#marvel daredevil

A loud clang rattled through the apartment as you frantically moved about, knocking pots and pans onto the linoleum floor. You moved around with urgency, chest heaving and hands shaking with fear and adrenaline.

All of the curtains were shut, doors locked but you couldn’t remember if you’d left a spare key under the mat outside the front door.

You ran to it, yanking it open and shrieking as a man stood there. He quickly took hold of your arms, strong hands biting into your skin.

“Hey,” he said in that grounding tone you knew so well. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s just me.”

You blinked rapidly and through your panic you made out his face. Dex. Your heart slowed back to a steady rhythm but your breathing was still choppy.

Dex stepped closer, his broad shoulders filling up the entire doorway. You barely stepped back, letting his hands slide to your shoulders. “What happened to make my girl so scared, huh?”

You tilted your head back, staring up at him. You gripped his bicep and with the other hand gestured behind you. “He… he was there.”

Dex brushed some hair behind your ear. “Who—”

“I saw him.” You gasped, your pulse thrumming in your ears again. “He was there. He was there. He was coming after me… I… I saw him. And… and he’s coming, Dex.”

He forced the grin off his face, leaning down slightly to your level. “Who was it, baby? Who’s coming for you?”

Your eyes flicked over his face, dragging along the gorge of a scar on his cheek. You swallowed hard.

“Bullseye.”

That one little word sank like claws into his chest, an unfurling pride that made his eyes nearly turn feral. You didn’t notice. He stepped further inside your half-ransacked apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Sit down,” he instructed.

You shook your head. “He’s coming! He’s going to get me and—”

Dex gripped your jaw firmly, not bruising but just enough to shut your mouth. “No one’s touching you with me here, understood?”

Without another word, you went to sit on your couch, every little creak in the settling building or a groan of a pipe outside made you flinch. Every tiny disturbance of quiet made your skin prickle with unease. You pulled your legs your to your chest, worrying your lip between your teeth.

Dex crouched down in front of you, looking up through his lashes, his massive body trying to accommodate to the smaller space. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. Just stared. Memorized. Storing away every detail of your distressed features, making you even more beautiful than he thought was possible.

Then, he slipped something out from his pocket.

Your eyes tracked the movement before he reached for your hand. He uncurled your fingers from their tight fists and placed dark blue fabric there instead.

Dex gently pushed it towards you.

Hesitantly, you slowly but surely unfolded it and held it up in front of you. It was a balaclava. But not just a random one. Bullseyes.

“How’d you get this?” Your voice was nothing more than a timid whisper.

He stood back up, his shadow looming over you. “Put it on.”

Your eyes went wide, staring up at him like he was insane. Put it on? Your hands were trembling as you looked back at it. “But Dex, he’s coming for me…”

“Then show him you aren’t afraid.”

But you were terrified. More than you’d ever been in your life. Yet, after a long moment just staring at it, you slowly began pulling it over your head. It was loose on you and it smelled familiar. Like someone you knew. Maybe it was just the fact that Dex was standing right in front of you.

Once it was on, Dex had to hide his reaction. You looked like him now—a symbol of fear, lethal precision, and insanity. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, staring at him like he had just defeated the man you were trying to outrun.

The man who was now inside your apartment, taking up the safety of your home without you having a clue of who and what he really was.

And that’s what made it so fun. He fed off the way you clung to him when you were frightened, how you were so afraid of Bullseye that you were willing to put on his mask to prove that you were trying not to.

Something twisted inside him. Something hungry and crooked and so very wrong. But he couldn’t help it.

Dex lifted you off the couch, you compliant as he led you to the bathroom. Once you saw yourself, your fingers tightened on his hand.

“Not so scary now, hmm?” He hummed into your ear, the sound only slightly muffled.

Your reflection wasn’t you. It was Bullseye in another form of soft curves and small stature. The large shirt and sleep shorts adorning your body looked completely out of place with the dark balaclava on your head. It was clearly too big, but at the moment it didn’t seem like a big deal.

“I…” you took a deep breath. “He wouldn’t appreciate me pretending to be him.”

Little did you know, he was loving it. If it were anyone else, they’d be dead before they even saw him coming. But you? His beautiful girl? It was a sight he’d keep ingrained in his head forever.

“You’re not pretending.” Dex curved his skilled fingers around your wrist, coaxing you to face him. “Not yet, anyway.”

When your eyes met his, they were hot, blazing with an intensity that sent sparks shooting down your spine. Without any jerky movements, he brought your hand to his throat. Your breath hitched as your fingers wrapped around it.

Dex felt a jolt of need surge through his veins. “There you go,” he breathed out. “Now you are.”

Your pulse was thumping hard, your mouth dry. But your body was still locked in flight or fight mode, your brain alert for danger. “He’s coming, Dex. He’s not going to like this. You stole from him.”

He let out a blunt chuckle that made your skin prickle with unease. Then, he began to pull the balaclava off your head. “I’m not a thief.”

When he slid it on, your entire body locked up. Your mouth hung open. Terror and recognition and betrayal shot through your body like a bullet nestling deep within your bone tissue.

Dex wasn’t Dex anymore.

He was your worst nightmare.

Panic flooded through Dex. This wasn’t how he wanted you to find out but he was desperate for you to accept him. To see how messed up he was and still want him.

But when you took a step back, face ridden with insurmountable fear, he knew he would have to get you to understand. Even if that meant giving you the upper hand for a little while.

“Run.”

That single word put your legs into motion. Without a second thought, you sprinted out of the bathroom. As you made a beeline for the front door, the rug slipped beneath your feet. You collapsed to the floor with a strangled cry, a million emotions slamming into each other like broken waves against rocks.

Your boyfriend was Bullseye. The same man you’d watched feed the neighbors cat, the one who gave the homeless money, the one who you thought was good.

You let him into your home every day willingly. He kissed you good morning and good night, held you when the day went badly, slept in your bed and kept his strong arms tight around you like he couldn’t bear you to leave.

And now you understood why that was.

His heavy footsteps crept behind you, steady thumps that sent you flying back to your feet.

Once you were in the hallway, the lights dim and humming, you ignored the elevator and flew down the stairs. You didn’t stop running, now even when you accidentally fell down the last few steps at the bottom.

Would he hurt you? The answer seemed obvious. Dex wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Or maybe that was just the Dex he let you see.

Bullseye was the monster of Hell’s Kitchen. He locked on his target and didn’t stop until they were dead, using everything and anything at his disposal to eliminate those who he saw as threats and a waste of space.

Now he was truly after you. Not just the Bullseye you had seen across the street after a quick late night run to the corner store, watching you and tracking you like a predator stalking its prey.

He put a target on you. Smack dab in the middle of your face to let the entire city know Bullseye was coming for you next.

Tears obscured your vision as you clambered into a cleaning supplies closet. The smell of bleach and other chemicals infected your nose. You pressed up against the back wall, the only sliver of light coming from beneath the door.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, praying that this was a good enough hiding spot. You listened over the sound of your rapid heartbeat, trying to hear him.

Maybe he thought you left the building you told yourself, trying to cling onto the hope that you had outsmarted New York’s most deadly assassin.

Then you watched a giant shadow creep closer until you could see the tips of his boots.

You closed your eyes.

The door opened.

“No!” You screamed as those heavy, gloved hands latched onto your arms and begin to drag you out of the closet.

Dex wasn’t grinning anymore even though he wanted to find this amusing. He was frustrated, filled with toxic rage that his own girlfriend was trying to escape from him.

You thrashed around as his metal bands of arms wound around you, keeping your legs facing away from him as you kicked aimlessly.

“Let me go!” You cried.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he rasped into your ear, barely struggling even as you writhed.

“Then let go!”

“You’d just run again.”

“No shit!” You fired back, letting out a high pitched wail as your foot slammed into the wall.

“You’re just making this worse for yourself.” He grunted, hand sliding down to grip your thigh and prevent your leg from kicking out again.

As the fight drained out of you because he was far too strong to compete against, you panted hard, body going limp. “Please don’t, Dex.”

Your little, breathless plea gutted him. Did you really think he’d hurt you? If only you knew he had been following you around to keep you away from harm.

“Just stop fighting me, baby,” he said again, pulling off the balaclava. “Let me explain.”

“Explain what? That you’re a mentally deranged killer who slaughters people in broad daylight?”

He went to argue but you weren’t entirely wrong. “Just come back up with me. Please.” His hand came up, smoothing over your hair. “Please. I promise I’ll make it better.”

He made it impossible to say no. Not when you could feel every hard inch of him pressing against your back, his arms holding you like he wouldn’t let go even if you begged him to (he would).

And you hated yourself for it but you nodded anyway, victim to his whiny pleas.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. There was no way you’d ever be able to see him the same ever again. He was a murderer. A psychotic vigilante who you were starting to see as more of a villain.

Of course you knew about Dex’s mental illnesses going into your relationship with him. Now you were berating yourself for not having noticed when he stopped taking his medication. At first it wasn’t too noticeable but now it was practically being shoved in your face.

Dex was in front of you on one knee, tending to your ankle that was now more than bruised. Neither of you said anything. He saw how you kept your gaze trained on the wall ahead of you instead of looking down at him.

Finally, after he finished, he pressed his hands to your knees. He felt a pang of hurt when you tensed up.

“I was going to tell you.” A lie.

“Were you?” You asked sharply. “Or were you just going to keep letting me think my boyfriend was just some average guy who made me breakfast every morning and helped me make the bed and kept me warm at night?”

Dex gripped a little tighter. “I am. I still am.”

“You’re a vigilante!”

“Didn’t I do all of those things while being a vigilante?”

Your mouth slammed shut. He got you there and you hated it. As you stared at your lap, a single tear slipped from your eye.

“Hey,” he said softly, tipping your chin up a little bit and catching the tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry.”

You sniffled, shaking your head a little bit. “You… you’ve killed people.”

Dex watched your pretty face flush with all the emotions you were processing. He thought you were so beautiful when you got like this. “Yeah. To protect you. You understand? I did it to protect you.”

At this point, you weren’t even sure what to believe. He’d been keeping this from you since the beginning of your relationship. Was that his version of protection or just an excuse? You had no idea.

Dex felt that familiar panic surge in his chest. His fingers dug in until he left small bruises. “You believe me, right?” Please tell me you do.

You bit your bottom lip, staring off to the side and as much as he wanted to force you to stay looking at him, he let you take a moment. He couldn’t let you go. He wouldn’t. You were the only person in his life that made the world stop spinning. The only one who gave him something to come back to.

Then he thought of a new tactic to get you to stay. There was no way you’d leave if you knew everything he’d done to keep you safe, he thought.

“Do you remember that guy from the laundromat?”

The question was last thing you were expecting. But you wiped your nose with the back of your hand and nodded. “I do.”

Dex almost got giddy with the prospect of you finally finding out the lengths he went to make sure you were okay. That he cared so much that he did those things for you.

“Your friend called you,” he continued. Your heart squeezed, finding it creepy he’d been watching and was close enough to hear your conversation. And still, you hadn’t noticed him.

He took a tuft of your hair in between his fingers, feeling its softness. “You were too busy talking to her about what you were going to wear on our date that night.” Dex grinned, remembering every little detail. “You wore that dark blue dress, the one with the thigh slit and lace. Yeah… you only picked it because you knew I’d slip my under it.”

Despite everything, it made your breath catch. He wasn’t supposed to know that part.

His skilled fingers slid over the curve of your shoulder. “You didn’t notice the man follow you out. At the crosswalk you still looked both ways but never behind you.”

You’d always considered yourself an observant person but clearly you were wrong.

“I kept an eye on him from the moment he walked into the laundromat.” Dex studied your face for a reaction. “When he started following you, I stepped in. He never got close to you. I made sure of it.”

He smiled again. “Don’t you see, baby? I was looking out for you. I always am. I’m one of the good guys, okay? You know that.”

Your eyes were locked on his now and suddenly, you weren’t so scared anymore.

He always let you run.

He just kept all the violence hidden from you.

Slowly but surely you slid off the edge of the bed and into his lap. Dex sat back, large hands hovering over your lower back in case you needed any help. He felt a bout of satisfaction that you were coming onto him willing. His plan worked.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet. Just looked at him, seeing him in a whole different light now.

He had been keeping you safe without you knowing. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as everyone made him out to be.

He was a vigilante but he was doing it to keep you from harm. Maybe, just maybe, you were willing to give his alter ego a chance.

Your eyes drifted over his shoulder to the mask that was discarded on the floor. It didn’t seem so daunting anymore. Not when he was letting you hold him under you.

You grabbed the balaclava and carefully pulled it back over his head. Dex didn’t protest. Once only his eyes were visible, you let out a shaky breath. You could see the lines around his eyes and they reminded you of the man beneath the mask.

Finally, your hands came to rest on the back of his neck. Dex took this as a sign that you really weren’t leaving him. He settled his hands on your hips, his usually furrowed brows now soft around the edges.

“Thank you.” You whispered, hovering your mouth over his where it would be when not covered by cloth.

The only way you knew he smiled was because of the squint of his eyes. Anything for you.

Your lips pressed over his and he nearly reacted just from you accepting this. Accepting him and embracing it.

Running from Dex was useless.

Hiding from him was impossible.

And both of you knew that he loved you too much to ever let you run away from him ever again.

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.