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you use the magic words on dex a lot.

“i want…”

and god.

god, it works like fucking magic.

you say it soft enough, sweet enough, maybe with that tiny little pout you do when you know he’s already looking at you too hard, and suddenly?

done.

whatever it is.

“i want coffee.”

you don’t even finish the sentence before he’s already moving.

“i want that dress.”

doesn’t matter if it’s expensive.

doesn’t matter if he can’t really afford it.

doesn’t matter if he has to skip meals for a week after.

you want it.

so you get it.

because that’s dex.

poor, pathetic dex.

always standing there like a dog waiting for instructions. Head tilted. eyes too intense. too eager.

“need anything else?”

no, seriously.

he says it like he means it.

like maybe if he’s useful enough, good enough, obedient enough, you’ll finally look at him the way he looks at you.

which is embarrassing, honestly.

because wow.

he looks at you like a starving man watches someone hold bread.

like devotion carved itself into flesh and decided to ruin a perfectly unstable man.

and you?

you’re kind of awful.

a real piece of shit, actually.

because you know.

you know exactly what you’re doing.

you know he’d crawl through broken glass if you asked nicely enough.

know he’d ruin himself just because you sighed and sounded disappointed.

know all it takes is—

“i want…”

—and suddenly he’s listening harder than he’s breathing.

but hey.

you’re not forcing him.

right?

you never put a gun to his head.

never made him do anything.

you just ask.

sweetly.

casually.

like it means nothing.

and he—

god.

he acts like every request is some holy fucking mission.

you want to tie him up while you milk him dry?

you want to scratch and bite him until he bleed?

you want to take your anger out on him by beating him?

you want him to beg on his knees while he's crying?

done.

you once said, jokingly, “I want someone to stop bothering me.”

you didn’t mean anything serious.

you forgot about it in like ten minutes.

dex didn’t.

of course he didn’t.

because dex hears things differently.

you say annoying coworker.

dex hears problem.

you say i hate when people stare at me.

Dex hears threat.

you say i wish people would leave me alone.

and suddenly people start leaving you alone.

completely.

permanently.

funny how that works.

but you don’t ask questions.

you’re smart enough not to.

mostly because when you look at him after—when he’s standing there all quiet, awkward, hands twitching at his sides, waiting—

waiting for praise.

jesus christ.

it does something to you.

you can hear your heart beating in your ears.

you can feel your mouth watering.

you can feel the wetness between your legs.

because he doesn’t even want anything huge.

that’s the fucked up part.

doesn’t ask for money.

doesn’t ask for favors.

doesn’t even really ask for you.

he just—

he wants to be useful.

useful and needed.

maybe a soft “thank you.”

maybe your hand brushing his arm for a second too long.

maybe a tiny smile.

and he carries that shit for weeks.

weeks.

like a dog finally getting pet after sitting outside in the rain.

honestly, pathetic.

but pathetic in a way that makes you keep doing it.

because there’s something dangerously addicting about having someone this devoted.

someone who hears “I want” like it’s scripture.

someone who would destroy himself smiling if it meant you’d say—

“good job, dex.”

god.

you swear that man nearly melts every single time.

and maybe—maybe—you’re kinder than people give you credit for.

after all…

you do pat him on the head sometimes.

how generous of you.

What has my life becoming making an animatic off of a boyfriend asmr audio with Phainon like guys fuck my stupid chud life…

Shoutout to oomf for shaking me out of my post nut clarity and pushing me to post this IJBOLLLL

✶ BATBOYS AND THEIR TEXTS! pt.3

✶ DADDY'S LITTLE RAPUNZEL!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ when they do your little daughter's hair 🎀

including ⠀! ⠀ bruce wayne. dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession? fluff. i love writing fictional men as girl dads. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce takes it very seriously.

Every morning, your daughter climbs onto the bathroom counter while Bruce stands behind her with a brush like he's preparing for surgery.

"...Does it hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"No, Daddy."

"Tell me the second it does."

He brushes from the ends up exactly like you taught him.

Gentle. Slow.

If he hits a knot, he stops immediately.

"Found one."

Tiny fingers reach up to hold the section while he carefully works it out.

She watches him in the mirror.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I wanna be pwetty."

Bruce smiles so softly it almost hurts.

"You already are."

He still spends twenty minutes making sure every little ponytail is perfectly even.

When she runs off afterward, he quietly takes a picture.

He has hundreds.

DICK GRAYSON

Dick's love playing with her.

"Welcome back to grayson's professional hair salon!"

Your daughter giggles before she's even sitting down.

"What are we doing today?"

"A princess braid!"

"Good choice."

He narrates everything dramatically.

"Step one..."

Brush.

"No screaming! Amazing client!"

She laughs so hard she wiggles.

"Princess, I need you to stop moving."

"I can't!"

"I can see that."

Halfway through the braid...

He accidentally makes one side way bigger than the other.

"..."

"...Don't tell Mommy."

She gasps dramatically.

"Our secret?"

"Our secret."

You walk in.

"...Dick."

"...Yes?"

"Why is one braid twice the size of the other?"

Your daughter immediately throw him under the bus.

"Daddy said don't tell!"

He places a hand over his heart.

"Oh you traitor!"

JASON TODD

Jason learned because he refused to let you do everything.

He watched tutorials.

Practiced on wigs.

Even ask Dick to help him.

(He never speaks of that day again.)

Now your daughter sits between his legs on the couch while he carefully brushes her hair.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"No pulling?"

"Nope."

He's surprisingly good.

Slow hands.

Patient.

Then she asks—

"Daddy..."

"Yeah?"

"Can I have two buns?"

"...Absolutely."

The buns end up slightly uneven.

She looks in the mirror.

"I LOVE THEM."

Jason looks like he just won the lottery.

"Yeah?"

"They're perfect!"

He absolutely pretends that was intentional.

TIM DRAKE

Tim researches.

Extensively.

Different hair textures.

Brush types.

Leave in conditioners.

Protective hairstyles.

He has bookmarks.

A spreadsheet.

You don't ask.

One morning your daughter climbs into his lap with a hairbrush.

"Daddy?"

"My appointment?"

She nods seriously.

"You have an appointment."

"Excellent."

He carefully brushes every section while explaining what he's doing.

"This helps keep your hair healthy."

"Healthy!"

"Exactly."

She repeats every word he says.

By the end...

The hairstyle is adorable.

Slightly crooked.

But adorable.

She hugs him.

"You make me beautiful."

Tim nearly cries.

"No."

He kisses her forehead.

"You were beautiful since the day you were born."

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian refuses to admit he enjoys doing her hair.

"This is simply efficient."

Sure.

Every morning she's already climbing onto the stool before he even ask.

She hands him the pink brush.

"Please?"

"...Very well."

He's incredibly precise.

Every part is straight.

Every ponytail is symmetrical.

Every bow is centered perfectly.

You watch from the doorway.

"...She's spoiled."

Damian doesn't even look up.

"As she should be."

Then your daughter turns around.

"Daddy."

"Yes?"

"I want flowers."

"...In your hair?"

She nods.

Without another word, damian disappears into the garden.

Five minutes later he returns with tiny fresh flowers.

He carefully tucks them into her braid one by one.

She beams at herself in the mirror.

"I'm a fairy!"

"You are."

Then she throws her little arms around his neck.

"I love you, Daddy."

Damian freezes for exactly half a second before hugging her back just as tightly.

"...I love you as well, habibti."

You smile from the doorway, watching the self proclaimed "most disciplined" Wayne melt completely because his little girl wanted flowers in her hair.

He'll never admit it out loud.

But tomorrow morning, he'll already have fresh flowers picked before she she even wake up.

If you want to be in my DC taglist let me know :)

✶ PINK BRACELET! pt.6

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ a quiet evening with you unravels when dex realizes he can’t stand the softness in your voice every time matt’s name comes up. what starts as ordinary conversation turns sharp and ugly under the weight of his jealousy, until one careless question ruin everything.

including ⠀! ⠀ benjamin poindexter. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession. jealous dex. dex is mentally unstable as usual. angst. part 1 + part 2 + part 3 + part 4 + part 5. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language. ✶

The conversation is fine.

That's the worst part.

Nothing is wrong.

You're sitting across from him in the little café you dragged him to after work. Your hot chocolate has gone half cold because you keep forgetting to drink it. The whipped cream collapsed into a soft white puddle twenty minutes ago.

You're talking.

Smiling.

Laughing.

The city glows beyond the window behind you. Rainwater still clings to the glass in thin silver veins.

Everything is fine.

Everything should be fine.

"—and then Foggy told him that was literally illegal—"

You laugh.

Dex smiles automatically.

The right response.

Smile.

Nod.

Listen.

You're telling a story.

This is normal.

This is what friends do.

You keep talking.

"And Matt—"

There he is.

Again.

Dex stares down at his coffee.

Don't.

Leave it alone.

He can feel it starting.

That awful pressure.

Like a bruise being pressed repeatedly.

Not enough to injure.

Just enough to remind you it's there.

You keep talking.

Something about Matt helping somebody.

Something about Matt saying something funny.

Something about Matt being stubborn.

Something about Matt smiling.

Something about Matt.

Matt.

Matt.

Matt.

The name keeps appearing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And every single time your face softens.

Every single time.

His stomach tightens.

Stop it.

Leave it alone.

It's none of your business.

She can have friends.

People are allowed to have friends.

Normal people talk about their friends.

Normal people don't sit there dissecting every smile and every word and every blush.

Stop.

You keep talking.

Dex takes a drink of coffee.

Bitter.

Cold now.

He barely tastes it.

"...and then Karen said—"

Good.

Karen.

Talk about Karen.

Karen is safe.

Karen doesn't make his chest hurt.

"But Matt—"

Fuck.

His jaw tightens.

You don't notice.

You never notice things like that.

Lucky.

He notices everything.

You keep talking.

"...and Matt went to—"

Buzz.

The sound appears suddenly.

Faint.

Electric.

Somewhere deep inside his skull.

Buzz.

His fingers tighten around the coffee cup.

No.

Not now.

Buzz.

The conversation keeps going.

Your mouth keeps moving.

But the words start slipping apart strangely.

Like they're underwater.

Like they're being pulled away from him.

Buzz.

Leave it alone.

Leave it alone.

Leave it alone.

You don't need to know.

You don't want to know.

If she likes him then she likes him.

What difference does it make?

Buzz.

Your smile widens again.

There.

That smile.

That fucking smile.

The one you only seem to get when you're talking about him.

Buzz.

His chest feels tight.

Too tight.

The café suddenly feels warmer.

Smaller.

The sounds around him begin stretching strangely.

Silverware.

Voices.

Traffic.

Buzz.

Stop.

You don't need to ask.

You absolutely should not ask.

None of this is your business.

You're being weird.

You're being obsessive.

Stop.

You keep talking.

He can't hear any of it anymore.

Just pieces.

Fragments.

"...Matt..."

Buzz.

"...he said..."

Buzz.

"...brown eyes..."

Buzz.

"...Matt..."

The name keeps hitting him.

Over and over.

Like something tapping directly against a cracked tooth.

Buzz.

His pulse is loud now.

His thoughts are louder.

Don't.

Don't.

DON'T—

"Do you like him?"

✶ DEAD LOVER!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ the way they cope after your death.

including ⠀! ⠀ matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession. angst. both matt and dex are fucked in the head. dead dove? not really. nsfw in matt's part. gifs by @.emziess. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

MATT MURDOCK

Sex.

He will have sex constantly.

Every morning. Every night. Sometimes in the middle of the day when the silence becomes too much.

He fucks women who wear the exact same perfume you used. The one that still makes his cock twitch when he catches it on the wind.

He seeks out women whose heartbeats sync almost perfectly with the rhythm he still hears in his sleep. Women who moan his name in that same breathy pitch you once did, right before you cum on his tongue.

Matt always growls your name when he cums inside. Every single time.

“Y/n—” torn out like a prayer as he spills into a stranger’s cunt, hips stuttering, eyes squeezed shut so he can pretend it’s your wet heat milking him.

He knows it’s disgusting. He knows it’s vile.

But it’s the only way he can bury the grief, the guilt, the self hatred that rots him from the inside like maggots in a open wound.

Because he couldn’t protect you.

Because he didn't do shit.

He's daredevil isn't he? The devil of hell’s kitchen. The hand of god himself.

And yet he couldn’t keep one woman safe. One fragile, beautiful woman.

It’s his fault. All of it. Every fucking second of it.

Because he was selfish. Because he loved the suit more than you. Because he wanted to be superior to Fisk, better than the devil whispering in his ear.

Because he was a hypocrite who preached justice but did nothing when you needed him.

What a pathetic piece of shit.

If he had just been faster... If he had been stronger… If he had just killed—

Yeah. If.

It's always "what if."

Would it bring you back?

Would it let him taste your skin one more time instead of some stranger’s sweat?

What would you think if you saw him like this?

His face between another woman’s thighs just because her laugh sounded a little like yours for three pathetic seconds?

Would you be mad?

Disgusted?

Disappointed?

Or happy?

Are you happy now?

Are you smiling now? Do you laugh when he’s like this? Broken, leaking cum and tears into someone who isn’t you?

You must be.

You hated him, after all.

That’s when the hysterical laughter starts bubbling up while he’s still balls deep inside some poor woman’s pussy.

She is freaked out. He can tell by her heartbeats.

What was her name again?

Emma?

Emily?

Y/n.

Fuck.

He misses you.

He misses you so much. So much it feels like his ribcage is caving in, bones splintering inward to stab his heart.

He can't breathe.

There’s a stone lodged in his throat, heavy and sharp, and he doesn’t know if he wants to swallow it or vomit it up along with everything else rotting inside him.

His dick goes soft instantly. And then the tears come, hot and ugly, while some stranger holds him like a broken child, stroking his hair as he sobs your name into her tits.

Please come back.

Please.

He be better.

He do anything you want.

Just come back.

Please...

BENJAMIN POINDEXTER

The day you died, he had a mental breakdown.

His brain simply couldn't accept that you were dead.

You were not dead. You could not be dead.

Of course you're not dead.

You're sleeping.

You're sick.

You're tired.

You just need rest.

That's all.

That's all.

That's all.

You’re resting in the other room. You’ll wake up soon and smile at him with those pretty eyes that made him feel like he was on cloud nine.

You would never leave him.

You said it yourself. You said you loved him. You said you liked his eyes. You said he was good. You love him. You said you’d stay. You promised. You said you’d stay forever. You said— you said—

Ah.

He burned the eggs again.

Shit.

It’s fine. You can have pancakes today. You always liked them better. Extra syrup, just how you want it.

And apple juice. Cold. Fresh. Sweet.

He has to go get some right now.

Where are his keys? Where’s his keys? Where’s his keys? Where’s his fucking—

“Y/n? Have you seen my keys, baby? I need to get your apple juice.”

No answer.

Hmm?

“Baby?”

…why won't you answer?

“Y/n?”

Nothing.

A chill crawls down his back, slow and wet like melting ice. His pulse hammers in his ears.

Dex immediately runs to your room. Heart beating so fast it feels like it might burst through his chest.

What if you fell? What if you hurt yourself? What if you’re dea—

Shut the fuck up. Shut up shut up shut up.

Then he opens the door and—

Oh.

Ohhh.

Haha.

So you’re still sleeping. Alright.

Ok ok ok, everything's fine.

Look at you.

So lovely. So perfect. So peaceful.

You look so cute like that, don’t you?

Cute?

Yeah. So cute.

What’s so cute about a rotting corpse, Dex?

…what?

He stands there smiling, head tilted, fingers twitching at his sides. The delusion cracks for half a second, then seals itself again like a fresh wound.

You’re just sleep. You’ll wake up. You have to. Because if you don’t… if you really left him…

No. No no no.

He’ll make breakfast anyway. He’ll set the table. He’ll sit across from your cold body and talk to you about his day, stroking your stiffening hand while the smell gets worse and the flies start to gather at the corners of your eyes.

Then he crawls onto the bed beside you, careful not to disturb the way your stiff limbs have settled.

He brushes a strand of hair from your forehead—skin cold, slightly slick now—and presses a kiss to your dry lips.

“It’s okay. You’re just tired. I’ll take care of everything. I never leave you.”

He curls around your decaying body, nose buried in your neck where the rot is sweetest, breathing you in like his life is depends on it.

His hand strokes down your side, over the bloating beginning in your belly, fingers tracing the places he used to mark with his teeth when you were warm and moaning.

You’re not leaving. You can’t. You promised.

And in the quiet of the apartment, with the flies humming their little hymn above you both, Dex smiles against your cold skin and whispers the same things he told you every night when you were alive.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He’ll stay right here until you wake up.

Even if it takes weeks.

Even if the smell gets worse.

Even if pieces of you start to slip off when he holds you too tight.

You’ll wake up.

You have to.

Because you promised.

Right?

If you want to be in my daredevil taglist let me know :)