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
the fact that there’s no dex crashing y/n’s wedding prompts is disappointing to me. I love that you added the fact there was considerable time between dd s3 and ddba. 💙💙
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
the fact that there’s no dex crashing y/n’s wedding prompts is disappointing to me. I love that you added the fact there was considerable time between dd s3 and ddba. 💙💙
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
the fact that there’s no dex crashing y/n’s wedding prompts is disappointing to me. I love that you added the fact there was considerable time between dd s3 and ddba. 💙💙
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: how did one weekly dinner manage to ruin everything?
𝙬𝙝𝙤: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader
𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 2.5k
𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: soulmate au, arguing, swearing, mentions of bodily harm, a forced kiss (I think), angst/hurt. If I have missed any please let me know!
𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙮: @uzmacchiato
𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧: coming soon
𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧: I Can See You
𝗮/𝗻: Part 3 of this series! A bit of angst/hurt before these two start their journey. I really need to think of a name for this series. Any suggestions? Like before feedback is welcome!
“Flashes of the battle come back to me in a blur…“ — The Great War by Taylor Swift
The past three days had been unbearable.
Matt had called six times, Karen had texted eleven, and every single time your phone lit up with their names, guilt twisted in your stomach so hard that you felt sick.
You knew avoiding them wouldn’t solve anything and that it would just make them concerned and confused. But every time you went to answer their calls, your nerves made you panic. Because how were you supposed to tell them?
How were you supposed to look your brother and best friend in the eyes and tell them that the man who shot you is your soulmate and you keep letting him back in your life?
Sighing tiredly, you rubbed the mark on your collarbone as your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Matt. Again.
You stared at it until the ringing stopped, and then a ping indicated that a text had come through. Dropping the spoon into your half-eaten bowl of cereal, you grabbed your phone.
Matt: Dinner tonight. No excuses.
You closed your eyes briefly before another ping sounded.
Karen: If you ghost us again I’m coming over there and dragging you out with us.
Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped you. God, you missed them. Which made your guilt even worse.
Your fingers hovered over the screen before finally typing and sending a single sentence.
You: I’ll be there.
The response from Karen came immediately.
Karen: Suspiciously fast answer. Are you dying?
You snorted softly.
Only emotionally, you thought to yourself.
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Matt’s apartment smelled like pasta sauce and garlic bread.
Which made the dread clawing at your chest almost painful.
Karen stood near the stove with a glass of wine in hand while Matt finished plating dinner, movements smooth and precise despite his blindness.
For one horrible moment, you thought about lying again. Considered faking a smile and pretending that everything was fine.
“There she is.” Matt smiled when he heard you step inside.
Sliding off your shoes, Karen set down her wine glass as she walked over and hugged you tightly.
“You look exhausted,” she muttered against your shoulder.
“I’ve been busy.” You say, hugging her back.
“You’ve been avoiding us.” She said, hugging you tighter.
You forced a weak smile. “That too.”
Karen pulled back just enough to study your face before letting you go.
Matt’s head tilted slightly. “You haven’t been sleeping.”
You swallowed thickly. “No.”
The silence lingered a little too long for Matt to not notice your nerves.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said quietly.
The three of you settled around the small kitchen table, the room glowing warm under dim lighting while a soft breeze swept through it from the open window.
Normally this would’ve comforted you. Tonight it just made you feel trapped as Karen talked about work and Matt complained about a client.
Nodding at the right moments while barely tasting the food they made, your heartbeat refused to slow down, and you knew Matt could hear it.
It was halfway through dinner when Karen sighed and set her fork down.
“Okay,” she said carefully. “What’s going on with you?”
Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Karen,”
“No! You’ve been avoiding us for days,” she interrupted. “You look miserable, you’re barely speaking, and don't think for a second we haven't noticed how weird you get when Poindexter is mentioned.”
You froze as your breath stuttered, and across the table, Matt went completely still.
The apartment suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet as your already racing heart got faster.
“Wait.” He whispered.
Your chest tightened painfully as Matt turned towards you, and in that moment you realised by the look on his face that he already suspected your secret.
“That’s why,” Matt said quietly.
Your eyes burned immediately. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Karen stared between the two of you, confused. “Is this another one of those twin things?”
“Say it,” Matt said.
“Matty,” your voice cracked as your fingers shook around your fork.
“Bug,” Matt softly said your childhood nickname. “Just say it.”
You swallowed hard as you looked down at your barely touched dinner.
“Dex is my soulmate.” You finally whispered.
Your eyes lifted as the room fell silent at your confession despite your chest feeling a little lighter.
“Oh my God.” Karen's words came out angry as she looked at you like you'd physically struck her.
“No,” she said immediately after. “No.”
Beside her, Matt sat motionless.
“Does he know?” He asked.
You almost released a bitter laugh because, of course, that would be Matt’s first question.
Not are you okay? Or has he hurt you? Or are you seeing him?
But does he know? Because Matt understood exactly what it meant if Dex did.
“Yes.” You say.
Karen let out a disbelieving laugh. “You told him?”
“I didn’t have to.” You tell them.
Matt’s jaw tightened slightly. “How long?”
Your throat closed. “Since the night he shot me.”
Karen inhaled sharply, and Matt looked sick for the first time all evening.
Because now they understood.
Dex had known the entire time. While imprisoned, while isolated, while unmedicated and unstable.
Obsessing about you.
“Oh my God,” Karen whispered, horrified now instead of angry.
You stared down at your hands in your lap. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You should’ve stayed away from him.” Karen exclaimed, standing abruptly from the table.
You twisted your fingers tightly together, hoping the slight pain would ease the tightness in your chest.
“I tried.”
“He shot you.”
“I know.”
“He nearly killed Foggy.”
Your breath caught painfully as your eyes stung with tears.
The apartment went quiet again.
Karen’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. “And you still let him into your apartment?”
You flinched as a tear ran down your cheek. But that wasn't the worst part because what was worse was the fact that you wanted him there.
Matt's voice was steady when he spoke again, “Has he been contacting you?”
“Yes.” You confirm wiping the tear off your cheek.
“How?”
Matt’s expression hardened when you hesitated too long.
“Has he been seeing you?”
You looked away as your heart began racing again.
Karen stared at you in disbelief. “You can’t see him.”
Something inside you snapped slightly at her words. “Karen.”
“No,” she interrupted sharply. “Absolutely not. He is dangerous.”
“I know he’s dangerous.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
You froze at her question.
Because he notices me. You thought to yourself. Because he makes me feel seen. Because I want him to keep coming back.
Matt’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.
“How can you possibly want this?”
Your throat tightened at the crack in his voice. Because your brother wasn't angry, he wasn't judgmental. He was hurt.
Your eyes burned again. “You think I don’t ask myself that every day?”
Neither of them answered.
So you kept going. Mouth moving before you could stop it.
“I waited years for my soulmate,” you whispered shakily. “Years. And then it was him.”
Your voice cracked.
“Do you think I wanted it to be him?”
Karen’s expression faltered slightly.
But the words wouldn’t stop now that the hurt and suffering you had kept locked away for months had broken free.
“I know what he’s done,” you continued. “I know who he is. I know what people think when they look at him.”
Your breathing shook as you looked them in the eyes.
“But every time I try to stay away from him…” your voice softened painfully, “… I can’t.”
Silence filled the apartment for the third time that night. This time heavy and miserable.
Matt’s face tightened again. “He’s already attached to you.”
“Don't,” you looked at him sharply. “Don't use that against me. Against him.”
Matt’s jaw flexed once. “I can hear it every time his name comes up.”
Anger twisted low in your stomach. Because Matt was right, Dex was attached, and you knew that from his gifts and his relaxed attitude whenever he broke into your apartment.
But so was a part of you.
Karen sank slowly back into her chair, rubbing at her face.
“You’re my best friend,” she whispered. “And I’m terrified he’s going to destroy you.”
The anger in her voice finally cracked enough for the fear underneath to show.
Your eyes burned harder. “I know.”
Because that was the horrible truth. You knew exactly what this could become, how this could end.
And still you wondered about the what-ifs and the maybes and the possibility that this might not destroy you.
The apartment suddenly felt suffocating.
You pushed your chair back abruptly. “I should go.”
Karen immediately looked guilty. “Wait.”
But you were already sliding on your shoes.
Matt stood quickly too. “Hey, bug.”
You paused near the door, coat on only one shoulder.
Matt’s expression was a mix of protective, worried, and nervous all at once.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.
But somehow that only made your tears burn harder because, despite his words, you had never felt more alone.
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The rain had soaked through your coat by the time you got home.
Your chest still hurt, but at least your tears had stopped. Karen’s voice still echoing in your skull.
He shot you.
God. You knew that.
Hands trembling slightly, you unlocked your apartment and stepped inside. The lights were off, but you immediately felt his presence.
“You told them.” Dex’s voice came quietly from the darkness.
You switched the lights on and slowly shut the door behind you.
Dex sat on the sofa, half-hidden by shadows. His head tilted as he watched you again.
You suddenly felt exhausted down to your bones. “Yes.”
Silence filled the apartment as rain tapped softly against the windows.
Dex’s eyes moved slowly across your face, studying every emotion there.
“They’re upset.” He said.
A sad, humourless laugh escaped you. “That’s one word for it.”
Dex stayed quiet for a moment. “What did they say?”
You dropped your wet coat onto the chair. “That you’re dangerous.”
His expression didn’t change. Because that wasn’t news to either of you. “And?”
You looked away first. “They don’t understand why I keep letting you come back.”
The second the words left your mouth, anger shifted on Dex’s face.
Sharp and immediate.
Your chest tightened when you saw it.
“You told them why?” he asked quietly.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is to me.”
Of course it was. To him you're not just soulmates, you're fate, you're destiny. And you knew that because Dex had always looked at you like you were it for him.
But for you? Nothing about this was simple.
“You don’t understand what this is doing to my life, Dex, to me,” you whispered tiredly.
Dex stared at you. “You think I don’t?”
“You have killed people, Dex.”
Your words cracked through the apartment sharply.
“I know.”
“You nearly destroyed my family.” You could feel the tears forming again.
His jaw tightened immediately. “I know.”
“You shot me.”
Your words were sharp, and you saw the emotions immediately on his face.
The guilt, the anger, and the frustration.
“Do you think I wanted to do that?” he snapped suddenly.
You blinked, stunned as Dex stood up and stepped closer.
“I didn’t know,” he said harshly. “I didn’t know who you were then.”
“But you know now.” You felt the first tear fall.
“Yes.”
“Then you know why this feels impossible for me?”
Dex’s breathing came out sharper than before. Because this conversation was turning into something he couldn’t fix.
And it was terrifying him.
“You keep pushing me away,” he said quietly, gently cupping your face.
Your chest ached at his words and actions. “Because I don’t know what to do.”
“I do.” He said as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks.
A bitter laugh escaped you.
“No, you don’t.”
“I know you’re mine.”
The words hit like a punch as his name burned hot on your collarbone.
“I’m not a possession.” You snap, putting your hands on his chest, ready to push him away.
Dex stepped closer again.
“Baby, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” You asked, ignoring your heart fluttering when he called you that.
His eyes searched yours desperately, like if he could just make you understand his view, everything would stop hurting.
“You feel it too. The connection between us. Our bond.”
Your breath caught.
Because that was the problem, you did feel it.
You felt it in every glance, in every touch, and in every moment he looked at you like you were something precious.
Something his.
You felt all of it, and you were too tired to deny that you didn't want more.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” you whispered shakily and knew that it was a lie.
Dex looked genuinely confused by the question.
“You.”
The simplicity of his answer made your heart flutter and break at the same time.
“You can’t just,” your voice cracked as more tears fell, “you can’t just come back after everything and expect this to be easy.”
“I don’t expect easy.”
“Then what?” You pushed against his chest, but he barely moved.
Dex stared at you for one long, awful second.
“You keep acting like loving me is the worst thing that could happen to you.” He whispered.
Your eyes widened.
Because that wasn’t what this was.
That wasn't what you meant.
But before you could explain, Dex suddenly closed the distance between you.
One hand moving to the back of your head while the other wrapped around your waist.
And then he was kissing you.
Desperate and impulsive, like if he could get close enough, this distance you kept between you two would finally disappear.
For a second you froze.
Because this was your soulmate, and you had imagined this moment for years. But also because this was Dex, and half of you wanted this.
Then reality slammed back into you.
Your hands shoved hard against his chest. “Stop.”
Dex stumbled back instantly, his hands leaving your body.
The apartment fell silent except for your uneven breathing, but you could see his expressions shifting.
From confusion to realisation and then panic. Like he’d only just understood what he’d done.
Your own mixed emotions made your head spin.
“You can’t do that,” you whispered.
Dex looked wrecked. “I thought.”
“I know what you thought.” Your tears were flowing freely now.
“But you can’t fix this like that.”
Silence filled the apartment again, and for the first time since meeting him, Dex looked uncertain.
And you hated that look on his face. You never wanted him to feel uncertain around you, but why is this situation making you feel like you have to choose between your family and your soulmate?
“Leave me alone.” Your throat tightened painfully.
The words shattered something between you instantly.
Dex went completely still, and the look on his face nearly made you take the words back. Because for the first time since you met him, he looked scared.
Scared of losing you.
But you forced yourself to hold his gaze anyway, and after a long, horrible moment, Dex nodded once.
Then, without another word, he stepped backwards toward the open window and stopped as if he was waiting for something before disappearing into the rain.
Leaving you standing alone and crying in the middle of your apartment, feeling like a fool for believing that you could have had it all.
⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.
⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness / addiction, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.
⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫
you didn’t know what was worse, the fact that you’d refused to go to the hospital for a bullet wound in your stomach, or that you’d been hunched over your corkboard for two hours and your spine felt like it had adopted a new, crooked shape.
in your defense, you had a rough history with hospitals.
you winced as a thumbtack bit into your finger, but gratefulness settled warm on your shoulders shortly after.
the puzzle was finally piecing together.
fisk. the mayor. the hit.
manila papers scattered the board. faces of people you’d never met stared back at you, and somewhere in the blur of it all was a picture; grainy, but true. countless smear campaigns against fisk, the satirical broadcasts, someone with media access trying to wake hell’s kitchen up.
that someone was your sister.
your stupid, stupid sister.
you’d never been more sure.
and from there it all clicked. this apartment was listed under PAGE per public record. fisk took a shot at silencing who he thought was karen. it was simpler than money, power. no, he had that already so it was even worse.
he was protecting himself. his name. his carefully constructed image. from what? you didn’t know. but you were certain it was more than karen’s whistleblowing.
you were just a loose thread he’d tried to pull. er— karen was.
you’d buried yourself in all of this, probably to avoid the more pressing reality which was that you’d been traumatized approximately forty eight hours ago and could very realistically go septic and die if you didn’t google how to properly tend to a bullet wound soon.
it could wait.
foggy’s face gazed back at you from beneath a green tack. the only photo you had of him. karen had dragged him along on the annual summer trip and you’d braced yourself for some insufferable lawyer who would spend the whole week mansplaining the ocean to you.
and then you’d met him. warm and ridiculous and the kind of person who could talk about a fucking marble until two in the morning and make it the most interesting conversation you’d ever had.
a once in a lifetime person. that’s who foggy nelson was.
it made sense why your sister had arrived on your doorstep in pieces only a week after his death. she’d loved him, and she’d carried his blood home with her.
and then there was matt.
you ground your teeth.
the insufferable prick who had all but emotionally abandoned your sister when her grief didn’t move at the speed of his caseload.
so it all tracked. karen running the broadcast, trying to shake hell’s kitchen awake with both hands. some elaborate chess game between her and fisk, one you were almost certain matt had walked her directly into. but why?
it was a game that could have cost her everything if you hadn’t been the one at the sauce pot.
and still, one question sat unanswered at the center of the board.
who shot me?
and more pressingly, why the hell had they stitched you up rather than left you in a ditch somewhere. you were fairly certain fisk’s reach allowed for ditches.
you pinched your brows together.
“i watch too much NCIS,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders and forcing your spine into something resembling upright.
you let your head fall back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. wondering if the curiosity was stupid. if you should just lock the door and wait for karen to handle it as per usual. but karen had matt, and matt had a habit of deciding who needed protecting and from what, and you had strong doubts that list included you.
so no. you didn’t feel like choice was something being offered.
a rattle.
soft. sudden.
your head snapped to the countertop.
what the f-
lilies. violet ones, in a slim glass vase, identical in color to the painting hung directly above your bed.
you swallowed.
you were ill, yes. possibly delirious, even. but not so far gone that you’d forgotten accepting a delivery. letting someone in. signing for anything. which meant —
“fuck.”
your phone rang and you nearly came out of your skin.
you were trembling, eyes refusing to leave the countertop, fingers moving on instinct as you pressed the phone to your ear.
“hello?”
“baby? heyyyy, it’s jess.”
a slow blink. the lilies blurred at the edges. realization struck you like a dagger to the chest.
someone had been in this apartment while you were hunched over your corkboard in a blissful, oblivious blur. standing at your counter.
watching you work.
the goosebumps came slow and deliberate up your arms.
“you’re out of rehab.” your voice came out steadier than you felt. low. careful.
“yeah, baby listen — can i crash at yours tonight? pops is on my ass again about the job stuff and— oh shit, kare? hey! babe, did you know your sister is here?”
the warmth that moved through you then was not a kind one. hot and feverish and immediate,
karen. fuck.
your eyes went wide and you dropped to your knees, dragging the corkboard beneath the couch, stuffing crumpled papers under the cushions with shaking hands.
“wh— just— tell her to leave—”
if it was him, the man in the mask, he still had a job to finish.
“we’re comin’ up now—”
“jesse. no—” he wouldn’t listen.
you slammed the phone face down on the carpet.
three minutes. maybe less, depending on ray at the buzzer. not enough time to sweep the whole studio. the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony; too many places for an assassin to strike.
trembling hands grabbed the vase and turned it slowly, checking the underside, the roots, the water. nothing. no bomb. no death. just— flowers.
and then a flash of blue between the stems. it slipped through your fingers twice before you got it. a little card. blue sky, a rainbow arching across the front. golden letters.
GET WELL SOON!
you unfolded it.
inside, in clean, perfect script:
whoops, wrong target ☹⌖
a juvenile sad face. and beneath it — a hand drawn bullseye.
your brows knit so hard they ached.
you flipped to the back. and there, in sharp block letters that looked like they’d been pressed hard enough to indent the cardstock:
LOCK YOUR WINDOWS, Y/N.
four knocks at the door.
“one second!”
you shoved the card into the bin, curled your hand around your midsection and hissed through your teeth as you limped toward the bedroom. you were not afraid to die, no. not yet. you’d watched enough true crime to understand exactly what this was.
a moth in a jar.
you were just something being played with before being snuffed out.
the bedroom was colder than it should have been.
your breath was short as you shoved the window down with both hands, the window you were certain had been closed, and flipped both locks. a sharp look into the bathroom. a painful glance under the bed.
nothing. no one.
more knocks.
you wiped your face with the back of your hand, sniffled once, and limped to the front door. you kept the chain on and opened it three inches.
“i’m contagious.”
karen’s steel blue eyes moved over what little of you she could see, and something in them shifted immediately. jesse’s face fell behind her with the disappointment of a man whose plans had just been fucked.
“y/n.” karen’s voice was careful. “are you alright?”
the note. the lilies. the window.
the man who had crouched over you on this very floor and tucked your hair back like you were the moon and it was his first time seeing it.
you swallowed all of it down.
“peachy keen, karen.”
she didn’t believe you. she had that page look in her eye, the one dad used to wear when karen would lie about being drunk despite reeking of liquor. the one karen gave you when you were dosing all the time.
“contagious with what, exactly?”
a gulp. nervous eyes snapping toward where jesse pinched the skin between his brows. karen didn’t give you a chance to answer, she knew it was bullshit anyway.
her steel eyes cut to jesse, then back to you. and whatever morphed across her face in that moment made your stomach ache worse than the wound sitting behind the door.
“are you both using again?”
you went rigid.
you understood, on surface level, why she’d go there. this was weird. you were acting weird. but that accusation still landed like an open palm across your cheek. you clenched your jaw tight.
“no, karen. i’m not using again.”
she pursed her lips, exhaled slow through her nose. white-knuckled on the strap of her purse. your next breath was shaky and smelled of smoke and heroine.
you started naming cities in your head.
“but you’re back with jesse.”
not a question. the way she said it made you sway on your feet. the throbbing in your midsection sharpened all at once.
“i found out he was here when you did, kare.” a beat. “but thanks — for the backhanded concern. i think you’d know if i was sticking the needle in again.”
something cracked across her features then. regret, quick and unmistakable. she frowned, pressed her lips together, and without a word dug through her purse and pressed a folded wad of cash into jesse’s hand. his brows jumped to his hairline.
“holy shit, kare — than—”
“don’t.” quiet. absolute. “go find somewhere to stay that is nowhere near my sister. and so help me god, jessie; i have connections. if any of them tell me you were buying, you’ll be prosecuted by morning.”
matt. some perk.
your ex nodded once, slow. his eyes flicked to the crack in the door, tongue dragging across his chapped lips.
“later, y/n.”
that shake. that particular tremble in the way he said your name, the sniffle as he turned and walked away. that was something even karen page couldn’t piece together. something only you knew intimately.
he’d lapse within the hour.
but you wouldn’t tell her that. more pressing matters at hand.
when she turned back to you, you shook your head gently. you should have shut the door, locked her out just in case he was still close. but he would have tried by now, wouldn’t he?
“i’m sorry.”
you forgave her. you didn’t say that, because opportunity had arrived.
“accusations, right? s’my turn.” you pulled the page look on for yourself — pursed lips, steady eyes. “you said the mayor put a hit out on you. tell me why.”
your sister didn’t crack.
“i misspoke.”
“you’re lying to me.”
“you’d know if he’d sent a hit out for you. you’d be dead.”
you almost laughed out loud. if only she knew about the wound you were nursing three inches behind this door. your jaw ticked.
“fine. don’t tell me. fuck if i care — i’ll find out my own way.”
karen shook her head immediately.
“no. you need to stay away from this, do you hear me—”
“so there is something.”
“no — yes — christ, just listen to me! i’ll tell you when the time is right. that time is not now.”
silence fell between you both. the long, tension laced kind. her hand wrapped around the edge of the door where you held it open. tears stung at her eyes, red blooming across her nose and cheeks. she licked her lips and smiled — dry, tired.
“i shouldn’t have accused you. i’m sorry.”
you bowed your head.
it was nothing you weren’t already used to. you kept that part to yourself.
you thought about matt then. the way he looks at you when you’re around. careful, measured, like you’re something that requires fragility.
and it made sense, in a way. you’d ruined their lives once. karen. matt. you. foggy.
but foggy… he never looked at you like that though.
foggy used to look at you like you were just a person.
you swallowed back the tears crawling up your throat and steadied your breath.
“s’fine.” smaller than you meant it. “just — please. as soon as you feel clear weather on this, tell me.”
a single nod.
“i promise.”
you watched her face when she said it.
you didn’t believe her.
𖦏₊ ⊹
it wasn’t planned. of course it wasn’t. none of this was.
his pretty little north star. messy and the opposite of uniform, the antithesis of everything he’d ever sought out in a fixed point. he hated her.
god, he couldn’t get enough of her.
depravity had settled into his chest like a splinter. two agonizing days of it. two days of fisk buzzing in his ear about the importance of eliminating karen page, and ben nodding along like a man whose attention was fully present.
it was far from that.
he didn’t tell fisk, of course. not about her. not after julie. he knew better than that.
but he could control this. right? this wasn’t like julie. he could still perform the hit, get the job done. how different this was, he’d even been apart from her for two whole days!
day one, morning — he meditated. twenty minutes. focused. good.
day one, night — he stalked every crumb of her the internet had to offer until 3am.
y/n, huh… it tasted good on his tongue.
day two, morning — exercise. discipline. structure.
day two, night — he mapped every entrance to her apartment. every window. every weak point in the lock.
east window will be most efficient to see all of her.
day three.
a dream.
her wide, teary eyes. the addictive softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. he’d leaned down in it, watched her tremble, licked the tears from her cheeks while she squirmed beneath him. that last part was his imagination’s finest work, and he woke up with the blanket tented high and every nerve in his body pulled toward her like a compass finding north. he wrapped his hand around himself but by the second stroke he winced, he wanted to wait for her.
the urges had officially outpaced the control.
he needed more. he needed to see more.
getting in was easier than it should have been. he clenched his teeth. did she not care about the risk of some psychopath crawling through her window? he pressed his command down on the cardstock so hard, it dented and bled.
he’d spent two hours watching her from the half wall separating her bedroom from the rest of the studio. she had absolutely no idea. it made him grin.
he was relieved to find the apartment tidy — save for that chaotic explosion she was piecing together on the corkboard. he’d watched her work it, head tilted. she was so close and so very far simultaneously, and every time something clicked behind her eyes he felt a toothy grin pull at the corner of his mouth.
that’s it. almost.
his breaths were loud in his own ears. the vase of lilies in his arms, heavier.
how could he not bring them? he was a gentleman. and they matched the painting above her bed; the bed he had gotten very well acquainted with in her absence.
he’d pressed his face into the sheets and breathed. sweet, indulgent, the kind of thing he could inhale for the rest of his life and never tire of. tobacco and vanilla threaded through silk with something bright underneath— neroli, no- clementine, maybe. soft and warm and entirely, perfectly her. it took everything he had to pry himself away from them.
when he tired of watching her fail to crack the case for the sixth time, he moved. quiet, measured steps toward the island. he set the vase down.
it rattled.
he found the nearest shadow and went still. then retreated to the bedroom doorway, and waited.
the freeze that moved through her was worth every second. every single hair raising on her skin, those wide eyes, that idiotic bravery that made something in him simultaneously want to shake her and bend her over his-
she pried herself up. she found his flowers.
so good.
but then, a voice. male. crackling through the receiver but unmistakably male, and she was speaking to it, and the familiarity in her voice was not the kind she’d been using for her sister.
he went very still.
oh no no no, little star. already?
he leaned closer anyway. just to be sure. the name came through clear enough.
jesse.
one name. that’s all he needed.
with one last look at her, finding his note, reading those four words with that particular shade of fear he was quickly developing a preference for; he crawled through the open window and dropped down the pole to the cobblestones below.
incubus!yuta, mentions of a failed date, masturbation (f), sex toys, voyeurism (not really but kinda), pet names, teasing, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, unprotected sex, fingering, degradation, a little possessiveness, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, choking, uhhh i think that’s it…
The door slams shut behind you. You kick off your shoes and throw your coat off, not caring where it ended up. Another date, another disappointment.
You’re not saying the date itself went to shit. No. Actually, it was one of the best dates you’ve been on in a while. You were wined and dined at this upscale rooftop restaurant. Everything was fine, everything was great. Until you got back to the apartment. You felt like you were in high school all over again. Dealing with some horny boy who had no idea how to touch you properly. So, did you sleep with him? Yes. Did he make you cum? Fuck no.
Once he emptied himself inside the condom, he rolled off of you and fell asleep two seconds later. You laid there staring up at the ceiling in pure disbelief and anger. No foreplay, no nothing. Aside from him putting his dick inside of you, he didn’t touch you. You turned your head to look at him beginning to snore.
“Un-fucking-believable,” you mutter before getting your things and leaving his penthouse.
Which is why you’re now, here, frustratedly unzipping your dress. You can’t believe you wasted time and effort looking this good for a guy like that.
nct alternative jobs if they all sued and left sm today
taeil - trout fisher
johnny - dj at a gay bar in chicago. seriously misunderstands what being a “daddy” entails and shows up to work wearing white sneakers and a polo shirt tucked into his khakis.
taeyong - sugar baby
yuta - escapes off into the wilderness and is never seen again. there are occasional spottings reported, but they’re written off as an urban legend
kun - soloist and producer under jay chou’s record label
doyoung - goes back to college and gets an accounting degree. changes his mind and gets a biology degree before going to medical school. eventually becomes the most accomplished heart surgeon in korea, and becomes taeyong’s sugar daddy
ten - stripper
jaehyun - stay at home dad
winwin - actor, becomes a massive superstar in china and eventually becomes an internationally known celebrity. he makes millions and wins an oscar and a bafta. pretends nct never existed.
jungwoo - finishes his engineering degree, but becomes a starbucks barista
lucas - “model” but really just goes on TV to laugh loudly and clap on variety shows
mark - youth pastor
xiaojun - ballad singer in china, but most of his income comes from bella, who becomes an internet famous celebrity beagle and pet influencer
hendery - minecraft twitch streamer
renjun - assassin
jeno - bikes around the world for charity while rescuing abandoned kittens and puppies
haechan - becomes a professional menace, has a solo career as a nuisance, and is generally known in the industry as a handful
jaemin - crystal massage therapist
yangyang - tiktok e-boy
shotaro - goes back to being the baddest asian baby boy on tiktok
chenle - starts his own entertainment company and poaches all the artists formerly signed to sm entertainment. then, he hires renjun to eliminate lee sooman.
sungchan - substitute baby giraffe at a zoo
jisung - goes to high school and finally learns how to read
Looking for a friendly, relaxed place to meet new people and make friends in the overwatch fandom (preferably without too many greasy gamer boys frothing at the mouth to call you a slur)?
Well aren’t you in luck! @bee-nie and I have just created an overwatch fandom discord to come hang out in!
The link is in the reblogs - looking very much forward to seeing ya’ll there!
