⤷ CAPELLA .ᐟ 18 . they/them . queer . capricorn . 4w5 . avid superhero fanatic . lover of poetry and the stars; intrigued by misery and minds . occasional and sporadic writer .
"and lovers, you run
always from something;
come back to me to be saved,"
── dream woman, suki waterhouse
⤷ asks open for hot-takes on characters/fandoms , requests, etc .ᐟ (please note that requests are something i'm unlikely to do, but i am open to them! i struggle with motivation and unless i am very inspired, the request may not be fulfilled. i apologize in advance .ᐟ )
⤷ mainly writing blurbs and headcanons for current interests .ᐟ includes: the boys, marvel (daredevil, punisher, spiderman, x-men, avengers)
⤷ will not write .ᐟ smut (at the moment, because i haven't written it before ─ though i am open to suggestive requests), pregnancy, overly graphic/dark themes, a/b/o and similar themes, age play / age regression (even non-sexual)
⤷ end notes .ᐟ though i am not new to tumblr, i am horrible at its mechanics and lingo, so please bear with me as i learn .ᐟ also, if you ever see me claim to know what i'm doing on here, please assume i have been hacked. i do not, in fact, know what i am doing at any given time. thank you all, and welcome .ᐟ
𖥔 hurts like hell, she's a painkiller .ᐟ (miniseries — part 1)
pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader ᥫ᭡
chapter summary: first encounters don't really go as planned. an attempt on your life (at least, you're fairly certain that's what it was) fails, and things get...unconventional from there. to your dismay, the encounter leaves both you and your tracker wanting more.
series tags / warnings: miniseries, reader insert, strangers to ...more?, masochistic!dex (more so coded but whatever), dex has a slight blood kink??, light violence, dex is stalking reader somewhat (does it count as stalking if you know and allow it to happen?), sort of dark themes, reader has a vague backstory but it’s essentially that you were an agent in the past (i had SHIELD in mind, but it’s up for interpretation!), intended to be female!reader but fairly gender-neutral?, reader takes prescription meds (intended for this to be for stress or something similar!), implied age gap but reader is full at an adult (i had late 20s in mind), i’ve probably used too many italics but i’m kind of a fiend for them, be warned i have not seen ddba season 2 so this is based off of what little we got of dex in season 1!
wc: 1.1k
sure, you’ve retired from your days as an agent.
but you haven’t been out of the game long enough to miss when someone is tailing you. whoever it is, you can tell he’s good — despite not glancing back to get a read on your pursuer.
too risky at the moment, you decide, and too many years of staying on your toes to make that kind of rookie mistake.
it’s early enough in the evening that crowds are still flocking on the streets, to and fro with little coordination, in an rush to get home quickly.
when the opportunity comes, you duck into a nearby alley, the ever-moving bodies allowing you a few gracious seconds of cover. slipping back out onto the busy street promptly, you watch as the figure takes the bait, diverting into the alley you had just feigned taking safety in. it’s only about the span of a breath before he realizes that no one is there, facing the end of the small nook between two adjacent buildings.
by the time he starts to whip around — presumably to try and resume tailing you — thin, sharp metal meets fabric-covered flesh as you jab him in the shoulder with the last resort you’ve kept at the bottom of your bag, saved for situations like this. a… parting gift of sorts you had given to yourself from your previous (and unsuspecting) employers, at the tail-end of your ‘previous life’: a paralyzing agent.
the figure — who you can now see is a sharp-eyed older man, maybe early forties, a jagged scar set into his right cheekbone — is only caught off-guard for a moment, if the briefest widening of his eyes says anything. he jolts slightly, shoulders slumping directly after.
the rest of his body follows his shoulders — down.
you manage to catch him by his upper torso before he hits the ground, grunting with the effort of bearing the weight of a man you are quickly becoming aware is pure muscle, a hulking mass of six-foot-something, for all your dog shit luck.
bending at the knees, you do your best to set your tracker down relatively gently, pushing his broad form against the wall of the alley as his head lulls to the side, indicating to you that the drug has taken full effect.
“it’s temporary,” are the first words out of your mouth, void of any sympathy, closer to cold-cut steel than anything resembling reassurance.
his eyes flutter, half-lidded as they manage to track you again. you’re surprised to note that his breathing has barely changed. most people would be heaving right about now after being involuntarily reduced to a rag doll.
must not be most people, you note absently.
his lips part a sliver, indicating to you that he’s most likely trying to speak. it’s a futile attempt, and he seems to realize this soon enough.
“yeah, it does that.” you murmur as you crouch down to eye-level, the crook of your arms coming to rest on your bent knees, regarding the man with mild intrigue.
you feel a bit bad, even if he was probably trying to kill you.
your gaze shifts to the hem of his shirt, which you tug up just enough to reveal the gun he had been concealing. figures.
a raised brow is the extent of the reaction he gets from you, and you exhale sharply from your nose.
the silence is only broken by the occasional coo of a nearby pigeon and the unintelligible chattering of passersby just outside the secluded alley.
“look, you want to fight, or try and kill me? fine by me, buddy,” you start, unamused, as if this is somehow a completely normal encounter to have.
“but don’t hide or ambush me. it’s just frowned upon, from one professional to another. hell, you wanna talk? come and find me again, but do it right.”
should you be a little more concerned? probably.
should you just let him go? hell no. but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been missing the thrill of your past life, just a little.
ever since, the days have begun to stretch and blend, all muddled shades of grey that leave a dull ache in your chest. for so long you’ve been wired for chaos, you’re still not quite sure how to live without the thrill of crises.
going somewhere as mundane as a cafe, you habitually choose the spot that gives you the best vantage point to spectate and evaluate threats; you could find every single exit in your neighborhood grocery store blindfolded; you pass alleys with the tinge of anticipation that danger is seeking you out—maybe in the form of a pickpocket, or a helpless civilian in duress that you just can’t turn away from—not the other way around.
it hums in your blood, a white noise that lingers incessantly: the need for more.
the man in front of you happens to look a lot like that.
it sets your blood alight.
the observation comes as such a shock to your system that you’re rattled out of your internal dialogue, a pang of panic hitting you at what you surmise.
no. i’m out of the game, you drill into your head, steeling your expression as you rise. you look down at a man who has managed to make you startle yourself, nod stiffly just once, and turn to exit the alley.
you feel as if you’ve left a piece of yourself behind with him. forcing your head to stay set forward, you make the journey home — allowing you to miss the look in his eyes.
dex is taken aback, more than accustomed to the expectation that others would want him to bury his true nature, had they ever learned of it.
you’ve had no introduction to that watered-down, hollow version of himself that he projects to the world in the hopes that he won’t be shunned or locked up like a creature again, more brute than man.
but you weren’t disgusted. you weren’t even surprised for that matter, let alone scared.
hell, you even told him to to hide from you. you, frankly, just didn’t care.
that’s alright, he tells himself. i can fix that.
the idea is nothing short of thrilling. there’s no pretense; no hiding from you now that he’s exposed himself; now that you’ve decided to let him live after his clear attempt to harm you. and for all that dex is, like voltage galloping through his veins, he feels hunger.
hunger for more.
and now? now, he has no intention of letting you go.
notes: title is a lyric from "painkiller" by DREAMERS btw! this was very self-indulgent if you couldn't tell. this is my first time truly writing x reader, so please bear with me! this series will most likely be three parts ;) i'm honestly not too happy with how this chapter turned out tbh, so constructive (polite) feedback is welcomed! also i hope i did ddba!dex justice??? let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!
── comes to you to get patched up despite your attitude and his
♱ Frank shows up at your apartment looking like hell and somehow still has the nerve to act annoyed when you drag him inside by the sleeve of his jacket.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor.”
“Floor’ll survive.”
♱ You swear under your breath the entire time you shove him into a kitchen chair, digging through cabinets for gauze and antiseptic while he watches you with that infuriatingly calm expression.
♱ It’s always like this between you two — sharp words, tense silences, pretending neither of you care more than you should. Meanwhile Frank looks for your car in every parking lot he passes and you haven’t deleted his number in two years.
♱ You come back with supplies only to find him struggling to unscrew the cap on the antiseptic bottle, blood drying across his knuckles. His hand is shaking badly enough the bottle rattles and your frustration evaporates instantly beneath a wave of worry.
“You can’t even open the bottle without shaking,” you mutter quietly.
Frank exhales through his nose, stubborn even now. “M’workin’ on it.”
"Frank."
“So get your ass over here and open them for me then.”
♱ The words are gruff, but there’s something exhausted underneath them. Something dangerously close to trust. You walk over without another word, standing between his knees to take the bottle from his hands.
♱ Frank goes still the second you’re that close.
♱ You can feel his eyes on you while you twist the cap open carefully, your fingers brushing against his. And then, like the fight finally drains out of him all at once, Frank leans forward, pressing his forehead against your stomach.
♱ The movement is so sudden and quiet it steals the breath from your lungs. Frank Castle, who's always all rough edges and anger and violence, just folds into you like he’s too tired to hold himself upright anymore.
♱ Your hands hover for only a second before settling carefully into his hair. He lets out a shaky breath against you.
♱ “Frank…” you whisper.
♱ His arms slide around your waist slowly, cautiously, like he expects you to push him away. You never do. He’s still covered in blood. There’s dirt smeared along his jaw, bruises forming beneath his eyes, dried crimson staining the collar of his shirt.
♱ You don’t care. All that matters is that he’s here, alive and with you. You lean down and press a soft kiss to his crown, running your fingers down the nape of his neck.
♱ Frank turns his face slightly into your stomach, holding onto you tighter for one brief second before he catches himself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re worried.”
♱ You almost laugh because you’re way past worried at this point.
♱ “You showed up half-dead at my door,” you say softly, fingers still moving through his hair. “What did you expect?”
♱ Frank doesn’t answer.
♱ But he melts further into you anyway.
♱ The tension between you changes after you finish patching him up, less biting hostility, more lingering touches. More quiet moments where neither of you pretend this is just obligation anymore. It hasn't been for a long time.
── once again saw this prompt floating on pinterest and i just couldnt not do it with frank i love him your honor
dex stalking you. more specifically, breaking into your house while you’re at work and reading your diary. as he gets more bold, and you grow more aware of his presence, he begins leaving notes in the margins. annoying customer? you want me to deal with him? trouble with your friends? i wouldn’t do that to you, sweetheart. dirty thoughts? let’s make that happen.
thinking of writing a three (?) part dex x reader short story that no one asked for…. is this something anyone would want to see or is it just me lmao (keep in mind i haven’t even seen ddba s2 yet)
i won’t lie it is very self-indulgent but i wanted to know if anyone would be interested i guess?!?!?
─ hallelujah, i need your love (matt murdock x reader)
﹅ drabble. | a small glimpse into how matt feels about you .ᐟ
⤷ benjamin poindexter .ᐟ
─ hurts like hell, she's a painkiller .ᐟ (benjamin poindexter x reader)
part 1. | part 2. | part 3.
﹅ miniseries. | you ruin your mysterious hitman’s plan to kill you. complications follow, and you manage to get tangled up in each other’s lives. he keeps coming back around, but then again — so do you.
─── ࣪ ׅ⋆ ✧ miscellaneous ˚｡⟢
⤷ bloodhounds .ᐟ
─ too close to temptation .ᐟ (kim gunwoo x hong woojin)
﹅ drabble. | (before s2) woojin having a nightmare about all the kim myeong-il stuff and it wakes gunwoo. feelings that have been pushed down stir upwards, for both parties .ᐟ
summary: a small glimpse into how matt feels about you .ᐟ
tags/warnings: drabble, very lightly suggestive themes, made with original series matt murdock in mind, unresolved tension, mentions of catholicism / religious themes, worship of reader kinda?, matt murdock is down bad for you
wc: 0.5k
matt has never cared to exact the restraint necessary for denying himself earthly pleasures. after all, he knows he’s a sinner.
so, one night stands? sure. drinking at josie’s nearly every night of the week? sign him up. beating the shit out of the scourge of the earth as the devil, shrouded in the darkness of night? check.
but matt has the capacity for a type of discipline only practiced by the most pious devotees. an unrelenting, iron-tight grip on his control, despite popular belief. at least, when it counts. that isn’t often — because he doesn’t necessarily bump into the scriptural divine casually on the sinful new york city streets. but when he does — when, despite all odds, it matters? he would never dream to forsake something holy; would never defile or soil a tangible glimpse of heaven with his blood-stained hands and tainted soul, preordained and bound for hell.
that’s why he doesn’t dare allow himself the luxury of yielding to his desire for you. the desire that has become an endless hum in the back of his head; the desire that has seeped into his corporeal form and crawled into the darkest crevices of his soul, steeping and dying it impossibly darker. giving into it would be utter blasphemy. the very thought of doing so makes the cross hung around his neck burn.
he’s…undeserving.
even as he feels the sweltering heat of hell recede, recoil and slink back into the ground beneath him—(the ground that is usually so inclined to drag him back down to the dust with the weight of sin that leaves his tracks imbedded in the summer slough of mud)—when he so much as nears you, like it fears the very presence of something as holy as you. and for some sacred moment, he doesn’t feel the insistent, creeping whispers of the damned at his back.
matt is well aware that you are the closest he will get to being in the grace of god, of earning the experience; the bliss of heaven itself. so, like any good catholic, he worships. he pays his penance to you, despite you never asking for it. he would gladly take anything you gave him—whether it be curse or praise. he would relish in it. to simply be in your proximity was more than he ever felt he had the right to ask for.
and so, when an angel like you, sanctified by the very hand of god, whispers his name like a prayer from your lips for the first time? he swears he can hear the lord speak through you. he can finally, finally taste the success of his years of atonement washing over him — salvation in the purest of forms.
you breathe redemption into him with each and every brush of your skin. it’s a hypnotic lull — the heat of you beside him a sacred fire that deliciously fuels his pyre, purifying his corrupted spirit and coaxing that seemingly intrinsic wickedness out of his veins, a heady flame he’s drawn to like a moth. he could easily burn up in it—and would be content to do so—if he only selfishly let himself.
like the bonafide divine, you are what he prays to. because you’re his religion.
a/n: characterization of matt (from the original series) is partially inspired by @pastafossa ‘s matt in ‘the red thread’ ! i hope i did it justice :(
bf!dex who looks way too pleased with himself when you get angry enough to hit him.
you two make a very disfunctional couple, that much could be said. you patch him up from knife and bullet wounds more often than you go out on dates, and you're constantly arguing about dex's obsessive, infuriating need to keep everything in your life under his control.
on particularly bad fights, you make him grovel for days.
dex will mostly spend them chasing you around your apartment while you pretend not to notice the hulking mass of a man stalking you around every room, an inevitable presence you couldn't get rid of even if you tried. he says i'm sorry and please talk to me and i'll do anything while you try your best to remain unphased, even if the undeniable lack of remorse in his voice only fills you with even more rage.
one day you turn on your heels and slap him across the face.
it's a sudden, sharp crack that echoes around the room like a gunshot. his head turns to the side and stays there, because you struck him hard enough for dex to freeze like that for a moment before he blinks once in surprise, tongue moving inside his mouth to poke the inside of his cheek.
you can see it in him, the change that happens when dex registers the sting and the heat that starts spreading across the side of his face, the shape of your fingertips painting his skin a crimson red. his mouth curls then, lips tugging into a smile as his eyes flutter closed to savor the impact.
you make a disgusted sound, and because you're still pissed, even more mad now than before you realized you can't even hurt him without his deranged brain turning it into this, you snarl: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"
dex only laughs in response, seemingly pulled out of his trance by the sound of your voice. it's the first time you've spoken to him in hours, and something inside him hums in satisfaction at finally earning back your attention, even if you're still scowling at him with an intensity that would make a lesser man feel the urge to bolt.
to dex, though, the only thing worth registering is that he has your eyes back on him once more, your touch back where it belongs—on his skin, burning across his cheek as physical proof.
he reaches out to grab your hand, fingers enclosing around your wrist and lifting your arm with enough gentleness to make you hesitate upon the thought of pulling it right back, then guides your palm to lay flat against the other side of his face.
"i'll let you take it out on me all you want, we both know i deserve it," he says, soft eyes fixed on yours despite the haze of rage still clouding your vision. "but if you really want to hurt me, then you'll have to hit me harder, sweetheart."
imagine being bullseye's target for a paid hit. he's so good at inserting yourself into your life, becoming an integral part of it. you're stupidly unsuspecting; he'd feel bad, but quite frankly, he's never seen such a high bounty placed on anyone's head yet, let alone a simple girl like you. it's almost too easy.
until it isn't. until he realises that he genuinely does like you, likes taking you out on dates and seeing you smile. even though you know him as tony, and he's been careful not to let the real him show, it's been slipping out anyway. and all the things he's catalogued in his brain about you under the pretence of knowing his target are things he keeps in mind around you—your coffee order, your morning routine, the temperature you like your shower water at.
he knows you charge your phone in the living room so you don't scroll in the morning, and your preferred way of waking up is when you're curled right into him with your legs tangled together, and when you're at home you skip more than you walk because you don't know what to do with the excess energy you have. and he's taken you on what, twenty dates now? and you call him your boyfriend and he's talked to your mum before—although it has been on the phone—and he has the spare key to your apartment.
he conveniently forgets to "do recon" sometimes, and he is not a man who ever forgets. he keeps on letting his guard down; he likes you too much. it has to be today.
or that's the plan, anyway.
it's a pretty warm day and you're already halfway through a tub of ice cream—or two; you've dumped both flavours in your bowl together and open the door with the spoon still in your mouth.
"hi," you say, but it comes out unintelligible, and he kisses your cheek and his hands slot into place on your hips. your free one traces the contours of his muscles up his side even through the hoodie he's wearing, and he kicks the door closed behind him.
"hi," he whispers back. you put the bowl and spoon down, licking your lips.
"y'miss me?"
"yeah."
then he kisses you for real, shuffling you back towards the wall. your arms loop around his neck, pulling him further into your space, and you taste like strawberry ice cream, a hint of vanilla. the weight of the gun, 3d printed to be untraceable, is devastatingly heavy from where it's tucked into the back of his jeans. just—just five more minutes, let me live this dream, he thinks.
you hum happily into his mouth, fingers brushing through the short hair at the back of his head. he doesn't mean to make a sound, but it happens, and you pull back to laugh at him. you're perfect, don't give him that look, now. you don't even know.
your eyes move to somewhere over his shoulder. "oh, my ice cream's melting."
he turns back, too, glaring at the offending mixture of pink and white. "oh."
you're scarfing it down at amazing speeds, sat beside him on the sofa with his arm 'round your shoulders. you'll get brain freeze if you keep going like this—
"i think i have brain freeze," you announce between mouthfuls of your strawberry-vanilla concoction. there it is.
he takes the bowl from you and finishes what little's left of it; your head's leaned back against the sofa, staring into space as you reconsider life.
"want me to kiss it better?"
you lift your head to stare at him, unamused. "tony, that's not how it works."
"i know that's not how it works," he responds, and his voice has dropped an octave, and you know what he wants, and you laugh.
"okay," you relent. he sets the bowl on the coffee table and you pull him down by the front of his hoodie to kiss him again and he makes the executive decision to not kill you tonight or forever. there's spit and teeth the way he likes it, the way you know he likes it. his knees bracket your thighs, arm braced by your shoulder as the other one tilts your head up; you push him away, back into the cushions, grinning at him with swollen lips already. he bites back a whine when you climb onto his lap, hand straying under the hem of your shorts. you guide his mouth to your neck with one hand, other one busy with god-knows-what (taking off your shirt, he hopes) and he's sure he'll leave bruises on your thighs, but the good kind, born of love and something more, ones only he gets to see, because your life will not end tonight. or anytime soon, if he gets to have a say in things.
the safety of your gun clicks off. you'd hidden it beneath the cushions, waiting for the perfect opportunity—as in right now.
"game's over, poindexter," you're still smiling, but its something sharper, meaner. so very unlike you, a mask fabricated for this very moment.
he draws in a breath, slow, controlled. "oh."
"i know why you came here tonight," you say. "to kill me, right?"
"wasn't gonna."
"no?" you realise with horror that even with your gun pressed up against his head, he's gazing up at you adoringly through his lashes, thumb still rubbing circles idly into your thigh. there's a faint flush on his cheeks. he doesn't seem scared.
"no," he repeats. "gun's under the hoodie. i changed my mind."
you reach behind him, pull it out, toss it to the floor like it burns to touch.
"you have no other weapons on you?"
his eyes flicker downwards, yours follow. then he looks up again, and your cheeks are burning because of what he's just implied. nothing you haven't seen before, of course, but under these circumstances…
"no, baby, i don't."
he looks like he wants to kiss you. and he isn't scared.
things are much, much worse, actually.
he's in love. with you.
a terrifying prospect, really.
(your heart skips a beat. or three.)
"you're my target," you say, more to convince yourself than him. "i'm going to have to shoot you now."
"okay." his voice is steady. he shifts, just a little, and the movement below makes your breath catch in your throat. "do you want me to put my hands up, or is this okay?"
your palms are sweaty, grip faltering. you're trembling. he tilts his head a little, surveying, and you push the barrel further into the side of his head.
"don't be scared," he murmurs. it's intimate, the way he's talking to you, like you're not holding him at gunpoint. "bravest girl i know."
"i'm not scared," you snap, but the gun's not even aimed at his head now; your hold falters. "any last words?"
his hand reaches up to yours, realigns it so it's like you'd originally held it.
"can you kiss me?" it's pathetic—he's pathetic, and he knows it. or maybe he knows you. "i know it was real for you too—"
he thinks he might've died and they accidentally let him into heaven.
or,
you chuck the gun away from you abruptly, scooting forward on his lap. you're not crying, 'cause you don't cry, especially in situations like this, but he swallows the distressed sound you make anyway and kisses you harder, licking into your mouth like a beast that's finally been uncaged. you're apologising with every breath, and a part of him wonders if he should too—
he pauses in place, pulls back just a little to look at you better, and you let out a soft tony, not liking the delay (even though you know it's not his name).
"dex," he corrects gently; you repeat it in the same breathless tone as before. he thinks he's never heard a prettier sound. when he cups your face, you lean into the touch with a sigh.
"i'm sorry," he says. he doesn't say it often, but he really means it when he does. "for everything."
and then a quieter confession. "i love you."
it's not like either of you haven't said it before, but something's changed this time. it's different, more honest in a way, even though you'd meant it every time you said it before.
"i know." it comes out a whisper, and you blink and swallow, hoping you don't end up crying. "me too. i mean—"
"i know," he echoes your words from before, before you lapse into a comfortable silence. it's almost normal for a second. then you sit up straighter, clearing your throat, and begin taking inventory of the situation. "we can't stay here for much longer. they'll know something's wrong."
he glances around, not as urgent as you. "we have time."
"hey," you say suddenly. "did you really get hard from being held at gunpoint?"
instead of responding, he shucks off his hoodie and his hand slips under your shirt, burning against your bare waist. he makes no effort to move it upwards; it just stays there, heavy, a brand on your skin. he looks up at you and grins, needy, wanting, and you get your answer.
hello god it's me gf2page BACK with ANOTHER fic about BENJAMIN POINDEXTER and before you ask YES i hate my life NO i will NOT stop writing. if you like this LMK :] 1.5K WORDS!
18+ benjamin poindexter is big, needy, and pathetic.
at first you were afraid of what bullseye can do.
you didn’t know benjamin poindexter, but you knew of that other side of him. the blood on his hands that he acted like didn’t exist or just didn’t care to dwell on. how capable he is of destruction that it followed him everywhere he went.
but then he met you.
well, first he followed you. he found your address and place of work. found your parents house and your coworkers husband who stared too long at you when he picked up his wife.
dex watched you walk home from afar because someone should make sure you’re safe, right?
but you’re attentive and when he starts to get closer, you notice him. he’s not hard to miss, all that muscle mass and that deafening stare. you lock eyes with him at the grocery store. then, at your local coffee shop when he lifted his hat and visibly gulped. he finally builds up the courage to talk to you then and buys you a cup of coffee, plus some sweet pastry because he knew you hadn’t eaten yet, even though you didn’t tell him.
though when he slips up that the gym by your house is nice, you just knew.
“did i mention i lived around there?” you blink at him.
his smile reaches his eyes, crinkling beautifully. “i believe so.”
calling his bluff and inching closer, you press on, “i believe you’ve been following me, Benjamin.”
everything in his face drops and his expression falters. “no… i just—i saw you and i thought,”
“—it’s okay,” you smile, lifting your drink and sipping slowly. eye’s glued to his as they began to soften. “i can learn things too. really interesting things officer.”
he blinks hard, “i didn’t tell you about my job…”
“and yet? you’d be surprised how much information you can find online.”
the words die in his mouth and he’s left dumbfounded and speechless. still, he stays and he asks for number. you give him it. you could ask him to anything and he’ll say yes or soundlessly change the odds so they’re all in your favour. it’s not coercion and it’s almost worse than obsession, but the control is all in your hands. he is at your beck and call willingly.
so when he you’re mad at him, he doesn’t know what to do. he just falls apart.
“please,” he begs over the phone, “i’ll be good i swear. i’ll stop fighting just let me come home.”
from his tone you could tell he was just done crying and it just sounded pathetically beautiful.
“this is not your home. this is my house.” you coo as you stir your dinner. “stop calling me dex.”
you hang up without listening to the rest of his pleading. though less than 10 minutes later, he’s at your front door, begging again.
“baby,” eyes red and puffy, “i need you, i can’t breathe without you. please, please, don’t cut me off again, just—” he breathes as he ghosts his arm by your shoulders like he’s asking for permission. “can i please stay?”
you sigh and let him inside the house. he silently walks in, muttering a quiet thank you as he passes you. as soon as you close door and turn, dex is already on his knees.
“what the hell are you doing dex?”
dropping to his knees, his hands caress the backs of your thighs, dropping his head and burying it between them. gripping you tightly like he could bare letting go. “please take me back. nothing is good without you and it’s making me fucking sick, please,” practically blubbering at this point.
he was so strong and his biceps wrapped around you effortlessly. you could feel the strength just radiating off of him always, like an ever glowing essence.
you sigh, hand touching the nape of his neck and travelling up through his hair while he hums in contentment, “please stand up.”
the sound that he makes was teetering the line of desperation and relief. his lips press against the plush of your thigh while his hands rise to cup your ass. with your hand still buried in his hair, you pull him up with a slight tug, trying to get him to stand. though he keeps slowly rising, kissing up your side and dancing over your stomach, the fabric rising with every movement. a soft gasp escapes your lips and his touch slides up your spine, a shiver running through you. he stops just by your neck when you tug his hair harder and he hisses your name though one would argue it was a moan. you shove him gently and tell him to sit down, though you knew he could’ve stopped you.
you tend to his wounds and wipe his face and he watches you the whole time with puppy eyes. you share your dinner with him but you don’t touch again then, he only steals glances between bites.
within the span of an hour he’s inching closer to you on the couch and he’s watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. no one really cares about the news playing on the television as it repeats something about the AVTF.
his heavy hand rests just under your chest as he pulls you in and buries his nose in your hair, taking a long deep breath in. memorizing your scent like it gave him life.
by the end of night dex is situated between your legs, groaning like it hurts to part from you. he whispers soft thank you’s like he’s grateful for this meal you’ve provided. pushing your legs up higher over his head while you pant and squirm. but dex takes more control then, ignoring your pleas to slow down and dragging you closer to his mouth. maw slack and relentless as he laps and teases. his strong arms wrap and hook around your thighs. tongue teasing the sensitive bud for what felt like eternity. you’ll push his head away to no avail, weakly spent as you attempt it.
“dex, enough. i can’t,” you pant, voice bordering on barely concealed exhaustion and blissful satisfaction.
he shakes his head against you and that only makes you gasp again, throwing your head back.
“not until you promise hmm?” he says between his drunken moans, “you can’t leave me.”
crying out from overstimulating pleasure you nod, “okay, fuck— i won’t. you can stay.”
looking up at you through his hooded eyes, he smiles with them before kissing your inner thigh. he leaves gentle kisses to let you cool off, letting the feeling subside for barely a minute before diving right back into his ministrations. he lets you squeeze yours legs around his head and writhe as you say his name.
“now really try to suffocate me with these,” he says as he squeezes your thighs harder around his neck, turning his head to bite the plush of your thighs.
you know you’ll let him in again. you’ll always let him come back. maybe one day you’ll tell him how you follow him too.
can you tell i just rewatched the whole show again?
fbi!ben poindexter has this bad habit of referring to you as his. it comes off weird to outsiders, occasionally, because you obviously aren't an object to be owned; you know, though, he doesn't mean it like that. in his mind, it's an equivalent exchange—he's as much yours as you are his.
my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.
and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you to acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.
or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.
after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?
your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?
and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.
and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—
and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.
hi im back. sorry. i hate myself too. this man will be the death of me. 0.6k words
── is always soft with his girl no matter how hard she is on him.
♱ Frank acts like your anger is something precious because it means you still care enough to fight for him. You can be pacing the motel room at two in the morning, whisper-yelling about the bruises blooming along his ribs, and he’ll just sit there on the edge of the bed watching you with that tired, softened look in his eyes.
♱ Every single time you patch him up, he goes quiet. Not because he dislikes it — because he doesn’t know what to do with gentleness anymore. Your fingers pressing antiseptic to a cut, your brows furrowed in concentration, your frustrated little “hold still, Frank” makes something in his chest ache.
♱ He never argues when you’re scared. If you snap at him for disappearing without a word or getting himself hurt again, he doesn’t bite back. He just lets you feel it. Lets you get the fear out however you need to because he knows your anger is tangled up with worry.
“You done yellin’ at me?”
“No.”
“…A’right.”
♱ Frank pretends your lectures annoy him, but secretly they ground him. They remind him there’s still someone waiting for him to come home. Someone who notices when he’s limping worse than usual or when he’s gone too long without sleeping.
♱ He’s incredibly gentle after arguments. Not dramatic about it — just quieter. He’ll slide a cup of coffee toward you without a word. Pull your blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep sitting up. Rest his hand on the back of your neck while passing by.
♱ You’re one of the only people who can get away with bossing him around. Other people get growled at. You tell him to sit down before he tears his stitches and suddenly this terrifying man is grumbling under his breath while doing exactly what you said.
♱ Frank memorizes your comfort habits. If you’re anxious while hiding out somewhere unfamiliar, he’ll leave the TV running low because he knows silence makes you overthink. He’ll check the locks twice without being asked. He always gives you the side of the bed furthest from the door.
♱ Sometimes you catch him staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re still there. Especially after rough nights. Especially when he wakes from nightmares and finds your hand tangled with his beneath the blankets.
♱ He’s terrible at apologizing directly, so his version sounds more like: “Didn’t mean to scare you.” or “I came back, didn’t I?”
♱ Frank absolutely melts when you fuss over him despite being mad. You’ll be muttering about how reckless he is while dabbing ointment on a cut and he’s sitting there thinking about how nobody’s taken care of him this softly in years.
♱ When you’re on the run together, he becomes fiercely protective of your small comforts. He’ll steal extra pillows from motels for you, keep your favorite snacks tucked in his duffel, make sure you have one clean hoodie left even if he’s wearing bloodied clothes himself.
♱ He trusts you with parts of himself he doesn’t show anyone else. The exhaustion. The grief. The ugly thoughts. And when you hold his face and tell him to stop acting like he has to carry everything alone, he actually listens — at least a little.
♱ Frank’s favorite thing is when you calm down enough to finally let him hold you after a fight. Your head tucked against his chest, his rough hand rubbing slow circles against your back while he presses a kiss to your hair like a silent apology.
♱ No matter how hard you are on him, he never mistakes it for rejection. Deep down, Frank thinks someone loving him enough to worry is the closest thing to peace he’s ever gonna get.
── guess who started watching daredevil + punisher and ISNT okay! youve guessed it! not only that but all my socials are flooded with jon bernthal and his broadway debut..... save me
✧ as uninterested as he tried to seem in the first few months when you moved in across from him he secretly found you presence very endearing. he enjoyed your wreaths and door decor; he thought they added life to the otherwise dull building.
✧ even though he had never spoken to you directly he knew exactly who you were & he knew you weren’t from around the area. (which he assumed is why you never felt the need to lock your door when you would leave)
✧ surprisingly he was the first to speak and break the streak of nods and tight lipped smiles. he caught you locking your door as he was coming up the stairs, grumbling “might wanna grab an umbrella.” before he disappeared into his own apartment not even staying long enough to get a response out of you.
✧ after that it was you who did all the talking, your first means of doing so being you thanking him. “hey, hey! thank you for the heads up last week i uh got you this.” you pull the umbrella from your tote extending it towards him. he looks at it then at you back at it then at you again making you shift awkwardly. “i just assumed you didnt have one seeing as to how you were all soaked.” again silence and an unreadable stare. “well alright never-“ he finally grabs the umbrella grunting a “thanks” before continuing down the stairs.
✧ it was safe to say the gesture softened him slightly, so when you finally found a couch at the thrift and needed help moving it he was a bit more willing to let you use his van and even aid in getting it up the stairs making for the start of a very complicated friendship.
this scene broke my writer's block - clingy matt????? yes please???? like, hello i want to squish his cheeks and kiss him all over and ride his abs—i mean... look at this cutie pie. also wrote this instead of doing my academic writing homework. totally worth it
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gn!reader, clingy!matt, matt is kinda a dork, pet name (sweetheart), matt murdock (yes, he's a warning), fluff, cuddling, 1.3k words
The light in the room looks like it’s trying to be gentle, falling through the blinds in thin bands that drift across the floor as the day moves. Someone left a half-finished cup of coffee on the dresser, and the whole place smells faintly like it. You’re stretched out on the bed with one leg tangled through Matt’s, his arm heavy over your middle like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep a hand on you.
You shift, careful at first, but he notices anyway. His head lifts a little from the pillow, hair messy, shirt still on because neither of you bothered to change, and his hand tightens at your waist like a reflex. “Where’re you going?” he asks, soft but already a little offended by the idea.
“Two feet away,” you say, trying not to laugh as you wriggle free. “I’m putting something on.”
His hand slides off you like he’s resisting the urge to grab you back by the hem of your shirt. You hear the small sound he makes, somewhere between a sigh and a complaint. “Oh, come on,” he says, and there’s no bite to it. It’s whiny in that way that makes your chest go warm. “You were right there.”
“I’ll be right back,” you promise, already crossing the room.
“You’re lying,” he says, like you’ve done this to him a hundred times and he’s never recovered from it once.
You glance over your shoulder. “I am not.”
“You are,” he insists, voice low, the corners of it tipped toward a pout. “You’re going to forget about me. I’ll die.”
“Dramatic,” you call, stopping by the little record player like it’s a ritual. “You’ll be fine, Matthew.”
At the sound of his name, he settles back onto the pillow with a theatrical huff, but you can tell he’s listening in the way his breathing changes, in the way the room feels like it has a line drawn straight from you to him. You flip through the sleeves until you find the one you want, slide the vinyl out, set it down, and lower the needle with a careful hand.
The first crackle pops through the speakers, and then the music blooms into the space, warm and a little scratchy, like it’s been waiting all day for someone to remember it exists. You turn back toward the bed and catch him looking in your direction, head angled like he’s tracking you even without his eyes. His mouth is pressed into a line that’s trying not to be pleased, but it’s failing.
“See?” you say, walking back. “Now it’s nice.”
“It was nice before,” he replies immediately, like that’s the entire point. His hand lifts, palm up, inviting. “Come here.”
You climb back onto the mattress, but instead of settling down where you were, you scoot across the sheets and sit up, facing him. His hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s soothing himself as much as you.
“You’re clingy today,” you say.
“I’m not clingy,” he says, offended on principle. Then he adds, quieter, like it slips out before he can stop it, “I just like you.”
Your smile turns into something softer. “That’s suspiciously close to being clingy.”
He shifts up on one elbow, leaning closer. “Sweetheart,” he says, and the word is gentle, not a performance. “I had you in my arms and then you left. You can’t do that.”
“I left to put music on,” you remind him.
“You could’ve done it from bed,” he argues, and you open your mouth to ask how exactly you’re supposed to reach across the room with your mind, but he’s already moving, pushing himself upright like he can’t take being separated by even the small distance of a few feet.
He swings his legs off the bed and stands, pausing for a second as if he’s listening to the record, counting the rhythm. Then he turns toward you, holding his hands out with a faint tilt of his head.
“You’re inviting me to dance?” you ask.
“I’m insisting,” he says, and even that sounds tender. “Come on.”
You slide off the bed and step into him, and his hands land on you immediately, one at your waist, the other finding your hand with sure confidence. He draws you closer until your bodies line up, chest to chest, and you can feel how warm he is through the fabric.
“You’re not even pretending you don’t want me close,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh that vibrates against you. “Why would I pretend?”
The music carries on, slow enough that you don’t have to think about it, and Matt sways with you like it’s instinct. His hand at your waist shifts up and down, mapping you like he’s memorizing you again, and the other hand keeps yours anchored between you both. Every time you try to lean back even a fraction, he follows, pulling you in like the world is a little less sharp when you’re pressed against him. His mouth brushes your temple. “Better,” he says, almost to himself.
You tilt your head, trying to meet his face even though you know he doesn’t need it. “Better than what?”
“Better than you being over there,” he answers, like it should be obvious. His fingers squeeze your waist. “Better than you getting up.”
“You’re going to survive me putting on records,” you say, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.
He draws back just enough to find your mouth, kissing you slow, not hungry so much as determined. His hands hold you like he’s making an argument with his touch, like he’s proving a point: stay, stay, stay.
When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t move far. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing evenly. “Can we go back?” he asks.
You blink, a little dazed, and it takes you a second to understand what he means. “To bed?”
“Yes,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world. “Please.”
“We’re literally standing right next to it,” you point out, but you’re already smiling.
“That’s not the same,” he replies, and then he shifts his grip in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand slides under your thighs, the other anchors around your back, and before you can protest, he lifts you easily.
You make a surprised noise, your hands flying to his shoulders as your legs automatically hook around his waist. His arms hold you like you weigh nothing, like you belong there.
Matt grins, and it’s all boyish satisfaction. “There,” he says. “Now you can’t go anywhere.”
“I could still get down,” you tell him, but you don’t sound convincing, and you both know it.
He takes two steps, turning you both toward the bed. Your bodies sway with the movement, and the record keeps playing like it’s cheering him on. He kisses the corner of your mouth on the way, quick and smug. “You won’t,” he says simply.
He backs you onto the mattress, lowering you carefully so you land on the sheets with a soft bounce, and he follows you down immediately. His weight settles over you in a way that’s warm, not crushing, his arms bracketing you like he’s building a shelter out of his own body.
Your legs are still around his waist, and he nudges closer until there’s no space left at all. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, like he’s satisfied now that he’s gotten what he wanted.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips. “Happy?” you whisper.
His hand slides up your side and rests over your ribs, fingers splayed like he’s counting your heartbeat for fun. “Mm,” he hums, and he sounds calmer already. Then, softer, like he’s letting himself have it, he adds, “yeah. Much.”
The record keeps spinning in the background, crackling between songs, and Matt tucks his face against your neck as if the entire world can wait as long as you’re right here.
