#mjwrites

[devilfic]

❝luke 10:30❞

parts: next plot: "You’re standing in your nightclothes in the dark, crying over spilled fucking milk, with a fridge full of food and a dinner going cold upstairs. Dex could think of worse things to cry about in this city. For the first time since the money had changed hands, he kinda gets why your ex paid him to kill you." pairing: benjamin poindexter x gn!reader. cw: canon-divergent from daredevil: born again s2e7, slow burn, crackfic that takes itself seriously sometimes, dark themes, stalking, attempted murder, reader is getting divorced, dex is bored so he gets involved in your marital drama, dex finds you kinda hot when you’re angry, your ex sucks and dex is willing to do something about it. dex cannot be assed to remember your ex’s name. words: 3k.

a/n: to make a long story short: it's been a long week, and I spilled the rest of my taco meat earlier when I was making dinner and almost had a crash out about it, and then I thought "I'm disproportionately upset about this. what if [character I have been thinking about every waking moment of the past month] saw me almost start crying in the kitchen? would he think that was funny?" and then I opened the notes app and starting writing

He sees it falling before you do: the angle at which you're about to make a very big mistake.

You're looking elsewhere, mind not really here with the grumble in your belly and leftovers hot on the stove. You go to put the Tupperware away, stacking one on top of the other, and the bowl is not perfectly balanced—too close to the edge—and so it tips over with the weight and—

It survives the first tumble, bouncing off the fridge floor with top still intact, but then it hits the kitchen floor and the bowl bursts open in a spray of cold, brown taco meat.

He sees it falling before you do, so his eyes have already focused in on your reaction, and he catches the second of false hope before the realization kicks in. You hitch your breath, then go still. Your eyes flicker around the mess blending into the tile, and Dex snickers. It's funny. Funnier even more since you'd just finished putting in the final touches on the remaining half of last night's dinner. It looked delicious with its melting cheese and sour cream sitting in a perky, chilled scoop in the middle. You'd taken the time to put it together, and none of the time to gently put the rest away.

A few seconds pass. He takes in the hunch in your back as if you were leaning forward to clean it up. Then he takes in the stillness of you; you have been standing still since it fell. In disbelief? Your parted lips and wide eyes give away that you're processing the loss at half-speed. In his own little world one rooftop away, Dex reaches into his bag with the hand not holding up his scope and eats a chip. In solidarity, or in amusement.

A few more seconds pass, and it's less funny now. He thinks about the pebble that had slipped into his boot earlier, and how he ought to shake it out and shoot it through your window, shattering it in a perfect bullseye. That'd be a real mess. Then you'd stop looking at $8 and a half pound of ground beef gone to waste on your floor. Then, he'd give you something real to look... sad about?

Your brows pinch together, then un-pinch. Your knees bend but don't buckle, like you almost dropped to the floor in agony but thought better of it. You dropping to your knees on stone like that would surely give you something better to cry about, right? But you're crouching down, trying and failing to decide on crying or not, and Dex isn't really amused anymore but he keeps on watching.

He reaches into his bag for a hairpin this time, long and slender fake gold with a polished (and also probably fake) jade pendant at the end. Small gold chain links hang from the heavy end of the hairpin, dangling with plastic petal charms that glint peach and pink. It makes a gentle twinkling sound when the pendants swing into each other. He’d been given it for free on a trip through Chinatown earlier, some old man selling jewelry in the market who’d thought Dex would make a great mark. “For the lucky someone in your life,” he’d told him, when Dex didn’t immediately reach out to take it, “I’m doing you a favor, kid.”

“Kid” had been pushing it, but that man had also been pushing 80, and he imagined that to some people, he did still have a boyish charm about him.

He twirls the metal in between his fingers, making the pendants clink together, tangle and untangle, as he recalibrates. He’d hoped to get you with it right over that stove, that steaming hot dinner. Denied satisfaction. Maybe then he’d step inside and over your dead body and take it off your hands. But he can’t do that now.

When Dex brings the scope back to his eye, he frowns. Your cheeks are wet. Had he missed the best part?

You’re sweeping meat into a dustpan and picking bits from under the fridge (as far as your fingers’ll let you), tears running down your cheeks as you sweep and wipe and sweep and wipe. It’s more pathetic than anything. He almost wants to kill you now anyway just to put you out of your misery.

He watches you stand, frustratedly throwing away your trash, tying up the bag, and stomping… out. You were leaving.

He’d had the blueprint of your apartment complex pulled up on his phone, memorized hours ago while he’d helped himself to street food and killed time. He knew how long it would take you to get down to the dumpsters which just so happened to be in the alleyway between your building and his. He casually leans over the ledge, looking down into the dimly lit abyss. Killing you here would raise a lot less questions. It wouldn’t be as funny, but it’d be quick.

He takes a breath. Then three. By the fifth, he’s in the stairwell, headed down to meet you by the dead rat.

He makes it just in time, spilling out into the dark, because then there you are stomping out in Crocs and a hastily thrown on hoodie, not even checking your surroundings as you lug the half-empty garbage bag all the way over to the dumpster. With more force than necessary, you hurl the bag in, heaving a little with the effort, your mouth in a pathetic downturn as if you’re trying to not cry again.

Dex has got his hairpin still, but the chains are clenched in his hand to keep them from making a sound, and he is tucked just far enough behind the dumpster that you do not see him seeing you, nor how he lines up the sharp end of the pin for your eyeball. He wonders if he ought to let you keep it when he’s through. Your reparations for being his “lucky someone”.

And then you press the palms of your hands against your eyes and sob.

It really kills the mood for Dex; he drops the hairpin from where he’d been angling it and all but sucks his teeth at you. You’re standing in your nightclothes in the dark, crying over spilled fucking milk, with a fridge full of food and a dinner going cold upstairs. Dex could think of worse things to cry about in this city. For the first time since the money had changed hands, he kinda gets why your ex paid him to kill you.

His hand unclenches on it’s own, the chains falling loose, and—

You look up.

It’s concerning how quickly you spot him in the low light, barely a whisper of metal entangling with metal while the city roars as usual and yet you still see him. He’s in his suit which ought to make him blend into the night, but his eyes… you lock right onto them.

He thinks your mouth drops to say, “Who the fuck are you?” But then you know. The way you go still again like you did upstairs. You see the gun holster strapped to his chest, and perhaps the plenty of knives strapped about his person. The little gold hairpin in his hand is the least of your worries.

“Oh my God.” Is what you do say, and it’s pretty anticlimactic. A lot of people had said that same thing in the moments leading up to him killing them.

Dex steps out slowly, avoiding the light cast off the side of the building that bathes you in warm yellow. He stays to the shadows, circling you.

“Please don’t kill me. I didn’t— you’re not even here. I didn’t see…” You struggle to say something convincing, feet shuffling in place like you’d like to run away but you know he’d catch you before you could get far. Your eyes shift around the alley and then up to the sky. “Please don’t kill me.”

Dex studies you. The slight tremble in your legs, your wobbly lip. He ought to throw it now and get it over with. “You gonna cry again?”

You blink and lock eyes with him again. Almost immediately, he takes in the shine on your lashes. “No.” You stammer. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

A thought crosses his mind. He hushes it for his own sake. His fist clenches around the hairpin. Any time now. “Why would I want to kill you?”

You frown. “Because I… I saw…”

His eyebrow raises, and he feels some of that amusement from earlier slipping into his tone. “You saw?”

“I…” You swallow, and take a breath of air. “I imagine… if you’re out here in the dark… that maybe you were doing what I— someone would think you were doing. And you didn’t want anyone to see. But I won’t tell anyone.”

“There’s nothin’ to tell.” He gestures lazily to the alleyway. You look hesitant to follow his hand, afraid he’ll get you in that moment you’re left unaware. He twirls the hairpin now and your eyes catch it, light glinting off the metal. You seem fixated on it. He holds it up a little and you look between it and him, back and forth.

“So I can go?” His head tilts slightly. Your next words come out a little desperately, “Look. I didn’t see anything. As far as I know, you were out here skewering rats for all I care. I’m just nobody. I’m nobody.”

“People don’t put hits on nobodies.”

At that, you freeze. You were starting to take a step back toward the side door of your complex, and now you were blinking rapidly as if to quell your tears again. “What? Me?”

It had been a bad idea, but the bar was busy enough (and drunk enough) that no one could see his face straight. So, last night, when he’d taken refuge at the far end of the bar nursing a Negroni, he had hoped that no one would notice him for the rest of his miserable, boring night. And then this asshole came strutting up, piss drunk and smelling like both, and settled into the seat next to him.

A lot had been said by your ex in those twenty minutes of conversation (read: monologue). A complaint, a price, a legal term or two, and your name. And he remembered the most important thing: “I just wish someone would push ‘em down a sinkhole.”

It had interested him, then. His ears perked like a dog’s. “You want ‘em dead?”

Your ex heaves a deep sigh. “I mean… yeah. It’d make my life a hell of a lot easier, and this whole legal process a lot quicker.”

Dex sips from his glass, watching the room with his back to the wall. His drinking partner could barely sit up straight. “It would, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to fuckin’ tell ya.”

“You won’t do it yourself, though?”

“‘Course not.” The man laughs, pointing to himself. “They’d know it was me. It’s always the fuckin’ husband.”

“You’d want it to look like an accident.”

“Or something. I don’t know.”

Dex watches the man closer now. The hairline pulling away, his gaunt cheeks and thin wallet on the bar. This man picked him to vent to. He doesn’t even know who Dex is. He’d be lucky if he knew where he was.

And Dex thinks that—at least from what little he bothered to remember from the conversation—you probably deserved it. Trying to take the guy’s life savings. Ruining his good name with his family. You wanted the divorce to be messy, to hurt. You wanted him dead. Right? So maybe he ought to do this guy a favor. That would be nice, right? A Good Samaritan would do the same.

So Dex scratches his nose and nudges the man with his elbow. “I’ll do it for $350.”

The man snorts. “Man, you got jokes.”

“It’s a good deal. $350 for the rest of it.”

Your ex looked at him with little recognition. A light was on but no one was home. Dex thinks for a moment that maybe he might be… taking advantage of this guy.

But was that true? He was going to help him! And only for a third of his rent.

Dex watches him press a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. The man wobbles in his seat. “Yeah. Three hundred for you to go push my ex down a sinkhole.”

“$350, and I’ll drop them dead in their apartment.”

The man’s face turns serious. Not sober, but serious. “To make it look like an accident?”

Dex’s eyes squint. Back in the FBI, you had to have good reason to put a bullet through someone's head. As Fisk’s plaything, he was allowed all the grandeur Fisk’s money could afford (and that was a lot of money), but he was restricted, playing the role of rogue vigilante. As Murdock’s knight and shining armor, he’d killed AVTF agents with a weightless flair he hadn’t been able to indulge in before, but even that took restraint. And now, as a wanted criminal with no one in his corner, if he wanted to kill again, he’d have to behave again. Be reasonable. Be hidden. There were limits to how much fun he could have with this one, so he’d squeeze out every last drop. He’d put up with it. Just like a Good Samaritan would.

Somewhere within that bar, a deal had been made. And now here you were and his pockets that little bit thicker. “You’re taking a lot in the divorce. Some would say it’s a little unfair.”

It happens in an instant. One second, you’re quivering, nervous, hugging yourself like it’d save you a painful death. The next? Your shoulders drop. Your eyes narrow. You look him dead on and it’s like something finally clicks for you. “No. You’re shitting me. Kyle?” So that was his name. Dex files it away, surely to be lost to time in an hour or so. “This has to be a prank. You’re not the real Bullseye. There’s no way he’d be this stupid.”

You say “stupid” with such venom that Dex almost laughs. “You sure?”

To make your point, you stalk right up to him and it makes his lips twitch into a smile under the mask. “Fucking positive. I don’t know how much he paid you to come out here in a ski mask and khakis to scare me, but you can tell him I said ‘Go to hell’. I invested more in him and that stupid falafel business than he ever did in our marriage! And I promise the next time I see him in court, I’m taking the fucking food truck with me.”

“Falafels.”

“Yeah?”

Dex probably should’ve paid more attention to Ken last night. “So, let me get this straight,” He leans against the dumpster, crossing one leg over the other. “Your ex-husband runs a falafel food truck—“

“Ran.”

“Ran a falafel food truck. Didn’t do well. And you tried to take all his money in the divorce?”

“It was my fucking money. He couldn’t get the business off the ground without all the loans I cosigned for him. I pulled strings with my cousin to get him that truck. I paid all his bills with my job while he squandered what little he had on chickpeas! And then he had the gall to ask for a divorce because he said I made him feel like a failure? Of course I’m taking everything. It’s mine.”

Unlike in the bar, Dex can’t help but keep track of every word you say. Perhaps the incredulity of the situation was hitting him harder than he expected it to, or perhaps the sudden fire burning out your fear had gotten him… excited. Giggly, even. You had singlehandedly squashed his boredom in ten minutes flat.

“That’s… a lot.”

You laugh, humorless. “You’re telling me. He’s telling all our friends how much of a major asshole I am. I have barely anyone in my corner now.” Your eyes flicker to his, wetting again, and then to the dumpster. “And then I get home and I…”

Dex frowns. The mood sours for him again, no longer having as much fun now that you’re somber again. He doesn’t much know what to say, and he feels a little less eager to kill you now. He fishes in the depths of his vocabulary for something familiar. “I’m sorry. That must be really hard.”

You look at him like he’s grown two heads. Then, you sigh. “No. I’m sorry. You probably get paid by the hour to dress up for birthday parties, huh? Look, I don’t know how much he paid you to stand out here and menace me but just go home. Tell him you got me real good, whatever. Just go home.”

He could. He’d taken Karl’s money and left the drunk bastard with a promise that the job would be done in the next 36 hours. He’d taken Karl’s number, but he could block him. He could keep that $350 and the biggest spike of excitement he’s had in weeks and take it all the way home. Leave this whole thing in the alleyway between your building and “his”.

He could do that.

“I could kill him for you.”

You blink. Scoff. “Dude.”

“I’m serious,” He promises. “I can make it look like an accident. You get it all in the settlement. Probably.”

You look like you’ve accepted some double meaning to his words, your face relaxing as you nod your head in exaggeration. “Oh, yeah? How much would I owe you?”

“Consider it a favor.”

You laugh. The wind whistles between the buildings and you inch closer, raising a finger to poke at his chest above his gun, which, perhaps, you thought was all plastic. You’re close enough that he can smell the fresh shower you’d taken, from when he’d spied you creeping out of the steam a half-hour ago. With all this hindsight, he struggled to see what Kyle had to complain about with you. Maybe that’s what falafels did to a guy.

You look at him. His mask can’t hide the crow’s feet at his eyes, or the way they deepen with his hidden smile. A seriousness begins to creep into your expression. Suspicion. Confusion. “Okay. Seriously. Who are you?”

“A Good Samaritan.”

[f1watch]

HOW2FUCK81

Smut written by (and help given from) @brokenthoughts814

Summary: Oscar turned to face his friend and colleague, clasping his hand with a smile. Zedd motioned for them to follow him with a nod of his head and led them to a smaller booth in the back. As they approached, the breath left Oscar's body. Sitting at the table was the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen. Oscar stopped in his tracks as he took in the sight before him. Brown curls, tanned skin, a heart-shaped smile decorated with a little gap between the two front teeth. A black shirt, sinfully opened, enough to reveal a slim, athletic frame, a golden chain hanging from his neck, dangling as he swayed to the music.

"I told you so…" Logan said smugly, drawing Oscar out of his trance. "That's Lando, the guy I told you about."

OR;

What happens when you joke with your friend about DJ names, and the idea sticks in your brain so badly that you have to get it out by writing it.

OR;

The story of how Oscar Piastri accidentally becomes a DJ and meets the love of his life.

[cherishmimi]

A Post About My Loyal CA Readers and Why I Love Them

Hello you beautiful people. 

I have been so overwhelmed by the support you all have given me these last few months as I re-write some of the previous chapters of CA while simultaneously working on getting my Patreon off of the ground.

As I expected, working on the posts to the Patreon has helped mold my ability to write something new weekly and continued to push me towards re-writing and editing the previous CA chapters more consistently. The excitement of working on original characters each week for the couple of Patrons that I have mirrors the same excitement I get from reading reviews from you guys, so I feel eager to get to those updates for CA. The wait was extended obviously, because I wanted to make sure that I cleaned up the story and fleshed out some of the plot better. Well, it has been absolutely THRILLING to read the comments about the re-writes. It almost feels like I re-posted the story all over again and it’s invigorating to know that you guys have noticed the changes I’ve made and that you like them. 

I am really committed to making sure that you guys enjoy this story and that you understand how committed I am to finishing what I started all of those years ago. Writing fan fiction, and now my original fiction has really helped me maintain my stress and anxiety better. I’m focusing on doing even a little everyday and expanding my creativity. I just want all of you to know how instrumental your loyalty and support has been in encouraging me and how much I value that. I also wanted you all to know how much I love each and every one of you. Please, feel free to go back and let me know about the changes you’ve noticed in the re-write, or ask me questions about them. I am thrilled to talk to you all and look forward to hearing your thoughts on the upcoming update! I love you!

- Mimi

[mjwritesstuff]

Okay so like, I have so many ideas for writing

S O M A N Y

But the words don’t wanna word onto my google document

How the heckity hecc am I meant to write if the words are too shy and incoherent to show themselves-

[mjspn7]

New to writeblr

Hi, my name is MJ. I’m 16, my pronouns are they/them. I wanted to join the writeblr community. 

A few things about me: I’m black. I love reading, writing and watching movies. I’m non binary. I’m currently in writing a novel (hopefully) and have a very vague outline at the moment.

I’d really love to get involved in this community and post regularly with my updates on my story. If anyone can recommend any other writeblrs that would be awesome!

[ofwrittenlegacy]

Another Year Around the Sun

Inspired by a tumblr post I read. Read this Tony birthday fanfic on AO3. 

Another year around the sun, he thought, and another year closer to dentures. 

Tony stalled as he padded towards the common room in the penthouse.

“Oh my God, I’m old.” Tony muttered to himself, shaking his head. It was his birthday. May 29th, his 49th birthday. He could feel it in his bones, in each crackle and pop wished him another happy birthday. Tony sighed around the lip of his mug, taking a sip of his Americano. He collapsed on the couch, preparing to spend his birthday in well deserved silence. Steve was upstate with Barnes and Sam, Pepper was in meeting all day, Romanov and Barton fucked off to Bolivia earlier that week. Thor was in one of the nine realms and he...he actually couldn’t account for his Spider-baby.

Just as he lifted his phone to check in on the kid, a noise caught his attention. Faintly…

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Tony looked up. Hanging off the side of Stark Tower, the sixth level window to the penthouse hung Peter Parker, clad in a red and blue onesie Spiderman costume. Tony snorted, setting down his mug and his phone. He walked over to the window and slid open the threshold.

Peter webbed himself inside and landed in a crouch. Tony’s jointed groaned in sympathy reminding him that he was old. I’m getting so close to fucking dentures…

“Why can’t you use a door like a regular person? There’s ample ways to get in here that don’t require scaling the side of my residence, Underoos.”

“What’s the fun of having enhanced abilities if I don’t get to use them?” Peter replied, peeling the mask off of his face. His chestnut locks stood wildly askew all over his head as if it had recently been washed and was air drying beneath the mask.

Tony huffed, amusedly.

“So,” Peter continued, tugging at the arms of his Spiderman suit. Tony watched as he struggled and tugged and finally stripped down to the jeans and tshirt he wore beneath the suit. That...couldn’t possibly be comfortable, Tony decided. “It’s your birthday.”

“Is that a speculation or do you know that for a fact?”

Peter blinked up at him with caramel eyes, the size of moons. “It’s your birthday, Mr. Stark. I’ve had it on my calendar for like...years.”

Tony’s mouth twitched and the corner of his eyes crinkled as he placed a hand on the small of Peter’s back and ushered him to the couch. “I don’t know if you want me to be endeared or a little scared…”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groaned.

Tony gesticulated, silencing Peter’s whines. Peter’s forehead creased and Tony snickered.

“Okay, yeah. It’s my birthday kid. Why’s that got you hanging off the side of my building at…” Tony checked his watch. “10:27 in the morning.”

“Because,” Peter exclaimed, jerked up, spreading his arms wide. “We have to celebrate! I have presents!”

Tony paled. He would never get used to people dedicating a whole day to celebrate his existence, something he didn’t ask for. His mouth set into a hard line and he made a steeple out of his hands. “Pete,” he started. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Beaming with a lopsided grin that made Tony feel warm inside, Peter gave him a dismissive wave. “See, I knew you’d say that. So I didn’t. May did.” Peter dug around in his pocket and tugged out an envelope. He thrusted it towards Tony who hesitantly took it from his hands.

“Peter, I can’t-”

Peter blew out his cheeks. “Mr. Stark,” he sounded exasperated. “Just open it.”

“Alright, alright.” Damn, the kid looked like he was about to go into a temper tantrum if Tony delayed any longer so he tore the corner of the white paper and ripped the side of the envelope off. He slipped out the card.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR. STARK!

Was written on the front in big round letters, the marker stroke thick and heavy handed as he had seen Peter do before. Beneath the words was a scribbled doodle of Iron Man wearing a birthday hat and holding a cake that read “Birthday Boy”.

Tony’s features lit up. “Oh...Pete…”

“You didn’t even open it, Mr. Stark!”

Tony’s mouth formed a little “oh” and he opened the card. A disk fell out. He bent over, grunting as he picked the CD up.

“What is this?”

“I have no clue. May wouldn’t tell me.”

Tony nodded and walked over to the DVD player and placed the CD inside. Before hitting play, he turned his attention back to the card.

Before there was Spiderman, there was just a little boy with a big heart and a favorite superhero. Thank you for all you do for Peter. You have saved the Parker family countless times, before you even knew our names. Keep saving, keep loving and keep inspiring little kids with Avengers pajamas.

Happy 45th,

May Parker.

Tony grinned down at the yellow construction paper and clutched it to his chest. He silently took a seat next to Peter. “FRI, press play.”

The camera was fuzzy at first. The cameraman was shuffling around what seemed to be a living room.

“Pete!” The camera focused and displayed the disastrous room before them. Christmas paper was strewn across the floor, empty boxes piled in the corner. Trash bags were strategically placed around, filled with tape and paper remnants.

A little boy scrambled into the camera’s frame and the camera unsteadily zoomed out. The grainy image cleared the young boy stood there in red and gold Iron Man pajamas with a red blanket tied around his neck like a cape. The boy had a round face, his cheeks full and rosy. He had huge dimples indenting each cheek, and his jewel like eyes took up a large portion of his little face. His crystal clear hazel eyes twinkled with joy, and he squealed. It was apparent only when he smiled really wide that his two front teeth were missing.

“FRIDAY, turn this off please.” Peter begged beside Tony, his eyes going wide with recognition. Tony scowled.

“FRIDAY do not touch this.”

The video played on.

“What’d you get for Christmas, Pete?”

Peter made explosion noises as he flew the doll into the camera. “It’s Iron Man!” He hugged the figurine close. “I’ve wanted one of these for so long! It even makes noise!” Peter pressed the chest of the doll.

“I am Iron Man.” The doll said.

Tony cringed.

“Do you love Iron Man?”

“I love Iron Man with my whole entire heart. He is the best superhero ever! He keeps everyone safe, and he can fly and he even lives right here! I want to be like Iron Man when I grow up. I want to save people and fight crime and make e-explosions!” The cameraman chuckled at how awfully Peter butchered “explosions”.

“Well, merry Christmas, Pete.”

“Thanks Uncle Ben.” Peter hugged the figurine to his chest. “I love Iron Man. I hope Iron Man has good Christmas presents. He deserves extra presents from Santa. Do you think he was on the nice list this year?”

“I think so,” Uncle Ben agreed.

“Good. I love him.” Peter jutted his hand out and made a swooshing sound. “He’s taking off to save the city.” Peter swung his hand wildly, sending his Iron Man up and around in all different directions. “Hey, Uncle Ben…” Peter toddled over to the camera, his little button nose impossibly close to the lense.

“Mm?”

“Do you think I can be like Mr. Tony Stark one day?”

“You can be whatever you want to be, Peter.”

It grew quiet, until,

“Peter! Ben! Dinner’s ready!” May. The camera grew shaky and the last thing that was seen was Peter sprinting off, his red cape billowing behind him.

Then the video cut out.

There was silence for a while. Tony and Peter sat there and breathed it in. When Tony turned to the younger male, Peter was frozen where he sat. A blush had crept up his face so aggressively, Tony pondered if he was blushing down to his toes. Boy Wonder swallowed hard and Tony grew concerned he might pass out.

“Iron Man doesn’t wear a cape.”

Peter blinked as if coming out of a daze. “I want to curl up and die.”

Awe continued to transform Tony’s face, a joy he had never experienced before burning bright within him. “Hey Pete,” he called. The boy turned to regard him with a grimace. “You are much better than Iron Man. Little Peter would be proud of you.”

Tony didn’t think he could get much redder but somehow he did. Peter hung his hand. “T-Thanks, Mr. Stark. I didn’t know May put that in there. I-- She-- It’s not--...that’s so embarrassing.”

Tony wordlessly tugged the boy into a hug. He didn’t trust himself to speak as his throat seized up with emotion. His eyes burned with fresh tears and he didn’t let Peter go until he got ahold of the wild fluctuation of feelings.

“You don’t know how much that video means to me, Pete.” Tony finally said, pulling away.

Peter turned his innocent gaze on him and Tony thought he might just combust. He still looked like that little boy. More lanky, and a little more freckled but his eyes still glinted with purity. He was just a kid. He was just Tony’s kid.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tony ruffled his hair. Peter laughed.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Stark.”

“Thanks kiddo.”

And it was on Tony’s 45th birthday that he realized maybe Iron Man did make a difference. Maybe...just maybe he was making a difference.

[marionettejonesdraws]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

A couple of Class-A boys got pulled into a dating show as "required" in their internship. Heroes nowadays need promoters to support their hero work after all. Who are the unfortunate few who got roped in this dating game?

A messy chat format shenanigan coz I want to mess with the kids a bit.

[devilfic]

❝luke 10:30❞

II. come on and use me.

parts: previously / final plot: you turn down dex's offer to kill your ex. he thinks you should let him anyway. pairing: benjamin poindexter x gn!reader. cw: canon-divergent from daredevil: born again s2e7, slow burn, crackfic that takes itself seriously sometimes, dark themes, stalking, light violence, alternating pov, reader is getting divorced, dex is bored so he gets involved in your marital drama, dex finds you kinda hot when you’re angry, your ex sucks and dex is willing to do something about it, dex cannot be assed to remember your ex’s name. words: 4.9k.

a/n: this accidentally became the only thing I've thought about all day

"A Good Samaritan."

There's something wrong with this guy. Aside from the obvious.

I mean, it's one thing to dress up as Hell's Kitchen's most dangerous terrorist in recent history and go freaking people out in alleyways for money—and you're trying not to think about where Kyle would've gotten the money to spare when he's been jerking you around about paying for a lawyer—but it's another to make not one, but two declarations of intent to murder.

It's an unfunny joke. Typical Kyle. "Right." You study him, slender guy packed into a tight dark blue tactical suit. From the grainy pictures you'd seen of the real Bullseye, it looked as spot on as you could get in a grungy alleyway. It perfectly conceals every inch of his upper body, from hair to hands. It's unsettling with only his eyes to see though, because when you look into them, there's nothing quite... there. "I think I'll pass."

Fake Bullseye says nothing, but his head tilts, studying you like a curious dog.

You test taking a step back, and then another. He doesn't follow you with anything but his gaze. "You should head home, it's late." You add on.

He continues to say nothing.

You try not to sprint back to the side door, and you try not to look back at him once inside but you fail. He remains at the edge of shadow, standing completely still, and you can't get the door shut fast enough.

You've known Kyle since you first moved to the city six years ago. He was a friend of a friend at your old job who you don't talk to anymore, and after a somewhat disastrous double-date with said friend, you two managed to still hit it off. It was a year and a half later when you moved in together and barely four months had passed before he proposed. It was a quick marriage, and it felt okay for it to be so quick because this was the pace of New York City.

Everyday was a rush; getting breakfast, catching the train, work and lunch, drinks with friends after work, date nights that even the most well-thought out plans could never keep sacred. Fights were quick, make-ups quicker... until they weren't. The actual fights were just as fast, but the aftermath began to linger. Bills were in constant chaos. When Kyle started up Falafel Fixins and Fixes, you had put aside your feelings on the marriage and the "Dead End" sign coming clearer into view. You had hoped that maybe, if you poured your all into this, showed him you were willing to try and support his dreams, he'd stop being such a fucking— "Asshole."

Your whisper goes unnoticed by passing neighbors coming down for mail. You slip into the elevator and press yourself into the corner. Your phone, which sat heavy in your pajama pants pocket, is now in your hand. You know Kyle has your number blocked, but you still open the last text exchange to type out something heated.

But the elevator dings. You're at your floor all of a sudden, and as you look over the wall of text with more expletives than nouns, you feel something tug in your chest. A small, broken part of you is aware that you once loved this man, and he'd stooped this low. Sending a guy dressed up as a local serial killer to your front— well, back door. To scare you. Maybe make you settle.

And he has you blocked, so he wouldn't see it anyway. None of this matters anyway.

Not even your leftovers.

You drag yourself to your front door, inside and deadbolted in under twenty seconds. Naturally, your eyes find your abandoned dinner. Now gone cold. You have the energy to put it in the fridge and that's it.

Hairline (from the bar) Hey

It's a lovely sunny morning, and Dex has half a jalapeño and cheese croissant in his mouth when he gets the text from Karl. He thinks briefly on changing the name in his burner phone. He doesn't bother.

After you'd rejected his proposal last night, Dex had made peace. He assumed Karl would get embarrassed, probably say something about how he didn't mean what he said last night, and ask for his $350 back. Dex didn't get the chance to explain to him last night that he doesn't do refunds.

He shifts his croissant between two fingers on his other hand—the other three occupied with a nice, warm cup of coffee—and uses the keypad to text back a simple:

You Morning. Hairline (from the bar) So, about the other night You ?

Dex watches three dots appear, then disappear. Reappear, then disappear. He takes a slow sip from his cup, people-watching until his phone vibrates again.

Hairline (from the bar) It's been about 36 hours You 32. Hairline (from the bar) Can we meet? You About?

The phone starts vibrating like crazy. One incoming call from Hairline. Dex purses his lips. Down the street, he notices a biker weaving between sidewalk traffic haphazardly. They nearly knock over an old lady, almost run over a dog. The shouts from down the street do nothing to stop the guy. Dex looks away.

Hairline (from the bar) Come on, man!!! Please

Dex doesn't feel bad making him suffer. Karl will panic, feel bad about putting a hit on you, and blow up his phone until he's sure you're not actually laying in a pool of your own blood in apartment 313. It would be the nice thing to respond now, let him know that you were still perfectly alive and kicking, but putting a hit on your ex who—in his opinion, and of course you and Karl would care about his opinion on your marriage—didn't deserve it wasn't very kind either. And he likes watching them struggle.

Besides, if Karl's info was right, you'd be leaving right about...

The door of the apartment building behind him swings open, and Dex cranes his head away from you as you descend the staircase, already off in the other direction for another day of work. His eyes drag across the ground until they find you power-walking away in a huff. He suppresses a smile as he snaps a photo of you from behind, sending it to Hairline. Hairline immediately responds.

Hairline (from the bar) Are you about to do it???

He closes the flip-phone, slipping it into his pocket, and takes another sip of his coffee.

Closer now, he could hear the commotion of the rogue biker continuing to make zero use of the bike lane. Dex pushes off the side of the apartment complex, walking over to a faded poster stapled into the wall between your place and the laundromat. Sticking his croissant in between his teeth, he sets the coffee on a nearby window ledge and rips out one of the staples, smoothing it over with his calloused thumb until it's straight and rigid. He picks up his coffee, shifts his croissant between his fingers again, and lets one open eye focus on the biker barrelling down the sidewalk. Right for you.

He flicks the staple at the bike tire and the pop! as the pressure releases all at once has the biker swerving into a mailbox.

A couple bystanders exclaim in surprise, some stepping around the collapsed biker with muttered "serves you right"s and "jackass"es. Dex goes back to his coffee, but then...

"Oh my God!"

Dex whips his head at the sound of your voice. You should've been half a block away by now, a perfect pace to follow, but suddenly you're rushing toward the downed biker with worry written all over your face. No one really appreciates you pushing against sidewalk traffic, so it takes you a while to get to him, but then you're dropping down to help the guy up.

And Dex is... unsettled.

There was no way you could've seen the guy causing problems just a minute ago, but you'd heard the crash and you rushed over to help. Even though it was—he flicks his wrist out to read the time on his watch—16 minutes until your shift started. And it would take you the whole 16 to walk there. He knows. He'd mapped it.

Dex had read the books. Dr. Mercer had drilled it into his mind. People like this guy don't usually get sympathy. This guy doesn't deserve sympathy. Inconveniencing others, shoving his way through life. He doesn't even smile when you offer him a hand. Even Dex knows how to do that.

But here you are, throwing your lot in to help a guy who only had himself to blame. Dex presses his back against the wall again, tucking his baseball cap low to hide his eyes, and brings his coffee cup back to his mouth.

"Are you okay?" You ask, picking the bike up off the guy who'd sandwiched his leg between it and the sidewalk.

The guy is going on about people getting in the way, making excuses, when you both notice his front tire has deflated. Dex looks immediately at you.

Your eyebrows pinch together. He can see the wheels turning. His stomach twists at the realization that you're thinking about how to help. He remembers something about this street as soon as you say it. "There's a bike shop a little bit from here," You tell the guy, taking hold of one of the handlebars. "Maybe... maybe I could help you carry the bike there? Get a new tire?"

Dex can't help it. He scoffs. Your eyes flicker to him and he hides his face in the cup even more.

The biker agrees, and of course he does, because a guy like this would have no problem accepting a selfless offer. Especially not one from someone who looks like you. You're practically radiating in the sun, warmth spilling off you in waves, and what kind of asshole wouldn't gravitate toward that?

He watches you carry the bike across the street, chatting with the biker, laughing too much and too often. He thinks you ought to know how much is too much. He had to learn that to survive. But Dex supposes that if you'd already known that, you wouldn't have sunk your savings into your ex's food truck.

Dex glances at the poster on the wall, now hanging with a loose corner, and considers taking another staple. It would be just as quick with you. If he played his cards right, you'd barely register the pain.

His thigh vibrates. Dex takes out his phone and sees another incoming call from Hairline. He declines, typing a reply with a little more force than necessary.

You I said 36 hours, didn't I? Hairline (from the bar) Shit Man fuck

Dex exhales through his nose. Tamps down the frustration. He shouldn't care who you choose to help, or marry, or divorce. He was just keeping busy, and he could quit whenever he stopped having fun. That's why he was entertaining this: for fun. Keeping this fish on the hook, hovering above water, was fun. His phone buzzes with three more messages.

Hairline (from the bar) I don't know what to say That's a weight lifted off my shoulders And it won't be traced back to me?

Oh.

For the first time since he'd taken the money, Dex really, really thinks about Kyle. Were his cheeks really that gaunt? Had he been a broken man on the edge of losing it all, or had Dex filled in the gaps to justify... this?

A loud horn honks and his eyes find you on the street instantly. You're rushing across the crosswalk, tugging the full weight of the bike with you, while the biker flips off a car about to run both of you over. Dex takes a step in your direction.

You take your lunch at exactly 1:34pm, which is to say that Dex sees you take a seat at the picnic table across the park, right as he's tossing a little boy up in the air. It's a good thing he has fast reflexes (and that he knew you were coming, had timed it down to the minute), because he's not even looking at the kid anymore when he falls back into his hands. Dex has the mind to at least send the kid back to his parents, waving goodbye to the party of excited kindergarteners on his way to you.

You're just removing a sandwich from your lunch bag when he approaches, and the look of surprise on your face tugs at his lips. And then he remembers you can see those lips now, no hidden smiles.

"Oh! Hello." You exclaim, looking around the park for something. Maybe a better place for him to be. "Um... can I help you? Mr. Rogers?"

The cartoonish red, white, and blue costume clings too tight below the waist and traps the warm heat in, but it was the closest thing he could find to fit him this far out from Halloween. The polyester mask sewn into the upper part of the suit does a poor job of absorbing the sweat on his forehead, but it does conceal most of his face from you, and it's enough that he feels just a little less stupid approaching you in public.

As far as you know, he does this for a living.

He reaches into the pocket of his suit—and it's a miracle the thing even has them—and stabs the hairpin into the wooden tabletop.

You jerk back, your sandwich flying out of your hands and into a dirt pile behind you where an army of ants starts picking away at it. "Fuck!"

Dex sits down on the bench across from you.

"What is your—" Your eyes catch on the hairpin, and something clicks for you. "You. From last night. Seriously, who are you?"

"Call me Tony."

"Okay, Tony. Did he send you to fuck with me again?"

Dex glances behind him, at the group of kids chasing each other around with water guns while their parents smoke. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder in their direction. "I was in the neighborhood."

You look between him and the kids, still angry but less so. After a few deep breaths, you straighten your back and give him a long hard stare. "Look, if he's trying to get me to back off the trial, you should tell him to spend more of his money on a good lawyer and less on a birthday clown. No offense."

"None taken. Does your ex have a key to your place?"

"I don't see how any of that is your business."

Dex flexes his hand. He would catch no flies with vinegar. As much as he'd like to get to the point, you have no reason to tell him anything like this. He feigns understanding. "You're right, you're right. I just, uh... I don't know. I was thinking about what you said last night. I just felt awful, you know? Really awful. It wasn't cool of me to come out there and freak you out like that. It's just... you know, Kip—"

"Kip?"

"—Forgive me. It's just that Kyle seemed really upset about the divorce. He was all erratic and saying all these things about how he wanted to get revenge on you for trying to take everything from him." Dex pauses, searching your expression for what he hoped would be concern for your own safety. You watch him, unblinking. "I just... I know, I know. It's not my business. Would just hate to say I didn't warn you."

You look at the hairpin, the wood splintered around it's sharp end. Then you look at him. "Are you trying to say that you think he's gonna hurt me?"

Dex's expression tightens. "Maybe. Guy like that... it's possible." He sees your eyes beginning to well with tears and it grates on his nerves. "Look, I'm not trying to scare you—"

"All you've done is scare me."

"I'm just saying. Do you have someone you can stay with, maybe? Just until all this is over?"

You shake your head, wiping hard under your eyes before the tears can even leave streaks. "No. All my friends are Kyle's friends. I thought they were mine but they chose their side. I'm alone."

A dangerous thought crosses Dex's mind. So dangerous, in fact, that he feels the sudden need to walk away and never come back. You were not his problem. This was not his problem. He was just supposed to be keeping busy. This was not...

"You're not alone." He says, and when you look at him in confusion, he pulls the hairpin out of the table and holds the jade end out to you. You take it, cautiously. "You know, I read this self-help book once. And there was this bit in there about how sometimes it feels like we don't always get back what we put into the world, you know? All that effort and time. Sometimes it feels like it's going nowhere. But some people believe that the good you put into the world comes back to you. In little ways, sometimes big. You know, it might not be a million dollars but it might be a helping hand. You seem like the type who looks out for others. Who knows? Maybe there's somebody out there looking out for you."

You let the hairpin sit in your palm, the petal charms making chiming sounds in the breeze.

For a while that's all that's said between you, and Dex gets nervous. He combs back over every word he's said, every micro-expression you've made. He doesn't know if this is right, or normal.

"Thanks, uh... Cap." You whisper. You close your fist around the pin and bring it into your lap. "Can I hire you for my divorce party when this is all over?"

Dex's eyes widen. He laughs out loud, genuinely. The uncomfortable stickiness of his throat dissipates and he thanks God he can quote those books by memory. "Yeah, sure. You want a slice of pizza? I think Zaden's mom will let you have some if I tell them you're my manager."

You shake your head. "No, I think I'll just grab something on the way back to work. You should probably head back too. I don't wanna keep you when you're working."

"Oh, it's fine. I don't know those people."

"What?"

You You've got an alibi, don't you? Hairline (from the bar) Shit. Of course. I was at home. You Of course you were. :)

It took Dex two hours to decide on whose house to break into.

He'd found Kip's place easy. He was crashing on a friend's couch in Brooklyn, all his stuff shoved under the pull-out bed and hallway closet. There were beer bottles and empty candy wrappers littered around the floor. If it hadn't been for the friend being home, he might've had a root around in there for something to use against the guy, but time was of the essence.

It felt only right that he come to your place instead.

Dex hears your keys jingling in the hall before you've even unlocked the door. You get in quick, spinning to lock and deadbolt it, so quick that you completely miss him sitting on your sofa.

You miss a lot, actually. Even with your locks, you've got no alarm system. No cameras. A guy about 6'0 with a few years of lockpicking under his belt could get your fire escape window open easy, take a tour of your digs, and then settle himself on your sofa in the 35 and a half minutes it takes for you to get from work, to the bodega, to your front door.

He'd mapped out your home pretty well in that time. No weapons that he could find, but a safe under the bed with some boxes of bullets and cleaning gear tells him that you've got something lethal in your work bag. It's why he doesn't allow you to see him first.

It's probably a bad idea, sneaking up on you after telling you your ex might want to hurt you. He tells himself it's necessary, and that you'll forgive him for it later.

You're facing the front door, going to hang up your coat and your bag next, when you still. It dawns on him, your almost inhuman way of knowing when he's right there beside you, because your hand is reaching for the gun in your bag in the next half second. But Dex is faster.

He grabs the wrist with the gun in one hand and forces it up against the wall, pointed at the ceiling, while the other hand covers your mouth to seal off your scream. He presses you against the wall, chest to chest. He barely gives you enough room to fill your lungs with air to scream again.

"Quit it." He hisses against the back of his hand, but you struggle all the same, wiggling your fingers in an attempt to get one around the trigger of your gun. If you let off a bullet in this apartment, there'd be no coming back from that. He pulls your arm back once and slams it against the wall again, this time forcing you to lose your grip. The gun clatters to the ground by Dex's feet and he uses the toe of his boot to kick it across the room.

Your next defense tactic is much dirtier, and he'd be impressed if you didn't come so close to kneeing him between the legs. He's fast enough to stop you, but your insistence digs into what little patience he has.

Taking a quick glance behind him, he manhandles you back into the sofa, all but tossing you into the couch cushions with enough force to knock the breath out of you and nothing else. You bounce, frantic and confused, but before you can get far, Dex throws his heavy thighs on either side of your lap and forces his full weight down on you.

The knife at his side leaves its sheath, metal sliding against leather lining, and hovers right above your throat. You're forced to sit still, head thrown back and neck exposed, as he looms over you to meet your eyes with his. A tear slips out of you as if on cue.

The both of you share breath, inhaling and exhaling each other's air as you try not to tremble. He gives you a little more room between skin and blade because he's thoughtful like that.

You swallow thickly. "Y..."

Dex's head tilts. "Remember me?"

He can see it dawn on you. Up close now, in the dim moonlight pouring in through your window shades, he sees you recognize the balaclava for the same one he donned last night, but this was no costume or cheap ski mask. This looked too real for a birthday party.

You let out a whine. His head tilts again. "Fuck." You finally say, and more tears are spilling out of you now.

"I don't want to hurt you." He says, and it's mostly true. Dex feels something warm on his arm, and he sees your hand gripping it, trying to pull it away from your neck. "Scream and I will."

It's not a question. You agree. He slowly lowers his arm.

You take in bigger gulps of air now, but you're still beneath him, consumed by his body heat and size. Your hand falls away from his arm to touch at your throat in hopes that he hadn't nicked you there by accident. He'd be offended if you thought he didn't have total control over his weapon, but you are a regular person who helps assholes on bikes get new tires even when it makes you late for work. You shake when you're scared. You cry. You wouldn't know what he could do because your heart is beating too fast too focus. He can feel it beating hard up against his own.

"Why are you here?" You ask.

"Because Kevin thinks you're dead."

You blink. "Who?" And then, when he doesn't answer, you figure it out. "Oh— fuck. Why would he think that? Did you...?"

"I didn't tell him you were dead." Dex sheathes his knife. "He came to his own conclusion."

Watery as your eyes may be, you get that look in them like you did last night: when you figured out who put the hit on you. "Are you real?"

You're asking if he's the one who makes things go bump in the night. Dex doesn't think his head can tilt any further. But then, your hand is touching the side of his mask and he stills.

He can't remember the last time someone had gently touched him there.

His life had not returned to any kind of normal after he'd done his one good deed for Matthew Murdock. He was still a wanted criminal, and after finding himself somewhere low to hide out, he had sequestered himself and any dreams of returning to routine to a basement hideaway, far away from Fisk or Murdock or anything else reminding him that he was still a prisoner like this.

He dressed heavy and kept his head low, even as the winter months faded into spring and all the warm bodies came crawling out of the earth. He never visited anywhere twice if he could help it. Cash and burner phones and library Wi-Fi got Benjamin Poindexter by. The last person to see his face (his full face, not the one hidden by the mask or the hats and hoodies) was Murdock.

He still knew what he looked like in the mirror. Sometimes. He hadn't shaved this morning. He'd been up early waiting for—

Your nails drag down the side of his head. Gentle, leaving behind the sound of your skin against the fabric. It had a weirdly soothing effect on his nervous brain.

He thinks about showing you his face. Were you a good enough person to call the cops on him?

Dex grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"Last night. He really paid you to kill me?" You ask. Dex says nothing. "And he says he can't afford a fucking lawyer?"

"If it helps," He starts, and by that point he knows it doesn't, but he still keeps going. "It wasn't a lot."

You lift your head slightly, bringing your mouth closer to where his would be behind the mask. Dex's eyes flicker down for a brief second. "Are you serious? How much?"

"$350."

You... deflate. You can't even hide it. "Oh. I just thought..."

"What?"

"Killers. They always charge more in the movies."

A beat passes. Dex laughs. There's a lot he can say: you'd be easy to kill, he was doing your ex a favor, he was still getting back into this mercenary-for-hire gig (and since when was it a gig?). Instead, he says, "It's not about the money. I do this for the love of the game, sweetheart."

That ought to freak you out. He expects it to. But you look more concerned than troubled. He doesn't like that. "Why haven't you killed me yet? We're going to trial. He'll find out I'm still alive when I show up. You don't get anything out of this." And then you wince, as if you'd just given him the reason he needed to kill you after all.

Dex has been watching you for two days now. Within those two days, he has learned a few things about you. You cry, often. You really don't have any friends. Despite best judgement, you are kind. You stay late at work to make up for getting there late, even when your boss doesn't know. You hold doors open for people who don't even say "thank you".

Your home, which he had familiarized himself with while you were gone, had once been filled with kindness too. Kevin's clothing and things that didn't look like they belonged to you packed in bags that you had yet to give back. You'd tossed out food scraps in tears. God only knows when you'd get around to fully cutting Kevin out of your heart. No matter how angry you were, you hadn't succumbed yet. You'd thought he was just a jerk pulling a prank on you until now. And now you know he wants you dead. For real.

He remembers how he felt when you told him you were alone. No one in your corner. A losing dog like him. It made him uncomfortable. It made him think about himself.

But perhaps you were just a really good actor. He'd been betrayed by kind hands and hearts before. Fear tended to separate the oil from the water. And when you're scared, you beg. You hide. There's only fight in you when you're angry, and Kevin makes you angry. But you wouldn't go all the way, right?

So you needed this, what he could give to you. And laying low was boring. He needed something to do with his hands. He needed to keep from getting rusty. He wanted to be useful.

Dex's gaze turns fierce. Pointed. Target locked. You must sense it because you hold in a breath, as if he'd placed a hand on your throat. "Let me kill him for you."

a/n: I picked a captain america costume because I found out that wilson bethel actually auditioned for cap back in the day, and I thought that was pretty cute :D