#dex oc

[detective-luca-montoya]

Dex? Who is that? I didn’t know you had any kind of apprentice.

Funny you ask, anon!

Dexter Duke (he goes by Dex) is my apprentice in the ways of aura- he's 17 now, and we met about two years ago, after the... well, we don't need to get into that.

He's really tall and strong! He can summon a zweihander and knows magic, so we got along great! After a bit of a rough start, haha...

But anyway, he's at home for summer vacation. Maybe I'll see if he wants to hop on here sometime!

Art by @space-is-out-there

[bunnyboysrus]

Yan Space Pirate (OC AU)

Ok so this is 110% because I'm currently obsessed with no mans sky, and i havent even gotten around to writing Dex a formal introduction fic but essentially he's a monster hunter, that's (one of) his big secret(s) that's implied in the short piece I dropped.

i have a dozen drafts that I just cannot finish for some reason that i should finish first but i cant sleep until i write about space criminal dex getting up to space crimes. him meeting his darling because his starship gets shot down and he crashes on their home planet and they fjdskhgusihek

i wanted this to be a teensy bit longer but i think maybe ill just make a part two and post this for now. i feel distinctly self conscious posting this as a yandere thing without there being any yandere content in this at all but i swear it'll be in the second part ywy

i'm trying to improve my writing so critiques, suggestions and requests are welcome ♡

Maybe going into a hostile Euclid system without spare shield batteries wasn't the smartest idea after all. Dex was definitely regretting it now that he was spiraling out of control through the burning atmosphere with both of his pulse engines spewing smoke. He took the moment before impact to curse himself internally for letting cockiness get the better of him yet again, exactly the way Roman said he would. He was more bothered by Roman being proven right than by actually getting shot out of space by those nosy ass Sentinels. They wouldn't get mad about him having a ship loaded tip to top with illegal contraband if they didn't randomly scan his cargo without asking, now would they?

There was no more time to be bitter about it though. Despite the steam obscuring everything around him, the result of a superheated rainstorm judging from the planetary temperature reading displayed on one of his few remaining functional screens, he was pretty sure was about to make impact any-

💫💫💫🚀☄️🪐💥

You're awoken by a cacophony of crashing water, ripping metal, and falling trees, your home shaking on its very foundation. Almost as abruptly as it came, the sound stops, and you sit in your bed a moment to calm yourself, nerves scattered from being ripped awake. You had been enjoying a particularly nice sleep too, listening to the peaceful pattering of the boiling rain that was so common on your planet. After a few minutes spent shuffling into the exosuit that would keep you from burning alive outside for at least a little while, you quickly made your way outside to find the source of the noise. Admittedly, this was a bit dangerous but if there was some kind of accident and someone was hurt, they could be killed getting cooked alive if they were trapped outside, so you had to at least see if anyone needed help.

Your home was settled a short way away from a small settlement, not close enough to visit without a short bit of travel, but close enough to visit every day if you so chose. Nestled at the edge of a crater lake, your small but well stocked and fortified base was built with a single-story home unit, a small basement lab and a separate greenhouse that you had lovingly fitted with skylights and tall, floor to ceiling windows. You often wait out the heatstorms in your greenhouse, tending your plants peacefully as the steam and rain rages around your protected little bubble of tranquility.

You turn your head as your visor scans your surroundings through the steam better than your eyes could in all the tumult, soon landing on a crashed starcraft, wedged into the bank of the lake at the bottom of the crater. You hastily skid down the side of the crater, hopping over wreckage and broken tree branches to make your way to the ship. After clambering up the side of the ship to the windscreen, you wince to see that its partially shattered, exposing the pilot inside to the harsh rains. You have to act fast. You pull a compact tarp from one of the pockets of your suit and wrap it around your arm before smashing out more of the screen. After much struggle while carefully avoiding broken glass and sweating buckets inside your exosuit, you manage to wrap the pilot in the tarp, drag him back into your base and lay him out on a sofa.

Looking down at the pilot now without anything to obstruct your vision, he's clearly not from around here. While humanoid like yourself, he is incredibly tall, probably part of what made him so difficult to drag around. His height is added to by the long, ivory horns standing straight on the top of his head, however, one of them has been broken off near the base. Judging from the fresh blood dripping from the stub, it likely snapped off during the crash. The white of his horns contrasts greatly with his inky black curls and dark tanned skin, and after a few moments of observation, pale blue sparks run up their length; you hurriedly put a plastic cover between his head and your very flammable sofa.

You go to run a medical scanner over him but stop short when you see the iron rosary around his neck, sturdy enough to survive a crash from space apparently. You remove it to get it out of the way of your treatment. You quickly realize his injuries aren't immediately life threatening somehow, despite the intensity of the crash, but they are severe. One leg broken in two places, four broken ribs, several deep wounds and too many scrapes and bruises to count on top of the broken horn.

You take a deep breath and start cutting away his suit to get to work.

⛈️⛈️⛈️🔥🔥

Fuck... Everything hurts so much.

Dex floats just on the edge of consciousness, barely breaking through the burningly painful haze covering him head to toe. It hurt to be awake, he just wanted to sink back into blackness but giving in to such moments of weakness would only get him killed.

Suddenly, he feels hands on him, followed by an even sharper pain in his leg where they touch. He tries to open his eyes, to move, anything, only to be hit with a wave of nausea that has him reeling, blood rushing so violently through his ears all he can hear is shrill ringing. He can't see, the lights overhead are doubled and swirling, obscuring everything around him, bright, blinding, confusing. He groans, every movement compounding his pain as he tries to get away from whatever is touching him, panic rising. He can't see or think, the panic is churning into a bitter terror, fear itching like insects up his spine and down his limbs as he thrashes-

"It's okay- you're safe." A voice, soft, worried, kind. The hands move to cup his face and the spinning stops, the nausea recedes; their skin is cool against the feverish burning that covers him, soothing. It takes a moment, but he grows still, occasionally twitching in pain. He tries again to open his eyes, focusing now on the being hovering over him.

"I'm going to help you, just be calm."

The light that had just been so harsh and blinding was now a glorious halo that shone gently around their silhouette, casting most of their face in shadow. He can see their eyes, though, the depths of them are all he can see, glowing just as brightly as the halo around them, filled with a worry that seemed... personal, affectionate. Intimate, even. He stills further, not even aware of his body relaxing against his will. He's startled into confusion once again, but in a different way, rather than panic he's struck motionless by sheer awe.

Beautiful.

This... Was Roman right about angels? Would an angel really come for someone like me..? Am I really deserving of salvation?

Considering everything he'd done, the kind of life he's lived since he lost his sister... He'd never thought it possible. Despite Roman insisting on Dex wearing the rosary he had given him soon after they'd first met, he didn't care to seek God's protection or embrace, in this life or the next. According to that stupid book, he was hellbound, so why waste time praying for salvation that would never come?

"An.. Angel..." The words come out in a daze, spilling straight from his dizzy, muddled head out of his mouth. He could barely even tell if he was actually speaking or if he was hearing things, the darkness at the edge of his vision is creeping further, covering his vision with black again, the ringing in his ears crescendos into a shrill chorus.

This must be how the heavenly gates sound as they screech open to welcome home the blessed, underscored by the singing of cherubs.

He feels at peace.

✩ εꨄ︎з ✩ εꨄ︎з ✩ εꨄ︎з ✩

The pilot stops thrashing and finally goes still and quiet as you lower the syringe. This poor guy, the fear and panic in his eyes had been so real, and intense. Sleeping through the treatment process would be best for him. You spend the next few hours pulling shrapnel from his skin, setting his bones and binding everything securely. Finally, once you're sure you've done everything you can, you sit back with a tall cup of water and finally breathe a sigh of relief. Before you head back to your room to sleep through what remains of the night, you glance out your window to the lake where the crashed ship rests.

What in the galaxy was this guy doing that made him crash?

In the morning, you're awoken by yet another clatter, this time coming from inside your home. You jump out of bed and run to the main room to find the pilot sprawled on the ground in the frame of your front door, several things having been knocked off your table in his journey. You sigh and move closer.

"What are you doing?"

He freezes and slowly turns his head to look up at you. His eyes are a startlingly bright electric blue.

"You really shouldn't be moving yet, you're in worse shape than you probably think you are." You move a step closer to him but he scoots away with a pained wince. You stop and hold your hands up placatingly. "It's okay, I promise I won't hurt you. Why would I bandage you up otherwise, right?"

He seems to consider this for a moment before closing his eyes and nodding stiffly.

"You're right.. 'm sorry for the trouble." He sighs.

You smile lightly and move closer, and this time he doesn't move away when you reach to help him up from the floor and back onto the sofa. He spends a moment adjusting to the least painful position he can manage, looking around the room in a sort of haze. You feel a bit worried looking at his dazed expression, maybe he has a concussion after all... He suddenly fixes his electric gaze on you. You try not to squirm at his intensive attention.

"Er, so, what's your name?" You start. He blinks at the question, thinking.

"Dez... Uh, no.. Dex. Dex for sure." His head tilts to one side, his balance wavering for a moment. "What's your name?"

"It's (y/n)."

"(y/n)..." He repeats it a few times like a mantra before getting distracted with inspecting the room again.

"Can you remember what galaxy we're in? Are you from this system?"

"Hm?" His head droops further to the side, his eyes never leaving yours no matter how far he leans.

You repeat your question.

"Uh... I'm from Adaestria 7...." He scrunches his face. "777-AYK. That's where I'm from."

"Uh-huh, and..?"

"Aaaaand... We're in a red star galaxy." He smirks, clearly proud of himself. He lifts his head, but it droops right back down to the side after a few seconds.

You can't help a small chuckle. It's worrisome, likely indicative of an internal head injury, but it's just a little cute too... A spark runs up his horn at the sound of your laughter and he perks up, grinning dopily.

"Do you remember the name of this galaxy?" You prompt again.

"Zeta Asshole Robots Galaxy." He harumphs, crossing his arms with a scowl, right before the droop finally brings his head down against the side of the couch. "Can't ever min' their business..."

"No, that's definitely not it."

"Hmph, that's what I'm callin' it." He reaches one hand up to scratch at the base of his broken horn, looking shocked when his thumb catches on the broken end. He sits up and feels around it for a bit, looking horrified.

"Ohhhh ssshit... Oh man, that's why I can't see."

"Huh?"

"My horn... It, uhh... When it breaks off I get real fucked up, in the membrane. Insane, in the membrane.." He leans back giggling.

"Can it, grow back?"

"Ohhh yeeaaahh sure sure, 'f course. It jus' takes a few."

"A few...?"

"Weeks." He fixes his hazy eyes on you again, a light, dazed grin fixed on his face. "Is anything else in this galaxy as nice to look at as you two?"

You blanche at the strangeness of the question, which only seems to enthuse him more as he giggles again.

"Two?"

"Oh, is there not supposed to be two of you? Ugh, man.." He leans his head into his hand, sparks popping erratically from the stump of his broken horn. "My head hurts."

"Is there anything I can do? Does anything help while it grows back?" You can't help but put a hand on his shoulder in concern. One of his hands drifts up to cover yours, squeezing lightly.

"If you have, a refiner... You can make a carbon fiber cap." He mutters between his fingers, eyes slipping closed. The goofy confusion is gone, replaced with exhaustion and pain. You nod and move to pull your hand away but he clings to you. For a moment, you think you'll have to pry yourself free, but he lets you go after a long, quiet moment.

You dash down to your lab and after a bit of tinkering, you manage to produce something you deem suitable. Your patient is still slumped over when you return; it looks like he drifted into unconsciousness. You pull on a thick pair of rubber gloves and carefully fix the cap around the broken end of his horn, containing the errant electricity. As soon as it's secure, some of the tension in his face eases.

He opens his eyes again after a moment, visibly more lucid than before. And grumpier. He casts another appraising look around your home, looking distinctly less than impressed, before his eyes land on you once again.

"How long ago did I crash?"

"Oh, about five hours ago. You got caught out in the boiling rains?"

"Boiling rains... A superheated rainstorm?"

"Yeah, that." You plop onto the table next to him, since it's been so conveniently cleared off. "You seem a bit more clear headed now."

"Yes, unfortunately when my horns break it impacts my mental cognition and physical balance. I apologize for any inconvenience I've caused."

"Oh, no it's not really a problem, all you've really taken up is the spare carbon I've got lying around and some bandages." While it's definitely easier to talk to him now, you almost miss the loopy, dazed version of Dex. It was a little adorable.

You both spend some time exchanging questions and answers, now that you can more easily converse. Dex tells you about the recent expedition he'd been on for certain rare materials on another planet in your system, one that you know is perilously radioactive. He admits, with a touch of embarrassment, that he underestimated the equipment he'd need and ended up getting knocked out of hyperspace early and straight into an asteroid belt that knocked out his engines and sent him hurtling to the surface of the nearest planet. He gets very vague when you ask him specifics about the collection job he mentioned, but he does mention collecting plants of some kind. He laments that they've most definitely been destroyed, if not by the crash than definitely by the boiling rains they'd have been exposed to, along with the rest of his cargo.

At this, you excitedly tell him about your own collection of plants and the research you conduct with them. He listens indulgently as you spend more than a few moments regaling him with the fascinating details of your cross pollination experiments and all the exotic and beautiful plants you've grown in your collection. At some points during your ranting, he even cracks the slightest of smiles.

It isn't much longer until he's insisting to go out and see the state of his ship, broken leg be damned.

"You're in no shape to even get near the ship, it's at the bottom of a crater, and the ground down there isn't exactly paved."

"I'll manage." He insists. "Just get me a crutch or something."

You stand firm, arms crossed. "What if I said no?"

His eyes snap to yours, narrowed in challenge. The silence thickens as you stare each other down, before Dex suddenly moves to force himself to his feet, and you rush forward to stop him. It's incredibly distressing to tussle with him like this when you're trying to avoid hurting him further, but his injuries wear him out quickly. He only manages to struggle with you for about a minute before he's laying back on the sofa, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

"Fine, you win. Just swear to me that you won't go poke around the wreck anymore by yourself. I have a lot of volatile substances on there and their containers have definitely been breached, it wouldn't be safe."

You scoff at the implication that you might be too inexperienced or ill prepared to properly handle dangerous substances, especially coming from the guy that fell out of the sky with said substances, but make the sage decision to not make a fight of it.

"Alright then, I promise not to poke around your ship. As long as you promise not to try to sneak out to it until you're not on the verge of death."

For the first time since he's regained his lucidity, he allows himself to smile broadly as he holds up a hand, pinkie finger extended.

"It's a promise."

✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧

[lovesick-joey]

another dc oc... yes that is a horse you're looking at

[shadowbriar]

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter — Your Initial

Synopsis: After one too many mistakes, too many sour outcomes he had to bring to the boss' door, Dex knew that the thin safetynet he thought he was under was just a mere imagination.

wrote this on my phone cause I'm out on a trip. will fix each and every mistake once I get my hands on a laptop.

Dex' hands roam around her body as if they haven't travelled every inch of her skin. His kisses were desperate, needy, and more vigorous with every pause of breath he took. His figure pins her against the shelves, doing its best to eliminate as much space as possible. The storage room was crammed enough as it is, but even with the close proximity, there seems to be planets between them, still.

His head was pounding. The ringing in his ears would only grow even louder with each text he received from the Kingpin. He knew that he's messed up. Too many tasks left unfinished, targets slipped, and businesses unsealed, that it would only be a matter of time until he gets some disciplinary action. Until he would become another name in Fisk's list. Until he, or worse, she, would become the one chased by the crosshair.

At first, Dex revels in the power he gained when Fisk scouted him. He enjoyed the freedom he had, standing above the law as he unleashed the worst kinds of horror to anyone he needed to take care of. But after one too many mistakes, too many sour outcomes he had to bring to the boss' door, he knew that the thin safetynet he thought he was under was just a mere imagination.

There's nobody he could turn to, no enforcement that he could seek help from cause everything was owned by Fisk. Everyone works for him, whether or not they realise it.

"Dex, hey," she calls softly between their kisses, her giggles trailing her voice "I'm not going anywhere, we can take a breath for a minute,"

He forces a smile, "Why, you don't enjoy my kisses?"

"On the contrary, I adore them a lot," she replies, resting her hands around his neck as she takes a soft peck to the tip of his nose "which is why I'd very much prefer to savour it,"

Dex nods, placing a kiss to her forehead.

She watches him intently. The hue under his eyes was looking more noticeable. Fatigue was dripping out of him, and that displeased frown was etched on his lips. Something was bothering him.

"Trouble sleeping?" she begins to ask, her fingers combed through the blond strands of his hair "has Hattley been giving you a hard time?"

"You can say that," Dex sighs, leaning into her gentle touch "there's this.. task, that I keep on failing, and I'm pretty sure they're going to hang me by the neck if I fail again the next time,"

"What kind of task?"

He chuckles, shaking his head, "You know I can't tell you, it's confidential,"

"You and your mysteries," rolling her eyes, she comments with a slight frown "you know, maybe it'll make you feel better to shine light on some of these secrets,"

He remains silent, watching her with no expression.

"Starting with us, maybe? We can stop going to storage rooms and just.. you know, be a normal couple out in the day," she coaxes, her finger now travels down to his undereye, gently caressing the bags that were more visible than the usual "maybe that'll give your mind a little more peace?"

Dex lets out an exasperated sigh. The muscles on his jaws were tensed now, veins more visible on his forehead. He was conflicted. He knew just how much it meant for her, to be out in public with their relationship, but it would only serve as putting bounty on her head. At this point, he couldn't even be too sure that their relationship was still a business of two. With Fisk's eyes on every corner and Murdock's alien abilities, Dex could only do so much to try and keep her under wraps.

Silently, he places his hands on her cheeks. The gesture was firm and a little authoritative, but she remains silent and follows his lead. He eyes her straight, a total contrast to the gentle and uncertain stare she gives back at him.

"I love you," he begins, his tone dogmatic as if it was a universal fact "I would burn the world to the ground, if it means saving you. If it means keeping you safe from all those filth on the street. There is no one, and I mean by no one, that I would not sacrifice for you,"

Her brows knit, confused as to how their conversation could take such a turn.

"I just— With everything going on, Fisk on that hotel, Daredevil going rampant, I just don't think putting us out there would do us good,"

"What does Fisk and Daredevil have to do with us?" she questions, clearly at lost on what he's trying to say "if you're worried about my safety, I have my gun with me at all times, and I doubt I'll be in any of their priority list. I'm just a nobody,"

"But you're not a nobody to me, and I'm not willing to take that risk," he argues adamantly "look, we can have this discussion some other time, okay? Not now,"

It was obvious that she has more words to spill, more arguments to give, but the despair Dex shows was a little too concerning for her to prolong the discussion, so she surrenders with a nod. Forcing a smile and placing a kiss to his cheek to help untangle the tension on his muscles.

Dex smiles a little, showing gratitude for the gentle gesture before his lips find their way back to her neck, "What's your plan tonight?"

"I don't know, nothing on the schedule yet," she answers.

"How does a dinner date, sound? Been a while since we visited that favourite restaurant of yours,"

"Yeah? Tonight?" she asks, intrigued "wouldn't they call you to watch over Fisk?"

Dex pauses his kisses, lips pursed as he gives it a thought, "They haven't called me for anything, so I should be free for the night," he pulls her closer by the waist, the corners of his lips turning upwards as that gleeful grin returns to her face "so, what do you say?"

"Pick me up at seven?"

He nods, his finger reaches to the 'D' initial hanging on her neck that he got her a couple months back, "You got it, Princess,"

—-

Dex' hair was dishevelled. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, eyes bloodshot from the panic that's starting to poison his veins. He knew that he's jabbed on the beast a little too frequently lately, but he never would have imagined that he needed to fix everything now.

The stoic welcome in Fisk's tone was gone when he entered the suite. There was a sense of disapproval in the superior's expression, a little more firmness in the order he's given that it shook all the confidence Dex has left in himself. As if there was a silent hidden message that he should understand: last chance, or he's out for good.

Now Dex may never fear for his safety. He's far more capable to eliminate anyone, let alone defend himself, but with Fisk and all the bidding he's done for him, Dex couldn't be certain of the degree his boss would be willing to commit should he make another mistake tonight. And with her in the equation, he knew that there could never be a risk small enough to overlook.

And so he remained quiet when Fisk gave him the mission to go to the abandoned building on the other side of town. There, on the twenty-second floor, he would find a parcel in the middle of the empty ballroom. The parcel itself was of nothing. His main objective was to neutralise Matt Murdock who would be on the move to get his hands on the parcel first and bring his head to Fisk.

There was some knot tightening in his stomach, telling him that something wasn't right when there's a whole meeting with Fisk's past allies downtown. Every criminal, every drug lords that has ever worked with Fisk would be in that building and Dex knew just how crucial it is for his boss to strengthened his crew. Most of the bureau agents are sent to secure the event, and he was fairly certain that he would be called last minute to add another layer of protection for the meeting, yet here he was, running back to his apartment to get the daredevil suit before having to run to the other side of town.

His thumb dials for her number the moment he gets to his apartment. It was 6:24. There would be no chance for him to followup with that dinner now and the last thing he needs to wrap the night with is standing her up for a date he initiated.

"Hey, Princess," Dex greets when his call went straight to voice mail "listen, I think we have to do a raincheck with that dinner tonight. Something came up with Fisk and I can't bail myself out. I'm really sorry, I'll make it up to you, okay? Call me back when you get this. Bye,"

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should send another voice message just to tell her that he loves her. Something about today makes him want to say it a million times more than yesterday. Neither of them were ever this clingy. The word typically only roll out of their tongues when they were dancing on the bed, but there's this urge to be more vocal about what he feels for her today. A certain kind of need that he was never familiar with. And if Dex was an honest man, he'd admit that this feeling scares him shitless.

Pushing his pride aside, he types in for one last text before he opens his safe and put the daredevil suit on.

I love you, call me back. D

—-

When Matt got to the abandoned building, his confusion only grew bigger as the ticking he heard from the parcel was just of a decoy. It was just some cheap electrical circuit with materials of a bomb yet none of the circuits were connected to each other. Next to it was a gold necklace with the initial D. It evidently belongs to someone as the perfume of its owner was still strong on the item, yet Matt couldn't recall anyone who wears such personalised scent.

Before Matt could give his ponder a little more time, Dex' throw of a blade nearly hit the back of his head had he not move in time. The two men then begin to entangle themselves into a real fight, kicking the parcel and its content during their commotion.

Dex' punches were getting more and more violent. His scream animalistic and the beating of his heart was so erratic Matt wonders if it would give in first before he could actually knock the phoney vigilante down.

"You smell like her," Matt notes when he got a whiff of the scent from Dex.

"Who?" Dex asks but his tone was more of a demand. From the corner of his eye, he could see something gleaming under his foot. The gold necklace was reflecting the dim light of the building and when he picked the item up, Dex blood went cold "how did you get this?"

"It was in the box with that fake bomb," Matt answers through his cough of blood.

Dex grabbed him by the collar, spitting on his face, "I swear to God if you touch her—"

"It was in the box," Matt repeats, his tone steady and unwavering "It was Fisk,"

Dex dropped Matt to the ground with a loud thud. He takes a few steps back, letting the new information to sink in. The necklace dangling by his hand feels heavier by the second. Every horrific scenarios start to play in his head. What was the necklace doing here? How did Fisk get it? What's happened to her?

Abandoning his mission, Dex frantically runs out of the building. He couldn't care less about failing another task, about facing the consequence of his ill-delivered results. He tosses the daredevil helmet away as he jumps into his car. He rummages his bag, desperately trying to find his phone as he ignites the vehicle.

"Pick up, baby, pick up," he desperately prays as his foot steps on the gas.

"Dex? Hi, I was just—"

"Where are you?" he cuts in, yelling at her in panic "tell me, where the hell are you right now?!"

"I'm at the town business meeting thing with everyone else," she explains, her voice slightly distorted from the bad signal "The whole bureau was sent to secure this meeting. I was just about to call you cause Hattley said you should be here too. Where are you?"

"Baby, listen to me, okay? I want you to listen to me carefully, get out of that damn building, okay? I'm on my way there, I'll be there in a minute just— Get out of that building now,"

A confused scoff escaped her lips, brows now furrowed from the illogical demand he was making, "What are you talking about? I'm literally in charge of the main event, I can't just leave the building,"

"They put you— What?"

"I know, it's crazy. It should've been Ramirez, but Hattley said he's needed elsewhere so they appointed me last minute,"

Dex was pulling his hair by now. He should've seen it. Fisk puts her there while driving him as far as possible so he could put her in the open. Taunting and mocking him with just how little control he has over his life. Dex was never in charge of anything, it was always Fisk, and Fisk only.

"Dex, are you there?" she asks after a minute of his silence "listen, the meeting is going to start anytime soon, so I won't be on my phone—"

"You're not listening to me! Get the fuck out of that building now!" Dex yells in frustration "run out of it, jump if you need to, just fucking get out of there!"

"I can't jump out, I'm literally on the twenty-second floor!" she argues, completely missing the irony of her position "what is wrong with you?! Just— get here and we'll talk about it, okay?"

"No, there's no time! Just listen to me, please," he begs, choking on his own tears now as he's starting to see the building she's at "please, I'll explain everything later, just get out of there for now, please. I love you, please, listen to me,"

She was starting to feel conflicted. The event is starting any minute now and she would never see any bigger opportunity to secure her position in the bureau more than now, but the begging Dex makes is twisting her chest. He was full on crying and choking out of his words now, and it's certainly not a familiar thing for her to see. Something was wrong and she might be in the middle of it.

"Okay, okay, I'll come out," she finally gives in, moving her feet to the exit door "The things I do for you, Benjamin Po—"

Her words hung on the air as the ground shook. Dex watches with his own eyes how the building that was just a few blocks away from him exploded. Fire catches up as soon as the blast happened and within seconds, the whole building collapse from the violent destruction.

People were running away from the scene as the air turns dusty and grey, yet Dex jumped out of his car to run closer. His feet burns, tripping from all the debris that now laid on the road from the explosion. His eyes stings, but he couldn't look away from the blaze that has engulfed the building. He watches as fire dances against the concrete walls, turning everything it touches burnt and ashen.

And as Dex' feet gave in, as he kneels on the road a few metres away from the building, he knew that he is out for good.

[bullseyelover]

i’ve been thinking about dex’s story in born again.

how, in universe, the world saw dex after the events of josies, and after his trial. how quick everyone was to believe he just snapped and went on a revenge fueled rampage at josies. and the sad thing is, that makes sense in the worst possible way. because the world is always going to be more comfortable writing someone like dex off as just another mentally ill guy who lost control. that’s the story people are used to. it’s easier, simpler, and it doesn’t require any deep thought or empathy. it doesn’t ask them to look at who failed him, who used him, who broke him down. it doesn’t ask them to understand the difference between someone being dangerous and someone being made into a weapon. and most people just don’t care enough to look closer.

and what gets me is how many people refuse to hold both truths about dex at the same time. that he’s a victim and a perpetrator. that he did horrific things and was still deeply, painfully used. i hate how often people online will reduce it to “oh you just like him because he’s hot” when you try to talk about him with nuance. like no. dex is complex. he’s the wound and the knife. he is someone who’s suffered, been manipulated, abandoned, used like a tool, but that doesn’t erase what he’s done. it doesn’t mean people weren’t hurt, or that his violence didn’t matter. you can see his pain and still hold him accountable. you can understand where it came from and still be horrified by the outcome. none of that is contradictory. it’s just real. he’s a character full of contradictions, and that’s part of what makes him so compelling. reducing him to one thing, victim, villain, psycho, it just flattens him into a version of himself that isn’t true.

and even in the show, it’s like no one really wants to see the whole truth of who dex is. it’s easier for them to believe “crazy guy goes violent” than to admit that someone vulnerable was groomed and turned into a weapon by someone with more power. for example in episode 8 where matt slams dex’s head into the table, and when the guard walks in, matt lies and says dex did it to himself. and the guard doesn’t even hesitate to believe it. he just immediately goes, “you crazy asshole.” he doesn’t even question it. because that’s already the version of dex they’ve decided is true. they don’t need proof, they don’t need context. they hear “he hurt himself” and go “of course he did.” and that’s what’s so brutal about it. even matt bought into that narrative at first. even though he knew dex had worked for fisk after the events of season three. and he listened to dex’s tapes. he believed that dex was a man who woke up one day on impulse and decided to kill foggy eight years after the events of season three. because he believed dex to be a violent and disturbed psychopath. because that’s the story society already believes. many people believe that mentally ill people are inherently dangerous. quiet violence is scarier than loud chaos. so people don’t ask questions. they just assume the worst. so dex being quiet and restrained in his rage in the trial scene just confirmed what they already thought about him. and that kind of widespread erasure makes dex’s story even more tragic. not just what happened to him, but how no one really sees it. not fully.

and that invisibility messes with him too. dex already struggles with identity. he barely knows who he is when no one’s giving him a script to follow. so when the whole world reduces him to nothing but a monster, a rampage shooter, it probably confirms the worst things he already fears about himself. even if he knows deep down it’s not the whole truth, it gets in his head. like maybe they’re right. maybe he really is just broken and dangerous and beyond saving. that he is an animal and nothing more. and that’s what hurts him. because he tried. he tried to be good. he tried to follow the rules. for so many years because he genuinely wanted to be a better version of himself. he tried to be useful, to matter, to be someone. and in the end, none of it mattered. no one remembers that he tried. they only see the end result. they only see the damage.

and that weight, the failure, the guilt, the grief of never being seen clearly, that’s something he has to carry alone. it’s what makes his story so heavy to sit with. and none of this is to say that dex isn’t still responsible for what he’s done. evidently he knew what he was doing. even if he was manipulated into it. he made choices, and those choices hurt people. he’s not innocent. he’s not good. he’s a villain. that’s who he is, that’s who he’s becoming, and he’s also someone with borderline personality disorder. someone who was manipulated, used, pushed to the edge, and weaponized. those things can all exist at once. he’s not either a tragic victim or an evil monster. he’s both. and when people act like empathizing with him or understanding where he came from is the same as excusing what he did, it’s just dishonest. like no one’s out here saying “my poor baby” and pretending he didn’t kill people. it’s just acknowledging that there’s more to him than what most are willing to see. that doesn’t absolve him. it just complicates him. and if that makes people uncomfortable, maybe they should ask why it’s so much easier to believe someone like dex is just a psycho killer than to accept that he’s human. flawed, dangerous, and human.

if people are saying that about comic bullseye, then yeah, it makes sense. that version of him is literally written to be an unstable psychopath who kills people for fun. he’s meant to be scary and empty and cruel, and that’s it. that’s what makes his character so fun to read. the needless violence, the grin on his face while he commits it. but dex isn’t only that. dex is bullseye, but he’s a version with so much more nuance and humanity. he is capable of everything that comic bullseye is capable of. but he has more contradictions, more depth. he’s not just evil for the sake of it. he’s broken and angry and used and spiraling, and all of that is still his responsibility, but it’s layered. he’s not just a killer. he’s a person. comic bullseye is the foundation, but dex was built on top of that. same character, same legacy, just finally given complexity. he has all the traits of his comic self, but there’s pain behind it now. there’s grief, there’s loneliness, there’s a desperate want to be seen and loved. he’s bullseye in every way, but now he’s also human and real.

[dinobeates]

Some sprites of some of my Dinaurian ocs, from Fossil Fighters! :>

[angellicxx]

Ricochet- Chapter 1: The Beginning

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Vigilante Reader

Summary: In the streets of New York, injustice thrives in the dark. Despite your work alongside Daredevil, you have to dig deeper into the criminal underground of NYC to discover the roots of corruption. Your vigilante life becomes entangled with your past as you work to infiltrate the underground mob run by the infamous Kingpin, freshly released on parole. Loyal federal agent Benjamin Poindexter is tasked with overseeing Fisk’s house arrest– and aiding in his empire under the alias of Bullseye. The both of you become interlaced within the Volchiy, a Russian gang led by your childhood friend; you moonlight as a vigilante, trying to take down the mob from within, while Dex is unaware the new girl he can't get his mind off of is the same one in a mask he fights in the streets. Torn between secret identities, lies, and threat of betrayal, you and Dex navigate a tension filled clash between loyalty and justice.

warnings: drug dealing implication, fight scene, blood, mention of h@nging

slowburn, enemies to lovers, secret identities, bullseye x vigilante reader, use of (y/n), reader is an orphan

an: Chapter 1 of my first full length fic. Hopefully you like it and I actually finish.

disclaimer: ivan volkov is an oc and the volchiy gang is a fictional mcu gang i made up. i dont speak russian so sorry if any of the langauge is wrong or stupid.

wc: 3,500

YOU

New York City was different at night. 

A different city during the day, and different from anywhere else in the world. 

But to the fortunate millions who are unlucky enough to burrow within the labyrinth of streets nestled between skyscrapers and offices, twinkling streetlights and billboards that replaced the stars, living in rows of century old bricked townhomes and eating at their corner store bodegas– it was home. 

With its dreams and flaws and all, it was the one place where in a crowd of millions you could feel so close– yet so alone. 

You weren’t a stranger to the deep poison that drained into the ground of the city. Bloody– like black bile– the cruelty of crime and lies that had been ever present as a New York native. 

Justice had to be paid with a high price, but only by those willing to sell. Even with the haunt of knowing there was at least one person out in the streets below you who needed help, just someone to be noticed and saved by a dashing hero in the night, was enough to send you on the streets every evening in a skin tight costume, face guarded in a mask.

Every night was different. 

Tonight could change. 

“(Y/N).” A voice called from the other side of the roof as the access door’s hinges squeaked in the wind. 

Devil horns pointed to the heavens as the fellow masked hero walked across the roof, where soot and dirt had caked into layers from decades of the building's abandonment. 

“You’re late, Matt.” You with a tinge of annoyance through a cracking smile. This wasn’t an uncommon late appearance, but you didn’t mind; it gave you more time alone to breathe.

This has been your routine for the past year. 

Late nights alongside Matt. 

You couldn’t picture what your life would be like if you hadn't crossed paths. There were few heroes in New York, some that were unknown to anyone but thugs in the shadows. But meeting Matt put you on a clear path. It was refreshing to come across a normal person who understood you, even if you met that someone by nearly bashing each other's ribs in. 

 Your tired arms pushed your body up from its spot of legs dangling over the ledge, tingling as they gained feeling to stand up. 

“Apologies. Got held up in the office.” He flashed a charismatic smile from beneath his half exposed cowl, stepping onto the ledge next to you. 

You rolled your head over your shoulders, stretching your back with a scoff. “Don’t let your job get in the way of your hobby.”

“Ouch.” Matt said. 

“And to think you actually enjoyed working with me.”

“No,  no, I’m strictly here for business.” You patted a gloved hand over his padded shoulder and sighed. “Where are we going tonight?”

“Yesterday, there was a robbery on 56th. Three men from the Italians, all armed with guns and high out of their minds. Through their drugged rambling they managed to tell me about a warehouse at the piers; they said it was a hideout for some operation, only ever occupied for drops and pickups. Figured we would check it out tonight and see where it leads.” 

You nodded, eyes wandering to the river distant in the horizon, the black waters gleaming with reflections of moonlight. “Sounds fun.” You said, pulling on your mask. 

The warehouse was near the docks– an old canning factory in the early industry days turned moonshine distributor in the twenties. Abandoned for decades the red brick had faded and been engulfed in tangles of long ivy that covered the frosted pane windows. 

Semi-trucks were parked for the night on the surrounding lot, stacks of shipping containers and a chain link fence keeping it guarded from a pedestrian road and isolated to the water. There was a small dock of rotting wood with a single boat bobbing in the black water. 

You jumped the fence after Matt, the impact absorbing into the heel of your boot as you scanned the area. “It looks like a drop point.”

Matt rolled his shoulders as he crept around a shipping container. “Does it?”

You ignored him, piecing together as many clues as possible. “Shipments must be coming down from the Hudson, either local or overseas. Did the Italians say who owned it?”

“No, he passed out before he could even say what it was. It's empty, smells like gunpowder.”

“Weapons?”

He nodded. “Or there was trouble here recently.”

You managed to find an unlocked side door, making your way inside to the spacious warehouse. There was a layer of stagnant dust covering pillars of stacked crates and workbenches, the faint glow of a lantern as you peered from behind a wall. 

Before you could advance further inside, a glove layered hand clutched onto your shoulder, pulling you back behind the corner. 

“Stop.” Matt whispered. 

You quickly scanned the area and tried to listen for what Matt was sensing. “What’s wrong?”

His head tilted. “Five men, armed. Coming from the dock.”

Through a shattered window you could see it, a second boat tethered at the water and the muffled sound of speech. 

“Shit .” You muttered. “Great timing.”

There was a rumbling of an iron door and footsteps as the men entered– foreign speech echoed across the walls. A loud crash sent them into disarray. You peered over to see a crate had been knocked over, black guns scattered over the floor as they began to yell at eachother, fingers pointed at a retreating peer. 

Matt took this opportunity to creep from the shadows, throwing a punch into the back of a straggler at the edge of the argument. You quickly followed suit, throwing your momentum into a kick that sent another on the ground as the other three were too busy engulfed in their bickering to notice they had visitors. 

You were quick in the dark, it was where you worked best. Maybe that was why you and Matt worked so well together– you both had an advantage of being invisible. 

You propelled yourself with your legs, wrapping them around the smaller of the accusing pair as you wrapped his neck and slammed him into the ground. 

Despite your stealth, it came at the cost of your strength, especially against guys twice your bodyweight. You groan as you hit the pavement, thankful his head collided and knocked him out on the first try.

The other men finally caught on to the ambush. They snapped from the dispute, reaching for their holsters only to be hit away with a baton. One of the guys was on the ground before you even managed to stand back up. The last one standing, the guy who had dropped the crate, stood frozen– scrambling to unlock his safety as he walked backwards into a pile of boxes that clattered over him. 

Your smirk dropped when an arm wrapped from behind you. Before you could dodge the impending blow to your face, Matt had pulled him off of you and pummeled his face.

Halfway between consciousness and falling to the floor from his knees, Matt held him up by his collar, fist raised. “Who do you work for?”

His head rattled frantically, pleading to the dark eyes of Daredevil’s mask. “N-n--nobody. N-o work-” Matt hit him again, grasping a tighter hold and looming over him. 

“Who do you work for?” 

The man choked, blood spurting out of his throat and dripping to the ground, eyes near swollen shut as he managed the words. 

“Ivan Volkov.”

The name echoed in your mind as Matt struck a blow to his bloodied face, a quick knockout as he fell limp to the floor. There was a moment of silence– only heavy breathing echoing through the large warehouse.

Matt was listening, slowly turning to look at his partner who hadn’t moved.

 “You know him.”

Not a question– a confrontation. You really hated having a human lie detector to work with.

Suppressed memories of your childhood seemed to flood in with no reason. Just one name and you were suddenly seven years old again; running through the streets of Brooklyn with your friends to escape classes taught by the nuns, scavenging for change in the gutter to buy candy and spend on petty bets, breaking windows with rocks to enter the abandoned buildings just like this one. 

Just parentless, uncontrolled children–  dreams still far and the ever lingering hope of finding a family one day. Through those early formidable years you had countless siblings. 

Ivan Volkov was one of them. 

A few years older than you, Ivan was orphaned at age ten when his father was imprisoned for his position in the Russian mob, only to be found hanging in his cell two days before the case went to trial. As far as you ever knew, Ivan’s mother was a nameless woman never present in his life, most likely killed for knowing too much when he was a child. 

Nonetheless, Ivan was one of the few older kids at St. Michaels Orphanage. Aggressive, erratic, and manipulative– how he was labeled in his file. But you only knew Ivan as sweet, caring and funny. 

He was just troubled, like the rest of you. 

He would leave some nights and return bloodied in the morning; it was only a secret from the nuns that Ivan was slipping into a life similar to his father’s. You and the other children had watched him steal and do deals in the park near the church. He would only smile at you and buy ice cream with the leftover money so you all kept your mouths shut and never questioned anything.

He was like a brother to you. 

When he aged out, you and three other kids cried all night; one of you even begged him to adopt you all. Ivan never visited after he left. He moved on in life. 

But everytime a group of men in dark sunglasses, trench coats, and brooding energies walked down the street near gang territory you looked extra closely to see if you could recognize his face.

Now, years later, the truth was revealed. Heavy dust in the air and echoing clatters of distant machinery confirmed you weren’t dreaming. Ivan was alive and making a name for himself. 

Reminiscence broke as you furrowed your brow and blinked your dry eyes to focus, a reluctant nod and click of the tongue.

“Yeah. Yeah I know him.”

Matt was watching you closely, reading you through subtle movements. “Have you worked for him before?” 

You shook your head, sweat dripping as you rubbed your mask-covered brow. “We- uh,  grew up together– in the orphanage. He left as soon as he turned eighteen and I never knew what happened to him. Last I knew he had run off to join a gang his dad had been a part of.”

Matt cocked his head, pieces coming together. “Dimitry Volkov, right? Christ, I remember studying that case in law school. He had the cops running circles back then– the biggest weapons bust in city history.” 

“And now I guess he’s built it back up.” You reached your hand into an opened crate, fingers brushing cold metal as you hauled a handgun from its depths. You studied it in your hands– the weight, model, balance. As you turned the hilt you could see it. Carved into the shiny black was two thin converging lines, a watermark– “ V ”. 

You swallowed, holding it out for Matt. 

“Volchiy .”

 He sighed as he took it. “Russians.” He removed a glove and brushed his thumb over the inscription. “I felt the same thing on the guns I found on the Italians. It's new– oiled. My guess, they were manufactured abroad and altered in the city. The Volchiy are dealing them underground so the weapons can’t be traced. There's probably hundreds of them distributed in the streets right now.” 

You stood silent. The warehouse was filled with boxes. “Well, what do we do now?”

“They’re going to realize their stashpoint is compromised, probably move it or reinforce security. For all we know there could be dozens of locations scattered across the city– factories, hideouts, headquarters. It runs deep. This is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What, we just leave an anonymous tip to the NYPD? ‘Hey, here's a new crime ring, good luck.’ We have to find where this leads.”

Matt was hesitant, placing down the gun. You knew the reason he didn’t want to keep searching. 

“ Fisk .” You hissed, the name a curse. “You think he’s involved?”

He lowered his head, shaking it.  “I know he’s in charge.” 

“He’s on house arrest. He got the justice you wanted. He can’t possibly be doing damage from a penthouse.” You protested, but it was no use. Fisk haunted Matt more than you could realize. You could tell his release from prison infuriated him, despite when he claimed the FBI had the right to keep him locked away under supervision, even if it was in the comfort of a luxury apartment. 

“He’s got the whole city wired from that penthouse. He’s pulling strings with the FBI– he’s only locked in there because he wants to be. He’s brutal, (Y/N). A man like Fisk– we can’t.”

You nodded despite your disappointment. This was a serious lead Matt was willing to abandon just because of his past with Fisk. 

“Fine. I guess we’ll just stick to disarming the thugs on the streets after they’ve already striked.” You took one more look around the spacious warehouse before stepping over a knocked out gang member to the open door. 

You were exhausted climbing up the fire escape to the roof, gripping the rusted rails to haul yourself up the next step. You were relieved to pull off your mask and breathe uncovered air when you landed on the same decrepit rooftop overlooking Hell’s Kitchen. You and Matt had made your way back through the shadows in silence, tensions high about your splitting decisions. He finally broke it as he lingered behind you. 

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). Really. If things were different, then maybe. But right now– it’s just not safe.”

You understood. You hated that he was partly right, Fisk wasn’t a figure to be messed with. Especially when every criminal organization was under his command. Just going after one would domino all the others to come to aid. But deep in your bones you knew there was more. This was the whole point– protecting the city. If just one guy got to dictate how it ran, then there was no justice at all.

You turned around, nodding with sincerity. “I get it Matt. It’s alright. I’m sure there's something else we can do.”

He read you for a moment, a twitch of a smile when he realized you were telling the truth. “Thank you.” He gave a nod of approval before turning around. “Stay safe (Y/N).” 

“You too, Matt. Good night.” 

“Good night,” Matt called out as he vanished down the fire escape. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

You rolled your eyes and beckoned a wave, crouching back down onto your rooftop perch, gripping your mask in your hands-- hard. A sigh of aggravation fell through the air, caching back in your throat as you looked up. 

Your eyes lingered in the skyline. Nothing felt so far anymore. Everything that was happening was in your territory– the one you promised to protect. 

 It was right there, stretching its influence across the city and trickling into Hell’s Kitchen.

It was a dumb thought, really. But what more was there to lose? How many people could get caught in the crossfire before you decided to sacrifice your integrity? 

You tucked your mask into your belt, taking one more glance at the alive city before retreating home. 

It was time to pay an old friend a visit. 

DEX

Dex was haunted. 

By the things he’s done, the things he was bound to do all over again. 

He fell for it.

 He fell right into Fisk’s grasp. 

Every order he followed, it was because he wanted to.

Testified in the trial for Wilson Fisk’s parole and appeal. 

He lied under oath– not like the truth has ever mattered. 

He took out the fellow agents who refused loyalty. 

Wore a mask.

Pulled the trigger. 

Killed people.

The rest of the FBI would move on from this assignment and continue their work. Dex would be left to linger in the past-- more trapped within the house arrest boundary than Fisk ever was. 

The thick bulletproof glass was the only thing keeping him from falling over sixty stories to the muck filled streets of New York. His gaze fell over the skyline, light filled windows of the Midtown high rises imitating the stars in the midnight darkness. 

The sterile apartment of Fisk was like a familiar sanctuary above the city.

It was the same way he had his apartment– clean and orderly. The only thing visible in the fresh white painted walled penthouse were the dozens of modern art pieces on display at every turn, a museum worth millions for only Fisk and his wife to see. 

At first, Dex could understand how only a deranged monster like Fisk could find solace in those strange pieces. 

As time grew on, he began to grow fond of them too.

His favorite one was hanging right in the foyer.

Much of the art Fisk kept was just geometric shapes of paint on canvas, nonsensical patterns he never cared for of bland color.

This one was different.

Organic. 

Messy.

Raw. 

It wasn’t art to him– it was real.

Splatters of crimson that stained the linen canvas, no clues of the former cream color it once was. Streaks of different hues and splotches of unidentified circles. It was chaotic, but organized. 

Just a red, bloody, mess. 

For the quick glance where his eyes fell each day when he entered the front door, his dread disipated. He would forget he was in the same sterile apartment with the one task of being ordered around by Fisk; instead he was back in the field, gun in hand and steady throw at his will– complete precision and control. This was the only art in the world he could truly digest. 

Every time he saw it there was a reminder that the artist– a name of a painter unknown to him and probably long dead– understood him. 

Even with the entire city in his field of vision, Dex’s mind was far behind him in the entryway, glaring at the red and trying to understand it. 

“Special Agent Poindexter.” 

A gravelly voice echoed through the abnormally large apartment,  rippling a chill through Dex’s spine, ears perking up as he turned to face the dim lit room.

The brooding force in a white suit– Wilson Fisk stood across the living room, hands behind his back like a marble statue. 

“Sir.” Dex straightened, legs shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his thundering chest. 

A vicious smile crept across his round face, city lights from the window bouncing off his bald head as he crept closer to the agent. 

“Please, there is no need for formalities. I owe my gratitude for what you have done. For me, for Vanessa.”

Dex flexed his hands, fingers aching and knuckles bruised.

Killed people.

Fisk began his creep forward, careful steps across the white tiles that reverberated through the sparsely furnished room until he was parallel to the windows next to him. 

“I am proud of your work.” Fisk sighed out the reluctant praise. Dex could tell the corruptive man wasn’t one to hand out sincerities like this.

“From that very night you saved my life, I knew you had an exceeding talent. One that could never be fully appreciated under the constraints of a federal agency. Where rules and standards demanded you set aside these strengths and neglect your abilities for a noble pursuit. The Bureau never appreciated you the way I do, Benjamin. With your help, I can restore the city. To the way it needs to be. Tamed. Disciplined.”

Dex rocked back on his heels to adjust his footing, becoming more aware of his time standing all day. “Thank you sir. It’s an honor to work for you.” The words forced from his voice, a tinge of a smile and nod at his approval. 

“Now that I am free, the true work may begin. My time incarcerated has enacted a toll on the order of everything. They are becoming more sloppy and arrogant, my workers. I would go myself, but as you know I am still constrained.” He smiled. 

Dex’s eyes flicked to the black banded ankle monitor, light beeping in the dark over Fisk’s pant leg. “My prospects are in desperate need of management in my absence. It is much to ask of you– but it must be done.”

Dex rolled his shoulders, glancing from the city to his boss. 

“Anything you need, Fisk. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Very well.” Kingpin grinned. “How familiar are you with my empire?”

[bg3screenshotdump]

OC TAG GAME

tagged by @maud-lin !! thank you <3 <3

doing this for T'rissnile bc that gives me an excuse to make her @tav-dex card

no pressure tags💖 @dearest-and-nearest, @mercymaker, @ratchsellsfornax, @preciouslittle-bhaalbabe, @amethystinam, @ranger-danger, @onlytavs @riddleroseheart

-> BASICS

Name: T'rissnile Zauar

Class: Cleric of Lolth

Background: Acolyte

Gender: cis woman

Sexuality: Lesbian

Pronouns: she/her

Alignment: Neutral Evil

-> OTHER

Family : House Zauar is a lesser noble house, specialized in spider breeding and training Mom : Scheazalle Zauar Oldest Sister: Shi'ndrile Zauar (dead) Younger sister : Nilene Zauar (dead ) Younger brother: Durnoz Zauar Youngest sister: Y'asnae Zauar Youngest Brother: Valare Zauar

Birthplace: Underdark ( Eryndlyn )

Job: Spider tamer/keeper

Phobias: Failure, loss of control

Guilty Pleasures: She allows herself brief moments of vulnerability and attachements ( ex: soft humming or singing quietly to her spiders or herself ).

Hobbies: alchemy ( poison making ), collecting gems, training spiders

-> THIS OR THAT

Introverted/Ambient/Extrovert

Organized/Disorganized

Close-minded/Open-minded

Calm/Anxious/Restless

Disagreeable/In-Between/Agreeable

Patient/In-Between/Impatient

Outspoken/In-Between/Reserved

Leader/Flexible/Follower

Empathetic/In-Between/Apathetic

Optimist/Realist/Pessimist

Traditional/In-Between/Modern

Hard-Working/Lazy

-> RELATIONSHIPS

OTP: Minthara

OT4: Minthara, Shadowheart & Lae'zel

Acceptable Ships: Lae'zel, Shadowheart, khaga, Araj Oblodra

NoTP: any man

BroTP: Weavess ( her spider companion )

[callsign-fangirl]

No but there's somethings so gross about Fisk building up Dex, who was doing relatively okay in life. Just to ruin it at every turn and dismiss him later, and then break his back. On top of that, assuming the Fisk (perhaps just vanessa) paying for his back surgery and getting him out of the mental facility only when she needed him.

Also Matt thou, knowing Dex's life and knowing they were more alike then he wants to admit. Using his therapy tapes aginst him and telling him where and what Fisk was doing so he would go after after him.

He should be allowed to kill the Fisk fr

[zondearts]

It's been a while since I've last drawn my ocs, so here they are

[dexoro]

GUYS LOOK

Art fight attack at @dexoro

[harperonni]

Heehee had a lot of fun drawing these omgg

Thanks for the suggestion @dismissivedestroyer ^^

[slowsonic69]

Leave My body

Chapter 2

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc

Author's note: So I did write another part to this. I don't even know where this is going but it is fun to write. I hope you like it!

Word count: 1.8k

With a cigarette between her chapped lips, Alex watched the snow fall. A soft white blanket coated the streets of New York — accompanied by an eerie silence that didn’t befit the city. Perhaps she had just grown used to its chaotic nature: police sirens morphing into white noise, drunken shouts replacing the songs of birds, beeps of cars blowing like harsh winter winds.

That must be the reason. Not the guilt or regret that had overtaken her every step — a simple but difficult acclimatization to the life of a civilian. Alex blew one last frozen puff of smoke into the air before pushing the cigarette’s butt into the ashtray. Turning, she headed back into her apartment, leaving behind her now completely snow-coated balcony. Only the mark of two shoes broke the harmonious white of it all.

Alex herself was covered in snowflakes, shaking them off her coat before hanging it back into the hall closet. Two mud-covered combat shoes and a stashed-away A H-S Precision sniper rifle stared back at her. She should get rid of those.

She knew she wouldn’t.

She knew she couldn’t.

Instead of reminiscing on these recurring thoughts that had haunted her for the last few months, she closed the closet and walked to her bathroom. Removed her office clothes, dumped them into the dirty laundry basket, opened the shower curtain, and stepped into it. Scorching hot water spurted against her skin, the sensation fogging her brain numb. The day, and the sentiments that came with it, seeped out of her and into the shower drain.

Her father had always told her she was stuck in her own mind. That when it came to it, between life and death, it wasn’t thoughts and ideas that saved you — but the movement of your hands, the shuffling of your feet, the grit of your teeth.

He was right, because of course he was. And yet Alex felt lost. Even with his training embedded into her — scratched so deeply into her skin, her soul must have scarred with it. She ate like he taught her, she breathed like he taught her, but she didn’t live the way he told her to. Not anymore.

There were no fists to block, no guns to recharge, no bodies to hide. It was her, only her, left to think and rethink about everything and everyone. Imprisoned in the echo chamber her mind had become.

The itch to just take her AutoMag III and empty its magazine into Suzie’s face was overwhelming. So much so, there were days when she truly considered it. If not Suzie, someone else, someone random. Just so she could see blood splatter out of them, its iron smell filling her nostrils one more time.

No. She had promised Hannah she woul—

Thud.

Alex halted, water still streaming down her face and body. Waiting. Listening.

Thud.

She shut off the water, her senses sharpening. A moment passed —cold air creeping up her wet skin, no noise to hear until—

Thud. It came from the living room.

Alex hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around herself. With a hesitant hand, she opened the bathroom door and peeking through the gap.

Nothing. The appartement was empty.

Thud Thud Thud.

The sound grew louder —impatient. Hollow, like someone knocking on glass. She frowned—she was on the seventh floor.

The Balcony door.

Still hunched low, Alex crept into the living room. She darted toward the couch and retrieved the hidden gun tucked beneath it. Crouched behind the frame, she edged her head forward until her eyes could peek out.

At first, she could only see an arm lifted upward, its connected body laid on the floor —out of sight. Its hand sliding down the glass of the balcony door. Then a head finally lifted up — glistening brown eyes catching hers. Poindexter.

Alex bolted upright. Unlocking the door. Face with full view of a bloody and defeated Poindexter sprawled on her balcony, wearing a weak red grin.

“About time.” He rasped. Voice hoarse, tired — beaten.

Without another word, Alex hauled him up. He leaned heavily against her shoulder, groaning as they staggered inside. She hesitated, eyeing the couch—he would ruin the fabric—but laid him there anyway.

Poindexter winced and moaned as he adjusted himself with difficulty.

“What happened?” Alex asked, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest. A faint ache of worry creeping up against her will.

A gurgled chuckle took over him, blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth.

“Work.”

“Right.”

She nodded. He wouldn’t say more; she understood.

Heading for the bathroom once more, grabbing the med kit from behind the mirror cabinet. Faced with her reflection, she was reminded that she was still practically naked. Only a slipping towel guarding her modesty.

A tingle of embarrassment colored her cheeks — even when they had lived together, Poindexter had never seen her this way. He most likely hasn’t noticed she was half-naked, too busy on not dying. The notion comforted her. Somewhat.

She pulled on her pajamas, grabbed the med kit and a wet towel, and hurried back to his side. His eyes were closed now—a relief. She could scan him without interruption.

His black uniform masked most of the blood, but the wet sheen gave it away. Abdomen and left upper arm—bullet wounds, she guessed. Bruised ribs from the way he breathed. A swollen, battered face. He must have bitten his tongue.

“You can just ask where I’ve been hit, you know.” Poindexter murmured, startling her. Alex looked away.

“Right. I never tended to somebody else’s wounds before.” She admitted, surprising herself. Admitting to a flaw, a weakness laid bare. Pathetic.

He hummed in response, his eyes slipping closed again. The adrenaline seemingly wearing out, now only left with anguish and exhaustion — the worst part of getting this hurt.

She first lifted up his shirt to show his abdomen. As expected, he was indeed hit by a bullet. She noticed even more blood leaving the wound at his back. The bullet went straight through, not hitting any major organs at first sight. He got lucky.

Getting antibiotics and painkillers out of the med kit, she handed them to him.

“You’ll need these. Do you need a cup of water?”

Poindexter shook his head, popping a few into his mouth and swallowing them dry.

Without wasting another second, Alex went to work. Cleaning up the wounds, getting as much of the bullet fragments out. Cutting the sleeve of his left arm open, tending to the bullet wound there as well. This time, the bullet was stuck — she had to get it fully out. The rest—bruises, swelling—would heal on their own.

Through the whole ordeal, Poindexter seemed out of it, groaning and moaning here and there. The painkillers working wonders on his already feeble state.

Alex tried to keep her composure, tricking herself into believing she was tending to her own wounds rather than those of another. It felt forbidden, invasive, personal.

Had he felt the same way when he took care of her? Had his fingers tingled too? Had her bare skin burned against his palms? Had he looked away when her curves overwhelmed him?

She hoped so.

She feared so.

--------------------------------------------------------

A gasp slipped out of his lips as he sat up, followed by a deep groan as the stitches pulled and stretched at his abdomen.

“Careful. You’ll open your stitches.”

Dex felt his eyes widen as Alex came into view, a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. She placed them carefully on the living room table in front of him. She had made him an omelet — he suddenly felt dizzy.

“I was about to wake you up. Good timing.” Her tone neutral, familiar. Unbothered by his presence — but he knew better.

Dex barely remembered getting here — only flashes. The pain, the struggle of climbing the building walls, the cold snow melting into his wounds — turning beet red. Alex’s face somehow appearing above him, staring back at him with an unusual, contorted expression of concern.

She, who always seemed so far away — detached and cold — had felt warm against his side as she dragged him inside.

He wished he had felt every poke of her needle, the tightening of the surgical sutures. To ingrain it in his mind as much as it would on his body. For it to scar ugly and ragged, so he couldn’t even try to forget it.

But Alex was precise and meticulous. He knew the scarring would be faint — calm and collected like her. A thin white line that could never resemble the way he had felt then. Comforted and irrationally angry about it.

The urge to vomit out all these obscene thoughts to her was strong. To beg on his knees for her to understand them — to understand him. To see him like she had back in that empty warehouse where they fought like one. To continue watching him sleep on the couch every morning before work, trying to stay as quiet as possible. To make him an omelet despite disliking eggs.

To tend to her wounds, and she to his.

Instead of giving in, knowing the rejection that would follow, he sat up — slowly this time — and started eating. Slurping at the orange juice in between bites.

Alex stayed put, upright in the middle of the living room. A lost animal in its own habitat. He wanted to laugh, to insult her for her strangeness. To make her bleed and hurt like he had.

As if hearing him she unfroze, he could see her move from the corner of his eye.

The couch sagged a little as Alex sat down next to him, a soft pull against his side, as if the couch itself drew him closer to her. His teeth clenched, scraping against each other as he forced another piece of omelet in him.

“I’m -” Alex hesitated, cutting herself off before starting over again. Hands held tightly atop her lap —knuckles white.

“I’m glad you came back.” It was a murmur, the softest her voice had ever sounded to him. Like a scolded child coming to apologies. It’s that what it was, an apology? An olive branch, thin and weak — ready to break at any hint of wind.

His hand tightened around the butter knife. He could plunge it into her throat, make her drown in her own blood — in her own words. He wanted to, so badly. To watch her claw at her neck, panic overflowing her eyes. Her gurgles filling the room as life drained out of her.

"Me too," Dex said instead, setting the knife down next to the plate she had made for him. She had even sprinkled paprika powder on it, just the way he liked.

[shadowbriar]

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter — Skeletons

Pairing : Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x (she/her) Reader Word Count : 2.4k Warning : Language. Domestic violence. This might be triggering so please proceed with caution. If you feel uncomfortable in any part of this fic, please just skip it entirely. Synopsis : Dex's paranoia lead him to lose his temper after she's been out of touch the whole day. Notes : I feel the need to remind that this is purely a piece of fiction. If you, or anyone else you know, is experiencing similar or any kind of abuse, please talk to someone about it. You matter. If you like this story and would like to support me, please visit my kofi page and perhaps get me a coffee?☕

To say Dex was worried would be such a poor judement. He’s made one too many mistakes at work, perhaps provoked the beast that is Wilson Fisk a little too constantly, to ignite that silent wrath the powerful man often unleashes upon those who’d wronged him. A little spark in his heart hoped that he was just being paranoid, that he’s seen far too much violence in his job that it clouded his mind, but as the clock strikes midnight and her absence was still loud in their shared apartment, Dex knew that such possibility might have already become the bitter tragic reality.

His lips were starting to bleed from how much he chewed on them, fingers busy punching her name and redialling her number every time his calls went to voicemail. Any minute now, he was sure his heart would give in from the stress. Beads of sweat have started to drip from the back of his neck. Dex was worried and scared, but above all, he was angry.

He was angry at everyone at work for always throwing him under the bus. For giving him the most impractical tasks without any means of support and stomping on him whenever things went south. He was angry at Fisk for making him do his bidding. He was angry at her for giving him the silent treatment. Ultimately, he was angry at himself for letting things go so out of control.

Dex considered grabbing his jacket and just combed through the city to find her, but that little hope in his heart plants his feet to the ground, wishful that she would come through the front door any minute now. That, or he simply couldn’t bear the chance of facing the consequences of his mistakes.

His bubble of thought bursts as the sound of keys jingle from the other side of the apartment. He sprinted to the living room, waited with wide eyes as she opened the door, silently watching her from the corner of the room like a predator waiting for its prey to fall into their trap. He was too quiet for her to notice his presence as she hung her coat and scarf, kicking her shoes carelessly in the hallway.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice firm and cold.

“God, I thought you’re asleep, already,” she exclaims, clutching on her heart from the surprise “I had to stay for work. The system in my office was down the whole day, I could only start my tasks after 4pm, and I needed to finish them today.”

“And you couldn’t have called or texted?” he pressed, the veins on his forehead were becoming more visible “I’ve been worried sick, wondering where in the fucking hell you could be the whole time, do you know that?!”

She lets out a tired sigh, walking past him, “My phone died, and I didn’t bring a charger. Everyone else was already off at 5.”

“You said the system crashed, how are you the only one staying overtime for work?”

“Because, Dex, not everyone has the same deadline,” she seethes, clearly on the verge of her patience with all his pestering “Look, I’m sorry I made you worry, okay? I didn’t mean to. Now, can you please stop with the yelling and let me be? I’m exhausted, and I’m desperate for a bath.”

“No, we’re not done talking,” Dex persists as he follows her to their bedroom “You could’ve tried something, anything! Send me an email, for all I care! You don’t just go radio silent the whole day and not expect me to get angry about it!”

“Well, I’ve told you, I’m sorry, alright! I didn’t mean to get you worried and angry, I’m sorry!” she spat back, matching the rise of his voice now “And can you just shut up for a second, my head is already pounding as it is.”

“You don’t get to tell me to shut up, I have the right to be angry at you right now!”

“Fuck’s sake, Dex, what do you want from me?!” she yelled, facing him this time “I’ve told you, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?!”

Dex went quiet, watching her with his chest heaving. His temper was rising. The alarm in his ears was loud and he was seeing red. Turmoil was boiling in his veins and the voices in his head were begging him to grab the recordings and calm himself down, but as if he was paralysed, Dex couldn’t find it in him to move a muscle and could only let the other side of him, the worst and most shameful side of him, slowly taking the light.

“Just let this go, Dex, please,” she continues, running a hand through her hair as she walks to the bathroom “This is such bullshit.”

And that’s when it tipped him. The last words she muttered that weren't even supposed to reach his ears had become the final nail to his coffin. He grabbed her by the shoulders, twisting her so violently to the wall, hard enough to knock the pictures to the floor.

“I thought you were dead!” Dex yelled angrily, screaming to her face “I thought Fisk has gotten into you!”

She watches him with terror filled eyes. The sound of the frames breaking still rings, like gunshots to her ears, but even those didn’t match the loudness of Dex’s voice. He was angry, it was plain to see, and she knew that she’s jabbed on the monster he’s tried so hard to keep her away from. The man standing in front of her now was not her lover. No, he was entirely someone else. Someone that shouldn’t have been brought to life, in the first place.

The silence stretched forever. The only sound heard now was his loud panting and the small hissing of her lips as the tiny cracks of glass stab her bare feet. She was afraid, in pain, and above all, confused as to how their argument escalated this way.

“Dex,” she called with a voice barely above a whisper “Come back to me.”

And as if he’s been slapped across the face, the man slowly regained his composure. He blinks, taking a step back and retrieving his grip that would surely leave some bruise on her shoulders. His breathing hitch as he looks at the mess he’s made. There was a small pool of blood on the floor from her wounded feet, his own knuckles sore and bleeding from the impact to the wall, and when he looked up to see her face, that one lovely face that he worshiped so much of, now filled with horror and uncertainty, Dex knew that he’s came to a point of no return.

“I-I— I just— I’m sorry,” he breathed, swiftly taking her off of her feet and carrying her to the bed “I don’t know what came into me, I’m so sorry.”

She watches in silence as Dex hurriedly tends to her wounds. His body is still emitting rage, movement almost robotic as he kneels to clean the shards of glass. The muscles on his shoulders were still tense. One wrong movement and she fears she might unleash the beast once again.

She knew that Dex wrestled with his demons more nights than not. That the recordings with Dr. Mercer, though he still listens to every now and then, has had no effect to tame the fury in his head. The only thing he said to have brought him any sense of peace these days was her, but given the event that just happened, how there’s new dents the size of his knuckles and her head on the wall now, she wasn’t sure if she would still have such charm upon him.

“I’m sorry,” Dex says, this time with a firmer tone as if he was demanding her forgiveness “You have to forgive me.”

Still in silence, she waited for his next words.

“You— I mean, I wouldn’t have lashed out like this if you would just tell me where you were,” Dex reasoned, standing up and pacing a little further from her. He wipes his face with his palm, resting his hand on his jaw as he tries to recollect himself but such effort proved to be futile “You could’ve called me with your office phone. It wouldn’t even take ten seconds just to tell me you’ll be home late. Why didn’t you?!”

“Dex—,”

“I just— I thought you were hurt! I thought my job has finally bitten me back on the ass and got to you,” he pulls on his hair, still yelling in despair “I fucking love you, alright! You’re very special to me, don’t you see? I can’t lose you.”

Her gaze softened. The real Dex was coming back through the cracks of his voice.

“I just can’t lose you,” he finally cries.

Only mere moments ago, she was so afraid of the beast Dex has become, but now, standing a few feet away from her, choking in his own tears with both their wounds still bleeding, she couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him.

She opens her arms and Dex needs no words to run into it. He immediately succumbs to her embrace, burying his tear streaked face to the crook of her neck. She knew that the fear of her leaving came from a different sentiment than what a typical love would be. The fright plaguing his mind harboured from the slim chance of him finding anyone else that he could pin as his north star if she were to leave. No one understands his condition, no one bothers to listen and sit with him about it. Losing her would only make him drown in uncertainty once again.

“I love you, I’m sorry,” he repeats “Don’t leave me.”

“You’re right, I should’ve called, I’m sorry,” she whispers back, brushing the strands of his blond hair “I’m sorry, Dex.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he begs, pulling his face away so she could see the determination in his eyes “I’ll do whatever you want, just say it and it’ll be done. I’d kill for you, you know that, don’t you? Just never leave me, please.”

“Hey, listen to me, you don’t have to do anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere,” she soothes, wiping the tears off of his cheeks “Let’s not talk about it anymore, yeah? Let’s just call it a night and sleep, hm? What do you think?”

“But you said you wanted to take a bath.”

“I’m too tired for it,” she lies through her teeth “Could you get me fresh clothes, instead? I know how you hate outside clothes to touch our bed.”

Nodding like a child, Dex reaches into their closet and pulls out her pyjamas. He watches as she changes out of her dirty clothes, eyes locked on her as if he’s scared she’s bolt out of the door. Even with her gentle voice and that sweet smile plastered on her face, Dex was still on high alert.

“Come to bed, Dex,” she calls once she’s done changing “You must be tired, too.”

There was hesitation in his movement, but Dex climbed up the bed eventually. They were facing each other now, laying on their side but not particularly touching each other. This was the first fight they’ve ever had that actually brought his skeletons out and neither of them knew if the storm had truly passed. None of them dared to ask the question either as it felt like the topic was still too tender to touch.

So they only stared at each other. She studies the wrinkles on his face that slowly disappears. The way the muscles around his jaws were starting to relax, and how his breathing has come to a steady. The bloodshot anger in his eyes have dissipated too, replaced with daze and emptiness. It was as if his brain was trying its best to hit reset.

Slowly, her fingers find their way to caress his face. Dex fell into her touch in an instant. Sighing as if he’s awaited the gesture for so long. He closes his eyes, this time really trying to reach into that sense of solace that he usually was able to obtain much easier than now.

“Is this helping?” she asks softly.

“Yes,” he answers without opening his eyes “Plenty.”

“Okay,” she nods in acknowledgement “Go to sleep, baby.”

“No,” Dex shot his eyes open, fear once again filling them “You’re going to leave me.”

“I would never,” she reassures, inching closer to him “We’re in this together, aren’t we? Forever? You and me?”

He nods hesitantly.

“Then close your eyes and sleep, Dex,” she coaxes “I won’t go anywhere.”

Dex wanted to argue. He wanted to place his arms around her and pin her in place, trapping her just in case she decided to leave when he’s finally drifted to slumber, but he’s crossed too many lines tonight. He’s broken too many walls, burned too many bridges, to risk doing anything but what she asked for, so he forces himself to close those eyes and fall back into her touch. He tries to let her soothing gesture fill his senses, giving her the full control of his body.

“There we go, baby, just close those eyes,” she continues to coo, placing a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose “Rest those muscles, Dex, I know you’re tired.”

“I love you,” he whispers, begging “I just love you.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Tears were starting to leak out of his eyes. Dex was frightened beyond words, but he promised to close his eyes, and so he did. He hates her for making him feel this way. For making him feel this helpless, full of anger yet has no power to release it, but he couldn’t find any better replacement. He couldn’t find anyone else that would keep him in line. Noone and nothing else that would guide him through the darkness of his wild ire.

Gently, she places his hand around her waist. The gesture made him let out a shaky breath, understanding that she’s giving him a chance to prove his words, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

Dex shakes his head, “No, I promise.”

“Okay, I believe you,” she replies, her hands now brushing through his hair “Get some rest, baby.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I think you’ll wake up first than I do, actually.”

Dex lets out a nervous chuckle, easing himself down to her banter.

“I love you, Dex. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods, not saying a word.

With one last kiss to his lips, she closes her eyes. The road to land of Nod would be long and difficult tonight, but perhaps this too shall pass.

[itsnotmourn]

psst. what pokemon would you assign to me…

[fliflaflux]

Lux of Candlekeep

Name: Lux Race/Subrace: "Drow" Gender: Female Sexual Orientation: Demisexual Age: 39 [30. Flamerule, 1453DR] Height: 4'7 Class: Wizard [Bloodmagic] Deity: Bhaal Jergal Alignment: True Neutral Background: The Haunted One

Class & Path Features Wizard [Blood Magic]: The blood magic school is an extension of the Tal'Dorei Campaign - for such a 'special' bhaalspawn, however, I found it quite fitting. To quote the description of the class from the Campaign: “Blood magic - also known as haemocraft - is a rare art that harnesses the latent powers of a creature's life force to enhance the caster's own abilities while manipulating and weakening the enemy's body from within. Some of the more macabre mages, seeking to enhance their arcane pursuits, turn to the hemo-art to amplify their spells by donating the blood of their own lives to reach new heights of terrifying magical prowess.”

Even on the Sword Coast, this kind of magic would put most wizards off. It incorporates parts from the school of necromancy - coupled with the macabre manipulation of the life force of living beings, this magical art does not make friends. However, Lux is unaware of this at the beginning of her journey and has to learn it through trial and error.

Background information

Although Lux was shaped into the form of a Drow (At least they assumed she was a Drow - she does look a little strange for a dark elf.) , she did not end up in the Underdark. As a foundling, she was first found in Waterdeep and came to Candlekeep via several detours. Finding a Drow baby above ground was strange enough. But it didn't take the scholars and wizards much to realize that there were other things wrong with this child. So she was taken into the care of some local wizards.

For most of her time at Candlekeep, she was treated less as a growing child and more as a research project. It didn't help that most of the Keep's residents and apprentices preferred to steer clear of the strange Drow girl. Not only did she have a special talent for necromancy, but she also tended to throw violent tantrums and generally exhibited quite disturbing behavior for a child. This ensured that she spent long stretches locked up.

The urge that had always slumbered within her finally awoke in her late teenage years. With the Urge, Sceleritas Fel also appeared in her life. A being who was kind to her without much in return - even more so - who practically adored her. So it wasn't difficult for her to follow his whispers and make a bloody escape from Candlekeep.

[...]