible, lacking introspection until you have the time to process it later—a heat of sensation that thrills up the length of your body.

"Are you offering protection?" You ask, leaning back on the ledge. The breeze ghosts through the room and settles in cool manner upon you both. "I'm flattered."

"Protection comes at a fee, sugar." Bullseye continues, not one to miss a beat—or to bestow you with the nickname that he's become fond of regaling with you as of late.

He's closer now, within the meridian of few paces between you and he when he pauses. Puts a hand on the supple v of his hips, regards you carefully. "What're you willing to give me if I do?"

"If I need it—"—You give him testy look that only encourages the spread of that smile to bloom again—"—Which I don't—I'm only passing along information as best I can."

You straighten up, maintaining your posture to something of rigid demeanor to convince him of the bearings of your words. He makes a noise that you would qualify as affectionate, and makes the distance between you smaller with another step towards you.

"Looking out for me, sweetheart?" His teeth are in perfect manufacturing in the setting of his smile. "Thought you didn't like me."

"I don't have to like you to want you to be safe." You reply, making the bearing of your words very very impartial indeed. He takes another step forward before he produces the blade—and this is when you realize that you yourself are wandering away from the oasis of this carefully crafted desert you have isolated yourself upon.

"See—that's the thing about killing people—"—You admire him in double from enunciated reflection of the refracted blade—"—You learn the tells."

You make a noise of derision at his choice of words. "Kill me? I thought you liked me more than that."

He holds up a hand with the one that doesn't wield the blade in manner of virtuoso. His face is patient as he informs you. "Easy, sweetheart—there's a lesson in here if you listen."

He dares closer, knowing that although this is your territory—it becomes his to rule roost over whenever he takes residence in it. As you know when the tip of the honed blade approaches and you look at the reflection of your eyes staring back, blank—scared.

"Knowing your way around a body tells you," Bullseye coos, reminding yourself that you must will yourself to look back at him—"—If someone's a crier, a screamer—a groaner."

The blade is centimeters from the apple of your cheek, but you don't reward it so much an additional side glance.

"And what's the tell for me, Bullseye?" You ask, knowing what he desires for you to ask of him.

He chuckles, a deep, masculine noise—you can taste the whiff of cheap cologne that he wears—part of you idly wonders if he wore it for the occasion of darkening your doorstep.

His eyes don't move in erring from you once as he says, "I know you're a moaner."

He's not talking about torture.

You are so very painstakingly dispassionate as you reply to him, "I could've sworn you were here for something other than wasting my time?"

He laughs—and again, it's a cruel, merciless noise. You wonder who has had the particular pleasure of being before him with the blade held before them in such fearful symmetry—and heard this sound.

"With me, baby—"—He informs you, and the laugh has not reached his eyes—"—It's never a waste."

When he leaves, you can still feel his eyes on you.

It's a few days later when you've officially closed up shop for the night—the door is open, but the late hour should denote that your services are at rest. You're packing away all of the necessary baubles that you stow away with on the journey home when you hear it. There's the familiar inflection of footsteps that inform you that someone is arriving in procedure of your office.

You look up for a second—there's a voice in your mind that informs you that Mr. Murdock is approaching, as delineated by the tempo that familiar steps are made in rhythm of.

"Mr. Murdock," You assert as you open up your messenger bag, staring into the abyss of the leather folds as you tuck in your laptop, "Isn't it past your—"

You glance up and freeze. It should stand to reason, you assume, that the late nighttime hour has eroded your ability to be able to determine client from client—for you have never seen this person that stands on display in the doorway, watching you.

You've only ever seen him on shaky video feeds or by the fearful hearsay. Your mind draws blissful, suspended blank as you find yourself finally staring upon him in the flesh in the raw flesh.

"Not quite," Daredevil says, and the husk of his voice is something that is evocative of another's that you've heard—but you have little time to tarry the point now. "I wanted to speak to you."

You find yourself standing with perfect uniformity, every synapse and neuron urging you to take action.

The first thing you say is, "I cannot be seen with you."

"Then I'll be brief," Daredevil replies in that damning fashion that all do-gooding vigilantes say.

And then he further impugns the quality of your business by stepping in further. "I need your assistance in finding someone."

"There are people all up and down Hell's Kitchen that are champing at the bit for the chance to help you," You brusquely tell him. You walk around the edge of the desk, as if this last stand that you take will convince this wall of power to go back the way he came. "But this place of business will not serve you."

"Please," He says, and the veneer cracking makes you draw still. You've never heard of Daredevil begging before but something about this, for damnable, indiscernible reason, makes you pause.

"I'm looking for Bullseye." He reiterates his case to you.

"I don't know where he is," You reply in automatic denial. "He's not someone who asks for my help."

"That's a lie and you know it," there is veracity in his voice as he continues. As he ascends upon you, into your space—making you retreat. He's so much taller, so much more powerful than you—what ends would he search to for his means? Your eyes widen as you step back against the immovable structure of your desk.

"Everyone who's anyone comes to you for help," Daredevil grits through his teeth—you watch at the plateau of that strong jaw that sets as he pleads clemency from you, "If anyone's heard anything, it would be you."

He takes another step and you find yourself clutching onto the edge of the desk for support, your heart in your throat as you stare into those opaque, implacable lenses. You wonder what eyes are piercing back into you, that have such surety of gaze upon your face.

"Where is Bullseye?" Daredevil asserts with tenacity that he is a man not to be denied.

"If it isn't my ol' buddy Daredevil," drawls a voice from the doorway—and the two of you look to a face that summons mounting dread in the pit of your stomach, "Lookin' for lil' ol' me?"

You can make visual register of Bullseye's face from where he stands in the doorway, rolling a dagger over the ridge of his knuckles in practiced, smooth rendition. You've worked with him enough to know the acuity of his face to know that he's drastically misinterpreted what he's seen. What with you and Daredevil standing in such close proximity, in flagrante delicto.

You realize now what Bullseye has been gearing up in nefarious means for. To see the jealousy that blooms nascent on his face, the anger that is making its way to the forefront. To see that when he steps into the room and Daredevil turns back, things are rapidly escalating out of control.

"Dex—"—You begin in plaintive plea towards Bullseye; Bullseye appears nonplussed at the means that you use his given name, holding up a hand to silence you. This is when you know that there's no stopping what's happening.

"In a second, sweetheart. Let the big boys talk it out for a second." He returns with penultimate glee for the bloodbath about to occur. Daredevil appears to be standing his ground, finally having located his charge.

This is when you realize that there are two people between you and the most significant exit—and you've closed both windows to leave for the night.

There's no preamble. There's no conversation. You can feel the taut hatred that elapses between the two of them as they silently gauge advantages, considering past weaknesses are still vital deficiencies. All is noiseless as you feel like you are the fly trapped in amber, unable to move.

It's Bullseye who produces the first strike with deadly aim—Daredevil ducks the blade by a hair as it lodges itself into the corner of the room with a dull thunk. This is what convinces you towards the window, as Daredevil moves to face the center of the battle. It's your only chance.

You're barely cognizant of the way that you see Daredevil's fist crack across Bullseye's jaw, making blood flow instantly—Bullseye laughs. There's an exchange of vicious blows, made with intent to kill but you can't spare them attention. Your fingers are scrabbling for desperate purchase on the window but it's stuck—the weather has frozen the outside solidly shut.

You make momentary glance at the reflection to witness escalation of battle behind you, and take reckoning of the panicked, trapped ken in your eyes that watch it all occur.

Daredevil bashes his head into Bullseye's nose, their wrists locked in immutable standoff—something cracks but his opponent is still laughing as Bullseye swings his leg up into the pillar of Daredevil's leg.

There's a punched-out groan of pain as Daredevil's grasp slackens—though he does make means to shove Bullseye back. It's for naught. Bullseye stumbles, and you look back to the second interloper to your office.

And you see that he's staring at you with something that you realize he's been regaling you with every time he's sought your audience. But you barely have time to process it. And Daredevil is still too focused on his opponent to realize the intention of the maneuver, thinking all aim is given with thought to him.

But this one isn't. And you're helpless to stop it, cornered up against the wall. Bullseye clears your desk with frightening alacrity, sending a swift jab that sends Daredevil in momentary reel. But this is enough to push the advantage—you're unwitting to resist.

Especially as that forceful hand rucks about the span of your waist, his fingers sinking into the flesh of you. As you feel the inclination of the blade that slinks over the pulse of your throat, into the tender column of your flesh.

"Don't." Daredevil demands, but there's a plea in his voice that he doesn't want to make clear. But it's one that the pressure of the situation summons forth.

Blankly, in detached manner—as though you can be spared by this situation through dissociation—you wonder if Daredevil begs this way for all of those caught in the crossfire—or if you are particular exception to the rule.

Bullseye chuckles, soft and restrained, in the shell of your ear. He heaves a breath that you feel pressed up against the column of your back—and this makes you aware that something is tented to life, pressing against the cleft of your ass. You don't swallow down the shudder that is making means up your body.

"Oh, Daredevil," Bullseye chuckles, "Trying to take my slice of the pie?"

The blade urges further into you—you make protracted gasp, the composure that you so continuously fight for finally cracked. The fear drawn wide over your face has a a degree of it reflected in the way that Daredevil rises a hand. As though this will stay Bullseye's.

"You know I don't like to share." Bullseye says. It's only now that you're aware his hand that has grappled around your waist has slunk to the button of your jeans, working the tortoiseshell through the fabric.

And then you realize just exactly how much the situation has devolved past the point of your understanding.

"Time to see if I knew what I was talking about, sweetheart." Bullseye croons into your ear—you're frozen. Stiff where you stand as you feel his fingers start to encroach down the seam of your waistband. Both you and Daredevil are left captive to the machinations of the man that holds you in proverbial and literal grasp.

His fingers are warm—familiar—as if they have known the nuance of your skin before. As if they have wanted nothing more.

"Don't touch them," Daredevil growls. In return, Bullseye makes a shhh that sends a shiver open-mouthed from your lips. A noise that has you involuntarily bucking your hips into his hand starting to search down the plateau of your skin, underneath the spread of the cloth.

This is when the terrible truth is established for all the three of you to see and realize—that you want this. That you've wanted his touch as it wanders down into the junction of your legs, as it searches out the heat that your body offers to him. As he makes it clear from the throaty chuckle that he creates. As the blade coaxes into your vulnerable, tender, skin, with the electric sensation that is unspooling down your body.

"Oh, there we go." Bullseye gloats with slick satisfaction as his fingers work around you—as you make stuttering moan with the way that his hands coax such unexpected pleasure from you, determined in the path of damnation they are pressing you down. Your body burns with shame that seems to emulsify and drown you, and all the while, Daredevil watches him have his way with you.

As it registers through the expressionless spread of his mouth that he sees that you want this. As you take in through disconnected, dissociative perception that the vigilante himself is hard as he takes in the sight of you coming undone by Bullseye's ministrations.

"See?" Bullseye brags. You're scarcely cognizant of the way that his fingers are working in hasty, protracted manner to summon another moan that falls from your mouth.

You arch against the immutable surface of that muscular back that holds you steady, tempted towards the path that his hand works over your flesh, over your body. As the knife continues to tease against you, and serves as warning to Daredevil to stay his ground—though he is rooted in different manner as you are.

"It's all about being a people person," Bullseye adds insult to injury as his fingers flex—you gasp, the heat pooling under your skin and rising in the dark, sinuous pool behind your abdomen. It blossoms in frissoning physical euphoria through your veins.

"Really knowing how to network." He continues—the tip of the blade encourages itself up to the underside of your jaw while his other hand keeps working at you—as you feel your thighs tremble. As you feel yourself basking in some terrible combination of coalescing shame and wonderful torment that is growing to undeniable zenith.

"And knowing, Daredevil ol' boy," Bullseye chuckles as his fingers curl—and you angle your head back against him to the ceiling, a breathy noise escaping you, "How to not touch what's yours."

Something is building—something humiliating, something wonderful, something foul and perfect. You feel it as he keeps his fingers working, as Daredevil is made to watch.

As Bullseye continues to pour salt in the wound for you both, through terrible audience that you both are made to be held to. As the knife continues to make itself known by pushing into you—by the breakage of skin that you could care less about. Not when his hand is making such devolved work of you.

"And," Bullseye concludes, "Knowing that you're never going to see them again."

And you come—hard. You can't relax, you can't collapse—not when he holds you to him, not when you are both hostage and liberated at once with the way that his fingers have made you.

Not even as he forces you out of the room with Daredevil made to helplessly watch your escape, and you powerless to prevent it. As your eyes, still glassy and hollow with the comedown that you're being forced to depart through—as you see that he is still painfully, stiffly hard. Your skin is tacky, exertion beads at your temple in sinful, painful baptism to this new chapter of your life.

Breath is labored but you can only focus on the hand that sneaks from your waistband and holds you at your hip. Proprietorial, demanding—possessive. He will never let you go.

As you walk backwards with him through the threshold of your office, you know that you cannot resist. And part of you doesn't want to.

"Ta, Daredevil," Bullseye laughs. "Don't keep up."

The two of you depart into the shadows to see if Bullseye will keep good on his word.

Dividers created by my wonderful friend @itsgivingardener

Taglist:

@wackular @itsgivingardener @divine-canine-tears @thescrawler @luvmailing @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @just-peachy-babe @buggjunction @skeeets @colonelfish @riddled-with-fear @weirwxxds @drivingfastflash @bozosprout @ferretcrossing @reesespieces0610 @schizofrenic @arlott @redbeanbnnuy @cotton-eee @uselessnewt

[reesespieces0610]

PERFECTION OMG OMG OMG

[twentytomidnight]

hehe THANK YOU

[acapelladitty]

give me the gideon biting and my life is yours

Your life is mine! 👀💦

The graze of his metallic-capped teeth against the sensitive juncture where neck meets shoulder is enough to freeze your struggling position in its tracks as a terrified chill sweeps through your frame. With your back pinned to his chest, the swell of his cock as he lazily thrusts it between your folds is a tease which sends a jerk through your frame every time his textured cock scrapes across your clit.

"Please. Please don't." The plea comes easily, the words as familiar as the breath which expand your lungs. His teeth only ever tease like this when he's giving serious thought to sinking them deep and delivering a dose of the snake-like venom which regularly accumulates within his hulking frame.

"And why should I not?" Victor hums, kissing the words into your skin as he rolls his forked tongue up across your pulse point to taste your growing anxiety. "You have been rather stubborn today. Perhaps an hour or two of sluggish distress will remind you of your manners."

"Victor." You gasp his name, hoping that it will buy you some mercy as his thick body coils around your own, heavy and ready to strike as he secures you in place. "It hurts me, you know it hurts. Please. I swear I'll be better, I'll be good."

The promise has barely crossed your lips when a rough scream interrupts the final syllable; your keening cry echoing across the room as Victor's teeth sink deep into the base of your neck. You feel the white-hot sting of his venom as it quickly deposits, burning the skin at the point of contact, before beginning to spread through your fluttering veins as your increased heartbeat only serves to pump it around faster.

Immediately, your skin feels clammy and you writhe in place as you remain held against Victor's wide chest by one of his huge hands as it comes to wrap around your shuddering torso - knowing that the hell which is rapidly approaching for you will force you to shed all dignity and beg for an antidote and mercy which will never come.

 Link to AO3 ☆ RE9 Masterlist ☆ Fic Masterlist

[birf]

it’s really important you ship your friends with their favorite character

[lockssteps]

im a fake fan of everything i like because i cant remember anything

[caesariawritesstuff]

Leon S. Kennedy ●§● NSFW Headcanons

Summary: A detailed list of NSFW Headcanons for Leon.

Word Count: 2.0k

Content Warning: Strong Language, descriptions of NSFW acts, mentions of blood and infections, daddy kink.

● Find me on Ao3 ●

Favorite Position:

Missionary (with his partner’s legs over his shoulders). He loves the control he gets when being in this position, especially with how he can grab his partners legs/ankles and have total control over the pacing. He can go fast or gentle, all while looking down into his partner’s eyes and seeing the look on their face. It drives him wild.

His second favorite position is cowgirl. If he’s not the one in the driver’s seat, he’s more than glad to lay on his back and let his partner ride him.

Least Favorite Position:

Doggystyle. He doesn’t necessarily dislike it, so much as he truly prefers to look into his partner’s eyes, and obviously he can’t in this position. Still, if his partner asks for this position, he’ll happily oblige. Leon likes control, but he’s also an attentive lover, and he doesn’t mind handing over the reins.

Oral – Giving, Receiving, or Both:

Leon loves to both give and receive. He definitely enjoys burying his face in his partner’s cunt, devouring their taste and smell. He can spend hours in between his partner’s legs, and won’t let up until he’s had his fill.

He loves receiving just as much as any other man. He’s more than happy to allow his partner to worship his cock to their hearts content.

Anal:

Leon’s not into it. He’s too worried about hurting his partner, but he’s also just not interested. He’ll bite his partner’s ass and kiss it, but anything more is too uncomfortable for him.

Turn-Ons:

Leon is very much into a partner who’s headstrong and strong-willed. He needs someone who can match him, and isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. He needs a partner who can handle the dangers of his job, and who will be okay with him being gone for long periods of time.

He’s definitely into a partner who exudes confidence. Leon is drawn to a partner who can enter a room and immediately command control. He spends so much time with his guard up, and being around someone with enough confidence to handle themselves allows him to relax in a way he usually can’t.

He also appreciates having a partner who is either in the same field as him or something adjacent. Having someone he can rely on, and understands the job and what he goes through, allows him to be vulnerable in a way he can’t with someone on the outside.

Someone with a good sense of humor. He loves a partner who can laugh at his jokes.

Turn-Offs:

The “Damsel in Distress” type. Leon spends enough time protecting people and risking his life – he doesn’t want this to bleed into his personal life. He isn’t interested in being with a partner who can’t take care of themselves.

Someone rude or stuck up. Anyone who exudes a snotty, “I’m better than you” attitude will be enough to turn him off. He prefers someone who acts with kindness, and anyoe who walks around with their air in the nose is a big no for him.

Anyone who isn’t kind to service workers. Leon is a generous tipper, and if he has a partner who refuses to tip, is rude to wait staff, or demands to see a manager is a definite turn off. Leon really appreciates the working class.

Kinks:

Blindfolds – Leon really likes being blindfolded or blindfolding his partner. There’s something about experiences sensations while not being able to see that he takes great pleasure from.

Edging – Leon is also really into edging. He loves being brought to the brink of orgasm before being denied his release. The constant edging, the teasing, is enough to drive him crazy, and he loves reciprocating it on his partner.

Daddy Kink – yes, Leon likes to be called “Daddy”. He likes feeling like he’s more in control, the power exchange of feeling protective and “older” that it provides.

Experience Level:

Man is experienced. He’s had multiple partners on and off throughout the years. However, he doesn’t usually have long-term relationships due to the pressure of his job. But he’s well versed in the art of sex and pleasure.

Pace Preference:

Medium Pace. Leon doesn’t love a brutal pace or a slow one, but one right in the middle is his preference. He loves spending time engaging in foreplay and isn’t quick to rush into the act itself, unless he’s horny as fuck.

He savors every moment of sex with his partner, and he’d rather slow down then speed up. He wants to make sure his partner has their release at least once before he has his own. Leon refuses to finish before his partner.

Aftercare:

Man is an expert at aftercare. Leon takes great pride in making sure his partner is well taken care of after. He’ll help them clean up, get a towel or snack or take a shower – whatever his partner needs, he’ll get it for them.

As for himself, Leon doesn’t need much from aftercare. He’s pretty set in his ways, and doesn’t need any extra attention.

Dirty Talk:

Leon is definitely into it. He doesn’t like hardcore dirty talk; he’ll never call his partner a bitch or something extra degrading. He keeps his dirty talk to an almost tasteful way, but enjoys dirty talk more than he enjoys being on the receiving end of it.

Public vs Private:

Leon prefers private. He knows how intimate sex is, and he prefers to keep the act between him and his partner. However, while he won’t engage in sex publicly, he does get a thrill when having sex near a public space. Slipping away during a party or event to sneak into a room and have sex is exciting for him.

He likes the thrill of knowing you two could almost be caught, but while keeping the risk to actually a minimum.

Control Preference:

Leon likes a medium amount of control. If he’s the one in control, he really enjoys it. There’s nothing he loves more than seeing his partner come undone because of him.

However, Leon’s pride isn’t so great that he can’t hand over control to his partner. In fact, he doesn’t mind letting his partner take the reins. He especially loves the trust him and his partner will have by letting the other take over.

Clothing Preference:

Leon is confident in his body. He knows how fit he is, and he has no qualms about undressing or showing off his body.

As for his partner, he prefers someone who is well-put together. A partner who dresses nicely and flatters their body shape is what he likes. When it comes to sex, he will go along with whatever his partner is comfortable with. If his partner is fine being naked, wants to wear a bra or t-shirt – whatever the case, he’ll go along with it.

However, he is a huge lover of the “messy bun and t-shirt look”. That look drives him wild.

How to Fluster Them:

Leon is very flustered by a partner who can make him laugh. He spends so much time with his guard up, and acting in a serious, professional manner, so when a partner manages to make him laugh and drop his guard will definitely fluster him.

He’s not used to allowing his professionalism to drop, and if a partner can make him do that, he won’t know how to react.

Favorite Time of the Day:

Mornings. He’s a big fan of morning sex. Rolling over onto his partner while both of you are still groggy is his favorite. Lazy kisses and thrusts are what he prefers, and there’s nothing better than starting his day after fucking you.

Favorite Place to Have Sex:

The kitchen. Weirdly enough, he really enjoys hoisting his partner up on the counter and having his way with them. There’s something inherently sexy about the vulnerability of having sex with his partner somewhere that’s not the bedroom.

Also, his Porsche. He loves the proximity the car provides, loves taking his partner in one of his most prized possessions. He truly enjoys looking into the backseat and remembering how he had you there only a few hours ago.

Secret Soft Spot:

His scalp. There’s something he loves about his partner running their nails across his scalp and in his hair. He’s sure to melt like putty in your hands if you do this.

Favorite Place to Be Touched:

The back of his neck/shoulders. Man’s got a lot of tension there, and he loves a good massage to work out all those knots in his muscles.

Least Favorite Place to Be Touched:

His feet. Leon’s feet are insanely ticklish, and he hates when you try to touch him there.

Jealousy/Possessive Level:

Leon definitely has a moderate amount of jealousy when he sees his partner talking to someone else. However, he’s not totally possessive – he trusts his partner not to betray him, and he’s not a hoverer.

Likewise, he isn’t intimidated by any potential competition. He’s confident in who he is and what he brings to the table, and he doesn’t’ let anyone bother him.

Favorite Compliments During Sex:

Leon will go wild if you compliment how well he’s doing. Telling him how big he is, how strong, how good he feels – he thrives on that kind of praise. He really likes knowing he’s make his partner feel good.

Stamina:

Man’s got a lot of stamina. He might be older, but that doesn’t slow him down. He keeps in shape and takes good care of himself, and this translates into the bedroom as well.

Marking Preference:

Leon isn’t huge on marking his partner. He doesn’t mind leaving little love bites or hickeys, but he prefers to do it in private places, rather than somewhere on his partner that can’t be easily hidden. He doesn’t like having “ownership” over his partner.

Tits, Ass, or Both:

Leon is not a picky man. He loves both, and he won’t show preference in bed, though he admittedly is a bit more attracted to his partner’s breasts instead.

Length:

About 6 ½ inches flaccid, 7 ½ when erect.

Circumcised, with more length to the shaft then girth.  

Mess Preference:

Leon isn’t above making a mess. Cum, saliva – he doesn’t mind. However, he’s not interested in anything involving blood. He see’s enough of it as is, and blood is a turn-off.

Grooming Preference:

Leon keeps himself well-groomed. Considering he works around viruses, parasites, and in otherwise less-than-ideal conditions, he actually is a bit of a neat freak. He frequently showers, trims his nails, and shaves his body hair to his desired length.

He also prefers a partner who has similar hygiene. Leon isn’t into someone who doesn’t take care of themselves.

Love Language (In Bed):

Physical Touch – Leon connects more in bed through touch. Kisses, caressing, eye-contact – it’s what will make him feel loved more than anything. Leon values a partner who reciprocates just as much as he gives.

Sexual Insecurities:

His scars. Leon has  a lot of them, thanks to years if fighting BOW’s. As a result, he can be a bit insecure of how many scars cover his body. A little reassurance from his partner is much needed.

Other than that, he isn’t insecure of anything else about himself. He’s confident in who he is.

Post-Sex Behavior:

After sex, Leon enjoys spending quality time with his partner. He’s not huge on cuddling, but lying beside his partner and just chatting is his favorite thing to do.

Likewise, he enjoys eating after sex, and he’s quick to either order something for delivery or cook you something. He likes relaxing after, and he thrives on the vulnerability and closeness that comes after sex.

If Leon is particularly tired, especially after morning sex, he may pull his partner close and fall back asleep. He doesn’t mind dozing off for a while.

At the end of the day, Leon will tend to his partner’s needs and make sure they are completely comfortable, checking in and ensuring everything is good. He refuses to let himself relax until he knows his partner is 100% comfortable.